There was a large and unpleasant carnivore, called a damnthing—­another example of zoological nomenclature on uninhabited planets—­which had a single horn on its forehead and one on either side of the lower jaw.  It was something for Fuzzies, and even for human-type people, to get excited about.  He laid down the paring knife and the yummiyam he had been peeling, wiped his hands and went into the living room, taking a quick nose count and satisfying himself that none of the family were missing as he crossed to the gunrack.

This time, instead of the 6-mm he had used on the harpy, he lifted down a big 12.7 double express, making sure that it was loaded and pocketing a few spare rounds.  Little Fuzzy followed him outside, pointing around the living hut to the left.  The rest of the family stayed indoors.

Stepping out about twenty feet, he started around counter-clockwise.  There was no damnthing on the north side, and he was about to go around to the east side when Little Fuzzy came dashing past him, pointing to the rear.  He whirled, to see the damnthing charging him from behind, head down, and middle horn lowered.  He should have thought of that; damnthings would double and hunt their hunters.

He lined the sights instinctively and squeezed.  The big rifle roared and banged his shoulder, and the bullet caught the damnthing and hurled all half-ton of it backward.  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.  Then, rubbing his shoulder where the big rifle had pounded him, he went in and returned the weapon to the rack.  He used the manipulator to carry the damnthing away from the camp and drop it into a treetop, where it would furnish a welcome if puzzling treat for the harpies.

* * * * *

There was another alarm in the evening after dinner.  The family had come in from their sunset romp and were gathered in the living room, where Little Fuzzy was demonstrating the principle of things-that-screwed-onto-things with the wide-mouthed bottle and the bolt and nut, when something huge began hooting directly overhead.  They all froze, looking up at the ceiling, and then ran over and got under the gunrack.  This must be something far more serious than a damnthing, and what Pappy Jack would do about it would be nothing short of catastrophic.  They were startled to see Pappy Jack merely go to the door, open it and step outside.  After all, none of them had ever heard a Constabulary aircar klaxon before.

The car settled onto the grass in front of the camp, gave a slight lurch and went off contragravity.  Two men in uniform got out, and in the moonlight he recognized both of them:  Lieutenant George Lunt and his driver, Ahmed Khadra.  He called a greeting to them.