Agent of Change by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

lazy Susan so he could see the bright amber letters. "Take a look at this, willya? Something you might run into down on the second job."

    He frowned at the letters: Be On The Lookout . . . .

    "Four turtles and two humans? Are they crazy?"

    Pat shrugged. "Who knows? Don't you think the turtles would eat the Grotto up? That fancy no-grav dance floor?" She wiggled her shoulders in a uniformed parody of a dance that may have been in fashion on some steamy jungle world where spears and canoes were still considered pretty radical stuff.

    Charlie grunted. "Sure. But it's not no-grav; it's low -grav." He shook his head at the screen. "'Observe, but do not contact. Report whereabouts to Headquarters, Mixla City ... continue observation ... Considered armed and dangerous'?"

    He looked at Pat, who grimaced and touched her keypad. Physical descriptions of the two human members of the party scrolled into place.

    "'Male, brown hair, green eyes, slender build, approximately five-five, age eighteen to twenty-five. Female, red hair, gray eyes, slender build, approximately five-two, age eighteen to twenty-five.'" He straightened, pushing the screen back where it belonged. "This is armed and dangerous? Ain't neither one of 'em big enough to pick up a gun, much less use it. The turtles now—one of them could hurt you, if he stepped on you."

    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