Alan Dean Foster - Flinx 2 - Tar Aiym Krang

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Author: Alan Dean Foster

Title: The Tar-Aiym Krang

Series: Flinx of the Commonwealth

CHAPTER ONE

The Flinx was an ethical thief in that he stole only from the crooked. And' at that, only when it

was absolutely necessary. Well, perhaps not absolutely. But be tried to. Due to his environment

his morals were of necessity of a highly adaptable nature. And when one is living alone and has

not yet reached one's seventeenth summer, certain allowances in such matters must be made.

It could be argued, if the Flinx were willing to listen (a most unlikely happenstance),

that the ultimate decision as to who qualified as crooked and who did not was an awfully

totalitarian one to have to make. A philosopher would nod knowingly in agreement. Flinx could not

afford that luxury. His ethics were dictated by survival and not abstracts. It was to his great

credit that he had managed to remain on the accepted side of current temporal morality as much as

he. had so far. Then again, chance was also due a fair share of the credit.

As a rule, though, he came by his modest income mostly honestly. This was made necessary

as much by reason of common sense as by choice. A too-successful thief always attracts unwanted

attention. Eventually a criminal law of diminishing returns takes over.

And anyway, the jails of Drallar were notoriously inhospitable.

Good locations in the city for travelling jongleurs, minstrels, and such to display their

talents were limited. Some were far better than others. That he at his comparatively slight age

had managed to secure one of the best was a tribute to luck and the tenacity of old Mother

Mastiff. From his infancy she had reserved the small raised platform next to her shop for him,

driving off other entrepreneurs with shout or shot, as the occasion and vehemence of the

interloper required. Mother Mastiff was not her real name, of course, but that was what everyone

called her. Flinx included. Real names were of little use in Drallar's market-places. They served

poorly for identification and too well for the tax-gatherers. So in more appropriate ones were

rapidly bestowed upon each new inhabitant. Mother Mastiff, for example, bore a striking

resemblance to the Terran canine of the same name. It. was given in humour and, accepted with poor

grace, but accepted, nevertheless. Her caustic personality only tended to compliment the physical

similarity.

The man-child had been an orphan. Probably involuntary, as most of his ilk were. Slill,

who could tell? Had she not been passing the slave coops at that time and glanced casually m a

certain direction, she would never have noticed it. For reasons she had never fully understood she

had bought it, raised it, and set it to learning a trade as soon as it was old enough. Fortunately

his theatrical proclivities had manifested themselves at quite an early stage, along with his

peculiar talents. So the problem of choosing a trade solved itself. He proved to be a keen if

somewhat solemn observer, and so his own best apprentice. Fine and well, because the older

performers always became more nervous in his presence than they cared to admit. Rather than admit

it, they pronounced him unteachable, and left him to his own devices.

She had also taught him as early as was practical that in Drallar independence was ever so

much more than an intangible thought. It was a possession, even if it would not fit into one's

pocket or pouch, and to be valued as such. Still, when he had taken to her word and moved out to

live on his own, the sadness lingered with her as a new coat of paint. But she never revealed it

to him for fear of communicating weakness. Not in her words nor in her face. Urged oil

affectionately but firmly he was, much as the young birds of the Poles. Also she knew that for her

the Moment might come at any time, and she wanted it to brush his life as lightly as possible.

Flinx felt the cottony pain of a sugar-coated probe again in his mind; the knowledge that

Mother Mastiff was his mother by dint of sympathy and not birth. Coincidence was his father and

luck his inheritance. Of his true parents he knew nothing, nor had the auctioneer. His card had

been even more than usually blank, carrying not even the most elementary pedigree. A mongrel. It

showed in his long orange-red hair and olive complex ion. The reason for his orphanhood would

remain forever as obscure as their faces. Pic let the life flood of the city enter his mind and

submerge the unpleasant thoughts.

A tourist with more insight than most had once remarked that strolling through the great

central marketplace of Drallar was like standing in a low surf and letting the geometrically

patient waves lap unceasingly against one. Flinx had never seen the sea, so the reference remained

obscure. There were few seas on Moth anyway, and no oceans. Only the uncounted, innumerable lakes

of The- Blue-That-Blinded and shamed azure as a pale intonation.

