The trouble was a harpy—­a thing about the size and general design of a Terran Jurassic pterodactyl, big enough to take a Little Fuzzy at one mouthful.  It must have made one swoop at him already, and was circling back for another.  It ran into a 6-mm rifle bullet, went into a backward loop and dropped like a stone.

Little Fuzzy made a very surprised remark, looked at the dead harpy for a moment and then spotted the ejected empty cartridge.  He grabbed it and held it up, asking if he could have it.  When told that he could, he ran back to the bedroom with it.  When he returned, Pappy Jack picked him up and carried him to the hangar and up into the control cabin of the manipulator.

The throbbing of the contragravity-field generator and the sense of rising worried him at first, but after they had picked up the harpy with the grapples and risen to five hundred feet he began to enjoy the ride.  They dropped the harpy a couple of miles up what the latest maps were designating as Holloway’s Run, and then made a wide circle back over the mountains.  Little Fuzzy thought it was fun.

After lunch, Little Fuzzy had a nap on Pappy Jack’s bed.  Jack took the manipulator up to the diggings, put off a couple more shots, uncovered more flint and found another sunstone.  It wasn’t often that he found stones on two successive days.  When he returned to the camp, Little Fuzzy was picking another land-prawn apart in front of the living hut.

After dinner—­Little Fuzzy liked cooked food, too, if it wasn’t too hot—­they went into the living room.  He remembered having seen a bolt and nut in the desk drawer when he had been putting the wooden prawn-killer away, and he got it out, showing it to Little Fuzzy.  Little Fuzzy studied it for a moment, then ran into the bedroom and came back with his screw-top bottle.  He took the top off, put it on again and then screwed the nut off the bolt, holding it up.

“See, Pappy?” Or yeeks to that effect.  “Nothing to it.”

Then he unscrewed the bottle top, dropped the bolt inside after replacing the nut and screwed the cap on again.

“Yeek,” he said, with considerable self-satisfaction.

He had a right to be satisfied with himself.  What he’d been doing had been generalizing.  Bottle tops and nuts belonged to the general class of things-that-screwed-onto-things.  To take them off, you turned left; to put them on again, you turned right, after making sure that the threads engaged.  And since he could conceive of right- and left-handedness, that might mean that he could think of properties apart from objects, and that was forming abstract ideas.  Maybe that was going a little far, but....

“You know, Pappy Jack’s got himself a mighty smart Little Fuzzy.  Are you a grown-up Little Fuzzy, or are you just a baby Little Fuzzy?  Shucks, I’ll bet you’re Professor Doctor Fuzzy.”