We Install by Harry Turtledove

swung towards its partner or friend or whatever the shorter alien was. Jack didn’t know for sure, but he guessed that meant the same it would have with people. Don’t praise what we’re shopping for. You’ll run up the price .
    If the shorter one noticed, he—she?—didn’t let on. “The price we proposed before is acceptable?” the Snarre’ asked Jack. “For the scooter, our aging but still functional brain?”
    The babelfish translation made that sound pretty silly, as if the aliens would open up their heads and pour out whatever was inside. But Jack Cravath spoke formally: “Yes, the price you proposed before is acceptable.”
    â€œDraw up the contracts, then,” the taller one said.
    â€œHow old is the brain you want to trade for the scooter?”
    â€œSix years. Six years of Lacanth C.”
    â€œOkay.” Jack spoke into the office business system. It spat out contracts in English and in Snarre’l. Jack reviewed the English versions to make sure they had the deal straight. He signed all the copies, thumbprinted them, and added a retinal scan to each one. The aliens also signed in their angular squiggles. They pressed a special area on each contract to an olfactory gland under the base of their stumpy tails. Those chemical signatures were supposed to be even more distinctive and harder to counterfeit than retinal scans.
    â€œI will get the brain.” The smaller Snarre’ went out to the drof and stroked it. A pouch opened. If Baba Yaga were a kangaroo instead of a chicken … But the edge of the pouch had teeth, or something an awful lot like them. The Snarre’t discouraged drof thieves.
    Back came the alien. He—she?—put the brain on the counter. It looked up at Jack out of disconcertingly Snarre’-like eyes. Have to keep it in the dark , he thought. A tagline floated through his mind: and feed it bullshit . It was about the size of a basketball, with two little arms and four little legs. Its fur was molting here and there. It looked like something that had seen better days.
    â€œWhat do I feed it?” Jack asked.
    â€œHere is about ten days’ worth of brain food.” The Snarre’ set a membranous sack on the counter by the brain. “You can get more from any of our merchants.” Another, smaller, sack went by the first one. “And here, because you have shown yourself to be congenial, are some spices for flavoring your food. They are not harmful to your kind. It is likely—not certain, for taste is never certain—you will find them flavorsome. They are a gift. We ask nothing in return for them.”
    That was also polite. Even so, Jack said, “Well, thank you very much. Let me give you my stapler here.” It was the first thing he saw on his desk. He showed them what it was for, and threw in a box of staples.
    They seemed happy enough with the theoretically optional return gift. He wondered how they held papers together. Pointy twigs? Bugs with sharp noses? Something biological—he was sure of that.
    They took their copy of the contract. One of them got on the scooter. The other tethered the drof to the new purchase. Away they went. Jack got on the phone. “Made the sale. On my way. See you soon.”
    â€œOh, good,” Bev said. “I didn’t start after all, but I was going to pretty soon.”
    â€œBack as quick as I can,” Jack told her. “’Bye.”
    His own scooter was parked out front. He eyed the brain, which was sitting on the counter. It looked back at him. Did it know it belonged to him now? If it did, what did it think of that? Rather more to the point, how was he supposed to get it home without hurting it?
    He found a cardboard box and put the brain into it. To his relief, it didn’t kick up a fuss. It said something in Snarre’l. The babelfish gave Jack gibberish. “It’ll be okay, honest,” he said in English,