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The planet had moved with unusual rapidity out of its last ice age. The fast-dwindling ice

sheets had left its surface pock marked with s glittering lapis-lazuli embroidery or lakes, tarns,

and great ponds. An almost daily rainfall maintained the water levels initially set by the

retreating glaciers. Drallar happened to be situated in an exceptionally dry valley, good drainage

and the lack of rainfall (more specifically, of mud) being one of the principal reasons for the

city's growth. Here merchants could come to trade their goods and craftsmen to set up shop without

fear of being washed out every third-month.

The evaporation-precipitation water cycle on Moth also differed from that of many

otherwise similar humanx-type planets. Deserts were precluded by the lack of any real mountain

ranges to block off moisture-laden air. The corresponding lack of oceanic basins and the general

unevenness of the terrain never gave a major drainage system a chance to get started. The rivers

of Moth were as uncountable as the lakes, but for the most part small in both length and volume.

So the water of the planet was distributed fairly evenly over its surface, with the exception of

the two-great ice caps al the poles and the hemispheric remnants of the great glacial systems.

Moth was the Terran Great Plains with conifers instead of corn.

The polyrhythmic chanting of barkers hawking the goods of a thousand worlds formed a

nervous and jarring counter-point to the comparatively even susurrations and murmurings of the

crowd. Flinx passed, a haberdashery he knew and in passing exchanged a brief, secret smile with

its owner. That worthy, a husky blond middle-aged human, had just finished selling a pair of

durfarq-skin coasts to two outlandishly dad outworlders ... for three times what they were worth.

Another saying trickled lazily through his mind. 'Those who come unprepared to Drallar to buy

skin, inevitably get.'

It did not offend Flinx's well-considered set of ethics. This was not stealing. Caveat

emptor. Fur and fibres, wood and water, were Moth. Can one steal seeds from a tomato? The seller

was happy with his sale, the purchasers were pleased with their purchase, and the difference would

go to support the city in the form of welfares and grafts anyway. Besides, any outworlder who

could afford to come to Moth could damn well afford to pay its prices. The merchants of Drallar

were not to any extent rapacious. Only devious.

It was a fairly open planet, mostwise. The government was a monarchy, a throw back to the

planet's earlier days. Historians found it quaint and studied it, tourists found it picturesque

and frozepixed it, and it was only nominally terrifying to its citizens. Moth had been yanked

abruptly and unprepared into the vortex of interstellar life and had taken the difficult

transition rather well. As won id-be planet-baggers rapidly found out. But on a planet where the

bulk of" the native population was composed of nomadic tribes following equally nomadic fur-

bearing animals who exhibited unwonted bellicosity towards the losing of said fill's, a

representative government would have proved awkward in the extreme. And naturally the Church would

not interfere. The Counsellors did not even think of them-selves as constituting a government,

therefore they could not think of imposing one on others. Democracy on Moth would have to wait

until the nomads would let themselves be counted, indexed, labelled, and cross-filed, and that

seemed a long, long way off. It was well known that the Bureau of the King's Census annually

published figures more complementary than accurate.

Wood products, furs, and tourism were the planet's principal industries. Those and trade.

Fur-bearing creatures of every conceivable type (and a few inconceivable ones) abounded in the

planet's endless forests. Even the insects wore fur, to shed the omnipresent water. Most known

varieties of hard and soft woods thrived in the Barklands, including & number of unique and

unclassifiable types, such an a certain deciduous fungus. When one referred to 'grain' on Moth. it

had nothing to do with flour. The giant lakes harboured fish that had to be caught from modified

barges equipped with cyborg-backed fishing lines. It was widely quoted that of all the planets in

the galaxy, only on Moth did an honest-to-goodness pisces have an even chance of going home with

the fisherman, instead of vice-versa. And hunters were only beginning to tap I hat aspect of the

planet's potentialities ... mostly because those who went into the great Forests unprepared kept

an unquieting silence.

