The kitchen was actually the residence's industrial area.

"I always thought that hominins only used fire for cooking because they were too stupid to use it for forging." General Graa talked, neck smoothly twisting, as Koen turned a slow circle in the industrial room.

It was walled off from the rest of the residence, with a low hatch on one wall and a tall, chimney-like ceiling, packed with pipes and utilitarian perches. A glimmer of light up there might be another hatch. Looking down, the pipes, led to igloo-shapes of various sizes, which Koen decided must be ovens. Forges. The sooty walls were lined with tools, either small, intricate, and placed high or large, crude and low.

"But your species makes metal tools, doesn't it? Why do you have separate rooms for heat-sterilizing food and working metal?"

"Well…" said Mark.

"Because metal-forging makes horrible poisons!" said Koen.

"Only if you do it wrong."

Koen turned to find his way out blocked by Mark. "General Graa, I can't cook food in this room." His voice rose in pitch. "The smell is terrible."

"The mystery is resolved: your mammal nose distracts you." Graa ululated quietly. "I clutch the shiny insight that all this time my dog and steed have been living in oppressive mists of manufacturing fumes! They suffer." A monotone croak. "I am amused."

From the branches overhead, Secretary gave a similar croak. "I am amused too, General."

"But," said Koen. "But!"

"Koen," murmured Mark in warning.

Koen tried to civilize his thoughts. What he really wanted to say was, "Bird bad! Bad bird!" What he managed to articulate was, "Surely you must have some empathy."

The translator bugs clicked.

"What's that?" asked Graa.

"Hoo boy," said Mark.

"Pick Secretary," said Koen. "What food do you have handy for Mr. Grumbles?"

"I am gratified. This conversation moves forward. We have the usual food: powdered bones, maggoty fruit, bean meal."

Koen and Mark shared a look of absolute disgust, which Graa interpreted correctly. "These foods are unacceptable!"

Secretary wiped his beak on his perch. "But that's what we always feed him. I am confused."

"Human Koen, make your demands to Secretary," Graa screeched into Koen's ear. "Demand everything!"

Comfort, Koen thought desperately, comfort food. "Do you have smoked sausage…" as the translator bugs clicked…"I mean the intestine of a boar –"

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Yes!"

"–stuffed with the meat of the boar –"

"Yes!"

"–and smoked?"

"Smoked?" asked Graa. "Clarify: exposed to smoke for long periods?"

"But that would kill the maggots," said Secretary.

"Uh huh," said Koen. "What about dried meat? Preserved? Salted, maybe?"

"Yes! Go, Secretary, ride!"

Secretary flapped from his perch, calling, "Mr. Grumbles, at attention!"

Mr. Grumbles held out his arms and Secretary landed on his shoulder. He swung around, needle gleaming in his shortened beak.

"Wait," said Koen. "That's just one part of the meal. If I'm making stamppot. I'll also need kale and potatoes. That's a leafy green vegetable and starchy tubers."

Graa made a questioning croak. "I am disapproving. Carbohydrates are unhealthy."

Mark pinched his belly and bit his lip. Unhealthy! He said to himself with disgust.

"Yes, we eat more sugar than we should, but the stuff isn't poison," said Koen. "Consider letting Mr. Grumbles get some pleasure from what he eats."

Mark sighed and Koen swallowed. That had come out stronger, and more honest, than he'd intended.

"Sorry," he said.

Soft xylophone notes plinked in General Graa's throat at he twitched his beak up and down, scanning Koen's face in profile. "I am curious. Why?"

"Never mind," said Koen, glancing at Mark.

"Human Mark, order Human Koen to satisfy my curiosity. Why should I cause Mr. Grumbles to grab pleasure from his food?"

"Why should you let Mr. Grumbles have some happiness in his life? It's…it's basic. He deserves to feel good."

"Clarify: he feels good when he deserves it? Positive reinforcement?"

"No, that's not what I mean."

"May I go, General?" asked Secretary.

"Yes. Yes! Ride!"

Secretary clenched his claws over Mr. Grumbles's shoulder and swung the steed around. "March! Faster!"

Mark cleared his throat, mentally thanking Secretary for breaking off what sounded like a dangerous conversation.

"While we're waiting for the ingredients to arrive," he said. "I'd love to know how that committee on contacting the new species is going. The Paturitians? Is that their name?"

Graa peered at him over Koen's head. "Why should I tell you anything? Why should I gratify your desire for information? This is exactly the problem we were discussing."

"Of course, I apologize if I've offended you, General Graa."

Koen searched for anything resembling a frying pan. He picked up a container like a helmet with no eye holes and put it down again. There was a metal thing like a huge, heavy ashtray, which might do if nothing better could be found. It had some sort of design on its inner surface.

"What are you doing with that medallion mold? No, do not answer that. A larger curiosity pangs my brain. This good-feeling-dropped-before-the-feet. Do you refer to that mammal urge? You feel good when he feels good? You gratify him to gratify yourself, as if stuffing food into some other mouth when you are the one who is hungry?"

"Empathy?" said Koen.

"Aha! A definition. Mammalian milk-instinct. I am pleased."

"Don't the Pick have empathy?" asked Koen.

"We have no need for it. A society can work perfectly well with group-marriage, parades, and discipline."

There is no excuse for such a badly translated sentence.