Alan E. Nourse Super Pack. Alan E. Nourse

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      “Where is he?” he demanded. “What’s happened to Fuzzy?”

      Jack shrugged in disgust. “He’s up on his perch. Where else?”

      “He’s not either! Where is he?”

      Jack blinked at the empty perch. “He was there just a minute ago. I saw him.”

      “Well, he’s not there now, and something’s wrong!” In a panic, Dal began searching the room, knocking over stools, scattering piles of paper, peering in every corner where Fuzzy might be concealed.

      For a moment the others sat frozen, watching him. Then Tiger jumped to his feet. “Hold it, hold it! He probably just wandered off for a minute. He does that all the time.”

      “No, it’s something worse than that.” Dal was almost choking on the words. “Something terrible has happened. I know it.”

      Jack Alvarez tossed the recorder down in disgust. “You and your miserable pet!” he said. “I knew we shouldn’t have kept him on board.”

      Dal stared at Jack. Suddenly all the anger and bitterness of the past few weeks could no longer be held in. Without warning he hurled himself at the Blue Doctor’s throat. “Where is he?” he cried. “What have you done with him? What have you done to Fuzzy? You’ve done something to him! You’ve hated him every minute just like you hate me, only he’s easier to pick on. Now where is he? What have you done to him?”

      Jack staggered back, trying to push the furious little Garvian away. “Wait a minute! Get away from me! I didn’t do anything!”

      “You did too! Where is he?”

      “I don’t know.” Jack struggled to break free, but there was powerful strength in Dal’s fingers for all his slight body build. “I tell you, he was here just a minute ago.”

      Dal felt a hand grip his collar then, and Tiger was dragging them apart like two dogs in a fight. “Now stop this!” he roared, holding them both at arm’s length. “I said stop it! Jack didn’t do anything to Fuzzy, he’s been sitting here with me ever since you went back to the cubicle. He hasn’t even budged.”

      “But he’s gone,” Dal panted. “Something’s happened to him. I know it.”

      “How do you know?”

      “I—I just know. I can feel it.”

      “All right, then let’s find him,” Tiger said. “He’s got to be somewhere on the ship. If he’s in trouble, we’re wasting time fighting.”

      Tiger let go, and Jack brushed off his shirt, his face very white. “I saw him just a little while ago,” he said. “He was sitting up on that silly perch watching us, and then swinging back and forth and swinging over to that cabinet and back.”

      “Well, let’s get started looking,” Tiger said.

      They fanned out, with Jack still muttering to himself, and searched the control room inch by inch. There was no sign of Fuzzy. Dal had control of himself now, but he searched with a frantic intensity. “He’s not in here,” he said at last, “he must have gone out somewhere.”

      “There was only one door open,” Tiger said. “The one you just came through, from the rear corridor. Dal, you search the computer room. Jack, check the lab and I’ll go back to the reactors.”

      They started searching the compartments off the rear corridor. For ten minutes there was no sound in the ship but the occasional slamming of a hatch, the grate of a desk drawer, the bang of a cabinet door. Dal worked through the maze of cubby-holes in the computer room with growing hopelessness. The frightening sense of loneliness and loss in his mind was overwhelming; he was almost physically ill. The warm, comfortable feeling of contact that he had always had before with Fuzzy was gone. As the minutes passed, hopelessness gave way to despair.

      Then Jack gave a hoarse cry from the lab. Dal tripped and stumbled in his haste to get down the corridor, and almost collided with Tiger at the lab door.

      “I think we’re too late,” Jack said. “He’s gotten into the formalin.”

      He lifted one of the glass beakers down from the shelf to the work bench. It was obvious what had happened. Fuzzy had gone exploring and had found the laboratory a fascinating place. Several of the reagents bottles had been knocked over as if he had been sampling them. The glass lid to the beaker of formalin which was kept for tissue specimens had been pushed aside just enough to admit the little creature’s two-inch girth. Now Fuzzy lay in the bottom of the beaker, immersed in formalin, a formless, shapeless blob of sickly gray jelly.

      “Are you sure it’s formalin?” Dal asked.

      Jack poured off the fluid, and the acrid smell of formaldehyde that filled the room answered the question. “It’s no good, Dal,” he said, almost gently. “The stuff destroys protein, and that’s about all he was. I’m sorry—I was beginning to like the little punk, even if he did get on my nerves. But he picked the one thing to fall into that could kill him. Unless he had some way to set up a protective barrier....”

      Dal took the beaker. “Get me some saline,” he said tightly. “And some nutrient broth.”

      Jack pulled out two jugs and poured their contents into an empty beaker. Dal popped the tiny limp form into the beaker and began massaging it. Layers of damaged tissue peeled off in his hand, but he continued massaging and changing the solutions, first saline, then nutrient broth. “Get me some sponges and a blade.”

      Tiger brought them in. Carefully Dal began debriding the damaged outer layers. Jack and Tiger watched; then Jack said, “Look, there’s a tinge of pink in the middle.”

      Slowly the faint pink in the center grew more ruddy. Dal changed solutions again, and sank down on a stool. “I think he’ll make it,” he said. “He has enormous regenerative powers as long as any fragment of him is left.” He looked up at Jack who was still watching the creature in the beaker almost solicitously. “I guess I made a fool of myself back there when I jumped you.”

      Jack’s face hardened, as though he had been caught off guard. “I guess you did, all right.”

      “Well, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t think straight. It was the first time I’d ever been—apart from him.”

      “I still say he doesn’t belong aboard,” Jack said. “This is a medical ship, not a menagerie. And if you ever lay your hands on me again, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

      “I said I was sorry,” Dal said.

      “I heard you,” Jack said. “I just don’t believe you, that’s all.”

      He gave Fuzzy a final glance, and then headed back to the control room.

      *

      Fuzzy recovered, a much abashed and subdued Fuzzy, clinging timorously to Dal’s shoulder and refusing to budge for three days, but apparently basically unharmed by his inadvertent swim in the deadly formalin bath. Presently he seemed to forget the experience altogether, and once again took his perch on the platform in the control room.

      But Dal did not forget. He said СКАЧАТЬ