Agent of Change (11 page)

Pat laughed and flipped her hand at him. "Get out of here, you damn moonlighter. I don't know what I expected from somebody who can't live on a cop's salary."

He grinned, moving toward the door. "See you later, Pat. Try not to let one of them kids take over the station while I'm gone, okay?"

"Yah—just don't go dancin' with no turtles, old man."

The door slid closed on her laughter and Charlie sprinted for the nearest taxi stand. He'd have to step on it now, or he'd be late.

HANDLER HAD OUTDONE himself. Not only was the Clutch party seated within an exclusive alcove with excellent sight of the musicians and the famous dance floor, as well as two of the six bars, but he had further arranged—since the Clutch, after all, were visiting human space—that the four nonhumans should eat their meal using Terran utensils.

One by one Edger extracted his set from the sheathing napkin, turning each fork, knife, and spoon this way and that, subjecting it to saucer-eyed scrutiny.

"What think you, brothers?" he asked the table at large, extending a spoon. "Is this also a knife? It has an edge, of sorts . . . ."

Handler pulled one of his spoons free and tried the balance in one large hand. "It is true that it
could
be a knife, elder brother, and it is not beyond our skill to encourage such a shape. But this other—" He proffered a dessert fork.
"Three
points? Six edges, I fear me."

"A trifle!" Edger asserted. "Think if we but bring the problem to—" Here sense was lost in a sonorous rumbling that Miri realized must be Clutch-talk.

She leaned to her partner. "Are they serious, or what?"

"Hm?" He started slightly and turned to her, his full sleeve brushing her bare arm. "Of course they're serious. Middle River Clan produces the finest knives in Edger's society. Which is the same as saying that they produce the finest knives anywhere yet discovered."

"What does that mean—the finest? Does it mean pretty or useful or indestructible?"

He grinned and refilled their glasses. "Yes. Middle River knives are crystal, delicately crafted, superbly handled, exquisitely sheathed—things of beauty, without doubt. Also useful, since a knife is, after all, a tool. Edger and his Clan encourage as many blades as there are uses for blades, from screwdrivers to grace knives." He sipped wine. "Indestructible? Edger is very careful to say that a Middle River blade
will
shatter, under conditions that he likes to call 'traumatic.' These being the total destruction of the building or vehicle the knife resides within, while the knife is so resident . . . ."

She laughed. "But
spoons?"

He removed one of the many folded in his napkin. Flippling the lace away from his hand in absent-minded grace, he held the utensil out for her inspection and ran a finger around the edge. "There is symmetry, you see. And purpose. Utility. A certain pleasing quality, indeed, to the form." He shrugged and lay the spoon aside. "Who can tell? Perhaps soon—within, let us say, the late middle life of your grandchildren—Middle River spoons may be the very rage among the wealthy and influential."

"Indeed," Edger boomed, "such was my thought, young brother! If these be things that are used daily, why then should they be wrought of soft metal, that so quickly wears out? Why not, indeed, of crystal from our Clan's encouragement, so that they may be used for hundreds and hundreds of your Standard Years?"

Miri laughed again, raising her glass. "No reason at all! Humans are just shortsighted, I guess."

"We do not blame you for it," Handler said quickly, "for it is true that you cannot help the shortness of your lives. But it does seem wasteful and somewhat chauvinistic to condemn your works to obsolescence only because you, yourselves—" He floundered, the end of his sentence in sight and no graceful exit apparent, but Edger rescued him noisily.

"Not so, brother, for ephemera is an art form. Indeed, it may be art at its highest form—I have yet to conceive an opinion and have heard no others. Have we not all seen the works of this, our younger brother, employing the mediums of sound, of movement pattern, and reflected light? Done, gone, changing as it goes. Art, brothers. And who is to say that..." Perceiving that Edger was in the throes of his passion yet again, his Clan members composed themselves to listen.

The remaining two members of the party exchanged glances, grins, and a sip of wine.

CHARLIE CAME THROUGH the East door of the Grotto exactly on time and hardly out of breath, waving at his day-shift counterpart.

"Hey, George! What's the news, man? All quiet in underground Econsey?"

