“Why, sure; you’re a Little Fuzzy, that’s what you are.”

He moved closer, careful to make no alarmingly sudden movements, and kept on talking to it.

“Bet you slipped in while I left the door open.  Well, if a Little Fuzzy finds a door open, I’d like to know why he shouldn’t come in and look around.”

He touched it gently.  It started to draw back, then reached out a little hand and felt the material of his shirt-sleeve.  He stroked it, and told it that it had the softest, silkiest fur ever.  Then he took it on his lap.  It yeeked in pleasure, and stretched an arm up around his neck.

“Why, sure; we’re going to be good friends, aren’t we?  Would you like something to eat?  Well, suppose you and I go see what we can find.”

He put one hand under it, to support it like a baby—­at least, he seemed to recall having seen babies supported in that way; babies were things he didn’t fool with if he could help it—­and straightened.  It weighed between fifteen and twenty pounds.  At first, it struggled in panic, then quieted and seemed to enjoy being carried.  In the living room he sat down in his favorite armchair, under a standing lamp, and examined his new acquaintance.

It was a mammal—­there was a fairly large mammalian class on Zarathustra—­but beyond that he was stumped.  It wasn’t a primate, in the Terran sense.  It wasn’t like anything Terran, or anything else on Zarathustra.  Being a biped put it in a class by itself for this planet.  It was just a Little Fuzzy, and that was the best he could do.

That sort of nomenclature was the best anybody could do on a Class-III planet.  On a Class-IV planet, say Loki, or Shesha, or Thor, naming animals was a cinch.  You pointed to something and asked a native, and he’d gargle a mouthful of syllables at you, which might only mean, “Whaddaya wanna know for?” and you took it down in phonetic alphabet and the whatzit had a name.  But on Zarathustra, there were no natives to ask.  So this was a Little Fuzzy.

“What would you like to eat, Little Fuzzy?” he asked.  “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.

Little Fuzzy made what sounded like an expression of willingness to try it.  It would be safe enough; Extee Three had been fed to a number of Zarathustran mammals without ill effects.  He carried Little Fuzzy out into the kitchen and put him on the floor, then got out a tin of the field ration and opened it, breaking off a small piece and handing it down.  Little Fuzzy took the piece of golden-brown cake, sniffed at it, gave a delighted yeek and crammed the whole piece in his mouth.

“You never had to live on that stuff and nothing else for a month, that’s for sure!”