Free Unfurl by Cidney Swanson

France could do worse than to settle in Rome, sighed Sir Walter, rising alongside me.
    When we arrived, Geneses Romana was humming with people. So I kind of got my wish about spending the day rock–surfing, ‘cause Sir Walter said the only way to move around in a building of chameleon–aware people was to use the walls. I’d done this at Bridget Li’s, walking along the length of her building inside the wall. Roman rock felt different, more solid maybe.
    Shortly after our arrival, a courier on a Vespa pulled up on the sidewalk fronting the headquarters. Reception buzzed him through after he held a box up for them to read the address.
    Check it out, I wrote. Package for Signore Pepe. That was the name outside Pfeffer’s office, apparently meaning “Mister Pepper” in Italian.
    “ Al Signore, immediatamente ,” said a woman behind the desk.
    A young man nodded and took off down the hall with the box. It was large, like it might hold a big old–style TV. Or a body. Or who–knew what.
    Our first destination presents itself , said Sir Walter. Let us see what lies inside the package.
    “ Rapidament e,” called receptionist to the box–carrier.
    Italian sounded very French, only with an Italian accent.
    Beside us, box–dude muttered something indecipherable that sounded a lot like, “Next time carry it yourself.”
    We slipped along the wall into Pfeffer’s office, settling behind his desk as the man himself rose to take his package. On his computer, which we could see great from here, it looked like he was authorizing a payment followed by a ton of zeroes. I scanned down the page. The name of the country he was sending money to was unfamiliar to me.
    Helmann is now acquiring property in the nations of central Africa, said Sir Walter.
    Terrific , I wrote back.
    Pfeffer returned to his desk, setting the package to one side. Hurriedly he made an adjustment to the amount on the screen by deleting two extra zeroes. Then he authorized the payment. Closing the screen on the computer, he carefully opened the package, analyzing the contents briefly. He frowned at what he saw—rows of identical vials, marked with green stripes and containing a clear liquid. Pfeffer sighed heavily. He removed the tray on top and carried it across the room, opening a hidden panel in the wall with his pen–key. He switched out the tray for an identical–looking one hidden in the wall. Locking the hidden panel, he carried the replacement tray back to the box, setting it atop a steaming packet.
    Dry ice? I wondered.
    From his desk, he dialed three digits into an office phone.
    “Sorry to bother you, but today’s package from San Francisco has arrived , ” he said.
    We couldn’t hear the response.
    A sharp rap sounded on the office door, and Pfeffer rose to admit his visitor, a blond–haired dude with light blue eyes.
    Franz! said Sir Walter, clearly surprised.
    I was kind of surprised too, seeing as, in my mind, Franz was a mean ten–year–old kid from the black book.
    “Brother,” said Pfeffer, a thin smile on his face.
    “Pfeffer,” said Franz, returning the greeting minus the smile.
    “I would be happy to take these for you,” said Pfeffer.
    Franz replied curtly. “Father asked me to place the boxes, not you.”
    The venom in Franz’ tone made me remember how he’d liked hurting people as a boy. Apparently that hadn’t changed.
    “Of course,” said Pfeffer. “It is only that I wish you would allow me to do more. I feel so … indebted. You have restored my abilities as a chameleon, given me a place among you, and yet I do so little.” Here, Pfeffer placed a hand upon the box that had just arrived.
    “Your service at present is invaluable,” said Franz.
    “Of course,” murmured Pfeffer. “I only ask to serve.”
    Franz looked sharply at Pfeffer.
    Pfeffer dropped his eyes. “That is, I should be glad to serve where ever Father sees fit.”
    Franz turned to leave, then stopped at the door. “I will let Father know