Drallar was its capital and largest city. Thanks to fortuitous galactic co-ordinates and

the enlightened tax policies of a sucession of kings it was now also an inter-stellar clearing-

house for trade goods and commercial transactions. All of the great financial houses had at least

branch headquarters here, reserving their showier offices for the more 'civilized' planets. The

monarch and his civil service were no more than nominally corrupt, and the king saw to it that the

people were not swamped by repressive rules and regulations. Not that this was done out of love

for the common man. It was simply good business. And if there were no business, there would be no

taxes. No taxes would mean no government. And DO government would mean no king, a state of affairs

which the current monarch, his Driest Majesty King Dewe Nog Na XXIV, was at constant pains to

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avoid.

Then too, Drallar could be smelled.

In addition to the indigenous humans, the business of Drallar was conducted by half a

hundred intelligent races. To keep this conglomeration of commerce pulsing smoothly, a fantastic

diversity of organic fuels was demanded. So the central marketplace Itself was encircled by a

seemingly infinite series of serving stands, auto-chefs, and restaurants that formed in actuality

one great, uninterrupted kitchen. The resulting comb; nation of aromas generated by these

establishments mingled to form an atmosphere un duplicated anywhere else in the known galaxy. On

more refined trade stops such exotic miasmas were kept decently locked away. In Drallar t h ere

was no ozone to contaminate. One man's bread was another man's narcotic. And one man's narcotic

could conceivably make another being nauseous.

But by some chance of chemistry, or chemistry of chance) the fumes blended so well in the

naturally moist air that any potentially harmful effects were cancelled out. Left only was an ever-

swirling thick perfume that tick led one's throat and left unexpecting mouths in a state of

perpetual salivation. One could get a deceptively full and satisfying meal simply by sitting down

in the centre of the markets and inhaling for an hour. Few other places in the Arm had acquired

what might be described as an olfactory reputation. It was a truth that gourmets came from as far

away as Terra and Proycon merely to sit on the outskirts of the marketplace and hold long and

spirited competitions in which the participants would attempt to identify only the wisps of

flavour that were wafted outwards on the damp breeze.

The reason for the circular arrangement was simple. A businessman could fortify himself on

the outskirts and then plunge mio the whirl of commerce without having, to worry about being cut

down in the midst of an important trailsaction by a sudden gust of, say, pungent prego-smoke from

the bahnwood fires. Most of the day the vast circle served admirably well, but during the prime

meal hours it made the marketplace resemble more than ever that perspicacious tourist's analogy of

the ebb and flow of a sea.

Flinx paused at the stand of old Kiki, a vendor of sweets, and bought a small thisk-cake.

This was a concoction made from a base of a tough local hybrid wheat. Inside, it was filled with

fruit-pieces and berries and small, meaty parma-niits, recently ripened. The finished product was

then dipped in a vat of warmish honey-gold and allowed to harden. It was rough on the teeth, but,

ob, what it did for this palate It had one drawback: consistency. Biting into think was like

chewing old spacesuit insulation. But it had a high energy content, the parma-nuts were mildly

narcotic, and Flinx felt the need of some sort of mild stimulant before performing.

Above the voices and the smells, above all, Drallar could be viewed.

The edifices of the marketplace were fairly low, but outside the food crescents one could

see ancient walls, remnants of Old City. Scattered behind and among were the buildings where the

more important commerce took place. The lifeblood of Moth was here, not in the spectacular stalls

below. Every day the economies of a dozen worlds were traded away in the dingy back 'rooms and

offices of those old-new structures. There the gourmet restaurants catered to the rich sportsmen

returning from the lakes, and turned up their noses and shut their windows against the plebeian

effluvia assailing them from the food stalls below. There the taxidermists plied their noisome

arts, stuffing downy Yax'm pelts and mounting the ebony nightmare heads of the horned Demmichin

Devilope.

Beyond rose the apartment houses where the middle and lower classes lived, those of the

poorer characterized by few windows and cracking plaster, and those of the better-off by the

wonderful multistoried murals painted by the gypsy artists, and by the brilliant azurine tiles

which kept the houses warm in winter and cool in summer. Still further off rose the isolated tower

groupings of the rich inurbs, with their hanging gardens and reinforced crystal terraces. These

soared loftily above the noise and clamour of the commonplace, sparkling as jewelled giraffes amid

each morning fog.

