“No, Little Fuzzy,” he said.  “You do not dump wastebaskets and then walk away from them.  You put things back in.”  He touched the container and said, slowly and distinctly, “Waste ... basket.”  Then he righted it, doing it as Little Fuzzy would have to, and picked up a piece of paper, tossing it in from Little Fuzzy’s shoulder height.  Then he handed Little Fuzzy a wad of paper and repeated, “Waste ... basket.”

Little Fuzzy looked at him and said something that sounded as though it might be:  “What’s the matter with you, Pappy; you crazy or something?” After a couple more tries, however, he got it, and began throwing things in.  In a few minutes, he had everything back in except a brightly colored plastic cartridge box and a wide-mouthed bottle with a screw cap.  He held these up and said, “Yeek?”

“Yes, you can have them.  Here; let Pappy Jack show you something.”

He showed Little Fuzzy how the box could be opened and shut.  Then, holding it where Little Fuzzy could watch, he unscrewed the cap and then screwed it on again.

“There, now.  You try it.”

Little Fuzzy looked up inquiringly, then took the bottle, sitting down and holding it between his knees.  Unfortunately, he tried twisting it the wrong way and only screwed the cap on tighter.  He yeeked plaintively.

“No, go ahead.  You can do it.”

Little Fuzzy looked at the bottle again.  Then he tried twisting the cap the other way, and it loosened.  He gave a yeek that couldn’t possibly be anything but “Eureka!” and promptly took it off, holding it up.  After being commended, he examined both the bottle and the cap, feeling the threads, and then screwed the cap back on again.

“You know, you’re a smart Little Fuzzy.”  It took a few seconds to realize just how smart.  Little Fuzzy had wondered why you twisted the cap one way to take it off and the other way to put it on, and he had found out.  For pure reasoning ability, that topped anything in the way of animal intelligence he’d ever seen.  “I’m going to tell Ben Rainsford about you.”

Going to the communication screen, he punched out the wave-length combination of the naturalist’s camp, seventy miles down Snake River from the mouth of Cold Creek.  Rainsford’s screen must have been on automatic; it lit as soon as he was through punching.  There was a card set up in front of it, lettered:  Away on trip, back the fifteenth.  Recorder on.

“Ben, Jack Holloway,” he said.  “I just ran into something interesting.”  He explained briefly what it was.  “I hope he stays around till you get back.  He’s totally unlike anything I’ve ever seen on this planet.”

Little Fuzzy was disappointed when Jack turned off the screen; that had been interesting.  He picked him up and carried him over to the armchair, taking him on his lap.

“Now,” he said, reaching for the control panel of the viewscreen.  “Watch this; we’re going to see something nice.”