An absurd eggling. But not one of those called Terran, by testimony of the way he spoke that family’s tongue. The T’carais took thought.

“What is your Clan?” he inquired, this time in the tongue called Trade, which was easier to form.

“Korval,” returned the other, obediently following into that language. “And your own?”

And an impudent one. Then the T’carais recollected that, in his consternation, he had presumed to take a member of another Clan to task for misconduct—eggling or adult. And. to do this without proper introduction was a far greater impudence than he had now been offered.

“I am called,” he said austerely, “in the short form used by the Clans of Men on those things called visas: Eleventh Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River’s Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmakers Den: The Edger. Among those of men I have met,” he added, “I am known as Edger.”

The small one bowed, acknowledging, the T’carais supposed, the greatness of the name.

“I am called, in the longest form thus far available: Val Con yos’Phelium Scout.” He glanced up, both brows out of true. “Among those of men I deal with, I am known as Val Con.”

The T’carais was charmed. Merely an eggling, after all—he recollected again the damage the creature had done the peace and harmony of the Clan and strengthened his soul once more.

“This,” he said sternly, deliberately neglecting the name he had been given, “is the place of the Knife Clan of Middle River. Egglings and adults of other clans are not permitted here, save by special invitation, and with a member of the Clan. You are trespassing. Further, you have endangered the blades by the energies unleashed in playing your eggling music. You are fortunate, indeed, that you chose to do this in a section of the caverns that is at rest, for you might have ruined an entire crop, had you chosen to play in a room that was seeded.