Tudena shook his head. "It was going to be a surprise," he said. "I was going to take her to Disneyland. I've been told that it is the happiest place on Earth." His shoulder wings began to shake violently, and he buried his head in his forelimbs. Creek reached over and patted Tudena on his chitinous husk; Tudena shoved back from the desk and stumbled out the door. After several minutes one of Tudena's assistants came to collect Creek, thank him for his time, and escort him to the door of the embassy.

Creek's official title with the State Department was "Xenosapient Facilitator," which meant absolutely nothing to anyone but the State Department bursar, who could tell you that a Xenosapient Facilitator got the GS-10 pay grade. Creek's unofficial title, which was more accurate and descriptive, was "Bearer of Bad News." Whenever the State Department had bad news to deliver to a member of the alien diplomatic corps who was significant enough to require a personal response but not significant enough to rate someone who actually mattered, he, she, or it got Creek.

It was the proverbial dirty job. But equally proverbially, someone had to do it, and Harris Creek was surprisingly good at it. It took a special human to look various members of various alien species in whatever organ it was that passed for their eye and tell them that a visa request was denied, or that the State Department was aware that assassins were plotting to kill them on their trip back to their home world, or that due to a memorable bout of public drunkenness on the Union Station carousel, which resulted in the alien projectile vomiting on terrified human children there for a birthday party, their diplomatic status was this close to being revoked. In his time, Creek had done all of these among many others.

Members of alien species had differing ways of showing anger and grief, from the sad, silent shaking of Mr. Tudena to the ritually approved destruction of property. Most people, regardless of their training in diplomacy, were simply not psychologically equipped to deal with a member of an alien species freaking out in front of them. The reptile portions of the brain, nestled down close to the brain stem, would too often override the gray matter and send the puny human bolting away, leaking fluids as the "eject the ballast" portion of the "fight or flight" response kicked in.

Harris Creek did not have anywhere near the diplomatic training of his peers—in fact, he had none when he took the job. But he also didn't run when the furniture stated flying. For his particular job, that was enough. It was easier to learn about diplomacy than it was learn to control one's bladder in front of a rampaging member of the alien diplomatic corps. Most people wouldn't think so, but it's true.

Outside the Kathungi Embassy, Creek fired up his communicator to locate his next appointment; it was at the Larrn Institute over on K Street. Creek was going to have to tell a new Tang lobbyist that while the State Department was willing to regard one threat to eat a UNE Representative's children if she didn't vote the way he wanted her to as a cultural misunderstanding, doing it a second time would have impressively negative repercussions.

"Hello, Harry," Creek heard someone say. He looked up and saw Ben Javna, leaning against a marble pillar.

"Howdy, Ben," Creek said. "Fancy meeting you here."

"I happened to be walking by and saw you there," Javna said, and then nodded in the direction of the door Creek had come out of. "Bad news for the Kathungi?"

"One of them," Creek said, and started walking. Javna followed. "Actually, two of them, at least. But only one of whom is here on Earth. That's part of the problem, I think."

"So you're still enjoying your job," Javna said.

"I don't know if enjoy is the word I'd use," Creek said. "That'd imply a certain level of sadism, enjoying giving people bad news. I find it interesting. But I don't know how much longer I can keep doing it."

"Giving bad news to people would get to anyone," Javna said.

"It's not that," Creek said. "That part is fine. It's that people are beginning to know who I am. I went to the Phlenbahn embassy yesterday, and the guy I was supposed to see wouldn't let his assistant show me in. I could hear him screaming on the other side of the door in Phlenbahni. My communicator translated it. He was calling me 'the angel of death.' I thought that was pretty harsh."

"Why were you there?" Javna asked.

"Well, in that particular case it was to inform him that a car with diplomatic plates assigned to the Phlenbahni embassy had been linked to a fatal hit-and-run in Silver Spring," Creek admitted. "Even so. He didn't know that's why I was there before I said anything. It's a strange thing to make aliens twitchy just by existing. Sooner or later I'm sure they're all going to bar me from getting through the embassy door. State's not exactly an efficient department, but eventually someone would notice. Maybe I should start looking for another job."

Javna laughed. "Funny you should mention that, Harry," he said. "I have a job that needs doing. One that could use your skill set."

"You need me to break some bad news to someone?" Creek asked. "You and Jill doing okay, Ben?"

"We're happy like newlyweds, Harry," Javna said. "Not those skills. Your other skills. The one's you're not paid to use at the moment."

Harry stopped and looked at Javna. "I have a lot of skills I'm not paid to use at the moment, Ben. Some of which I'm not really interested in using again."

"Relax," Javna said. "It's nothing like that."

"What is it?"

"Well, let's not talk about it right now," Javna said. "Why don't you and I get together this evening. Say, around six-thirty."

"I'm free," Creek said. "You want to get a drink?"

"I was thinking maybe we could meet at Brian's place. I haven't been there for a while."

"Brian's place," Creek said.

"Sure. Should be quiet there. Six-thirty?"

"Six-thirty," said Creek. Javna smiled, saluted jauntily, and walked off without looking back. Creek watched him go for a long moment, then hurried off to the Larrn Institute.

Seventy-five yards back and across the street Rod Acuna flipped open his communicator and rang up Dave Phipps. "Another street meeting," he said when Phipps clicked on.

"Christ," Phipps said. "That's the fourth one in an hour and a half. He's screwing with us. He knows you're out there, Rod."

"He hasn't seen me," Acuna said. "I guarantee it."

"I'm not saying he has," Phipps said. "I'm saying he knows we'd be having him watched."

"Yeah, well, anyway, this one might be the real thing," Acuna said. "Javna and the guy he just met are getting together tonight at six-thirty for a drink."

"Did they say where?"

"Some bar called 'Brian's Place,'" Acuna said. "Although maybe that's just the name of the owner."

"Either way, we can find it," Phipps said. "Keep on him, Rod. Call me if you learn anything new."

Acuna flipped off and set after Javna.

Brian's place was section 91, space 4088, Arlington National Cemetery. Javna was already there when Creek walked up.

"I'm remembering the day you and Brian tried to assassinate me," Javna said, without turning. He had heard Creek walk up. "You know, with the model rocket."

Creek grinned. "We weren't trying to assassinate you, Ben," he said. "Honest and truly."

Javna looked over his shoulder. "You launched the rocket into my car, Harry."

"It was just a small one," Creek said. "And anyway, you had gotten out of the car."

"Barely gotten out of the car," Javna corrected. "And wish I had still been in the car. It might have kept the rocket from torching the seats."

"Possibly," Creek said. "Of course then you'd have had third-degree burns across your body."