The Commercial Agent was late, causing Brathhikk-en Terloung-thak Fihhk-ter Loggain-nap to bounce anxiously up and down, the low gravity of the space station not being suited for pacing. His fledgling business career was indeed at stake but, as he waited and worried, in his mind the risk he faced grew greater and greater till it seemed his entire life was on the line: plans, hopes, dreams, everything he was or ever could be. Wondering whether that was truly a tragic concern or just an incidental one made Brathhikk-en even more fretful.

As a gracile Muctid from Sloparian 7, his parental triad had been almost unaware of Brathhikk-en’s existence; they instead doted on his robust siblings (all nine of them) and if they had any expectations for him it was as a pet-trainer, pleasure slave, or perhaps a dung-carrier. A facility with languages had gained Brathhikk-en some grudging credibility with his Three (Father being the most supportive, Mother the least, with Trither undecided) and so they decided to give him an opportunity in the family business, synthesis of advanced pharmaceuticals.

In what seemed like a miracle, on his first foray into the trading hall he had secured the rights to bid on manufacturing a kind of soporific laxative for the Dekkan, a little-known species active on the fringes of Muctid space. What his fellow traders — robust Muctids, one and all — hid from him was that no Muctid had ever successfully traded with a Dekkan. The few deals that had been made, through third parties, were all disastrously unprofitable; apparently the Dekkan were obdurate bargainers. Moreover, Brathhikk-en had come to hear vague rumors of a few Muctids who had attempted face-to-face trades returning from Dekkan space dead or dying. The Sloparian data-nets had no details on these noxious alien customs; there was not even a visual to show what they looked like. All he could find was that the Dekkan were “uncongenial socializers”, whatever that might mean. Since the Muctids as a race had so many profitable trading opportunities with the Allo’en, the Birjan, the Thoctall Agglomeration, and twenty other well-known and peacefully disposed races, there was little incentive to explore relations with the Dekkan. Many profitable opportunities indeed, unless you were a gracile Muctid with few unique skills, little parental support, and no connections to speak of.

Brathhikk-en sighed as he thought back to when he first discovered the danger of dealing with the Dekkan. He’d been more relieved than frightened. Assuming he survived, he’d likely lose so much credit his Triad would demote him to dung carrier, or lower. Death was preferable.

Then one older trader, robust yet kind-hearted, called him over. “You need a partner,” the old merchant told him, handing him a card. “Contact this creature. He is your only hope.” At his touch the card began to display markings in a succession of languages, finally settling on Muctid. The message displayed was, “Jaaha-ackk Weel-yams,” (in phonetic script), followed by “Commercial Agent”.

There was little to be found on the nets about this Weel-yams, other than he was of a race called Terran and that he was reputed to be a skilled negotiator. But Brathhikk-en was desperate, so he frantically sent messages out by subwave and at last managed to arrange a meeting on the station with himself, his Dekkan counterpart, and the mysterious Terran. This in itself was a victory of sorts, seeing as no Dekkan had ever come so far into Muctid space before.

And so Brathhikk-en bounced, clutching a sign proclaiming “JACK WILLIAMS”, painstakingly copied in Terran characters. His liner had already arrived, some twentieths of a dayspan ago, and now the appointment with his customer was fast approaching. Where was he?

“G’day, mate!” Unfamiliar tones in oddly accented Standard jolted Brathhikk-en out of his anxious reverie. He turned to see a plain looking creature, bipedal and somewhat less than his own height though heavier and wider in the shoulder, covered almost entirely in dark-colored fabrics, with a red string, or perhaps a flag, tied around its neck. Stretching its mouth wide to show a glimpse of short, powerful teeth, the creature extended out a hand. Confused, Brathhikk-en offered the sign.

“Yes, that’s myself, Jack Williams,” the newcomer stated in cheerful tones. “Not the sign, mate, give me your hand.” Wide-eyed and still speechless, Brathhikk-en complied. The thing grasped his hand — five pink fingers over six green — and Brathhikk-en winced at the vigorous shaking and unexpected pressure.

As he shook the creature continued. “So you’re the chappie who’s brought me out back of Woop-woop to do some once in a lifetime deal? Sorry I’m late, just brokering a little after-hours companionship — purely harmless lad, purely harmless. What’s your name again, mate?” The shaking continued and Brathhikk-en couldn’t help but nod up and down in the same rhythm.

“Nuh — name? My … name? Ah — Brath … Brathhikk-en Terloung-thak Fihhk-ter Loggain-nap.”

“Oi, there’s a mouthful! Let’s just call you Bruce. Alright, Bruce, shall we be getting on?” With that he released Brathhikk-en’s hand and quickly departed with the loping low-gravity strides of a seasoned traveler.

“You — you … are the Commercial Agent?” Brathhikk-en stammered, somehow unable to move.

“That’s me, Bruce,” the creature called over its shoulder. “Coming, are you? Time is money, cobber, time is money!”

Brathhikk-en hurried after, nearly bouncing off the station ceiling as he went.

***

Brathhikk-en was heartened by the Commercial Agent’s obvious confidence and brisk manner. But his relief soon turned to concern, and then to out-and-out panic as his new partner spoke.

