a mere layman, even the
boss.

"Well, so far you're on fairly safe ground, Mr. Grego," he admitted.
"Association of otherwise dissimilar things because of some apparent
similarity is a recognized element of nonsapient animal behavior." He
frowned again. "That _could_ be an explanation. I'll have to think of it."

About this time tomorrow, it would be his own idea, with grudging
recognition of a suggestion by Victor Grego. In time, that would be
forgotten; it would be the Mallin Theory. Grego was apparently agreeable,
as long as the job got done.

"Well, if you can make anything out of it, pass it on to Mr. Coombes as
soon as possible, to be worked up for use in court," he said.

XII

Ben Rainsford went back to Beta Continent, and Gerd van Riebeek remained
in Mallorysport. The constabulary at Post Fifteen had made steel
chopper-diggers for their Fuzzies, and reported a gratifying abatement of
the land-prawn nuisance. They also made a set of scaled-down carpenter
tools, and their Fuzzies were building themselves a house out of scrap
crates and boxes. A pair of Fuzzies showed up at Ben Rainsford's camp, and
he adopted them, naming them Flora and Fauna.

Everybody had Fuzzies now, and Pappy Jack only had Baby. He was lying on
the floor of the parlor, teaching Baby to tie knots in a piece of string.
Gus Brannhard, who spent most of the day in the office in the Central
Courts building which had been furnished to him as special prosecutor, was
lolling in an armchair in red-and-blue pajamas, smoking a cigar, drinking
coffee--his whisky consumption was down to a couple of drinks a day--and
studying texts on two reading screens at once, making an occasional remark
into a stenomemophone. Gerd was at the desk, spoiling notepaper in an
effort to work something out by symbolic logic. Suddenly he crumpled a
sheet and threw it across the room, cursing. Brannhard looked away from
his screens.

"Trouble, Gerd?"

Gerd cursed again. "How the devil can I tell whether Fuzzies generalize?"
he demanded. "How can I tell whether they form abstract ideas? How can I
prove, even, that they have ideas at all? Hell's blazes, how can I even
prove, to your satisfaction, that I think consciously?"

"Working on that idea I mentioned?" Brannhard asked.

"I was. It seemed like a good idea but...."

"Suppose we go back to specific instances of Fuzzy behavior, and present
them as evidence of sapience?" Brannhard asked. "That funeral, fo