Agent of Change by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page B

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