“Did just a quick scan of your brief, mate,” Jack Williams said. “Too many irons in the fire, you know how it is? Recap the essentials for me, why don’t you?”

Brathhikk-en’s olfactory vanes began to vibrate with fear. “Recap? Recap! There’s no time, we can’t — you’re not prepared? How –”

“Easy, Bruce, take a deep breath,” the Commercial Agent said. His eyes fixed on Brathhikk-en, and the Muctid saw they were pale blue in color. The Terran continued. “Jack Williams is at his best when he comes to a problem fresh, head-on, no preconceptions! You want me at my best, don’t you Bruce? Now, just tell me the deal.”

To his own astonishment, Brathhikk-en found himself believing this Jack Williams. He started talking. The product the company was to make sped up the Dekkan digestive process, yet there were several other essential ingredients, including powerful muscle relaxants. Brathhikk-en went on to describe the delivery schedule, the quality criteria, the payment terms, the shipping parameters. He finished by displaying the samples that the family lab had prepared, medium-size tablets which his new partner inspected closely. It all came out simple and straightforward and when he was done Brathhikk-en was quite pleased. The proposal didn’t sound that bad.

“You have the financials, Bruce?” Jack Williams asked.

Brathhikk-en took out his comm, made an adjustment and the device projected in midair several dense columns of figures. He was about to explain when a line of red illumination traced up and down the display.

“Very good, Bruce, very good,” Jack Williams was saying. As Brathhikk-en looked at him it seemed a faint red light was just disappearing from the Terran’s eye. How could that be?

“A lot of possibilities here, Bruce, a lot of possibilities,” he went on. “Now, what’s this Dekkan’s name we’re having the sit-down with?”

“Sit … down? I don’t — oh, the name. Let me see …” Brathhikk-en consulted him comm. “His name — or her name, I don’t know really — is ‘Glug’.” The Muctid checked the comm again. “Yes, ‘Glug’ is it.”

“Ah, a one-syllable Dekkan. He’ll be tough to nut out. No worries, Bruce. She’ll be apples, never fear.”

Nuts? Apples? Brathhikk-en was on the point of mentioning that the deal had to do with pharmaceuticals, not foodstuffs, when Jack Williams continued.

“We’re meeting this Glug soon, that right?”

“Yes!” the Muctid affirmed. “Less than ten two-thousandths from now. One of the Sloparion-view conference halls. We should –”

“The Dekkan can wait,” the Commercial Agent cut in. “Will be good for ‘em. Meanwhile we have some preparations to make. This station, there a good resto here?”

“Res — what?”

“Food, Bruce. A place that makes food.”

“Oh. Yes, quite a good one, I hear that the chef –”

Again the Terran cut in. “Tell me on the way, Bruce.” He paused, with narrowed eyes scanning his Muctid partner. “One more thing …” His voice trailed off as he continued looking up and down.

Brathhikk-en waited for Jack Williams to finish. He didn’t, so the Muctid spoke. “Yes?”

“It’s your wardrobe, Bruce,” Jack Williams pronounced.

“My wardrobe?” Brathhikk-en was confused. He stepped back to better show his eighteen-layered business toga, of hand-woven deen fiber in spectrally matched shades of orange-brown-green, all with fortuitously-colored corundum buttons and cheek-studs. In latest Muctid professional style the outfit — obtained with the very last of his own personal funds — showed only the skin of his head and hands.

“You’re all rugged-up, Bruce,” was the reply. “The play with the Dekkan will go better if you are, ah, ‘otherwise attired’.”

“I see. A negotiating ploy? Well … I suppose so. What sort of ‘attire’ do you recommend?”

Jack Williams laid an arm across the Muctid’s shoulders. “Oh, something sporty, Bruce. You trust old Jack.”

***

Brathhikk-en Terloung-thak Fihhk-ter Loggain-nap reflected on the strange journey that had led him to this point. At one time his ambitions aimed no higher than pet-trainer; then, against all odds he had become a certified trader; and soon after that he had resigned himself to being a dead trader, a victim of the Dekkan and their rumored lethal practices. These were all honorable roles and in retrospect Brathhikk-en would have been satisfied with any of them (though he still mentally held the line against dung carrier).

But this … this! This was infinitely beyond the worst fate he could imagine, as if the Universe itself had singled him out for a special program of humiliation.

“I must say Bruce, you fill out those budgie-smugglers quite nicely,” Jack Williams told him.

The Muctid turned to his partner and spread his arms wide. “You are certain this is necessary?” Not wanting to draw any more of the Universe’s attention Brathhikk-en spoke in a whisper.

Relative to typical business practice, Brathhikk-en was now clad rather, unconventionally, that was the best he could term it. Gone was the dignified, all-encompassing toga in its many layers. In its place were the “budgie smugglers” as they had been termed, a miniscule garment that barely contained his male parts and with a thin rearward strap that rode up uncomfortably in his, ah, posterior area; two “pasties”, adhesive disks applied to his chest, adorned with sparkles and with red, dangling tassels; a bright yellow cap of long, artificial hair that covered his well-waxed bald head (one of his best features, he mused sadly to himself); shoes of outlandish configuration, with elevated, needle-thin heels; bracelets and “earrings” (affixed awkwardly to his olfactory vanes) of mirror-polish stainless steel; bright colorings of red and blue plastered over his lips, eye-ridges, and finger- and toe-claws as accents; and lastly, a metal-studded collar of black plark leather, linked to a long black poly-bronze chain, the end of which was held in the hands of the Commercial Agent.

