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Picture by Timothy Morris

On one earth, ravens discovered knives. Like many sophonts, their ancestors were generalist omnivores and scavengers. They ate berries, nuts, insects, and small mammals when they had to, but they preferred the carrion left by wolves. They guided packs with caws and aerial displays, so that the predators would kill and tear apart a deer or boar, opening its carcass to the beak.

Occasionally, a prey animal would die of some other cause, and no large carnivore would be available to open it. In those cases, the ravens would have to content themselves with eating only the animal's eyeballs and tongue, for their beaks could not pierce hide.

At some point, entirely by chance, one of these birds poked the belly of a forest bison with a stick of sufficient sharpness. The skin parted. The raven fed, and grew larger and more dominant.

The sticks were useful for more than just accessing entrails. They could be used to pry insects out of wood, dig holes in which to cache food, and beat rivals into submission. Ravens better at making and using these tools prospered, as well as those who were better at navigating the increasingly fraught and complicated world of politics. How can I get a stick like that? Whom will I beat with it once I have it? How will others react, and how will I deal with them?

It was only a matter of time until some bird knocked one piece of obsidian against another. They became even larger, with proportionally enormous brains inside elongated, snub-beaked skulls. Effective communication necessitated symbolic thought, and individuals with more nimble beaks and tongues prospered.

The knife-users spread from what might otherwise have been southeastern Siberia, carrying their ever-more complex toolset with them, driving their tame wolves, deer, and walking apes. It is possible that the apes brought fire to the ravens, or perhaps it was the other way around.

Soon, the Steppes were planted with roost-trees and the coasts bristled with the branching masts of fishing fleets. Forest-citadels rang with the clash of scissor-masks. The skies echoed with the caws of heroes.

Wars and conquests hatched plagues and enlightenments. By the time they had learned to build particle accelerators and the Convention contacted them, the ravens had mostly learned how not to kill each other. Their multitude of squabbling project-roosts stayed civil under The Pick that Administers Direction.

The influence of the Pick had only grown since joining. They were a senior species, widely respected for their sharp eye for opportunity and the terrible reputation of their allies, the Tensors. It was an unprecedented honor for the Pick ambassador to personally visit the embassy of a junior species. There was a great deal of speculation about what he thought the United Nations could possibly offer.

"What can I get you?" asked Koen with a certain desperation. "Something to eat or drink?"

"I'm excited!" General Graa cried. "You are a talking steed!"

Koen examined the Pick's steed and made a taxonomic guess. "Like your…domesticated Homo erectus?"

"His name," said Graa, "is Mr. Grumbles."

The translator bug clicked to indicate a new, and possibly mistaken, entry in it glossary. Koen ignored this, concentrated as he was on the steed's anatomy.

Except for the face, it looked very human. It was a bit slumped in the shoulders, but there were no chimp-like bowed legs or dragging knuckles. The legs and especially the arms did seem to have a great deal of hair. This was silky and white, with occasional patches of dark gray. The skin of the face, too, was pink-white with charcoal splotches. Piebaldism. Koen was reminded of dalmatians and holsteins.

"You will like him," Graa ordered both of them. "Make friends!"

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The steed whined under Koen's regard. It crouched slightly, still grimacing, and extending its hands. These were pudgy and, disturbingly human.

The raven croaked. "I am tender," translated Koen's bug. "Look, he's begging for you. Look!"

Begging. That was it exactly. The upraised palms, the ingratiating smile. But the eyes over the smile were as shiny and vacant as a pair of blue beads.

Koen found himself reaching for the nearest bowl of chips. Overcoming his pity and disgust, he placed a few into Mr. Grumbles's hands.

"Hoo," said the steed softly. It trembled, but didn't eat the chips.

General Graa stroked the steed's cheek with his pick. "Hold. Hold."

Mr. Grumbles's throat worked. He licked his lips. But he did not eat the tempting snack.

"Good boy. Feed me."

The erectus delicately grasped a chip between two fingers and passed it up to the bird on his shoulder.

Graa's beak darted forward and crunched down. His throat pulsed with a glook glook sound. "I am delighted! This is a novel texture. The shape is pleasing as well, although the coloring is quite dull. What do you call this thing?"

"It was for Mr Grumb – "

Laura was suddenly there beside Koen. "It's called a potato chip, Your Excellency."

Graa cocked his head toward his own translator bug, then opened his beak and squawked, "potato chip" in Laura's precise voice and intonation. Gurgle-twitters followed. "Potato. Chip. Confirm that this is the sheet of a tuber?"

Koen opened his mouth. Laura grabbed his arm and squeezed. "We fry them. And add salt. Would you like more, Your Excellency? We can arrange a regular delivery to your residence."

"No! Then I would have to share them with my subordinates. I will give you the address of one of my secret caches. No. Give me another!"

Both Koen and Mr. Grumbles reached at the same time. They both made the same head-bob and after you gesture.

Laura shivered. From across the room, Mark's curiosity was piqued.

"Do you import all this? That must be expensive," said Graa around a mouthful of fried potato.

"The cost of import will be a factor in the price," said Laura. She let go of Koen's arm, much to his disappointment.

"Glook," said Graa. "I am amused. I will go to Furry Foods and see if they can supply the same tuber for a lower price."

Koen shook his head and dragged mind away from the feel of Laura's hand on his biceps. "Furry Foods? Does that mean they supply food for mammals?" Another thought. "Or is it food that consists of mammals?"

"Why do you care? You eat other mammals, don't you? Mr. Grumbles does all the time."

Koen had thought about this a lot. "But what if we're eating something related to a member of the Convention? It's an interesting ethical problem."

Graa jerked his head up, apparently focused on a corner of the ceiling. "I'm bored. Talk about something else now."

Laura shot Koen a look. "As I was about to say, the potato is a domesticated species. It won't appear on other earths."

The crest of feathers rose. "In that case, I will steal cells and culture them and grow my own."

"These are fried," Koen pointed out.

General Graa stretched his neck out, beard feathers bristling. He gave a series of sharp kek calls. "I am frustrated! I will travel to your Earth, and there I will find the living cells of your delicious tuber." His shoulders rose and the feathers around his legs fluffed out. "I threaten you! I will steal from you the secret of the potato!"

"Please, Your Excellency, we mean no disrespect." Laura held up her hands and smiled ingratiatingly. Mr. Grumbles copied the gesture.

Koen had once had lunch with a New Age witch at a renaissance fair. He tried to recall what she'd told him about ravens.

"We are powerless to stop you?" he essayed.

Graa focused on him, feathers smoothing. "Flatterer."

Koen imagined a deer carcass in the snow and a bird perched on top of it, screaming to attract his flock before the wolves came back. What rewards would such a personality expect?

"Your great power and, um, bravery will surely overcome the dangers associated with the secret of the, uh, potato."

Graa growled again. Koen believed that meant that the Pick was happy.