Rising from the centre of the city to dominate a 13 was the great palace of the rulers of

Drallar. Generations of kings had added to it each stamping a section here, awing there, with his

own personality. Therein dwelt King Dewe Nog Na and his court. Sometimes he would take a lift to

the topmost minaret, and there, seated comfortably on its slowly revolving platform, leisurely

survey the impossible anthill that constituted his domain.

But the most beautiful thing about Moth was not Drallar, with its jewelled towers and

chromatic citizenry) nor the innumerable lakes and forests, nor the splendid and variegated things

that dwelt therein. It was the planet itself. It was that which had given to it a name and made it

unique in the Arm. That which had first attracted men to the system. Ringed planets were rare

enough.

Moth was a. winged planet.

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The 'wings' of Moth doubtless at one time had been a perfect broad ring of the Saturn

type. But at some time in the far past it had been broken in two places - possibly the result of a

gravitational stress, or a change in the magnetic poles. No one could be certain. The result was

an incomplete ring consisting of two great crescents of pulverized stone and gas which encircled

the planet with two great gaps separating them. The crescents were narrower near the planet, but

out in space they spread out to a natural fan shape due to the decreasing gravity, this forming

the famed 'wing' effect. They were also a good deal thicker than the ancient Saturnian rings, and

contained a higher proportion of fluorescent gases, The result was two gigantic triangular shapes

of a lambent butter-yellow springing out from either side of the planet.

Inevitably, perhaps, the single moon of Moth was designated Flame. Some thought it a trite

appelation, but none could deny its aptness. It was about a third again smaller than Terra's Luna,

and nearly twice as far away, It had one peculiar characteristic. It didn't 'burn' as the name

would seem to suggest, although it was bright enough. In fact, some felt the label 'moon' to be

altogether inappropriate, as Flame didn't revolve around its parent planet at all but instead

preceded it around the sun in approximately the same orbit. So the two names stuck. The carrot

leading a bejewelled ass, with eternity forever preventing satisfaction to the latter. Fortunately

the system's discoverers had resisted the impulse to name the two spheres after the latter saying.

As were so many of nature's freaks, the two were too uncommonly gorgeous to be so ridiculed.

The wing on Drallar's side was visible to Flinx only as a thin glowing line, but he had

seen pictures of it taken from space. He had never been in space himself, at least, only

vicariously, but had visited many of the ships that landed at the Port. There at the feet of the

older crewmen he listened intently while they spun tales of the great KK ships that plied the dark

and empty places of the firmament, Since those monster interstellar craft never touched soil, of

course. He had never seen one in person. Such a landing would never be made except in a dire

emergency, and then never on an inhabited planet. A Doublekay carried the gravity well of a small

sun on its nose, like a bee carrying pollen. Even shrunk to the tiny size necessary to make a

simple landing, that field would protect the great bulk of the ship. It would also gouge out a

considerable chunk of the planetary crust and set of all sorts of undesirable natural phenomena,

like tsunamis and hurricanes and such. So the smaller shuttle ships darted yoyo like between,

traveller and ground, carrying down people and their goods, while the giant transports themselves

remained in Polyphemian exile in the vastnesses of black and cold.

He had wanted to space, but had not yet found a valid reason to, and could not leave

Mother Mastiff without anyone. Despite unceasing bellows asserting to her good health she was a

hundred and something. To leave her alone simply for a pleasure trip was not a thought that

appeared to him.

He tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, half-burying Pip in the folds of thick

fur. As human-inhabited worlds go. Moth was not an exceptionally cold planet, but it was far from

tropical. He could not rein ember the time when lie had not been greeted upon awakening by a wet

and clammy fog. It was a dependable but dampish companion. Here furs were used more to shed water

than to protect from bitter chill. It was cold, yes, but not freezing. At least, it snowed only in

winter.

Pip hissed softly and Flinx absently began feeding him the raisins he'd plucked from the

thisk-cake. The reptile gulped them down whole, eagerly. It would have smacked its lips, if it had

any. As it was, the long tongue shot out and caressed Flinx's cheek with the delicate touch of a

diamond cutter. The mini drag's iridescent scales seemed to shine even brighter than usual. For

some reason it was especially fond of raisins. Maybe it relished their iron content.

