“It is the second one I have seen. The other . . . the other rode on the shoulder of the bidder who ran. I swear it would be the same creature, save that I think his was smaller!”
Flinx’s neatly organized thoughts collapsed like a bridge whose foundation had failed. In their place turmoil reigned.
So far as he knew, Pip was the only Alaspinian minidrag on Moth. If another lived on the winged world, he was sure he would have learned of it by now. Suppose Pip was the same minidrag which Mormis insisted had ridden his would-be buyer’s shoulder? That implied that for Flinx to have ended up with the flying snake was a coincidence too extreme to be believed. Could his unsuccessful purchaser have planted Pip in the alley where Flinx eventually discovered him, for Flinx to find?
If that was what had actually happened, it indicated much more than a casual interest in Flinx, from a person not connected with Nuaman Enterprises. An employee of his aunt’s? But to what end, what purpose?
I will go mad, he silently screamed.
“A name,” he demanded, “give me a name, Char Mormis!”
The slaver recoiled at the youth’s violence. “I told you, he never voiced one. Nor could I tell where he was from. I recall no distinctive accent. Beyond his size and the earring, I can tell you nothing.”
“I understand, I understand,” Flinx said carefully, trying to control himself. Words stormed through his brain.
Alaspin, Alaspin, old friends a-claspin.
“Recipe for salad dressing . . . two SCCAM bars without messing.” Ab rambled nonsensically. “Shirted on conclusion of the composition, wise not to bear a cockatrice,” the alien finished. He continued in an unknown language.
When Flinx finally got his raging thoughts under control, he forced himself to speak slowly. “What would you do if you were in my place?” he asked the slaver. “I value your advice.”
“Were I in your position,” Mormis instructed him through thoughtfully steepled fingers, “I would go to wherever home is, return to your work, and save your money and possibly your sanity.”
“Next suggestion.”
“Assuming you have unlimited time and funds, young master, I would go to Alaspin. That’s where your little beast comes from, is it not?” Mormis extended a paternal hand in Pip’s direction, but drew it back hastily when Pip hissed sharply at him. “If the creature is as rare as it is reputed to be, and as dangerous . . .”
“It is,” Flinx assured him.
“. . . then you might have a chance of locating one other who once also kept one.”
So, Flinx thought, it had come to this: a search for a man who twelve or so years ago had appeared on Moth with a minidrag on his shoulder. A man who might never have been to Alaspin but who might have acquired his lethal pet elsewhere. But a destination was better than nothing.
“Thank you again, Char Mormis.” Flinx rose to leave, and saw that the elevator had returned, along with its hulking operator. “I just wish,” he offered in parting, “that one as nice as you were engaged in some other business.”
“The morality of it can weigh heavily at times,” the slaver confessed as the lift door closed on Flinx and Ab. “But not,” he concluded softly after the elevator was on its way surfaceward, “enough to make this one want to quit.”
Chapter Four
It was a busy, fruitful day, and Mormis thought no more of his interesting visitor. By the time darkness had come and he locked up for the night, he had forgotten the incident completely.
The modest Mormis tower home lay in a nearby inurb, one of many such restricted enclaves in Drallar. It was a pleasant evening, and Mormis decided to walk. His monolithic manservant strode comfortingly alongside.
Out of necessity, the streets were relatively well lit. Perpetual cloud cover hid any light the planet’s bright moon, Flame, might have thrown on the pavement.
Mormis tugged his thick cloak closer about him. He was afflicted with bursitis, an ancient disease. Mournfully he mused that the only part of his life which was not well lubricated involved his aching joints. Physicians and wishans, none could help.
When he was halfway home, a strong yet gentle voice called out of shadows to him: “We would request of you a few minutes of your time, Char Mormis of Arcadia. We wish minimum delay in your homeward journey.”
Despite the assurances in that voice, Mormis reacted as any man in his profession might. Voices in the night usually meant only one thing on Moth, where darkness was the shield of beings with less-than-civil intentions.
