A domesticated Homo erectus. Furrier than a sapiens, with a flat skull, brow ridges, and long arms. This domesticated variety is white with black spots. [https://64.media.tumblr.com/6d9d99cc7c8f3abce46dee9e1a7a778c/2f17ba74d3061022-c3/s640x960/910ff68eab951eac0240e158127ad963de7f6cbb.pnj]Picture by Timothy Morris
"I thought it would look like a tree." Mark looked up at the residence of the Pick Ambassador, which hung in its tangle of struts and rope-ways like a flounder in a fishing net.
The residence was, in fact, a standard apartment cluster, rather more expensive than the UN's and located in the much more fashionable Old Deuterosome Quarter of the Zogreion.
"If anything, his place is flatter than ours," said Koen. "You'd think General Graa would appreciate—oh." He nodded to himself. "It's for the steed. Level ground."
"Mr. Grumbles can't climb stairs?" Mark asked.
Koen put his head on one side. "Maybe Pick civilization never invented stairs. Why would they need them? Except maybe for disabled individuals? Hm."
Mark turned his nervous energy to productive use. He spun around and clapped Koen on the shoulders. Koen jumped, and Mark jumped with him.
"We're doing this! Biology, food, and empathy. We got all the skills to get Mr. Grumbles up and smiling, right?"
"Right!"
Koen spent a moment jumping up and down with Mark, remembering football games when he was a teenager. Go, team hominin!
The Picks' omnivator carried them up to a curtain-door like the one at the spider's restaurant. It went limp at Koen and Mark's arrival, and noise exploded from its other side. Barking.
"Is that a dog?" asked Mark.
Koen knew what to do. When no owner called off the big black dog in the Pick residence's entryway, Koen stepped forward. Not aggressive, but not submissive either, he pulled the curtain back.
The dog stretched its nose through the gap in the curtain-door, and Koen put out his hands, fingers curled, palm up. The dog sniffed.
"Where is General Graa?" Mark asked. "Is he going to invite us in? Is this some kind of test? Where the hell did he get a dog from?"
Koen let the dog whuffle at his hand while he imagined. Ravens perched in their trees, watching strangers enter their territory. "I think we should just go inside," he said. "I think the dog is a kind of doorbell."
Mark thought about whether someone was going to get bitten or arrested. "Okay," he said, "you're the expert," and let Koen lead the way.
Koen pushed past the dog, which pressed its shoulder into him and wagged its tail. Despite himself, Koen smiled. He scratched at the dog's shoulder and found himself speaking Dutch.
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"Yes, doggy, hello there. Good doggy."
It was the size of a Labrador Retriever, but shaped more like a German Shepherd, with pointed nose and ears and shaggy, dark fur.
Very dark fur. Its yellow eyes and red tongue seemed to glow against the gloom of the Pick residence. Koen's own body hair shivered in reaction, but he knelt and extended his fist again. Tail wagging, wolf licked man.
A snap of wings above and a gust of carrion-smell. A resonant call and a xylophone-like plinking.
"Interesting," said Koen's translator bug. "I am very interested and happy."
Koen looked up at the massive checkerboard raven perched on a black metal spike above him. "Good afternoon, General Graa."
He began to straighten, but the Pick general raised his crest and barked, "No! Stay! I am interested in your interaction with my dog."
A wet tongue slid down the back of Koen's hand and he crouched back down.
"Interesting. I am interested." Graa's voice plinked as Koen dug his fingers into the ruff of fur behind the dog's ears. "I am noting that your fingers know where they should go. Your eyes know not to stare. Your make
"Good afternoon, Your Excellency." Mark ducked through the curtain-door.
"Do not interrupt my observations."
Mark bit the inside of his cheek, thinking, Here we go again. What he wouldn't give for a courteous nonhuman.
Koen pulled his hands out of the dog's coat and looked up. "What's her name?"
Graa raised his feathers and croaked. "No. I am angry my curiosity is not satisfied! I want to see more! Put your arms around my dog. Hug her. Hug!"
Determined not to screw up this interaction, Koen slid his hands up the dog's back. She turned and pressed her side into Koen's chest. The dusty, oily smell went up Koen's nose and he remembered kneeling on the floor of his home in Rotterdam. The summer sun shone through the window. Koen buried his cheek in fur, and didn't worry at all.
"Interesting. I am very interested."
Mark turned his face away. Koen blinked. He sniffed and rubbed his eyes.
"Her name is
Koen cleared his throat. "I don't know."
"I suppose you wouldn't." Graa gave two sharp caws, which the translator bug rendered as, "I am impatient! We are moving too slowly. You should not still be remaining in my barbican. Stand up and stride inside immediately! I am anxious because of your deviation from my plans."
"Sorry," Koen mumbled. He entered the raven's house, wondering if he could steal this dog.
Where the UN embassy residence had carpets and couches, General Graa's home had coat racks.
They looked like coat racks, anyway. Large, black, and ridged, their too-high hooks set with Swiss-army-knife assortments of tools. Bits of furry, leafy, or feathery material hung from these, either decorations or snacks. Small, gray-black birds flashed through shifting, four-colored spotlights.
"It doesn't look like a tree," Koen whispered to Mark. "It looks like a forest."
Mark nodded to show Koen he'd been heard. "Where's Mr. Grumbles?"
As if at Mark's command, Baroness Smoke Detector trotted over to a coat rack trunk, and pressed her side against the hominin hiding behind it. The dog turned, and now two pairs of eyes regarded the humans: one yellow, and one blue.
General Graa alighted above his pets. "Here's Mr. Grumbles. You see he is a wreck."
"No?" said Koen. Mr. Grumbles's expression was of pure joy.