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