Flinx approached the alien tentatively. The creature observed his approach with two eyes, which crossed as he neared. Flinx smiled in spite of himself. Experimentally, he extended a hand as if to shake the alien’s.
Two eyes dipped downward. One smooth hand came up and slapped Flinx’s palm. Flinx drew his hand back sharply, more surprised than hurt. As if in admonition, another hand came around and slapped at the one which had struck Flinx. Apparently enchanted, the alien commenced slapping its four palms together, entirely ignoring Flinx.
The alien palm had been hard, flat, and cool to the touch.
The owner was speaking again. “Ab will eat just about anything except,” he finished with a smile, “me and thee.” Rising, he walked up to Ab and booted the creature hard. It ceased slapping itself and resumed mumbling steadily, like an idling engine. “C’mon, sit down for a while, you stupid monstrosity.”
Showing no sign of pain, Ab sat down on the ground and began cleaning its feet with all four hands. In that position it looked like a demented triclops trying to pull its toes off. Again Flinx found himself grinning unintentionally.
“Have to do that when I’m not watchin’ ‘im,” the man explained, “or he’ll wander off.”
“I can see why you use Ab in a comedy act,” Flinx observed readily. “What I can’t understand is why anyone, least of all a Qwarm, would want to kill it.”
At the mention of the assassin clan the trainer lost his composure, his emerging friendliness, and most of the color in his face.
“Qwarm?” he stammered.
“Two of them,” Flinx elaborated. He nearly turned and indicated the building with its window facing on the stage. Then he thought better of it. “I don’t know why they changed their minds,” he lied, “but I know for a fact that they want your pet dead.”
“Qwarm?” the man repeated. At that moment, Ab appeared to be the more balanced of the two. Looking around frantically, the man grabbed a small black satchel. A couple of coins fell from a half-open pocket. He ignored them.
“You train aliens too?” he bleated hurriedly. “Good. He’s all yours now, boy.”
“Wait a minute!” Flinx protested. Things were happening too quickly again. “I don’t want to—”
“ ‘Bye and luck to you, boy!” the man shouted back to him. He put out a hand, vaulted a nearby railing, and vanished on the run into the milling crowd nearby.
“Hey, hold on!” Flinx shouted, rushing to the railing. “Come back, I can’t take care of—”
There was a tentative honk from behind. Flinx turned and saw Ab staring blankly at him while mumbling steadily. When he turned back to the crowd, the trainer was out of sight, though his terror still lingered like the scent of cloves.
Flinx stared over and down at the striped blue alien. “Now what am I going to do with you?” The fix he now found himself in was his own fault, of course. If he had taken care not to mention the Qwarm by name . . . Well, no matter now. He started to walk away. A fresh, louder honk stopped him.
Ab had stood up and was following Flinx. At the sight of that utterly open, helpless face, Flinx’s coldness shattered. Whatever else he did he couldn’t leave the poor thing alone. It would probably remain where it was, cleaning itself, until someone took charge of it or it starved to death.
Served him right. He had started the day in an attempt to find out something about himself. Instead, he’d killed two Qwarm and acquired an alien simpleton by default.
“I can’t keep you,” he told the bubbling creature, “but we’ll find a place for you as quickly as possible.” One big eye blinked disarmingly at him.
“Mur’til hurtill?” he sang.
“Yeah, come on,” Flinx instructed. “I’m going to finish the day the way I should have started it.” He started off; a glance behind showed the creature following dutifully, weaving on its four legs. Spouting sing-song nonsense, it trailed Flinx through the crowd, apparently as happy with its present master as it had been with the former one.
Flinx was not happy with the stares his strange companion drew, but there was nothing that could be done about it. As soon as he finished with the records department, he would get rid of the creature.
There was a knock at the door.
The woman sent her silent little girl into the bathroom. Then she walked over to lean against the door and listened with one hand on the bolt. “Yes?” she finally asked quietly.
“You have a delivery,” a soft voice replied.
