Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"It is too much—I thank you." The hands turned up to show the palms in his well-remembered gesture. "You permit?"

"Speak on. I permit all to such a brother, and such an artist."

"I would ask that you grant the boon of your company to myself and my companion for the space of a few days. It is that we must travel and there have been—hindrances. I feel we would be passed to our destination without molestation, if you grant us your cognizance." Val Con paused, head tipped slightly to one side.

"If you will," he continued slowly, "the art you see here is but part of a larger and more complex work we perform."

"It shall be done!" Edger declared, turning to his kin, who had been patiently standing by. "It shall be done!" he said in the highest of the Clutch dialects.

The others sketched quick bows, silently taking fresh note of Edger's lamentable haste. Still, a T'carais may have a brother, and who is to deny the brother of a T'carais when the request is reasonable?

"It is arranged," Edgar said in Trade. "A few days at the disposal of my brother. It is too little, yet it begins to repay the debt. I—"

"Will you damn turtles get the hell out of this lobby?" The policewoman who demanded it, stungun at the ready, was a towering, muscled brute, a scarred veteran of a multitude of riots and street fights. She loomed over Val Con like a mastiff over a lynx.

Edger looked down at her from his height, astounded by the temerity of such a small, soft person.

The small, soft person, blissfully unaware of her transgression, continued her tirade. "Don't you stupid reptiles know that this building's on fire, that there's a desperate criminal loose, that we're evacuating the tenants, and that you are obstructing all of it? You—" A jerk of the stungun at Val Con. "Who're you?"

"Linguistic Specialist Nor Ton yos'Quentl, of the—"

Miri closed her eyes briefly.

"You registered here?" the cop cut in.

"No, I'm with these—"

"Then, for the sake of Heyjus, get your butt outta here!" the cop yelled, tripping the safety on the stungun and waving it in emphasis. "And take this zoo with you; the building's being evacuated. If you wanna stand here and have the roof fall on you," she continued, as one suddenly struck by the brighter side of destiny, "I guess nobody'll be too upset over losin' a couple geeks and a herd of turtles."

She turned and strode away, slamming her gun into the holster as she went.

Val Con glanced up at Edger. "It is recommended that we make haste, my brother, before the roof falls on us with assistance from the local constables."

Edger sighed. "I had hoped to enjoy the last of your composition, but you are no doubt wise. It saddens me to find so many people unappreciative of art."

So saying, he turned in a wide circle—like a steamer making a mid-ocean change of course, Miri thought—and set off for the door, one of the waiting trio at his side. The other two remained where they were.

Val Con caught Miri by the arm and pulled her with him as the second pair of turtles fell in behind, acting as escorts.

"What's going on?" she hissed at him in Terran as they moved toward the door. "Who in hell is Norton Quentin? Why are we—"

"Nor Ton yos'Quentl," he corrected, "is a Linguistic Specialist at the local—"

She jabbed him in the side with an elbow. "Listen you—you turtle-brother! This is crazy, all of it! First, you get us out of the room and into the lobby and nobody knows who we are. Then, you gotta attract attention to us by being related to some weird Clutch standing in the lobby—and then you're somebody else again! Damn chameleon, that's what you are."

He grinned at her, enjoying the sensation of looking down on someone with all the tall company around. "I'm your partner, just as you told Liz. A rose by any other name . . . ."

For the next few minutes, he found out what kind of a vocabulary life in the mercenaries can foster in a young girl.

* * *

CLUTCH PEOPLE, MIRI learned with surprise, were persons of consequence. Rooms for the two human members of Edger's party were bespoken and produced upon the instant at the hyatt where the marketing research team stopped. A private dining room was likewise provided, and, shortly, a meal of Clutch food and human food, with suitable beverages and utensils for each species. A concert-sized omnichora was shanghaied from some distant function room and placed also within the dining hall.

While they waited for the meal, and even before the beverages were poured out, Miri was formally introduced to Edger, Handler, Selector, and Sheather, each by his abbreviated, visa name.

"And your own?" Handler asked her.

Miri chewed her lip, working it out. "Miri Robertson Mercenary Soldier, Retired, Personal Bodyguard, Retired, Have Weapon Will Travel." She heard a small sound to her right, as if the other human member of the party had stifled a sneeze. Edger and Handler blinked solemnly.

"It is a well-enough name," the T'carais judged, "for one yet young."

Miri bowed in thanks, which pleased Edger, who thought her very pretty-behaved, and began to speak to her of music, asking, in his eventual way, if she played an instrument, as did his young brother.

She shook her head and confessed that, though she could pick out a tune, one-fingered and limp-timed, on a 'chora, it could not in justice be called playing. "I can sing some," she told Edger as they sat to dinner, "but Tough Guy says you're a connoisseur. My voice ain't anything special."

Edger paused, considering this message. Much of it was clear, but he was puzzled. "I believe I am unacquainted with this person who holds me in such esteem. My memory does not provide a face to match the name 'Tough Guy.' It is not often that I am so lax, and it troubles me."

"It is sometimes the custom among Terrans," Val Con explained, handing Miri a glass of wine and shaking his head at her, "to provide a person with what is known as a 'nickname.' This is most often suggested by a characteristic displayed by the person which seems very strong, yet is not touched upon by the person's official name." He paused and poured himself a glass of the canary before sliding into the seat between Edger and Miri. "For reasons best known to herself, Miri names me 'Tough Guy.'"

"I understand," Edger said, accepting in his turn a beaker of milky beverage from Sheather. "It pleases me that Terrans continue to adjust their names. It is not a tendency I have heretofore observed in them. But it is good to know of it." He quaffed his drink with apparent relish.

"I would be pleased," he continued, "if you and Miri would play and sing when the meal is done."

Val Con inclined his head and, after a slight hesitation, Miri copied the gesture.

The talk shifted to the mission of the four Clutch members. Miri let the conversation slide over and around her, not really listening to the words, but letting the slow voices, the grandiose phrasing and rolling periods, soothe her.

She broke a piece of bread from the loaf and buttered it leisurely. Edger's okay, she thought lazily. And Handler's sweet. And Selector—she grinned. As an ex-sergeant, she had a special feeling for Selector.

She became aware that shy, little—in a relative way, of course—Sheather was staring at her out of eyes the size of her salad plate, and smiled at him. He ducked his head and was suddenly very busy with his meal.

Miri ate her bread, luxuriating in the feeling of—safety? She sipped wine and decided that she liked the turtles.

"You will be pleased to know," Edger was booming to her partner, "that when you again come to us you will be able to eat of food and partake of drink designed for those of your kind. It was a source of shame to me that our Clan could provide you with naught but soups of which you must be unsure and which did not provide all the nutrients your body demands; and only water to drink, as our beer was too potent.