He glanced down at the plus window of his personal card meter. They weren't broke, but

neither were they swimming in luxury. Oh, yes, it was definitely time to go to work!

From a counter of her variegated display booth, Mother Mastif was pleading amiably with a

pair of small, jeweled thranx touristas. Her technique was admirable and competent. It ought to

be, he reflected. She'd had plenty of time in which to perfect it. He was only mildly surprised at

the insectoid's presence. Where humans go, thranx also, and vicey-versy, don't you know? So went

the children's rhyme. But they did look s bit uncomfortable. Thranx loved the rain and the damp,

and in this respect Moth was perfect, but they also preferred a good deal less cold and more

humidity. Paradoxically, the air could be wet and to them still too dry. Every time a new hothouse

planet turned up they got ecstatic, despite the fact that such places invariably possessed the

most objectionable and bellicose environments. Like any human youngster, he'd seen countless

pictures of thranx planets: Hivehom, their counterpart of Terra, and also the famous thranx

colonies in the blazon and Congo baisins on Terra itself. Why should humans wear themselves out in

an unfriendly climate when the thranx could thrive there? They had put those inhospitable regions

to far better use than man ever could or would have - as had humans the Mediterranean Plateau on

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Hivehom.

Indeed, the Amalgamation had worked out very well all around.

From the cut of their necklaces these two were probably from Evoria. Anyhow the female's

tiara and ovipositor glaze were dead giveaways. Probably a hunting couple, hero for some

excitement. There wasn't much to attract thranx to Moth, other than recreation, politics, and the

light metals trade. Moth was rich in light metals, but deficient in many of the heavier ones.

Little gold, lead, uranium, and the like, But silver and magnesium and copper in abundance.

According to rumour, the giant thranx Elecseed complex had plans to turn Moth into a leading

producer of electrical and thinkmachine components, much as they had Arnropolous. But so Far it

had remained only rumour. Anyway, inducing skilled thranx workers to migrate to Moth would

necessitate the company's best psycho publicists working day and night, plus megacredits in

hardship pay. Even off-world human workers would find the living conditions unpalatable at best.

He didn't think it likely. And without native atomics there' d be a big power problem. Hydro-

electricity was a limited servant due to the lack of white water. It formed an intriguing problem.

How to generate enough electricity to run the plant to produce electrical products?

All this musing put not credit hi one's account nor bread in one's mouth.

'Sir and madame, what think ye on my wares? No better of ths type to be found this side of

Shorttree, and damn little there.' She fumbled, seemingly aimless, about her samples. 'Now here's

an item that might appeal to ye. What of these matched copper drink-jugs, eh? One for he and one

for she,' She held up two tall, thin, burnished copper thranx drinking implements. Their sides

were elaborately engraved and their spouts worked into intricate spirals.

'Notice the execution, the fine scroll work, sir,' she urged, tracing the delicate

patterns with a wrinkled forefinger. 'I defy ye to find better, yea, anywheres!'

The male turned to his mate. 'What do yon say, my dear?' They spoke symbospeech, that

peculiar mixture of Terran basic and thranx click-hiss which had become the dominant language of

commerce throughout the Humanx Commonwealth and much of the rest of the civilized galaxy besides.

The female extended a handfoot and grasped the utensil firmly by one of its double

bandies. Her small, valentine-shaped head inclined slightly at an angle in an oddly human gesture

of appraisal as she ran both truehands over the deeply etched surface. She said nothing, but

instead looked directly into her mate's eyes.

Flinx remained where he was and nodded knowingly at the innocent smile on Mother Mastiff's

face. He'd seen that predatory grin before. The taste other mind furnished him with further inform

a lion as to what would inevitably Follow. Despite a century of intimate familiarity and

association with the thranx there still remained some humans who were unable to interpret even the

commoner nuances of thranx gesture and gaze, Mother Mastiff was an expert and knew them all. Her

eyes were bright enough to read the capital letters flashing there: SALE.