That was the code sentence. She glanced at the covered bodies of the black-clad man and woman lying beneath the window and threw the bolt sharply.
“Thank you for coming so quick,” she said gratefully; “I don’t care how you dispose of them, just—” She choked on the rest of the words.
The man on the other side of the doorway was not from the discreet service she had contacted. Dressed entirely in black, devoid of hair even to the shaved eyebrows, he was clearly a mate to the corpses in her chamber.
His gaze indicated that he bore her no animosity, but that he would as soon kill her as talk with her. Her hand went to her lips, and she slowly backed away from the door as the man entered. He was tall—very tall. He had to bend to fit beneath the portal.
His stare traveled across the room, lingering momentarily on the two shapes beneath the blankets. Embroidered red whirls on his skullcap caught the afternoon light, as did the skull engraved into his belt buckle. It gleamed like alien blood in the room.
“I didn’t,” the woman started to say, then she slumped inwardly, her hands falling limply to her side. “What does it matter now,” she muttered, with the resignation of those who have no hope. She sank down on the pillows in the far corner, where she entertained business far too frequently. “It’s a rotten life, probably hopeless for the poor child, too. Kill me if you want. This is all too far above me. I can’t fight any more.”
Ignoring her, the man strode past her to kneel above the two bodies. He did not seem to believe these two could be dead. When he finished, he rose and turned to her. The fury in his eyes was so bright that in spite of her declaration she shrank back a little deeper into the cushions.
“I have no quarrel with you or your child,” he explained, with a curt nod in the direction of the bathroom. “Why, though, did you not notify us instead of calling for others to take away the dead?”
The woman laughed hollowly. “Nobody contacts the Qwarm if it can be avoided, no matter what their situation.”
“True. I note your point,” the tall specter acknowledged without humor. “I suppose it would have been too much to expect.” Moving to the window, he leaned out and made a beckoning motion.
Shortly, four men entered the room. They were not Qwarm. Carefully they loaded the bodies into two long cylinders. When they departed, the tall hunter turned his attention back to the silent woman in the corner. There was a soft murmur from the region of the bathroom.
“Mommy . . . can I come out now?”
Suddenly the woman looked frightened again. Her gaze shifted rapidly from the tall figure to the bathroom door and back again.
“I said I have no quarrel with you, woman.” He leaned close over her, ice-eyed, hollow-cheeked. “Our quarrel is with whoever was foolish enough to have done this thing.” Reaching into a pocket at his belt, he brought out a fistful of metal bars.
In spite of her fear, the woman’s eyes glowed. Here was more money than she had ever seen at one time in her life. It represented many, many weeks during which she would not have to entertain visitors in the room.
“Describe them,” the Qwarm said tightly, extending the metal.
The woman licked her lips as she considered. She did not have to consider long. “Not them,” she corrected. “Him.”
For the first time since entering the apartment, the specter showed some emotion: surprise. “Only one?” he inquired in a disbelieving, warning tone. “You are certain? Might he have had friends, accomplices?”
“I don’t k
now,” she insisted. “I saw only one man. Boy, maybe. He was young, less than twenty for certain.” She grimaced. “I’m good at estimating such things. No taller than myself, dark skin, red hair . . .” She went on describing Flinx as best she could, from clothing to demeanor.
When she had finished, the man handed her the metal bars, not throwing them at her feet, as her visitors did. Exhibiting an unnerving politeness, he murmured a startlingly gentle “Thank you” and turned to leave.
“You’re not . . . going to kill us?” the woman wondered, still unable to comprehend her good fortune.
For the second time the tall figure showed surprise. “You have been only a witness to unfortunate events you could not affect. You have done nothing detrimental to me or mine, and you have been helpful. We will not see you again, and this business will be concluded satisfactorily very soon now.” He closed the door behind him quietly.
