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