HE WAS MALE, though that rarely mattered to him. Indeed, he was hardly male at all, in the sense of lyr-cat, bearded Terran stud, or mouse. What mattered more to him was his name, which might take up to three hours of introduction when spoken to humans and, spoken fully, might consume nearly twelve hours. For purposes of the visas and other official papers that hasty humans required of one, there were several short forms of his name, which pleased him.
He was regal, as befitted a T'carais and a being more than nine hundred Standard Years old, though among his race he was known for his occasional hasty action. On visas he was thus: Twelfth Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spear-makers Den, The Edger.
Some few of the Clans of Men—Terran and Liaden separately they named themselves—knew him reasonably well as Edger. He enjoyed this informality; it reminded him of those early days of learning his trade and life role.
With him now traveled other functionaries of his Clan: The Handler, The Selector, The Sheather, and, off-planet, The Watcher. Most of the Clan was home, growing knives in the cold, beautiful caverns of Middle River. His group of five had been sent by the Elders out into the wide universe to discover what knives were required. "Market research" his visa named this vast adventure, though Edger himself thought of it more fully as "Education." After all, one had to discover the uses and users of a knife before one could know what blade to grow, what edge to encourage, what handle to smooth, what sheath to mold. He never doubted that knives were needed, or that knives from the Knife Clan of Middle River were needed most of all.
So far, they'd been seven years on this hectic trip. Edger felt confident that another seven would yield all the information the Elders required.
Being relatively young, Edger did not regard himself as large; his twelfth shell had been still dangerously soft when they'd begun their journey, and even now was barely set. Yet people not of the Clutch regarded him with awe, for few of the working class traveled, and his four-hundred-pound bottle-green frame was fully one-third larger than the svelte and speedy persons the Ambassadorial Clans sent to human worlds.
Being young, Edger was fond of entertainment. In fact, it was for this purpose that he and his three companions were now moving with ponderous haste down the wide walkway of a neighborhood consisting of very tall, pastel-colored buildings. There was a piece of music to be performed in a building just a little farther down this street and then somewhat farther down the next. One could have argued that the briefness of the piece—barely longer than the speaking of Edger's full name in Terran—hardly justified walking such a distance at such a pace. But Edger's delight in music was well-known to his kin, and they were disposed to accompany him to this pleasure.
Thus they walked, taking care to keep to the strip of soft material Terrans lined their walkways with. And why not use stone, which endured at least a generation or two, demanded Selector, who had an acid tongue. Why use this—this concrete, which wore so quickly? Were the Clutch to use such material, nothing would be accomplished save the constant repaving of the roads.
Handler reminded Selector of the briefness of human lives. "Therefore, many of their own generations may walk upon this surface before it wears to nothing. And, in their hastiness, they may by then have decided upon the use of another material altogether so that it is not a waste for them, brother."
What reply Selector may have made to this gentle reproof was not to be known, for it was at that moment that the howl of a siren sounded behind them, echoed by another in front. Directly across the street from the group of Clutch members, a building chimed a shrill song to itself.
Edger stopped, enchanted.
The building continued its song while people gathered around it, each crying out in what could very possibly be some hasty new harmony. This was counterpointed by the screaming sirens atop the two bright red vehicles which had so recently arrived on the scene.
Edger left the walkway and moved across the crowded street toward the building that sang. His Clan members, seeing him in the throes of his passion, followed.
They moved through the crowd at the entrance very like a herd of elephants moving through grassland, and they did not stop at the policeman's order. Possibly, he had not been heard. Or his voice might merely have been approved for its place in the song, the words disregarded in the present of the experience.
Rapt, Edger came into the lobby, kin trailing after. Here, he noted, the sound of the sirens was not so shrill; the rich counter-harmony of the singers faded to a primal growl over which the solitary, single-noted song of the building soared triumphant, nearly incandescent.