Throwing aside his cloak to give himself maximum mobility, he turned, hunting for the source of the request. As if in response, a figure emerged from the fog around him. It approached on four legs, foothands and truhands all extended in a pose of insectoid placation. Vast compound eyes shone bright with reflected light from the street illuminators.
Mormis took in the shiny, exfoliating chiton, the deep purple coloring. But neither the thranx’s obvious age nor his conciliatory manner served to relax him. He hadn’t had any dealings with a thranx in some time. Not that they didn’t own slaves. For all their vaunted logic, the thranx were still a race of individuals, some of whom were as subject to vice as their human counterparts were.
So he retreated from the advancing figure and ordered his manservant to take defensive action. When the insect was pinioned, then, perhaps, he would talk.
The massive, blue-cloaked golemite lumbered forward. The slaver was not eased in mind when the fragile-looking insect stood his ground. “Really, Char Mormis,” he observed in the delightfully musical voice of the thranx, “inhospitality is hardly the mark of a successful businessman. I am disappointed. And this looking for a hidden weapon on my person . . .”
Mormis was about to interrupt to say that it was the thranx who was about to be disappointed when his fears were partially confirmed. A second figure emerged from the fog to intercept his servant.
The new figure was human, somewhat taller than average but slim and unimpressive. His advanced age was belied by the suppleness of his movements. He looked like an ambulatory birch tree. Gray hair, cavernous wrinkles, and other age signs were held at bay by eyes that were coal-black shards.
This steely-looking scarecrow blocked the advance of the servant, who reacted rapidly and directly. A short but furious scuffle followed in the middle of the street. The great mass of Mormis’s servant seemed to obliterate his opponent, but when movement ceased, it was to reveal the tall, lanky stranger standing over the motionless bulk of the golemite.
The tall man, part Oriental, shook his left arm. There was an audible popping sound as joints rearranged themselves. When he spoke it was without panting, and in the same reassuring tone as that used by the watching thranx: “I have not injured him. He will wake soon, after we have finished.”
Mormis’s left eyelid twitched uncontrollably. His fingers quivered.
“You would not reach the beamer,” the thranx told him, in a voice so confident that Mormis lost all hope. “Please be so kind as to refrain from such irrational hostilities and listen to what we have to ask.”
The slaver considered. Then he slowly slid his hand away from the concealed weapon within his shirt. He consoled himself with the fact that this odd pair, whatever their intentions, looked neither brutal nor immune to some common-sense reasoning. So he tried to calm himself as the elderly thranx moved toward him. The slim human, he noted with relief, remained next to the motionless body of his servant.
The thranx was tall for one of his kind, Mormis observed, tall enough so that the rainbow-hued compound eyes were nearly level with the slaver’s own. The thranx was bundled tightly against the chill, though Mormis knew the dampness was to the insect’s liking. They were hothouse-world creatures. He could hear the soft puffing as air moved through the insect’s spicules.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” he declared, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can do nothing but what you wish.” Meanwhile he searched for identifying signs. Both sets of vestigial wing
s were present, protruding from shiny wing cases on the thranx’s back. A never-mated bachelor, then.
The insect noted the slaver’s gaze, “No, you do not know me. We have never met before, Char Mormis.” An impressed Mormis realized that his questioner was speaking perfect Terranglo instead of the galactic lingua franca, symbospeech. Few thranx could master the smooth vowels of mankind’s principal language. For the first time a little of the tenseness left him. Violent beings were usually not this well educated.
“You have the advantage of me, sir.”
“We require some information,” the insect responded, showing no inclination to reveal either his name or that of his human associate. Mormis masked his disappointment. “We have learned that earlier today you had a visitor.”
“I’ve had many visitors,” Mormis countered, stalling.
“This one was a young man. Or an old boy, depending on your perceptiveness. The boy had as companion a small, dangerous flying reptile and an alien of peculiar type.”
Since the thranx already knew this, Mormis saw no sense in denying it. “I admit to receiving the person you describe.”
