Pictured is a Ceremonial from Fellow Tetrapod. This is a moeritheriid proboscidian converging on a walrus. It has four flippers and a long, thick body covered in wrinkled, tough skin. Its nose is large and flexible like a tapir’s trunk, but splits into smaller tentacles at the tip. [https://64.media.tumblr.com/4443f3e8c0f8e9cbe4a9bd8a2c14be32/201e3dc09489209e-43/s640x960/9398cc84569a36c6adcae75f72b8ee6774ace832.pnj]Picture by Timothy Morris

Mark considered what to do with Mr. Grumbles.

He had to calculate this finely, starting with his call to Laura. He couldn't call her back five minutes after she'd left him with the ape-man. That wouldn't look good. It wouldn't send the right message. On the other hand, he really, really wanted to.

Like a couple of frat boys, he and Laura had put a sheet over Mr. Grumbles's head and led him across the hallway into Mark's suite. Nobody had seen them, but now Mr. Grumbles refused to come out from under there. Or leave the corner closest to the door.

Mark had thought he could sit on his couch and do his work while the erectus did his thing. Instead, the ghost under the bedsheet stood next to his door, moaning.

"Nobody likes a crybaby," Mark told him, and looked down at his phone.

Other people in the embassy preferred laptops, but Mark was used to a smaller screen. Even though updates only came once a day, he could at least pretend to be plugged into the internet back on Earth.

Social media wasn't what it had been (its content was mostly autogenerated) but it was still influential and more importantly it was the only pulse that Mark could put his finger on. He had people in Washington of course, but could he trust what they sent him?

There were a lot of people there ready to distrust the Convention, from the environmentalist community to the energy sector. Big Tech —

Mark twitched. Someone was watching him. "What is it?"

Mr. Grumbles pulled the sheet back over his face.

"Stop that."

Now, where was he? Right. Trading timber for lithium borohydride had scared a lot of people. Big Tech —

Someone breathed on the backs of Mark's hands.

"Yah!" he flinched back, clutching his phone. Mr. Grumbles flinched back too. He was crouched on the floor, his face on level with Mark's knees. His eyes were blue and uncomprehending. They flicked sideways.

"What are you looking at?" Did the creature want to sit next to Mark? He shifted uncomfortably, crackling the bag of Oreos he'd snatched from Koen's room.

Oh, of course. "Is it food? Do you want food?"

"Ooh, ooh."

"Fine. Here you go, champ." Mark held a cookie out to Mr. Grumbles, who snatched it and scuttled away, still crouching. He curled up under his sheet by the door and munched.

Mark sighed and looked back down at his phone. There was a message from an IT mogul. Very critical of the Convention. Very popular. These people knew it was only a matter of time until something came out of an Accelerator and disrupted them into oblivion. Entertainment and tourism. On the other hand —

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Mr. Grumbles was whining again. "Quiet," said Mark. "No more cookies. They're bad for you."

Entertainment and tourism were the only big industries still pushing in favor of the Convention, but their investment was looking more and more like a bubble. It would be a bubble, unless some actual nonhumans wanted to come to Earth or watch its TV dramas. Mark's failure with mix Sty wouldn't help there. His next demonstration would have been a ropes course in the forest…but he didn't think about that.

If Mark filmed the right kind video and sent it to the right people, that could —

Mr. Grumbles batted Mark's phone out of his hand.

Mark stared at the empty space between his hands for a moment, shocked.

"Uh?" said Mr. Grumbles.

Mark's finger's spasmed. He wanted so much to slap the ape. His face was right there!

Mr. Grumbles stumbled backward. He held his hands up in front of his face, clutching the blanket like a frightened old woman, keening.

"What?" said Mark. "I didn't do anything." He hadn't even stood up, but Mr. Grumbles was acting like he really had slapped him. This wasn't fair! "Shut up. You hurt me!"

Mr. Grumbles shuffled backward, still cowering. He pressed his back to the wall next to the door and crouched there. His keen became a wail and rose in volume.

"Quiet." Now Mark did stand, swearing under his breath. "Shh! Come away from the door."

Mr. Grumbles saw him coming and pressed his face to the door. It was like he was trying to alert everyone in the Embassy!

Mark just grabbed him.

Mr. Grumbles was very well trained. He did not sink his teeth into one of Mark's forearms. He screamed for someone to rescue him.

Cursing louder now, Mark wrestled Mr. Grumbles away from the door. He was starting to panic and was increasingly unable to think rationally. He put his hand over Mr. Grumbles's mouth.

Even stricken by terror, Mr. Grumbles did not attack. But he was scared, and his bladder was not empty.

"What?" said Mark as warmth trickled down his calves. "What?" He shoved the erectus away and then didn't know what to do.

The two hominins faced each other, panting.

Mark knew he had to do something. He had to get a grip. From long habit, his hand reached up and slapped his own face.

Mr. Grumbles jumped.

Mark shook his head. "All right," he said. "We have to shut you up."

Mr. Grumbles went in for a hug.

"No! You've got — you've got piss all over you. We have to…" Mark's brain was working again and he wished it wasn't. "We have to clean you off."

He looked toward the bathroom. Mr. Grumbles followed his gaze and understood.

Mark had never played football. When he saw a shrieking ape-man running at him, his first instinct was not to block, but to get out of the way.

Mr. Grumbles ran past him, trailing the bed sheet. Mark recovered from his surprise, spun, traced the erectus's path toward the door, and lunged after him.

"Oh no, you don't!" he shouted. He grabbed the bedsheet and tugged. It squelched.

Mr. Grumbles jerked to a halt. He didn't let go of the sheet. Instead he swung left, smearing the sheet across the corner of Mark's couch. He went down on his knees, trying to hide. Fabric popped.

"Quiet!" Mark's shoulders tensed. His fingers curled into fists. These small modifications made his arms less effective at manipulation, but rather better at bludgeoning.

***

Anxiety is an emotion experienced by most sapient species, and is widely regarded as unpleasant. Despite the obvious evolutionary benefits of alertness to danger, a sophont's brain is so good at simulating hypothetical future disasters, it can put the body's defenses on constant alert. Long term anxiety has negative emotional and physiological consequences, which people understandably seek to avoid.

It is for this reason that we pause now to reassure the reader. Mr. Grumbles will remain unharmed. His care, though not up to the standards of the Pick International Coordination of Steed Husbandry, will keep him well fed, mostly comfortable, and even occasionally stimulated. Mark, meanwhile, will be lucky in love, Laura will go on a long journey, and Koen will fall from a great height, but not too fast.