I did."

"Did you see them killing any prawns?"

"I should say! I got a lot of movies of it." He shook his head slowly.
"Jack, this is almost incredible."

"You're staying for dinner, of course?"

"You try and chase me away. I want to hear all about this. Want you to
make a tape about them, if you're willing."

"Glad to. We'll do that after we eat." He sat down on the bench, and the
Fuzzies began climbing upon and beside him. "This is the original, Little
Fuzzy. He brought the rest in a couple of days later. Mamma Fuzzy, and
Baby Fuzzy. And these are Mike and Mitzi. I call this one Ko-Ko, because
of the ceremonious way he beheads land-prawns."

"George says you call them all Fuzzies. Want that for the official
designation?"

"Sure. That's what they are, isn't it?"

"Well, let's call the order Hollowayans," Rainsford said. "Family,
Fuzzies; genus, Fuzzy. Species, Holloway's Fuzzy--_Fuzzy fuzzy holloway_.
How'll that be?"

That would be all right, he supposed. At least, they didn't try to
Latinize things in extraterrestrial zoology any more.

"I suppose our bumper crop of land-prawns is what brought them into this
section?"

"Yes, of course. George was telling me you thought they'd come down from
the north; about the only place they could have come from. This is
probably just the advance guard; we'll be having Fuzzies all over the
place before long. I wonder how fast they breed."

"Not very fast. Three males and two females in this crowd, and only one
young one." He set Mike and Mitzi off his lap and got to his feet. "I'll
go start dinner now. While I'm doing that, you can look at the stuff they
brought in with them."

When he had placed the dinner in the oven and taken a couple of highballs
into the living room, Rainsford was still sitting at the desk, looking at
the artifacts. He accepted his drink and sipped it absently, then raised
his head.

"Jack, this stuff is absolutely amazing," he said.

"It's better than that. It's unique. Only collection of native weapons and
implements on Zarathustra."

Ben Rainsford looked up sharply. "You mean what I think you mean?" he
asked. "Yes; you do." He drank some of his highball, set down the glass
and picked up the polished-horn prawn-killer. "Anything--pardon,
anybody--who does this kind of work is good enough native for me." He
hesitated briefly. "Why, Jack this tape you said you'd make. Can I
transmit a copy to Juan Jimenez? He's chief mammalogist with the