In an oddly human gesture, the thranx cocked its valentine-shaped head to one side. “What did the boy want of you?”
Natural caution took over for Mormis, and he replied without hesitation. “I said I remembered the boy,” he declared slowly, finding apparent fascination in the patterns water made on the street. “But I also had many other visitors. It’s impossible to remember the details of every conversation. My days are hectic, and talk tends to run together.”
The tall human took several steps forward. “We are wasting time with this one.” He extended a hand and flexed long, skilled fingers in a way Mormis didn’t like. “I could always—”
“No, no complications,” the thranx interrupted, much to the slaver’s relief. “But, as you say, we waste time. Rather than debate morality . . .” He reached into his thorax vest and brought forth a credit cube of fair size. A glance assured Mormis it was genuine.
“Still,” Mormis said smoothly, “in my business it is necessary from time to time to reconstruct certain conversations. Odd, but suddenly I find the one you mention coming back to me.”
“A remarkable surprise,” the tall man commented sardonically.
Anxious now that he had managed to turn a dangerous situation into an opportunity for profit, Mormis spoke freely. “It was a trivial matter, interesting for one reason. The boy was originally sold by Arcadia.”
“What did I say?” the tall human told his companion.
“It seems the lad has done well since then,” Mormis went on.
“Well enough,” the thranx commented enigmatically.
“Now the orphan is hunting diligently and foolishly for his natural sire and dame. A harmless but expensive obsession. He searches now for his father.”
“And you were able to give him information?” the man asked.
‘”No, I had no such details. However, I did relate to him an intriguing anecdote involving the circumstances of his sale. If you wish it, I can—”
The thranx cut him off impatiently, checking a wrist chronometer as he spoke. “That is not necessary. We need to know only what he intends to do now, where he is going.”
Mormis backed off. “Revealing that information would be unethical, sir.” He glanced significantly in the direction from which credit cubes of impressive size came. “To reveal such would be a violation of confidence.”
“You are neither physician nor padre,” the tall man rumbled, “so don’t prattle to us of confidentialities and revelations.”
“You have been paid enough,” the thranx declared quietly, adding in a politely blood-curdling way, “we are through wasting time.”
“The boy might,” the slaver ventured as quickly as he could, “be traveling to Alaspin. He seemed anxious enough to go there. Driven, one could almost say. I would guess that at this very minute he is on his way to Drallarport.”
“Your civility and common sense are respected,” the thranx told him, finishing a touch sarcastically, “along with your wonderfully responsive memory. We will bother you no longer. Go home, Char Mormis.”
Turning in the way of the thranx, the insect started off into the fog at a fast jog. The tall human followed him easily, stepping over the body of Mormis’s manservant.
The slaver watched as the odd twosome was absorbed by the mist. “It’s sure I won’t bother either of you,” he muttered to himself, slipping the credit cube into his shirt. His slave was breathing noisily now. Mormis walked over and kicked the recumbent bulk hard in the ribs. A second kick produced a weak groan.
Then the massive humanoid sat up. He blinked and looked up at Mormis. “I request abjuration, master,” he muttered dully. “I no excuse, but opponent was much more than—”
Mormis kicked him again. “I know that, idiot. Get up.” He found he was shivering, though not from the dampness. “I’m in a hurry to get home . . .”
“Exalla Cadella morphine centalla, espoused lost in the woods. A time to conjure redonjure skull face from under the hoods,” Ab hummed softly.
Flinx turned and called back to his dutifully trailing acquisition, disgust plain in his voice, “If you have to ramble, can’t you at least say something sensible once in a while?”
Four arms made incomprehensible, meaningless gestures. The upper half of the blue torso leaned slightly forward. One bright-blue eye winked blankly at him, and the trunk atop the smooth skull weaved in time to some unspoken alien rhythm.
Flinx sighed and continued trudging up the road. Carts were scarce this late at night—early in the morning, rather. Since taking leave of Mormis’s place he had seen none plying the streets.