“Afraid so, Bruce, afraid so,” Jack Williams replied. “I know a bit about these Dekkan. You’re the distraction, Bruce — you keep Glug off-balance while Jack locks on for the kill, just like we talked. You with me, mate?”

Glancing around for onlookers, Brathhikk-en murmured, “Yes. It’s just … not very business-like, is it?”

At this the Terran emitted a coughing noise that the Muctid first thought was a sign of distress; he then saw the Commercial Agent was expressing amusement.

“Business is what you make it, mate,” his partner told him. “ Now, you have those samples?

Once again Brathhikk-en spread wide his arms, this time to indicate his costume could hardly conceal a packet of pharmaceuticals — in fact it could not conceal even a single tablet, which at the moment he found himself wishing for, provided the tablet was a fast-acting poison.

“There.” The Muctid indicated his parcel of business clothing, laid just outside the conference door. Jack Williams removed the packet of samples.

“May come in handy,” he observed. “Ready to go work miracles, Bruce?”

Brathhikk-en was about to reply they needed a miracle; but his reply was cut short as Jack Williams pulled on the chain to drag the Muctid with him through the opening meeting room door. The room was quite large, Brathhikk-en saw a conference table with two beings gathered near some thirty or forty kharn-heights distant. Jack Williams strode forward confidently. However between the low gravity and the ridiculous shoes walking had become an adventure for Brathhikk-en — he found that to keep from falling he had to gyrate his hips back and forth in most un-Muctid like fashion.

As they drew closer Brathhikk-en saw it was two distinctly different figures that awaited. The first was a kind he recognized, a T’jat; this was an armored creature, short and squat, standing on four legs but with a cylindrical upright torso and semi-spherical head directly atop. The T’jat’s two thick arms held a heavy weapon.

The presentation of the second person — presumably the Dekkan — left Brathhikk-en staring wide-eyed. Two-legged and two-armed, about the same height as a Muctid, this creature had powder-white skin and bluish, wavy hair cascading down from a spherical head. Its arms were long and thin, reaching down well past the hips, and the four fingers on each hand were excessively long, with a complicated joint-structure. Its eyes were bright blue, large, and every few seconds were obscured by a lightning-fast blink of yellow eye-lids. Its body was narrow and tubular, though the midsection bulged out, like the egg-pouch of a holock-nar.

Yet it wasn’t this creature’s physiognomy that had so surprised Brathhikk-en; it was its clothing — or, rather, the lack thereof. The Dekkan was garbed almost identically to Brathhikk-en. There were some minor differences. The Dekkan’s pasties had sharp needle points, from which depended black tassels; its eye-rims, finger- and toe-nails were accented with deep black paint, projecting a rather bleak attitude; its shoes were elevated even higher than Brathhikk-en’s and were constructed of a transparent material; and, the shoes were filled with liquid wherein tiny animals swam about. As the Dekkan opened its mouth to speak Brathhikk-en saw its bright red tongue was adorned with glossy black studs.

“Your modest silence indicates you are overwhelmed by my presence,” the Dekkan declared. “Appropriate, though of course expected. Shall we address one another?”

Brathhikk-en teetered on his heels as he turned towards Jack Williams. The Terran spoke. “Jack Williams, Commercial Agent. I am empowered to negotiate on behalf of TLF Limited, of Sloparian.”

The Dekkan replied. “I am … Glug.” Rather than finish its introduction, it languidly waved a hand and Brathhikk-en stared at the complicated joint action of its fingers.

“Indeed,” was the smooth reply. “No more explanation is needed, the single syllable of your name invokes, ah, the vibrant history of your business success.”

Without saying more Glug lowered its head to stare at Jack Williams. “Hmm. Awkward, but acceptable.” Glug glanced about the room impatiently. “Where is this long-named Brathhikk-person who so naively contacted me? Is he not present?”

Brathhikk-en tried to speak up, only again to have his neck constricted by a sharp jerk of the chain. “Alas, no, his duties do not permit it,” Jack Williams remarked. “As Supreme Executive of TLF Limited, the demands on his time are many. I assure you, even now he works diligently to guarantee our joint success.”

“Does he now? From the length of his name and the infantile familiarity of his message I took him to be rather a low-class lackey — a dung-carrier, even.”

At this Jack Williams emitted the chortling cough that his Muctid partner took to indicate humor; the Dekkan joined in, making a similar noise and slapping its bloated abdomen to express additional amusement.

“Ah, Glug, different cultures, different cultures,” the Terran observed when the mirth abated. “Yet I need not tell a being as clearly broad-minded as you.”

Glug acknowledged the complement with a nod. “Cultural sensitivity is so important. It is why I travel to places, well … such as this. It does develop one so.”