Stunned, the woman sat on the pillows and stared at the gleaming metal in her hands. She tried not to think about the promise of silence she had made to the youth as he fled from her rooms. But what could she have done? Money or not, she eventually would have told the Qwarm anything he wanted to know, voluntarily or—she shuddered—otherwise. And she had the child to think of.
She managed a slight smile. At least she might have given the boy a chance, through one slight oversight on her part. She had told the Qwarm the truth when she said she had seen only one man. But she had failed to mention the small flying dragon that had slain one of the two dead ones. Let the Qwarm form their own conclusions from the state of the two corpses.
The tall man had carried through on his other promises, so she assumed he had told the truth when he said he would never see her again. Nevertheless, after letting her frightened daughter out of the bathroom, she set about making preparations to find new lodgings. The money represented by the metal bars would permit them to leave Moth, and she was in a rush to do so.
Chapter Three
Administrative offices wove in and about one another like copulating squid. Though raised on Drallar, Flinx still had a terrible time trying to locate the offices he wanted.
At first sight, minor bureaucrats were inclined to regard the persistent youth with contempt. Such bellicose thoughts, however, always brought a quivering, questioning little head out from beneath the folds of Flinx’s clothing. It was amazing how rapidly once-indifferent civil servants took an interest in Flinx’s problem. Helpful as they tried to be, he still found himself shunted from one department to the next. Planetary Resources bounced him down to Taxation, which kicked him up to Resources again.
Finally he found himself in a small, dingy compartment occupied by a sixth-level bureaucrat in the King’s government. This lowly tape-twister was a tired, withered old man who had started life with great expectations, only to turn around one day and discover that he had become old. He sighed unencouragingly when Flinx once again explained his request.
“We don’t have slave records here, boy.”
“I know that, sir,” Flinx acknowledged, settling himself into a chair so ancient it was actually made of real wood instead of plastic. “But money changed hands not just between seller and buyer, but between seller and the government in the form of taxes. Slave sales still require more documentation than most today. I’m assuming that hasn’t changed in the past, oh, dozen years.”
“Not that I know of, boy, not that I know of. Okay, we’ll give it a try. What do they call you, and what is the name of the one whose sale you wish to trace?”
“I’m called Flinx. The name I wish to trace is Philip Lynx, and I have the exact date of the transaction.” The man noded when Flinx gave him the date.
“Couldn’t do much without that,” he admitted. He rose and tottered to the wall behind him. It was lined from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, with tiny squares. Examining the wall, he finally touched several minute buttons. One of the squares clicked and extended itself into a meter-long tray. A single thin piece of dark plastic popped out of the tray.
Removing the thin square, the old man inserted it into a boxy machine on the left side of his desk. Then he turned it to face the left-hand wall, which was coated with a silvery-white substance.
At that point he paused, one wrinkled hand hovering over the controls of the machine. “I need to know the reason and justification for showing this, boy,” he announced pleasantly. Flinx laid a discreet but ample bribe in the hovering palm. After transferring the money to a pocket, the hand activated the controls on the device.
“You don’t have to tell me,” the old man went on, “and it’s none of my business, but why this transaction, exactly?”
“You’re correct, it’s none of your businesss.” The old man looked resigned and, disappointed, turned away from Flinx. Motivated by some perverse impulse, Flinx blurted it out: “It’s myself that was sold. I’m that same Philip Lynx.”
Rheumy eyes squinted at him, but the man said nothing, merely nodded slowly. Aware that he had learned more than he was entitled to, he activated the projector. A series of seemingly endless tiny figures appeared on the wall. The oldster was experienced at his task. He scanned the figures and words as they flashed past on the wall faster than Flinx could follow. Abruptly, the flash flood of figures slowed, then began to back up, and finally it stopped.
“Here we are,” the clerk declared with satisfaction, using a built-in arrow to indicate one thin line. “A tax of twenty-two credits paid to the municipal fund on the sale in the city of one boy Lynx, Philip. Selling price was . . .” and he ran off figures and fact Flinx already knew. Date of transaction, time . . . Flinx grinned when the name of the purchaser was read. So, Mother Mastiff had paid the tax under a false name.
