The white ship landed in their midst. From it came Lane and his crew. The crew entered their ship, but Lane remained, waiting for Downing. In the crook of his arm he held a small, white-furred creature, and he stroked it gently with his free hand. "Just lucky," grunted Downing. "You talk big," retorted Lane. "But stay back, Downing. You're contaminated." "Meaning?" "You're alive with deadly bugs." "Nuts. So are you." "No I'm not. I've been sterilized within an inch of my life. Look," he said, holding up the Sscantovian equivalent of a guinea pig. "Cute--but so what?" "I've got the catmen scared of all Solarians--and from here on in, I'd hate to be any race that bucks us. Take hold of this animal, just for a moment." Stellor Downing put his hand on the creature's back. He held it for a moment and then let go. Lane put the little animal on the ground and stood back. "Well?" "Wait a minute, will you? Even potassium cyanide takes time to kill--" The little creature was running around, sniffing the ground and obviously looking for food. For three minutes it searched quietly, and then with a plaintive mew, it sat on its haunches and scratched its back. The plaintive cry became louder--and tufts of hair came from the back where the hind paw was scratching. The creature scratched furiously--and succeeded in de-hairing its back, _in the shape of Stellor Downing's hand_! "What in--?" "Wait." Downing looked at his hand in a sort of horror. The scratching increased, and bits of skin followed the pattern of the bare patch. The plaintive cry became strident in a tiny voice. The little animal stopped scratching, turned over on its back and wriggled in the dirt of the spaceport. It wrenched itself back and forth sharply, and with squeals of pain. Its four feet opened and closed against its stomach, and the whites of its eyes gleamed. A black patch appeared on the pink of the abdomen, and the paws scratched at the spot. It grew, and the pig cried continuously. Cliff Lane took out his modine and blasted the suffering pig with a shake of his head. Both he and Downing were a little sick. "What--?" "Fungus. As I gather it, the Solar sector of the Galaxy is alive with a violent evolution of fungus. We live in it, we breathe it, and we--eat it. They cringed in horror at what they found on the microscope slides, and this is the fourth pig I've killed. But I'm completely fungicided now, and I can handle 'em. But you see, Downing, you are alive with fungus spores looking for a place to live. They can't live on you, but what few that do escape the bactericidal action of the skin find it quite easy to go to work on an animal that has never been required to strive for life against fungi." "Are the whole race like this?"