Glug turned to Brathhikk-en. “And who is this appealing creature?” he inquired. As he spoke the Dekkan’s studded tongue darted in and out of its mouth. “I admit I’ve been looking at you from the corner of my eye. Normally aliens revolt me but you –” and here the Dekkan paused for more tongue-darting, “– you are frankly intriguing.”

“This is, ah, Sheila. She –” Another jerk on the chain stifled a croak of outrage from Brathhikk-en. “She,” Jack Williams continued, staring at his partner, “is here to see to your needs as we conduct our affairs, aren’t you, Sheila?”

Glug took Brathhikk-en’s indignant squeal as a mark of fellow-feeling. “This is going to be a most interesting negotiation,” the Dekkan purred as he playfully set one of the Muctid’s pastie-tassels swinging.

Glug quickly turned back to the Commercial Agent. “One more thing before we begin,” he stated, now reserved. He indicated the T’jat who had been standing silent this whole time. “This is — is — well, I forget this creature’s name, but I assure you it has been retained by me. We Dekkan have certain expectations when it comes to business transactions; ideally they are conducted smoothly, according to protocol yet with a sublime overtone of sophisticated appreciation. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Jack Williams replied, “though I must say I have rarely heard it put so well.”

“It is a talent I have,” Glug agreed. “You then comprehend that any deviations requiring explanation would accrue to my name, and so cannot be tolerated. This helpful T’jat is here to use any means necessary to ensure proper procedures are followed. If you will inspect this warrant …” Glug slid a comm pad across the conference table to the Commercial Agent.

The Terran inspected it a few moments. Brathhikk-en tried craning his neck but could see nothing distinct.

Jack Williams spoke hollowly. “This authorizes you to use deadly force, no explanation required, against any agent of TLF Limited.”

“Yes it does!” Glug verified. “An extreme step, perhaps, but I did not come all this way to have my name lengthened by dealings with low-status neophytes. And the local authorities were more than happy to grant my request; it seems your ‘Supreme Executive’ Brath-whatever does not command as much consideration as he has led you to believe.”

An awkward silence settled over the conference table as Terran and Dekkan regarded one another. The silence was broken by the T’jat adjusting the bolt of his weapon, a noise that made Brathhikk-en flinch.

“Well then,” Jack Williams remarked. “Only one thing remains.”

“That being?” Glug inquired.

Termination fees! the Muctid thought to himself. By the Divine Three let it be termination fees and a quick exit! Brathhikk-en started leaning towards the doorway.

“Your chef or mine?” the Commercial Agent answered, and at this the Dekkan laughed out loud. Brathhikk-en stood stunned, even his tassels dangling rigidly vertical.

“Excellent!” Glug shrieked in seeming delight. “Yours, I agree! Let the negotiation begin!”

***

Brathhikk-en was too amazed by what was unfolding to be bothered by the further degradations of the situation.

“In a moment I shall explain our fifteen-day requirement on all accounts receivable,” Jack Williams was saying. “However first please join me in tasting of these morsels.”

The “morsels” were bits of fnook, fermented flesh of an aquatic creature and a Birjani delicacy; the pieces gave off a waft of ammonia and putrid herb. Brathhikk-en’s role in these proceedings was to convey portions of food to the expectant mouth of Glug using a long, slender spoon. The Muctid’s olfactory vanes flapped down violently as the fnook passed in front of his face on its way to Glug. The Dekkan’s tongue — nearly as articulated as its fingers — greedily snatched the food away.

“These mild dishes do well in cleansing the palette,” Glug remarked. The Terran made some low noises as he chewed his own helping of fnook. “What, Jack Williams? Are you distressed already? I thought you made of sterner stuff.”

“No, no, good Glug,” was the response. “My species typically makes this ‘num-num’ sound to express appreciation of taste. Like you I find this to be mild, an amusement to put us in readiness for tastier things. Shall we continue?”

Now Glug consulted the chef, an Antal from Gogar 9 named Po-Hey-Nan. Po-Hey-Nan was the head chef of the station restaurant and he together with a substantial amount of equipment, ingredients and staff had been summoned by the Commercial Agent to the conference room. After Glug made his order to the chef, he and Jack Williams returned to discussing accounts receivable.

“I am sorry to say, fifteen days is unacceptable, owing to financial conventions on Dekk. If I may explain …”

As the two discussed payment terms Brathhikk-en felt a strange, fluttery sensation on his thigh. Looking down he saw Glug’s nimble fingers were delicately walking their way upwards. The Muctid swatted the offending digits away, emitting an unfortunately un-masculine squeak. The Dekkan glanced sideways at him as if they now shared some new, intimate secret. Brathhikk-en shuddered.

Po-Hey-Nan approached with a new dish. “Ah, excellent!” Glug exclaimed. Brathhikk-en felt the color draining from his green skin as he regarded the contents of the proffered platter: multi-legged arthropods floating in blackish-purple sauce, still twitching with the last remnants of life.

“Perhaps your views will change after tasting these,” Glug told Jack Williams. “These are lodan, swamp creatures from Hirus 5. Their flavor comes from their own preferred foods, that being rotted corpses. The traditional preparation is to poach lightly in iodine. If you will allow –”

Before Glug could finish the Commercial Agent speared two of the lodan with a fork and conveyed them to his mouth. There was an audible crunch, followed by a delicate swallowing motion, which Brathhikk-en marveled at.

