The Practice Effect by David Brin Page A

cherrylike fruits fell over him from the overloaded wagon.
    There were new voices from up ahead. Someone spoke loudly, and the crowd began backing away.
    In his exalted state of mind, Dennis refused to be distracted. Drunk on the delight of discovery, he stayed crouched over, hoping the sled would start moving again so he could collect just a
bit
more of the lubricant.
    A hand dropped onto his shoulder. Dennis motioned it away. “Just a minute,” he urged. “I’ll be with you in a sec.”
    The brawny hand gripped harder, turning him completely around. Dennis looked up, blinking.
    A very large man stood over him, dressed unmistakably in some sort of uniform. On the fellow’s face was an expression that strangely combined puzzlement with incipient rage.
    Three other soldiers stood nearby, grinning. One laughed, “Tha’s right, Gil’m. Let’m be! Cantcha see he’s busy?” Another guard, who had been drinking from a tall ale-stein, coughed and sputtered brew as he guffawed.
    “Gil’m” glowered. He clutched the bunched fabric of Dennis’s bush jacket and lifted him to his feet. In his right hand the big guard held something like a two-meter quarterstaff with a shining halberd blade at one end. Dennis’s gaze was drawn to the gleaming edge. It looked sharp enough to slice paper or bone with equal facility.
    Gil’m called to one of the jokesters without turning or taking his eyes from Dennis.
“Fed’r
,” he rumbled. “Come an’hold my thenner. I don’ wanna mess up its practice by killin’ nothin’ too mushy. This one I’ll take care of by han’.”
    A grinning guard came up and took the tall weapon from Gil’m. The giant flexed fingers like sausages and tightened his grip on Dennis’s jacket.
    Uh-oh
. Dennis at last shook himself partially free of the bemused trance. He began to recognize the harm he just might have done himself.
    For one thing, he might have lost his opportunity to recite the speech he had carefully prepared for his first encounter with authorities. Hurriedly, he sought to correct the mistake.
    “Your pardon, esteemed sir! I had no idea I was already at the gate of your lovely city! You see, I am a stranger from a faraway land. I’ve come to meet with your country’s philosophers, and hopefully discuss many things of great importance with them. This marvelous lubricant of yours, for instance. Did you know that … 
Ak
!”
    The soldier’s face had begun to purple strangely as Dennis spoke. No doubt that meant this was not the right approach after all. Dennis barely ducked beneath a meaty fist that passed through the spot where his nose had lately been.
    The guard’s face was hardly a foot from his. The fellow’s breath was something to write home about.
    “Aw, c’mon, Gil’m! Can’t you hit a little Zusliker?” Almost the entire complement of guards had come up to watch the fun, leaving their post at the gate a dozen yards away. They were laughing, and Dennis heard one man offer a bet on how far the Gremmie’s head would travel when Gil’m corrected his aim.
    The civilians in the caravan backed away, looking on fearfully.
    “Hold still, Gremmie,” Gil’m growled. He cocked his fist back, this time aiming carefully, savoring the moment. His face took on a patient, almost beatific expression of anticipation.
    This just may be serious
, Dennis thought.
    He looked at the guard … at the burly hand clutching his jacket. There wasn’t time to grab his needler—as if it would help any, starting his visit by slaying members of the local constabulary.
    But Dennis realized he
was
holding a small open sample bottle in his left hand.
    Hardly thinking, he poured the contents over the meaty paw holding his jacket.
    The giant paused and looked at him, amazed by the unprecedented offense. After a moment’s thought, Gil’m decided he didn’t like it much. He growled again and struck out … as Dennis slipped from his hand like a pat of butter. The northman’s fist whistled