And there were other textures herein encountered, doubtless meant as a frame to the piece: the softness of the carpeting beneath his feet; the clearness of the colors; the harshness of the light reflected from the framed glass surfaces. Edger stepped deeper into the experience, opening his comprehension to the wholeness of this piece of art.
Patiently, his Clan members waited.
TOO DAMN EASY, Miri thought with habitual distrust of easiness. The service corridor formed a small cul-de-sac off the first-floor hallway, and they had loitered there until the evacuation team arrived and began knocking on doors and hustling people to safety. Val Con had stepped quietly into the group of refugees, Miri at his shoulder, and so they had gotten rescued, too.
When the group hit the lobby, he as quietly dropped out, slipping ghostlike into the foliage of an artificial oasis. Intrigued by this return to complexity, Miri dropped out with him.
In the next few minutes, the situation in the lobby had grown noisier and more confused. Cops and firefighters were everywhere, yelling and pushing people around. Miri caught sight of two rescue workers shoving Peter Smith toward the door, and grinned.
"Tough Guy?"
"Hmm?" A gaggle of turtles had wandered into the lobby and he was staring at them, brows pulled together in a half-frown.
"Do you know Terrence O'Grady?"
The green eyes flicked to her face, his frown smoothing away to that look of bland politeness. Miri braced herself for a lie.
One of his eyebrows slid slightly askew and he took a deliberate breath, then released it.
"I don't know Terrence O'Grady," he said slowly. "But, for a few days, I was Terrence O'Grady."
The truth, after all. Miri blinked.
"I was afraid of that." She jerked her head toward the aliens in the lobby. "Friends of yours?"
He returned to his study. "It is difficult to be certain at this distance. They may actually be—kin."
She looked at him blankly and saw his face go from intent concentration to extreme pleasure as one of the Clutch began expounding incomprehensibly in its foghorn voice.
"That's Edger."
"It's what?" she demanded, dropping a wary hand to his arm.
"Edger," he repeated. "The big one in the middle is my brother Edger."
"Oh." She frowned at the group, and then at him. Maybe he's flipped, Robertson, she thought nervously. Don't look it, though.
The Clutch members were standing together, three of them waiting with visible patience, looking at nothing in particular, while the fourth—the loud one who stood a large head taller than his fellows—was in an attitude of animated attention. Edger, Miri reminded herself.
"Okay," she said, going with the gag for the moment. "What's he doing here?"
"I think...." He paused, eyes on the four aliens. "I think that he must be listening to the music."
Miri grabbed at the ragged edge of her patience. "What music?"
Her partner waved a slim hand, encompassing the pandemonium within and without. "Edger is a connoisseur of music. I met him when I was training as First-In Scout. I had a portable 'chora with me...." He shook his head, eyes still on the Clutch members, face relaxed, lips half-smiling.
"He enjoyed my playing. After I—got to know him, he offered me a place in his household, as Clan musician." The half-smile became a full smile briefly. "He also offered to import a lifemate for me, or a series of pleasure-loves, so I wouldn't sicken for my own kind."
Miri was staring at him. "First-In Scout?" she repeated, in whispering awe.
His face closed like a trap, skin pulling tight over his cheekbones and tiny muscles tensing around the eyes; the smile was gone as if it had never been.
Damn your tongue, Robertson! "What's next, boss?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice matter-of-fact.
He was already out of the tiny jungle. "Let us talk with Edger."
They moved quickly across the lobby, dodging firefighters and crowds of tenants being rescued. Val Con stopped before the largest of the Clutch people, Miri at his shoulder.
Slowly, hands hanging loose, he performed the bow of youth to age, as was proper when one who was yet shell-less would address the magnificence of one whose twelfth shell has set. He bent with the suppleness of a dancer until his forehead brushed his knee, then unbent as slowly and stood waiting to be acknowledged.