“Somewhat bland, worthy Glug,” the Terran pronounced. “Though I do appreciate the classic technique,” he added.

The Dekkan took his own lodan in three precise nibbles. “Hmm, well, I see,” he said. “I believe I can find a way to accommodate your fifteen day requirement. Now, shall we discuss credit for returns? My position is in these cases interest payments are due to my firm …”

The discussion proceeded and Brathhikk-en participated as one in a dream — a particularly vile, odiferous, putrid, toxic and cold-hearted dream. The parameters of Dekkan business had become clear: negotiation was based on food, with each side attempting to discomfit its counterpart by selecting dishes the other would find inedible. The parade of bizarre concoctions left the Muctid continually reeling, sometimes from amazement at what different species considered nutrition, but mostly from basic disgust.

To add to the gruesomeness, Po-Hey-Nan had warmed to his duties and endeavored to bring a showman’s touch to his preparations. The flourishes, grand presentations, and the chef’s cheerful enthusiasm only served to accent the Muctid’s horror at each new offering.

There were ooze-worms from the Thoctall homeworld, garnished with exudate from the worms’ digestive tract; oniphran, a variety of pulse harvested from the water-treatment pits of old Tarhanna on Popis 3; broiled filet of Rhennian phelt, glazed with its own mucus; thuudistanya, a soup made from the boiled crotch-straps of dowager Circalian stevedores; and one simple yet frightening preparation, buulo, a mild beer served in a tub — but before the diners partake, a byeelat, a small Sloparian mammal known for its distinctive pheremonic secretions, is immersed in the tub and given a good washing.

Watching this onslaught of ghastly consumption Brathhikk-en developed a theory about the Dekkan’s large abdomen: It must be a sort of digestive cauldron, or furnace, to cope with such a devilish variety of inputs. To Brathhikk-en’s amazement the Commercial Agent kept pace with Glug. The Muctid could only conclude Terrans must be evolved of scavenger stock, to so readily ingest these bizarre victuals.

At the moment the dish before the two negotiators seemed relatively benign — fried tonosh larvae from Qunal 4. The Commercial Agent seemed to eat each of his tonosh with deliberation, while the Dekkan wolfed down his portion of the brownish nuggets.

“Jack Williams, we have dispensed with many small matters,” Glug was remarking. “I hope soon we may engage on more — ahhh … !” At Glug’s request, Brathhikk-en was massaging the Dekkan’s neck and shoulders. It seemed to the Muctid he had found two balls of tense muscle and he was kneading these with his fingertips when the Dekkan paused, frozen into rigidity. After a few moments he turned back and whispered, “So you located my wif nodes, you temptress?”

The Muctid was profoundly grateful for his partner’s swift interjection. “Yes, Glug, I do have a significant issue to add to the agenda. TLF should realize a price advantage for early delivery.”

“Price advantage?” the Dekkan asked, rather curtly; Brathhikk-en was relieved that wif nodes seem to have been forgotten.

“Of one hundred percent maximum,” the Terran clarified, “in increments of twenty percent for each day the delivery is early.” At this the Muctid began paying close attention. What was Jack Williams doing? Brathhikk-en had described the shipping plan — early deliveries would be rare, probably non-existent.

 “A curious aspiration. I suppose we may discuss it — later. First we must address market support. What promotional assistance will TLF provide? Dekkan consumers will not easily accept products of Muctid manufacture … “

The negotiations continued. Even as each next dish probed the deeps of culinary terror — such as the fetal choylipins from Tonactus, roasted in the shell — Brathhikk-en perceived a new dimension. The deal being formed was complicated. All the points of agreement were being recorded on the comm pad, but there had been so many, ranging from payment terms to packaging color to currency conversions, the Muctid was sure he could not remember them all. Yet Jack Williams seemed always in command, never at a loss for his next move or request. Brathhikk-en began to see there was much more to being a “commercial agent” than immunity to a barrage of vile foodstuffs.

But eventually the Commercial Agent’s capacity showed signs of waning. Before he could address his serving of kal-en-ya, small jellied reptiles from Nargan 2, he had to turn away from the table and emit a long, echoing eructation. Turning back he patted his forehead with a small cloth taken from his jacket pocket.

“Another noise of appreciation?” Glug inquired. Jack Williams gave no reply. His face made strange expressions as he slowly consumed his kal-en-ya. Brathhikk-en had no gauge for Terran demeanor, but his fear and his conclusion was that his partner was under severe stress. This was all the more worrisome seeing as it had been the Terran who had ordered these reptilian tidbits in the first place. Looking at Glug, it did seem to Brathhikk-en that the Dekkan was also affected, in that Glug seemed to fidget in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs and generally sliding about. The Muctid had no more awareness of Dekkan habits than he did of Terran. He could only hope that Glug was closer to the breaking point than was the Commercial Agent.

“We now must undertake important matters,” the Dekkan announced. “Yet before we begin I have an order to make.” Calling over Po-Hey-Nan, Glug put his mouth close to the chef’s ear to whisper his request. The chef briskly departed, shouting incomprehensible orders to his lackeys. Glug’s attention lingered on the cook, the Dekkan seemed distracted. Then he suddenly turned back to the negotiating table as if to make a statement.