"Pretty quiet," allowed the other, a thin, dark man who'd been thrown off the force for hitting a kid and killing him. "There's a party over in the South quarter might bear some extra attention. Group of genuine Clutch-type turtles and a couple humans."

"Say what?" Charlie stared, then quickly forced himself to blink.

"Turtles," George repeated patiently. "Four of 'em. Two humans: male and female. Young. No problems—just a little noisy. But that's turtles for you—can't hold a conversation without cracking the walls next door. I just like to keep an eye on 'em. Not that we get that many 'phobes in here."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, but you never know. I'll check in on 'em every so often. What about the kids?"

"Pretty couple. He's dark. She's a redhead. Not orange," he elaborated surprisingly. "Kind of a reddish brown."

"Auburn."

"Yeah, auburn. Little thing. Seem to be having a good time—all six of 'em. Million laughs." He shrugged and shuffled a step toward the bar.

"Well, good," Charlie said, taking his hint. "I hope they enjoy their stay in beautiful Econsey." He raised a hand. "See you 'round, buddy."

"Take it easy." George was already waving at Macy behind the bar to set up his first drink.

CHARLIE'S BEAT WAS the East and South quarters, with one eye tipped to the low-grav dance floor at the center of things. Janees Dalton patrolled West and North, one of her eyes also on the floor, and two floaters circulated, their eyes on everything.

East was quiet. Charlie intercepted a bill dispute before it got noisy and passed it to the nearest floor manager; he escorted an early drunk to the nearest exit and put her in a cab; he nodded hello to a couple of regulars and moved across to South.

Good mob tonight, he thought, flicking a glance to the dance floor and another to twin bars marking the gateway from East to South. He spotted one of the floaters, Mark Swenger, and waved him over.

"How's it goin'?"

"Not too bad." Mark grinned. A nice kid, he worked the Grotto nights and went to school days, aiming to be a lawyer. Charlie hoped that wouldn't happen—law was a bad way to lose a friend.

"What about the turtle party?" he asked. "Still running?"

"Oh, yeah. It looks like they'll be there for the next year." Mark shook his head. "Man, you would not believe the beer and wine that table's going through! They might
have
to stay a year."

Charlie tipped his head. "Disorderly?"

"Naw, just having a good time. A little loud, but I think turtles just
are,
since they're so big and everything. It's wild, though, to walk past and hear the big one booming out in Terran to the girl, and the next littlest one booming just a little less loud to the boy in Trade, and the other two going to town in something I don't think anybody can speak!" He laughed.

"Real cosmopolitan, huh?" Charlie was grinning, too.

"Real circus," Mark corrected. "But not obnoxious. Kind of heartwarming, actually. They don't seem to have a care to care about." He scanned the crowd and lifted a hand. "I'd better be drifting like the tides, man."

Charlie nodded, moving off in the other direction. "See you later, kid."

South was starting to fill up, though there weren't many people on the dance floor. Early yet for dancing, Charlie thought; the band was barely warm. He saw an opening in the mob around the hors d'oeuvre table and slipped through, working his way back to the far wall.

And there they were. Four turtles, looming and booming. Two humans: She, pale-skinned and tiny, the blue of her dress feeding the flame of her hair; he, dark and in no way large, casual in the fine white shirt, as if these were the clothes he always wore. Charlie saw him lean close to speak into her ear. She laughed and raised her glass to drink.

Armed and dangerous? Charlie thought. Fat chance. He flicked his glance to the floor, then checked out the bars, the snack table, and the main entrance to the Quarter as he drifted back to the wall. It struck him that the boy sat where he could take advantage of that same view and he wondered if it were by design. He snorted and shook his head. Old man, you been a cop too long.

An acquaintance hailed him from a center table and he stopped to chat a minute; he looked up in time to see the boy leaving the turtles' alcove. Charlie nodded to his friend, promised to call soon, and moved away, frowning at the redhaired girl, and at the empty chair beside her.

He did one more quick scan of the area—dance floor, bars, exit, hors d'oeuvre table—and nodded, satisfied. Then he headed for the turtles' alcove. It was time for his break.

