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.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

"No; just thought we'd drop in and see how you were making out," Lunt told
him. "We don't get up this way often. Haven't had any trouble lately, have
you?"

"Not since the last time." The last time had been a couple of woods
tramps, out-of-work veldbeest herders from the south, who had heard about
the little bag he carried around his neck. All the Constabulary had needed
to do was remove the bodies and write up a report. "Come on in and hang up
your guns awhile. I have something I want to show you."

Little Fuzzy had come out and was pulling at his trouser leg; he stooped
and picked him up, setting him on his shoulder. The rest of the family,
deciding that it must be safe, had come to the door and were looking out.

"Hey! What the devil are those things?" Lunt asked, stopping short halfway
from the car.

"Fuzzies. Mean to tell me you've never seen Fuzzies before?"