“Eight-thousand-five-hundred credit per thousand!” the Terran blurted out with difficulty before his counterpart could speak. Different species or not, his breathing was now labored and his hands had a distinct tremor.

“You wish to talk price, do you?” Glug intoned. “Then you should … should …” Unable to finish his sentence the Dekkan gripped his abdomen; his powder-white face contorted.

“Should — do — what?” Jack Williams gasped out a question. “No answer? Are you unable to continue?”

“No! Yes, I am!” Glug blurted out. Regaining some composure he went on, “You should speak seriously, I meant to say, and not in ill-bred japes. Eight-thousand-five-hundred? Five-hundred, all on its own, is the price a rational being would accept …”

Brathhikk-en stood transfixed. After long hours of maneuvering, the real battle had been joined. And battle it was, the Dekkan and the Terran now seeming like battered warriors: Glug gripping his abdomen and writhing about, Jack Williams’ hands clenched and face twisted in pain, neither willing to give ground and each defending every credit with maniacal ferocity.

“Eight thousand!” the Commercial Agent declared. “A bargain compared to your current prices!”

“Seven-hundred-fifty!” Glug rebutted. “I am taking all the risk!”

Again and again they clashed, and the Muctid was amazed at the variety of tactics that materialized in that intense, hurried encounter. Invective: “You pink-faced simpleton!” Disdain: “Are all Dekkan so obtuse?” Arrogance: “Don’t you know who you are talking to?” Sarcasm: “You have delighted me long enough.” All was heavily freighted with business jargon, with talk of margins, contributions, synergies, differentiators, disruptors, paradigms, returns, impacts, campaigns, category-killers, peeling back onions, comparing apples-to-apples, going klegach to burbo, and picking low-hanging fruit — leaving Brathhikk-en wondering if they were closing a deal, opening a vegetable stand or invading a continent.

It was Glug who chose to disengage. “My last … my very last … offer,” he declared. “Two-thousand, eight-hundred — not a credit more. What say you?”

Hearing this Brathhikk-en nearly fell off his elevated heels. This price was within the range of profitability! Near the low end of the range, but perfectly acceptable. The Commercial Agent had done it! He had beaten the odious Dekkan at his own game, survived a banquet of poisons that would have immobilized a slendoth, forged a trade that would rock the Muctid business community and, on top of all that, saved the deserving Brathhikk-en from a life of dung-carrying ignominy.

“We have an agreement,” Jack Williams said, his mouth curving upwards. Yes! Brathhikk-en thought. How amazed the other traders would be. And his siblings! He couldn’t wait to see the look on the face of Treallith-lo, the eldest and smuggest of his triad’s brood.

“Not quite,” Glug corrected. “Ah! What I have been waiting for all day!”

Walking with solemn tread, Po-Hey-Nan came over to the conference table and placed dishes first before Glug and then before the Commercial Agent. On each dish was a large ovoid, covered with a bluish crust.

“This last plate will complete our talks,” Glug continued. “It is called yurst, a delicacy from Dekk. Yurst requires a tullano, a forest-creature of medium size. Tullano have become somewhat rare on Dekk, but I always make sure to have one on hand when conducting important negotiations. It looks to me your chef has done admirable work.”

The Commercial Agent prodded the yurst with a fork. “How is the meat prepared?” he asked.

Glug responded first with a snorting sound, then spoke. “Meat? No, no, good colleague, you misunderstand. Yurst is dung. The tullano must be fed only the proper foods and then kept in peaceful surroundings where it may digest and eliminate with dignity. The yurst is collected, coated and spiced, then baked ever so gently. See …”

Brathhikk-en watched in revulsion yet unable to look away as Glug teased open his yurst. It seemed to have many textures: part fibrous, part solid, part smooth. Then, a distinct aroma — disturbingly evocative — expressed itself. A few waving, white tendrils moved through the mass.

“Perfect!” Glug pronounced. “The intestinal worms from the tullano must not be killed by the baking. Well, Jack Williams?” the Dekkan asked, taking a healthy bite. “Shall we conclude our deal?”

Brathhikk-en’s gaze wavered between the yurst and his stricken partner. The Commercial Agent was trying to summon the fortitude to pass this last trial; the Muctid saw the Terran’s neck bulge and writhe as he addressed the plate. The yurst just sat there, all the more terrifying now that Glug had revealed what lay within.

With a groan, Jack Williams pushed the dish away. He darted a wide-eyed glance at Brathhikk-en, which meant … what?

Glug gestured to the T’jat. The squat creature had been standing silent and immobile for hours. Excited over this summons it scampered over to the table and leveled its weapon at the Commercial Agent.

“I am sorry,” the Dekkan said, rather cheerfully and not sorry at all. “No one quits on a negotiation with Glug.”

The Terran bent his head to the yurst, staring at it, perhaps trying to intimidate the repellent foodstuff.

To no avail. “Can’t …”, Jack Williams whispered. Glug gestured once more to the T’jat.

Brathhikk-en knew what he had to do. 

