Already stressed and wary of potential enemies, both humans suffered a sudden failure of curiosity. If either Mark or Koen had asked to clarify the meaning of "group-marriage" or "parade," they would have gained some valuable information. But they did not seek to disprove their suspicions.

Koen asked nothing, his judgment already set. Mark, seeking to confirm his bias, asked "discipline?"

"Behavioral order," said Graa. "A structure of reward and punishment that lines up with the ideal model of behavior."

Koen's eyes darted to Mr. Grumbles. For a moment, he imagined he felt the ape-man's pain. Abuse, he thought, while Mark thought Tyranny.

If either human had spoken out loud, Graa might have learned something important. If the silence had stretched longer, Mark might have said something to fill it, and given Graa his revelation that way. Instead, Secretary arrived on the shoulder of Mr. Grumbles, who held what looked like three giant eggs.

"You see Mr. Grumbles?" Graa jabbed his beak at his steed, which flinched and cringed. "He must go where his rider tells him to go. He must carry what he is told to carry. That is the concept to which I refer. Obedience."

Koen shot a furious glance at Mark, who was torn.

How far should he allow this conversation to go? Every political instinct in his body told him this conversation was going horribly. People should sit in a circle and talk until they all agreed with each other. They should not stick their…their beaks into every source of potential contention.

Hadn't Mark gone into politics for a chance to do good in the world? It looked like Koen was uncovering a problem that might be small enough to solve. And anyway, Graa didn't seem offended by these questions. Quite the opposite. Graa seemed to enjoy this.

Then again, could Mark trust the nonhuman when he said "I am amused"? As with someone saying, "you can trust me. Honest," the fact that you verbalized the message made it less believable. Why say "I'm angry"? Why not just let other people see your anger for themselves? Unless you were lying.

But wasn't Koen the expert in nonhuman psychology? He was answering all of Graa's question. And getting ready to snap. That was a problem. And what should Mark do about Mr. Grumbles? What was the right thing to do here?

"We have no tubers from under the ground," said Secretary. "I offer meal-rosehips instead. The alternative is I order tubers from Furry Foods."

"No, no." Mark spoke over Koen. "It's fine. The meat's okay, too, Koen. Right?"

"Right." Koen tried will his heart to beat more slowly.

He had been expecting jerky, but what he held was more like salty pemmican. Dried, ground meat had been mixed with fat and formed into small lozenges.

"Traditional army rations," explained Secretary while Koen wondered about maggots. "Salted to aid osmoregulation and prevent unrefrigerated meat from crawling away during long-term storage."

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"Bleh," said Mark.

"Clarify: You are disgusted?"

"Apologize for mentioning osmoregulation!" ordered Graa.

Secretary bowed, flaring his tail.

"I can," Koen swallowed. "I can work with this. If I fry it and mix it with mashed…meal-rosehips and these greens, it might even taste…" he couldn't bring himself to say "good."

"Clarify: "fry"?"

"Uh, I'll heat it from the bottom until the fat renders out, then conducts heat to the protein." He picked up the giant ashtray.

"You will use the medallion mold to cook with," said Graa. "I am amused."

"I will put in an order for a new one," said Secretary.

"We knew this would require flexibility," said Mark. "Next time, we can prepare food our, uh, traditional human way in our kitchen."

"Or we can take Mr. Grumbles somewhere the air doesn't stink," muttered Koen.

Mark would have grabbed Koen and told him to behave, but he was aware of how close the cook was to breaking. And the most powerful nonhuman he'd met was perched on Koen's shoulder. Christ, what if Koen wrung the General's neck?

"Mr. Grumbles does enjoy the treats I give him when we go for walks," Graa said. "The best kind are the ones that you hide in a puzzle."

"And what about punishment?" With quick, angry gestures, Koen dumped the meat onto the medallion-mold and clattered the makeshift dish into the open side of the forge. "Do you peck him? Do you jab him with that silver needle? How do I close this thing?"

"Pull the release catch above the hatch."

The forge clanged and the forge began to buzz.

"This is not a needle. This is my Pick of Direction." Graa twisted his head sideways, passing the curved needled through a beam of light. It glinted wickedly. "This utensil is ceremonial only. I touch Mr. Grumbles with it, and he is trained to associate that touch with unhappiness. But I never break the skin. I told you that."

"What do you do to him," Koen asked quietly, "which doesn't leave marks?"

Mark watched and waited.

"I am proud! I'll brag to you: when Mr. Grumbles is very incorrigible, I give him a bath. Cold water. His screams are very funny." General Graa puffed out his throat-feathers and mimicked the sounds of a person crying out for help and despairing that any would come. "He sounds like he's dying. And after that, he runs very joyfully."

Mark knew how Mr. Grumbles must feel. He also punished himself with a cold shower at least once a week, and he also felt joyful afterward. This was because of a release of endorphins from his pituitary gland in response to cold stress1 and exercise,2 but Mark thought it meant he ought to punish himself more. He really did get more work done that way.

1 Suzuki K, et al. Responses of the hypothalamic–pituitary–adrenal axis and pain threshold changes in the orofacial region upon cold pressor stimulation in normal volunteers. Arch Oral Biol 2007

2 Henning Boecker et al., The Runner's High: Opioidergic Mechanisms in the Human Brain, Cerebral Cortex, Volume 18, Issue 11, November 2008, Pages 2523–2531.