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Updated: May 2, 2025
"Open your mouth, and let Pappy Jack see what you have to chew with." Little Fuzzy's dental equipment, allowing for the fact that his jaw was rounder, was very much like his own. "You're probably omnivorous. How would you like some nice Terran Federation Space Forces Emergency Ration, Extraterrestrial, Type Three?" he asked.
This was the intelligence that had called for help in its desperate plight, but had not quite dared to trust its rescuers with the whole truth. But was this strange virus-creature good or evil, hostile or friendly? Dal's hand lay on Fuzzy's tiny body, but he felt no quiver, no vibration of fear.
Nobody wants messes made in the house, and when the young ones did it, their parents would bang them around to teach them better manners. This was Little Fuzzy's home now; he knew how he ought to behave in it. The next morning at daylight, he was up on the bed, trying to dig Pappy Jack out from under the blankets.
He counted out into Fuzzy's hand ten ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to James, its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with the other, and allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial regions. James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far as the front door.
He told everything that had happened without embellishments: their first analysis of the nature of the problem, the biochemical and medical survey that they ran on the afflicted people, his own failure to make the diagnosis, the incident of Fuzzy's sudden affliction, and the strange solution that had finally come from it.
There was nothing he could answer to that, and he realized it. What could he say? That the situation seemed quite different now than it had under pressure in the Moruan operating room? That he would have been blamed just as much if he had gone ahead, and then lost the case? His fingers stole down to Fuzzy's soft warm body for comfort, and he felt the little creature cling closer to his side.
The old man looked up at his visitor, and Dal felt his pale blue eyes searching his face. "How badly do you want to be a doctor, Dal?" "More than anything else I know," Dal said. "Badly enough to do anything to achieve your goal?" Dal hesitated, and stroked Fuzzy's head gently. "Well ... almost anything." The Black Doctor nodded.
The second shot caught it just below one of the fungoid-looking ears, and the beast gave a spasmodic all-over twitch and was still. He reloaded mechanically, but there was no need for a third shot. The damnthing was as dead as he would have been except for Little Fuzzy's warning. He mentioned that to Little Fuzzy, who was calmly retrieving the empty cartridges.
Down the long corridors goods of the traders were laid out in resplendent display, surpassing the richest show cases in the shops on Hospital Earth. They received a royal welcome from the commander of the Teegar, an aged, smiling little Garvian with a pink fuzz-ball on his shoulder that could have been Fuzzy's twin.
'Gainst princ'ples gen'leman do sho." And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the House when men wore lace ruffles and powder. "The blessings of another year " Fuzzy's memory failed him. The Lady prompted: " Be upon this hearth." " The guest " stammered Fuzzy. " And upon her who " continued the Lady, with a leading smile. "Oh, cut it out," said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly.
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