Agent of Change Read online

  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.

  Chapter Six

  THE STAFF OF the hyatt in Econsey were even more impressed with the members of Edger's group than the staff at the City House, where they'd spent the previous night, had been. Of course, the Clutch had been staying at City House for several weeks—it was possible that the novelty had worn off.

  A suite of rooms, arranged in a six-pointed star around a spacious common room, was provided. An omnichora, the stammering manager explained, was standard equipment in this apartment.

  The suite was pronounced adequate, and the manager was requested to guide Handler and Sheather to the kitchens, where they could arrange the details of comestibles while Edger and Selector made a preliminary tour of Econsey's import shops.

  Miri stared at Val Con and cleared her throat. "I'm gonna try the comm-net for Murph's registration," she said, jerking her head at the door to her bedroom.

  He nodded wordlessly and drifted toward the 'chora.

  * * *

  MURPH'S NAME WAS readily regurgitated by the net; the comm connected her with his hyatt's front desk immediately.

  "Mr. Murphy and his guest have rented one of our island hideaways for a few days," the smiling young man at the Archipelago told her. "They should be back on the mainland—let's see ... Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to leave a message for him?"

  "No, thanks," Miri said through gritted teeth. "My plans ain't fixed yet. I'll give him a call back when I know what I'm gonna be doing. I just thought, if he was free tonight..." She let it trail off, and the young man dimmed his smile by a kilowatt or two in professional sympathy.

  She thanked him and broke the connection, seething.

  Spinning slowly on her heel, she surveyed the bedroom. It was not, she thought, as luxurious as the apartment rented by Connor Phillips in Mixla City, though the private comm built into the desk was a nice touch. And the bed was enormous.

  The bathing room offered a choice of wet or dry clean, as well as a sunroom; the valet was in a room of its own, flanked by floor to ceiling mirrors. On whim, because any occupation was better than thinking up ways to ruin Murph's nature, she called for the valet's catalog.

  A low whistle escaped between her teeth as the pictures began to form in the screen. Hot damn, but you're in the wrong business! she told herself. A person didn't get rich being a soldier—not unless she got real lucky. And personal bodyguards didn't get rich either, unless the boss died grateful—of natural causes. Miri puzzled briefly, trying to figure out what line of work one could get into and afford to dress in the clothes offered by the hyatt's valet.

  Sighing, she hit CANCEL. There was one thing for sure—any gimmick that let a person dress like that was not a gimmick that a mercenary from a ghetto world was likely to fal
l into.

  That thought touched another, and then her fingers were working the catch on her pouch, pulling at the false wall. The enamel work of the disk was nearly blinding in the spotlights of the valet chamber, but extra illumination did not make the marks more meaningful.

  She stood for a long moment, frowning down at the thing. Then, with a sharp nod, she went in search of her partner.

  * * *

  THE MANAGER OF the second shop was appreciative. She turned the one knife they carried with them for such purpose—their "sample" Edger called it—this way and that, letting the light illuminate and obscure the crystal blade in artistic series.

  "It's beautiful," she breathed, laying it with gentle care on the velvet pad she used for showing off fine pieces of jewelry. "I'm quite sure I could sell a few hundred every year. Why don't we start with an immediate shipment of fifty? In six months I'll have a better idea of how they're moving and be able to reorder." She looked up at the larger of the two aliens, who seemed to be the boss of the venture. "Will fifty percent up front and fifty percent on delivery be satisfactory?"

  "Quite satisfactory, " Edger replied politely. "But it appears that I have not made myself perfectly clear. I am mortified to display such a lack of proficiency in your language. The case is this: 'Immediately,' as I understand you to mean the word, is not possible. It takes a space of time to encourage knives to grow in the desired form for the proper edge to be induced, for handles and sheaths to be formed and grown . . . ."

  The manager frowned. "How long?"

  Edger waved a hand. "For such a knife as that, do we notify those at home this day—twenty of these Standard Years."

  "Twenty—" She swallowed and stared down at the lovely thing resting on the velvet. "What if you were to—ah, encourage—a smaller knife? Say one half as large as this? How long would that take?"

  Edger considered. "Perhaps fifteen years. Some effort, you understand, cannot be hastened, though there is a saving in time due to the fact that the knife need not be encouraged to grow so large."