Mikk can sing and dance and play musical instruments and juggle and entertain people a thousand other ways. The other part of the story concerns what happens when Mikk becomes too good for his own good, and a dying race insists that he not perform their songdance because people might confuse it with the genuine, vanished article. Mikk explains it as having a piece torn out of his soul, a splendid description of censorship. Around that warp and weft the tapestry takes shape. We see the growth of Mikk from a dreadfully clumsy child to a graceful adult, how his hypersensitive perceptions become more of an asset than a handicap.
Humans even appear in the supporting cast.
I find myself admiring the author's handiwork as well as the story itself. Such complexity becomes a major challenge to handle without tangling. Dozens of different cultures mingle in a galactic civilization, yet each remains distinct and readily recognizable. Waitman's knowledge of the performing arts makes all the difference, from the splendor of kabuki to the tawdry, disgusting, and hopefully-imaginary porquille. I also find myself completely captivated by Mikk of Vyzania.