He dropped another chunk on it, breaking both of them, and then another and another, until he had all he could work over the rest of the day. Extending the forward claw-arms, he pulled and tugged, and then used the underside grapples to pick up a chunk and drop it on the flat ground between the cliff and the stream. Good shot: brought down a lot of sandstone, cracked the vein of flint and hadn’t thrown it around too much. He waited till the machine stabilized, then glided it down to where he had ripped a gash in the cliff with the charge of cataclysmite. The big manipulator, weightless on contragravity, rocked gently falling debris pelted the trees and splashed in the little stream. Flipping the switch, his thumb found the discharger button and sent out a radio impulse the red rag vanished in an upsurge of smoke and dust that mounted out of the gorge and turned to copper when the sunlight touched it. He could remember at least a thousand blast-shots he had fired back along the years and on more planets than he could name at the moment, including a few thermonuclears, but they were all different and they were always something to watch, even a little one like this. “This’ll be a good one,” he told himself aloud, in the manner of men who have long been their own and only company. For a moment he sat, puffing on the short pipe that had yellowed the corners of his white mustache, and looked down at the red rag tied to a bush against the rock face of the gorge five hundred yards away.

He raised a hand to push his hat forward, then lowered it to the controls to alter the pulse rate of the contragravity-field generators and lift the manipulator another hundred feet. Jack Holloway found himself squinting, the orange sun full in his eyes.

Little Fuzzy by H. Beam Piper