The measured pace of the bow, delivered with correct timing and in counterpoint to the frenziedness of the performance all about, drew Edger's eye. He studied the small figures before him: the brightly furred one standing in motionless respect, and the one who had performed the bow which had drawn the eye bearing a distinct resemblance to—
"By the first Egg of the first Clutch!" he boomed in joyful Trade. "It is my brother the musician! The dragonslayer! The stranger who teaches! Ahh, I had had suspicions, I will allow, but now they become certainties! Tell me, brother," he continued, lowering his voice to a mere bellow as he gestured about him with a three-fingered hand the size of a child's head. "This is yours, is it not?"
Val Con performed another slow bow, less profound than the first.
"I am honored that you recognize the workmanship," he murmured in soft Trade, "but I ask that you humor your soft brother. The work, which I had not known you might witness, is a specialty. It is to remain anonymous, known only to myself—and you, now, brother—and this lady, who assists me."
Edger sighed a tornado.
"What genius dwells within my brother! What nobility of purpose is his, who recognizes that art may be set free and allowed to pursue its own destiny and fulfillment!
"I am in your debt yet again, and I ask that you forgive my attention to the work which required you to bow such a bow. As your brother I ask that you not bow so to me again."
He paused to gaze at his brother the musician with wonder in his saucer-sized eyes.
"Frequently, I meditate upon that last work you played for the Clan, wherein you juxtaposed elements of the music of your people with the music of my own. That you could achieve such a thing without prior composition is a continuing astonishment to me. It is my opinion that most members of your race would rest, had they achieved such virtuosity upon an instrument. But you—I find you exploring other dimensions, tying the filaments of your work together with strands of discord and rhythm...." He let this drift away in order to sample again the music happening now.
"It is I who must bow to you!" he announced suddenly, nearly knocking over a passing firefighter as he attempted so do just that.
His brother waved his many-fingered hands, as if he would hold back the torrent of praise.
"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.
"To mitigate this shame, I have procured along our route foodstuffs prepared by your kind for your kind. And I am assured that these things are preserved for more than two hundreds of these standard years."
He paused, then, as delicately as the big voice could manage, asked, "Do you think you will return to us, as you promised, within two hundreds of years?"
Next to her, Val Con hesitated, and the glance Miri slanted at his face surprised an expression she recognized as sadness.
"Certainly before two hundred years," he said with strained lightness. "Liadens are not so long-lived as you." He lifted his glass and took a healthy swig of wine. "But how may I come to you at all, when you are adventuring around the galaxy?"
"Ah," Edger said, "but the expedition is nearly complete! We will be back in the caverns of Middle River in less than seven Standard Years."
Val Con laughed. "I had no idea you were so close to the end," he said, and the talk passed on to other things.
PRESENTLY, IT WAS judged time for entertainment. Bowing to their hosts, Miri and Val Con moved to the 'chora. He ghosted his fingers down the keys, releasing a shower of sound, and glanced at her from under long lashes. "What song, oh, Traveler?"
She ignored that, frowning in concentration. "You know 'Jim Dooley Blues'?"
His brows twitched together. "I am not certain."
She came around his side and leaned over to pick out the schmaltzy melody line. He listened for a bar or two, then his right hand began to pick up the rhythm; his left hand shifted further down the keyboard, grabbed her lagging melody, shook it firmly, and set it upon its feet.
Miri straightened. "Show-off."
Grinning, he flipped stops, adjusted frequencies, and slowed the lines she had shown him until they were obviously an introduction.
Miri turned toward the audience and begun to sing.
She sang well, he conceded, adjusting the 'chora to fill the spaces her voice left within the song. She did not have remarkable range, it was true, but she knew the limits of her voice, and the song she had chosen, with its overstated lament of the problems encountered by Programmer Dooley, fit her abilities perfectly.
The song ended at an even dozen verses, which he also appreciated.
The Clutch members sat motionless at the oversized table; Edger's eyes were glowing.
Val Con adjusted the stops and began the introduction to that ever-popular ballad of the spaceways, "Ausman Overboard." Miri laughed and nearly missed her first line.
The party lasted until very early the next morning.