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my portfolio with me, adding to it from time to time. Shortly after I came to the Claiborne Galleries on an exchange program, I showed my work to Hector Rayburn. It included a Twainist interpretation of da Vinci's ‘Mona Lisa’ that appealed to him, and since my name is unpronounceable to humans, Friend Hector decided to call me Leonardo.”
    “It's a stupid name,” said Abercrombie.
    The Dialect of Craftsmen did not allow me to contradict my employer when he made so forceful a statement so I said nothing at all.
    “It belongs on a bearded, paint-spattered Man,” he continued, “not a candy-striped nightmare with orange eyes and a nose on the side of its face.”
    “That is an essential part of my Pattern,” I explained. “My breathing orifice is between my eyes. Possibly you cannot see it from this distance.”
    “Let's keep the distance just the way it is,” he said. “Seeing your nose isn't one of my priorities.”
    “I will remain here,” I assured him. “You needn't be afraid of me.”
    “Afraid?” he said contemptuously. “Hell, I've lost count of the aliens I've killed! I was at the Battle of Canphor VI, and I spent three years in the Rabolian War. Maybe I've got to put up with some of you uppity bastards who wear clothes and learn Terran and pretend you're Men, but I don't have to like it, or to rub shoulders with you. You stay where you are and we'll get along just fine.”
    Since he had such an obvious distaste for my presence, I became even more curious about why he had requested it, and addressed the question as delicately and inoffensively as the Dialect of Craftsmen would permit. It took three tries before I finally made myself clear.
    “I have reason to believe that you might prove useful to me,” he replied.
    “In what capacity?” I asked.
    “Who's conducting this interview, you or me?” he said irritably.
    “You are, Mr. Abercrombie.”
    He took another puff of his cigarette, leaned forward until he could rest his elbows on his desk, and stared at me intently.
    “How much do you think I'm worth?”
    “I have no idea,” I said, surprised by his question.
    “Close to 600 million credits,” he said, watching me carefully for a reaction. “If you do your job, you'll find that I'm not ungenerous, even to an alien.” He glared unblinkingly at me. “But I want you to know that if you ever try to take advantage of me, I'm the least forgiving sonofabitch you'll ever meet. You swipe a single ashtray and I'll spend every one of those 600 million credits hunting you down. Understand?”
    It was fortunate for both of us that I was not using the Dialect of Peers, for my answer would have gravely offended him and his reaction to it would probably have caused me acute physical discomfort. I merely said: “The Bjornn do not steal, Mr. Abercrombie. It is contrary to civil and moral law.”
    “So is war, but everybody keeps doing it,” he said. “I've spent forty years putting together my art collection, and before I give you free access to it, I want to know a little more about you.”
    “If you have concern for the safety of your collection, there is no need for me to see it at all,” I said.
    “Yes there is,” he responded.
    “Surely you are protected by a security system,” I said, my color deepening with the anticipation of seeing a fabulous private collection.
    “It wouldn't be the first time an alien beat a system that was designed to stop a Man.” He paused and frowned. “Why do you keep changing colors?”
    “Only the intensity of my colors changes,” I explained. “Not the colors themselves.”
    “Answer the question.”
    “It is the involuntary expression of a Bjornn's emotional state.”
    “And what does this particular expression mean?” he continued.
    “That I am elated at the prospect of seeing your collection,” I replied. “I hope the intensification of my color has not disturbed you.”
    “Anything I don't understand disturbs me,” he answered. “What