“That’s all?” he inquired when the wall unexpectedly went dark. “Nothing on the origin of the shipment, where it arrived from?”
“I’m truly sorry, boy,” the old man confessed, sounding as if he meant it. He turned and folded his hands on the desk. “What did you expect? This department holds only financial records. But . . .” He hesitated, then went on. “If you want more information, if I were you I’d look up Arcadia Organics in the slave traders’ offices. That’s the firm that sold you. They might still retain some records themselves. They’re not the largest concern of that type on Moth, but they’re not the smallest, either. That’s what I’d do if I were you, boy.”
“I’d rather not,” Flinx admitted. Returning to the slave market under any circumstances was a disquieting prospect. “But since that’s where my only remaining hope leads, I suppose I must.” Rising, he nodded thankfully to the old man. “You’ve been very kind, old sir.” He turned to go.
“Just a minute, boy.” Flinx turned, and winced reflexively as he caught something thrown at him. It was a small but still substantial credit chip—the same one he had given the oldster moments ago. His gaze went to the aged clerk, who could expect little more in the way of promotion or money in his lifetime. His eyes framed an unvoiced question.
“I don’t have much drive, never did, and I’m a stranger to greed, I’m afraid,” he explained slowly. “Also, compassion—that’s out of keeping with being a successful bureaucrat.”
“I can see that, old sir,” Flinx acknowledged, respectfully tossing the chip back. It clattered faintly on the table top. “That’s why you’re going to keep this.”
“I don’t take bribes,” the old clerk said firmly, ignoring the chip, “from those more unfortunate than myself.”
“Appearances can be deceiving, old man,” Flinx insisted, giving the impression that he wasn’t boasting. “Keep it.” He turned and left the room, left an uncertain yet gratified human being staring after him.
Flinx spent the night with Mother Mastiff, regaling her with tales of his trip to Earth. He detailed his visit to United Church headquarters on the island of Bali, told of his eventual discovery of who his natural mother was, and something of her death.
He told a carefully edited story, for he lef
t out his encounter with the daughter of Rashalleila Nuaman, who had turned out to be his half sister. Nor did he mention the Baron of the AAnn, Riidi WW, or Conda Challis, or that unfortunate merchant’s mysterious offspring, Mahnahmi—the girl with the angelic visage and wild talents. Most important, he left out any mention of his journey to Ulru-Ujurr and his commitment to educate the innocent geniuses who were the Ulru-Ujurrians themselves.
Whether she could figure out that there was more to his tale, Flinx could not tell. With Mother Mastiff, one was never certain whether a lie had been believed or tolerated. In any case, she did not comment until he mentioned his intention of looking up the slave firm which had originally sold him.
“I don’t know, boy,” she muttered. “Do you think it wise?”
“Why not? All they can do is refuse to talk to me.”
“It’s your state of mind that concerns me, Flinx. You’ve been throwing yourself into this search for a long while. I worry what you’ll do if this last trail dead-ends on you.”
He did not look at her. “Let’s see what Arcadia Organics tells me, first.”
She tapped the arm of the plush chair she sat in. “Better to leave yourself some hope. You’ll drain it too quickly.”
Now he stared at her in surprise. “Mother Mastiff, what are you afraid of? Of what I might find?”
“I haven’t stood in your way during this mad chase of yours, boy. You know that. Though I’d rather you spent your time looking for a fine young lady of wealth and form to settle down with.” She leaned forward out of the chair. “It’s only that I don’t like to see so much of you put into a wild-drizer chase. By your own admission, it has left you almost dead several times now.” Flinx wondered what she would say if he told her about the encounter with the two Qwarm he—and Pip—had killed this morning.
“I’m sorry, Mother Mastiff. It seems this search is controlling me, not the other way around. I’ve got to know. My mother I found out about. Suppose . . . suppose my father is still alive?”
The End of the Matter Page 4