Supper still sat warm and heavy in his belly. He had eaten in a small comestabulary partway out of the city proper. Quda chips had come with his stew, and he had amused himself for a while by throwing the circular chips into the air, whereupon Pip would launch himself, lightninglike, from his shoulder to snatch them before they could hit the floor. The minidrag was extremely fond of anything heavily laced with salt. Flinx had halted the game only after the owner approached him to plead desperately for an end to it. It seemed that the venomous flying snake’s dives and swoops were unnerving the rest of his customers.
It should be light soon, Flinx mused as he neared the major route leading from Drallar to the city’s shuttleport. There landing craft transferred local goods to great KK-drive starships waiting in orbit and brought outworld goods into the city. Along this broad avenue he was sure to encounter either a jinx driver looking for a first-morn fare or one of many huge powered cargo transports. The latter he could always obtain a ride on, sometimes with the knowledge and consent of the operator, often without. In spite of his present relative affluence, he knew, old talents often came in handy.
As morning neared, the mist-fog thickened. To an outworlder it presented an imposing obstacle to travel. To a native of Moth, it was as natural and expected as a sunrise. Drizzle ran steadily off Flinx’s slickertic cape. At least, that was the way it appeared to an on looker. Actually, the drops never touched the material itself. A steady static charge kept the rain from ever making contact with the always-dry cape.
Flinx noticed a huge skimmer parked close by the last warehouse bordering the busy right-of-way. It was stacked with many tons of cargo.
A bipedal figure suddenly appeared out of the fog, stumbling toward him. Pip was off his shoulder in an instant. Flinx started to reach for the fresh blade in his boot, then hesitated. He sensed no aura of danger about the figure. A shouted command brought Pip back; the anxious minidrag hovered in a tight spiral over Flinx’s head. Pip’s response assured Flinx that the weaving form ahead wasn’t dangerous; if it had been, Pip would have ignored the command.
The figure stumbled onward, something gripped tightly in one hand. As the man neared, he seemed for the first time to take notice of Flinx. His glazed eyes appeared to clear slightly. S
ummoning fresh strength, the man increased his pace and steadied himself somewhat. For a minute Flinx thought he might have to free Pip after all. Then the man’s pupils filmed over again. He tripped on nothingness and fell sideways into the drainage ditch lining the right-hand side of the access road Flinx was walking on.
His body formed a dam for the running water. The runoff rose and began to flow around the man’s arm and shoulder, the limp limb a long, slowly bleeding dike. Nor was the shoulder wound the only one visible on the man. He had been badly hurt in an efficient, professional manner.
Sidling cautiously up to the corpse, Flinx found he was trying to watch every direction at once. His erratic talent, naturally, revealed nothing at the moment. Yet no one, injured or healthy, charged from the darkness at him. He returned his attention to the body.
The black skullcap with its embroidered crimson insignia had fallen from the hairless pate when the man fell. Several portions of the tight black suit were soaked with blood. The fringed cloak was torn. It hung loosely from a single neck clasp.
Further examination was unnecessary. The Qwarm was dead. Yet Flinx persisted, disbelieving. It was known that the Qwarm were masters of many bodily functions. Imitating death was a useful way to lull the suspicions of an intended victim. But Flinx was positive this one was not faking, nor would he ever fake anything again.
Curious, he kneeled to examine the object clutched convulsively in the assassin’s right hand: a short, grayish metal cylinder that looked much like pewter. A tiny red light was still gleaming near the cylinder’s middle.
Flinx found a loose scrap of pavement and passed it carefully between the out-pointing end of the cylinder and the air. There was a tiny ping, and a millimeter-wide hole appeared in the thick section of stone.
To protect the many inquisitive children prowling the night streets of Drallar, Flinx touched a stud at the haft of the weapon. The red light went out. A repeat pass with the stone did not produce a puncture. Flinx pulled the tiny device free of its former owner’s death grip.
The End of the Matter Page 6