MIRI LEANED BACK in her chair, occasionally sipping from the glass in her hand as she let the low, soothing rumble of the Clutch's native tongue roll over her. The evening had taken on a dreamlike quality which was not, she thought, entirely due to the wine.

There was no reason for it not to seem that way—all the well-known fairy-tale elements were there. Herself in a lovely dress, a necklace around her throat, and a ring upon her finger, each worth more than she could hope to earn in a year of superlative bonuses—gifts from a companion who was himself beautiful, charming, and entertaining.

And bats.

She banished the thought with a sip of wine and heard, beneath the thunder of the Clutch's conversation, the sound of approaching footsteps. Alarm jangled faintly—her partner walked without sound, and these steps did not belong to their waiter. She set the glass aside and turned.

A tall, wiry man, dark brown and cheerful, grinned and bowed, hand over heart. "My name's Charlie Naranshek," he said, straightening. "I saw you sitting here and I wondered if you'd like to dance?"

She eyed him, noting the ornate gun on the fancy belt, and the glint of silver thread in his dress tunic, then looked back at his face. He was still grinning, dark eyes sparkling. She grinned back.

"Sure," she said. "Why not?"

He helped her up and gave her his arm to the dance floor. "Be careful now," he cautioned. "This thing can be a little tricky till you get the hang of it—'bout six-tenths normal gravity."

She slanted her eyes at him, grinning. "I think I'll be okay."

Charlie hung onto her as they crossed fields, alert for any sign of unbalance—and made a derisive comment to himself when she made the adjustment to the reduced weight without the slightest falter.

"Been in space some?" he asked as they took over a few square inches and began to sway with the music.

She laughed, spinning. "Naw. Just on an awful lot of dance floors."

"Really?" he asked when they next came together. "But not on Lufkit. This here's the one, the only, the
exclusive
low-grav dance floor on the whole ball of mud."

She waved her hand at the table where the four turtles still boomed. "Crew like that, you figure we're gonna be doing some space."

Charlie grinned, refusing to be slapped down, and took her arm for the next move of the dance. "They could just be friends from out-of-town, couldn't they? And you and your—husband?—just showing them a good time?"

"Brother." She tipped her head. "Did you wait for him to leave?"

"Well, sure I did," he said. "Not that I don't think you're pretty enough to fight a duel over, understand—"

She laughed and spun away from him, obedient to the laws of the dance.

VAL CON RE-ENTERED by the South door and passed the two bars and the hors d'oeuvre table, not hurrying, but not dallying. The alcove was hidden by an eddy of people. As he broke through the crowd he heard the notes of Edger's voice, and then the table was suddenly in sight.

He froze, stomach clenching, then took an automatic breath and surveyed the room calmly, ice-cold sober. He caught a glimmer of blue in the pattern of the dance, saw a small pale hand join with a larger brown one, and moved deliberately over to the edge of the floor to wait.

THE DANCE BROUGHT them together again.

"You never did tell me your name," Charlie said.

"Roberta." She accepted his hand for a full spin and bowed as she returned. "My brother's Danny. If you want the names of the rest of the bunch, we'd better go someplace where we can sit down, 'cause it'll take awhile."

"That's okay." He frowned, noticing her start. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She threw a grin at him. "Nearly lost my footing."

"What! And you an old spacehand!"

She grinned again and whirled away for the last figure, again catching sight of her partner where he stood at the edge of the floor, watching the dance with a sort of detached, polite interest.

She completed her swing, dipped, and came up, swearing at herself for having yielded to the wine and the music and the dreaming. Her hand met Charlie's for the final time and the music stopped.

She smiled and began to move off the floor. "Thanks. It was fun."

"Hey! What about another one?" He was at her shoulder, reaching for her arm.

She eluded the touch without seeming to do it consciously, and set her steps straight for the still figure at the edge of the dance floor. "Sorry, Charlie, but my brother's waiting for me." She flung him another grin, hoping he would miss the tightness underneath it—hoping he would go away.

He stayed at her shoulder. "Well, there's no reason for your brother to want your head, is there? Besides, I think I owe him an apology for stealing his sister when he wasn't looking."

Hell, Miri thought. And there was the end of the dance floor and the man with the cold, closed face—