The Muctid sprang up to stand behind Glug. “Sweetling,” he fairly trilled into the Dekkan’s ear.

“Swee — what?” Glug mumbled back in surprise.

“You are so forceful! I love it!” Brathhikk-en went on.

“You, what? Aah!” The Dekkan convulsed as Brathhikk-en manipulated the neck area wif nodes.

“Don’t end things this way,” the Muctid continued in a husky whisper. “I wanted to find your other wif nodes — later.”

“Later?” the Dekkan asked in a squeak. For reply Brathhikk-en gave the tender nodules a sudden prod and the Dekkan jolted in his seat.

“Yes, later,” Brathhikk-en promised. “First …”

Kicking off the elevated shoes, Brathhikk-en walked boldly to now stand beside Jack Williams.

“First, I will finish this negotiation.”

With that, Brathhikk-en took up the ominous yurst, bit off half, and chewed.

The flavor was terrible beyond the power of imagination to convey. At that moment Brathhikk-en had never tasted anything so good. He raised the remainder of the yurst, slurped and swallowed it. Glug looked at the Muctid with red tongue hanging out and yellow eye-lids fluttering.

“Protocol has been satisfied, Glug” the Commercial Agent observed. “We now require your mark on the agreement.”

Glug sat insensible, eye-lids still flickering.

“Bear in mind that should one commit an irregularity at this stage,” the Terran continued, “one’s name on Dekk would unquestionably reflect that.”

The T’jat moved the aim of his weapon nervously back forth from Glug, Jack Williams, Brathhikk-en, and the now empty plate of yurst.

Glug waved his subordinate away. “Very well,” he conceded, placing his hand-print on the comm-pad, which glowed blue in assent. “Pleasure doing business with yo — akk!” The Dekkan once again clutched his abdomen in apparent pain.

“Something the matter, Glug?” Jack Williams inquired.

Glug attempted a casual tone, despite his obvious discomfort. “Since our agreement is concluded, I will admit to you I feel a certain internal … movement?”

“Movement, you say?” Jack Williams asked in return. “I do hope it is not the tonosh larvae.”

“Tonosh? What do you mean?”

“I thought this was known,” the Terran said. “Frying in hot oil merely renders the tonosh quiescent. Exposure to aqueous environment — especially when acidic — causes the larvae to reanimate. They will then attempt to burrow into their surroundings in search of nutrition. Aficionados always make sure to fully masticate their tonosh before swallowing.”

“Burrow?” the Dekkan remarked in a small voice.

“No worries, mate,” Jack Williams said jovially. Brathhikk-en smiled to detect the Commercial Agent had dropped the highly formal speech of the negotiation and now spoke as when they first met. “Just expel the little buggers.”

“I can’t!” Glug whined in reply. “Not for some time … days … “

“Days? You’re up the gum tree, unless …”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Well, we do have these samples here …”

The Dekkan was seized by another spasm. “Thank D!” Glug groaned out; Brathhikk-en imagined that ‘D’ must be a Dekkan deity, seeing as its name wasn’t even a full syllable.

“… and we will be happy to provide them,” Jack Williams went on, “for ‘testing purposes’, with the right consideration, of course.”

“Consideration?” The Dekkan was palpitating his own sides and abdomen. Feeling movement he pulled his hands away in alarm. “What consideration?” he croaked.

“Price advantage for early delivery,” the Commercial Agent said. “Thirty percent for each day, up to one-hundred-fifty percent maximum.”

“Robbery! You said one-hundred percent before!”

“Yes, before — before you arsed-up, mate. Are we agreed?”

Glug began to flinch in different directions, as if tiny internal jolts were pushing him one way, then the next.

“Done!” The Dekkan again slammed his hand on the comm-pad in blue assent. He snatched away the packet of tablets and, favoring Brathhikk-en with an awkward bow, rushed from the conference room with a peculiar knees-pressed-together gait.

“Strewth, what a yobbo,” the Commercial Agent said watching him go.

“A ‘yobbo’ indeed,” Brathhikk-en agreed. “What’s a yobbo?”

Jack Williams gave the Muctid a playful slap on the shoulder. “I like you, Bruce,” he said. “You did good.”

“Excuse me.” A cultured voice interrupted the two business partners. Both turned to look.

It was the T’jat. The creature was standing by a sidetable that held the remnants of the negotiation dishes; a hellish collation to Brathhikk-en’s thinking.

“Excuse me,” the T’jat repeated. “You going to eat that?”

Terran and Muctid stared at each other a moment.

“Knock yourself out, mate,” the Commercial Agent answered. With that Jack Williams left the conference room. Brathhikk-en followed after, the sounds of ferocious consumption behind him raising shivers as he walked.

***

Brathhikk-en Terloung-thak Fihhk-ter Loggain-nap sat in a shadowy corner of the station lounge. Before him was a large tumbler of pure water; at that moment, the idea of any flavor, no matter how mild or inoffensive, made him squirm.

The Muctid’s initial euphoria over the completed deal had faded. Returning to the table with his own drink — amber-colored and definitely not water — the Commercial Agent diagnosed his partner’s condition instantly.

“Deal already got you wonky, eh Bruce?”