The husband commenced negotiations in an admirably of hand manner, 'Well ... perhaps

something might be engendered ... we already have a number of such baubles ... exorbitant prices

... a reasonable level ...'

'Level! You speak of levels?' Mother Mastiff's gasp of outrage was sufficiently violent to

carry the odour of garlic all the way to where Flinx stood. The thranx, remarkably, ignored it.

'Good sir, I survive at but a subsistence level now". The government takes all my money, and I

have left but it pittance, a pittance, sir, for my three sons and two daughters!'

Flinx shook his head in admiration of Mother Mastiff's unmatched style. Thranx offspring

always came in multiples of two, an inbred survival trait. With most things terrene and human

there had been little or no conflict, but due to a quirk of psychology the thranx could not help

but regard human odd-numbered births as both pathetic and not a little obscene.

'Thirty credits,' she finally sighed.

'Blasphemous!' the husband cried, his antennae quivering violently. 'They are worth

perhaps ten, and at that I flatter the craftsman unmercifully.'

'Ten!' moaned Mother Mastiff, feigning a. swoon. 'Ten the creature says, and boasts of it

I Surely ... surely, sir, you do not expect me to consider such an offer seriously'. 'Tis not even

successful as a jest.'

Fifteen, then, and I should report you to the local magistrate Even common thieves have

the decency to work incognito.'

'Twenty-five. Sir, you, a cultured and wealthy being, surely you can do better than taunt

and make sport of an old female. One who has doubtless fertilized as many eggs as you ..." The

female had the grace to lower her head and blush. The thranx were quite open about sex ... their's

or anyone else's ... but still, Flinx thought, there were lines over which it was improper to

step.

Good manners it might not have been, but in this case at least it appeared to be good

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business. The male harrumphed awkwardly, a deep, vibrant hum. 'Twenty, then.'

'Twenty-three five., and a tenth credit less I will not say!' intoned Mother Mastiff. She

folded her arms in a recognizable gesture of finality.

'Twenty-one,' countered the male.

Mother Mastiff shook her head obstinately, immovable as a Treewall. She looked ready to

wait out entropy.

'Twenty-three five, not a tenth credit less. My last and final offer, good sir. This pair

will find its own market. I must survive, and I fear I may have allowed you to sway me too far

already.'

The male wouid have argued further, on principle if for nothing else, but at that point

the female put a truehand on his b-thorax, just below the ear, and stroked lightly. That ending

the bargaining.

'Ahhh, Dark Centres! Twenty-five ... no, twenty-three five, then! Thief! Assaulter of

reason! It is well known that a human would cheat its own female-parent to make a half- credit!'

'And it is well known also,' replied Mother Mastiff smoothiy as she processed the sale,

'that the thranx are the most astute bargainers in the galaxy. You have gotten yourself a steal,

sir, and so 'tis you and not I the thief"

As soon as the exchange of credit had been finalized, Flinx left his resting place by the

old wall and strolled over to the combination booth and home. The thranx had departed happily,

antennae entwined. On their mating flight'? The male, at least, had Seemed too old for that. His

chiton had been shading ever so slightly into deep blue. despite the obvious use of cosmetics,

while the female had been a much younger aquamarine. The thranx too took mistresses. In the moist

air, their delicate perfume lingered-

'Well, Mother,' he began. He was not indicating parentage - she had insisted on that years

ago - but using the title bestowed on her by the folk of the markets. Everyone called her mother.

'Business seems good.' She apparently had not noticed his approach and was momentarily flustered.

'What? What? Oh, 'tis you, cub! Pah!' She gestured in the direction taken by the departed thranx.

'Thieves the bugs are, to steal from me so I But have I a choice?' She did not wait for-an answer.

1 am an old wornaa and must sell occasionally to support myself, even at such prices, for who in

this city would feed me?' 'More likely, Mother, it would be you who would feed the city, I saw you

purchase those same mugspirals from Olin the Coppersmith not six days ago... for eleven credits.'

'Ay? Harrumph,' she coughed. 'You must be mistaken, boy. Even you can make a mistake now and then,

you know. Um, have you eaten yet today?'

