“You didn’t have to talk about it then, either,” Holloway said.

“Really?” Isabel said, thinning her lips. “Because I was under the impression that when one is forced to testify at a company inquest and continuing one’s job is contingent on telling the truth, when one is asked ‘What other unusual surveying practices have you personally witnessed Jack Holloway engage in?’ it might be prudent to describe what they are.”

“It didn’t make my problems any easier,” Holloway said.

“Well, I’m sorry my telling the truth about the stupid things you do is inconvenient for you,” Isabel said, in the clipped, quiet voice she used when she was truly pissed off. “Although now that you mention it, your calling me a liar about that and other things at your inquest didn’t do wonders for me, either. When the inquest gave you the ‘not proven’ judgment, I got a markdown in my employment record. It says that my ‘judgment might be impaired due to close or romantic relationships.’ I suppose that may be true enough, because I was with you, which was a clear case of impaired judgment. But it wasn’t impaired in the way they thought it was, and I certainly don’t deserve a mark against me because you lied, Jack.”

Holloway watched Isabel, remembering the cold fury she’d shown him after the inquest, which this outburst was a pale echo of. “I told you I was sorry,” Holloway said.

“Right, when you tried to give me that rock,” Isabel said. “And I told you then that I’d be happy to hear you were sorry when you meant it. But you’re still angry with me about something you did. So I guess I’m still waiting for you to actually be sorry.”

By this time, Baby Fuzzy had come up to Isabel and tugged on her pant leg. Isabel looked down. Baby Fuzzy held out her arms. Isabel picked her up, sat her in the crook of her arm, and scratched her head. Baby Fuzzy seemed to enjoy this.

“She really is like a cat,” Holloway said. The conversation he was having with Isabel had gone bad quickly. Holloway was ready to dump it and start a new one.

“She’s really not,” Isabel said. “That’s what I had wanted to talk to you about, before you started hammering on me about Carl and we got sidelined.”

“Sorry about that,” Holloway said. “That’s a small, immediate apology. I had a meeting with Wheaton Aubrey the Seventh, and it was brought up.”

“I take it the meeting didn’t go well, then,” Isabel said.

“No,” Holloway said. “He condescended to me, I was antagonistic to him, he made a dismissive offer couched in contempt, I threw it back in his face and promised legal action if he tried to cross me again.”

“So, the usual with you,” Isabel said.

“I suppose,” Holloway said.

“The more I know you, the more I realize why you live hundreds of kilometers from anyone else,” Isabel said.

“Let’s get back to the thing you wanted to talk about,” Holloway said. He started walking toward the cabin; he wanted a beer.

“All right,” Isabel said. “These fuzzys. These animals you’ve discovered. I’m starting to wonder if they are animals.”

“I think you’ll be laughed out of the biologist club if you suggest they’re plants,” Holloway said.

“That’s not what I’m saying, obviously,” Isabel said. “When I say I don’t think they’re animals, I mean I don’t think they’re just animals. I think they’re something more.”

Holloway stopped walking and turned to face Isabel. “Tell me you’re not about to say what I think you’re about to say,” he said. “Because I know I don’t want to hear it.”

“I think they’re sapient,” Isabel said. “I think these creatures are intelligent on a level beyond just animals. These things are people, Jack.”

Holloway turned, irritated, and threw up his hands. He resumed his walk to the cabin. “You could have told me that before I turned down half a billion credits, Isabel,” he said.

Isabel followed, confused. “What does that have to do with anything?” she said.

“Zara Twenty-three is a Class Three planet,” Holloway said. He paused at the cabin door and pointed to Baby Fuzzy, who now appeared to be dozing lightly. “If that is a person, then this becomes a Class Three–a planet—a planet with native sapient life—and ZaraCorp’s E and E charter is suspended. That means everything stops here, Isabel. No more mining, no more drilling, no more harvesting. It means I don’t get paid for the sunstone seam.”

“Well, I’m sorry you might possibly be out a bit of money, Jack,” Isabel said.

“Jesus, Isabel,” Holloway said. He opened the door. “A bit of money? Try at least a couple billion credits. That’s billion, with a b. Saying that’s a bit of money is like saying a forest fire is a nice way to roast some marshmallows.” He went into the cabin. Isabel followed.

Inside the cabin, the other fuzzys lounged about; it had gotten hot and humid outside and Holloway’s cabin had climate controls. As Holloway glanced over, he saw Mama Fuzzy had taken a book down from the bookcase and she and Papa were examining it carefully. Closer examination showed Mama Fuzzy was holding it upside down.

“Maybe they’re not as smart as you think,” Holloway said, pointing out the upside down book to Isabel. He reached into his kitchen cooler to retrieve a beer.

Isabel looked at him, and then set Baby Fuzzy down. She padded off toward the rest of her family; Isabel headed to the kitchen. “Papa,” she said. The fuzzy looked up from his book, curious, then headed toward the kitchen.

“Excuse me,” Isabel said to Jack. She pushed him aside to get at the cooler. From the cooler she retrieved smoked turkey, cheese, mayonnaise, and mustard. She set them on the small kitchen table. She closed the cooler, and then reached over to the counter to take the last two bread slices and placed them on the table. Finally, she opened the utensil drawer and put a butter knife next to all the food. She looked down at the fuzzy.

“Papa,” Isabel said. “Sandwich.”

The fuzzy squeaked in joy.

Four minutes later all the fuzzys were enjoying their share of the sandwich Papa Fuzzy had made, up to and including clumsily wielding the butter knife to make six mostly equal sections, the last of which had been presented to Carl with great gravity.

“You could have taught him to do that,” Holloway said. “I once taught a dog to detonate explosives.”

“Not to take anything away from Carl, whom I love,” Isabel said, “but it’s one thing to teach an animal to step on a detonator panel to get a treat. It’s another thing to teach it how to make a sandwich. Much less then divide it equally among five other animals.”

“A monkey could do it,” Holloway said.

“Name one,” Isabel said.

“I’m not the biologist,” Holloway said.

“Really,” Isabel said, mildly. “There’s also the small matter that even if I could have trained Papa to make a sandwich, I didn’t. I came in here not long after you left for your meeting and found Papa making one. Either he saw you making one or he’s even more clever than I thought. Which would go to my point.”

“He saw me make one,” Holloway said. He started putting away the sandwich fixings.

“So what we’re saying is that this animal, having observed you make a sandwich once, managed to remember where the ingredients were, retrieved them, organized them, and re-created a sandwich recipe from memory, not once, not twice, but three times,” Isabel said.

“Three times?” Holloway said.

“After I caught him doing it, I made him do it again, just to be sure,” Isabel said.

“You’re going to make them fat,” Holloway said, closing the cooler.

“He gave the second one to me,” Isabel said.

“How sweet,” Holloway said, dryly. He took another swig of his beer.

“Which in itself shows higher-order cognitive function,” Isabel said. “It’s called theory of mind. Papa assumed that when I asked him to make another sandwich, that I was asking him to make it for me, because I was hungry. He was attributing intent and reason to me.”