Silence, seething with unuttered thought, as if that dying mind were skittering about the ship, exploring, discovering great wonders with its strange senses. The feeling of privacy being invaded was so strong with Bill that he broke loose. "No!" he yelled. "And that's final. GET OUT OF HERE!" But then the Voice started laughing. Crotchety, giggly laughter. Then it spoke again, with unholy cunning. "Matter," it whispered mockingly, "you _shall_ buy my product, to use your own lower-level method of communicating. For, matter, what are you going to do for green grass on this spaceship? For trees? For Sunday schools? For bones buried in soft loam to be dug up later? For big ice cream cones and long runs in the woods after rabbits? For the thrill of snow on your paws and football games and Boy Scout hikes and the sheer joy of howling at the Moon at night?" "Huh?" "Matter," said the Voice cunningly, "your mate is going to have pups!" Bill darted an amazed glance at Molly. Molly's was looking back at him just as amazedly. "I'm not, Bill," she said. "I know I'm not. He's crazy. He doesn't know what he's--" Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with sudden hysterical amusement. "Don't you get it, Bill," she choked. "He's mixed up. Is is going to have the pups!" * * * * * Bill got it. Suddenly everything clicked into place. The sheer insanity of it. The senility of it. And the utter beauty of it! He began to grin, the grin turned into a laugh, the laugh into something that was momentarily hysterical. Then he quieted. "Molly," he said, "put Was down." Molly dropped the dog. Was departed the room in a flash. "The Intelligence can't hear us now," Bill explained. Then he stood over Molly, gently clasping her shoulders in his big hands, and shaking her a little, with affection. "Sweet Molly," he said wryly. "You really want the world back, don't you? But Molly, it's no good, it's no good the way it was. We can't have it that way again. "But we can have a different order of things. And I'll stake my life that it'll be a better way. "The Intelligence tipped us off, of course, when he said _you_ were going to have the pups. But, actually, _the Intelligence isn't talking to us_!" Molly nodded gravely. "I know, Bill. That's the way it seems, doesn't it? Our thoughts are going through the dogs' heads." "Yeah." Bill was almost musing to himself. "He's talking to the dogs--and thinks the dogs are talking back to him. He's old, Molly. He's crotchety and self-centered and probably senile. I doubt if he can really see us--only sense us--" From somewhere the Voice was coming in, querulous, demanding communication, but with fright dominant in its thought-tones. Molly and Bill paid no attention.