“If by ‘wonky’ you mean confused, dispirited and disillusioned — yes, I am exactly wonky.” The Muctid started raising the tumbler of water to his lips, then put it down, afraid it might awaken the flavor of yurst in his mouth.

“Cheer up, mate,” Jack Williams advised. “You should feel top of the world, what you did today.”

“What I did?” Brathhikk-en questioned back. “You did everything. That was your deal! Not only did you survive the … menu … you beat Glug on most every point. And, the price! Two thousand eight hundred? I would not have gotten a tenth that. No, all I did today was dress like a pleasure slave and eat … waste. Hardly amazing talents.”

Jack Williams took a long look at his drink; he did not partake. Then he spoke. “Look cobber, I’m going to show you something that needs to stay between us and us alone. You grass on me, I’ll be very unhappy. Right?”

Brathhikk-en had no idea what “grassing” entailed but he nodded assent anyways.

The Muctid kept on nodding, intrigued by what he was seeing. The Commercial Agent opened his mouth wide and began to cough. Brathhikk-en saw that the Terran had a … second set of teeth, was that possible? The teeth were moving in a surprising way, twisting in opposite directions from the outer teeth.

Brathhikk-en stopped nodding and just stared. Something was emerging from his partner’s throat. Then with a silent heave, a large form squirted out of Jack Williams. It landed on the lounge table and Brathhikk-en had to snatch his water glass out of the way.

On the table was a worm like creature, a meter long and thick as an arm but bulging in the middle. The Muctid was aghast. The worm had small, mammalian eyes. After a second or two, one of them winked.

The Commercial Agent was panting from exertion. After taking a moment to compose himself, he tossed off his drink. “Bruce, meet Cyril,” the Terran said.

“Pleased to meet you,” the worm offered.

“What … how … Cyril … ?” The Muctid was unable to form a sentence.

“Look Bruce, it’s like this,” the Commercial Agent spoke, fixing his partner with his blue-eyed gaze. “For some time I’ve been looking for the right opportunity to take on these Dekkan. Some of me mates back home got a nasty turn, doing deals on Dekk. In my travels I met Cyril here –”

At that moment, the worm spoke up. “You need me anymore boss? I’d like to go and digest; you know how it is.”

“No worries, mate. Off you go.” Cyril flopped to the floor and slithered away. The Commercial Agent had to pull the Muctid’s attention away from the departing worm and back to their conversation.

“Great chap, Cyril. So, now you see? I didn’t eat anything, was all him. No special talents, Bruce. Just preparation. That, and the will to succeed.”

Jack Williams motioned to the barman, ordered another drink. He continued.

“I think you have the same will, Bruce. The way you moved on old Glug — I thought you would be doing the naughty right in front of me! And then you did what you had to do. You closed it. Old Jack was the helper today. You, Bruce — you were the closer.”

A drink arrived. Jack Williams this time took a modest sip.

“Look, Bruce,” he said. “I have another deal in mind, would love your help.”

The Muctid’s ears and olfactory vanes perked up. “Deal?”

“Transportation, Bruce. Some friends of mine, called Devinga. They’re new to this sector.”

“Devinga? I’ve never heard …” Brathhikk-en’s sentence trailed off and he waited for the Commercial Agent to finish.

“They’re transport specialists, Bruce. Wizards with manifests, flight plans, and engines, Bruce … fast engines. Like rats up a drainpipe fast.”

“Rats, you say?” Once again the Muctid was mystified by the Commercial Agent’s speech. In a flash he saw it didn’t matter.

“The delivery bonus!” Brathhikk-en shouted.

“Ah, you sussed it, mate. You in? Ready to do Glug in the other eye?”

“Yes!”

“That’s the lad! Now we –”

“Ja-hhaa-keee!” A high-pitched voice cut in and Brathhikk-en turned to see what it was. Fast approaching the table was a female Nauskar, a furred, four-armed mammal. This female was young, curvaceous and, as Brathhikk-en could see from the jaunty angle she held her tail, at the peak of … receptivity, was the most dignified word the Muctid could summon to mind.

“Ja-hhaa-keee!” the Nauskar repeated. “Everywhere I look for you, but you are in no place of finding. Now I find you! And what is all this?” The Nauskar cast an icy look at Brathhikk-en.

“Ah, Julie, just finishing some business,” the Commercial Agent said. The Nauskar continued looking suspiciously at the Muctid a few more moments.

“But Ja-hhaa-keee!” Julie’s mind skipped to another new thought. “A dinner you promised me, remember? First dinner, then the other thing, what was it called … oh, I remember, horizontal –”

“Dinner, yes,” the Commercial Agent put in. “Am feeling a bit peckish. Off we go then.” With no further ado Jack Williams and Julie set off, arm in arm in arm.

Brathhikk-en sat alone. After a few moments he sighed, then reached for his glass of plain, pure water.

“Bruce!” The voice of the Commercial Agent rang out. “Come along? Can’t have victory dinner without my partner, can I?”

The Muctid sprang from his seat. He paused a moment to check his look in a mirror, adjusted one of his tassels, then sped off. At that moment Brathhikk-en was hungry as he had never been before.

© 2016 Fernando Salazar