'A thisk-cake only.' 'Is that the way I raised ye, to live on sweets?' In her gratefulness for a

change of subject she feigned anger. 'And I'll wager ye gave half of it to that damned snake of

yours, anyway!' Pip raised his dozing head at that and let out a mild hiss. Mother Mastiff did not

like the minidrag and never had. Few people did. Some might profess friendship, and after coaxing

a few could even be persuaded to pet it. But none could forget that its kind's poison could lay a

man dead in sixty seconds, and the antidote was rare. Flinx was never cheated in business or

pleasure when the snake lay curled about his shoulder. 'Gentle, Mother. He understands what you

say, you know. Nor so much what as why, really.' 'Oh surely, surely! Now claim intelligence for

the monster! Bewitched it is, perhaps. I believe it that latter, at least, for I can't deny I've

seen the thing react oddly, yes. But it does no work, sleeps constantly, and eats prodigiously.

You'd be far better off without it, lad.' He scratched the minidrag absently behind the flat,

scaly head. 'Your suggestion is not humourful, Mother. Besides, it does work in the act ...'

'Gimmick,' she snorted, but not loudly.

'And as to its sleeping and easing habits, it is an alien tiling and has metabolic

requirements we cannot question. Most importantly, I like it and ... and it likes me.'

Mother Mastiff would have argued further except that they had gone through uncounted

variations of this very argument over the years. No doubts dog or one of the local domesticated

running-birds would have made a more efficacious pet for a small boy, but when she'd taken in the

maltreated youngster Mother Mastiff'd had no credits for dogs or birds. Flinx had stumbled on the

minidrag himself in the alley behind their first shack, rooting in a garbage heap for meats and

sugars. Being ignorant of its identity. he'd approached it openly and unfearing. She'd found the

two huddled together in the boy's bed the following morning. She had hefted a broom and tried to

shoo it off, but instead of being frightened the thing had opened its mouth and hissed

threateningly at her. That initial attempt constituted her first and last physical effort at

separating the two.

The relationship was an unusual one and much commented upon, the more so since Alaspin was

many parsecs away and none could recall having heard of a minidrag living unconfined off its

native world before. It was widely surmised that it had been the pet of some space trader and had

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gotten loose at the shuttleport and escaped. Since the importation of poisonous animals was a

felony on most planets, Moth included, few were surprised that the original owner had not made

noisy efforts to reclaim his property. In any case it had banned no one (Flinx knew otherewise,

and better than to boast the fact) and so none in the marketplace protested its presence to the

authorities, although all wished with a passion it would go elsewhere.

He moved to change the subject.

'How are you equipped for credit, Mother?'

'Fah! Poorly, as always. But,' and this with a sly, small grin, I should be able to manage

for a while off that last transaction.'

Id wager,' he chucked. He turned to survey the chromaticalllly coloured crowd which flowed

unceasingly around and in front of the little shop, trying to gauge the proportion firweiilthy

tourists among the everyday populace. The effort, as usual, made his head ache.

'A normal day's passings or not, Mother?'

'Oh, there's money out there now, all right! I can smell it. But it declines to come into

my shop. Better luck to you, perhaps lad'

'Perhaps.' He walked out from under the awning and mounted the raised dais to the left of

the shop. Carefully he set about rearranging the larger pots and pans which formed the bulk of

Mother Mastiff's cheaper inventory to give himself sufficient room to work.

His method of enticing an audience was simple and timeworn. He took four small brana balls

from a pocket and began to juggle them. These were formed from the sap of a tree that grew only in

Moth's equatorial belt. Under the sun's diffused UV they pulsed with a faint yellow light. They

were per Feet for his needs, being solid and of a uniform consistency. A small crowd began to

gather. He added a fifth ball now, and began to vary the routine by tossing them behind his back

without breaking rhythm. The word was passed outwards like invisible tentacles, occasionally

snatching fin of her person here, another there, from the fringes of the shuffling mob. Soon be

bad acquired his own substantial little island of watchful beings. He whispered softy to the

minidrag, almost buried in the soft fur.

'Up, boy.'

Pip uncurled himself from Flinx's shoulder, unfurling his leathery wings to their fullest

extent. In spite of its rarity the crowd recognized the lethal shape and drew back. The snake

soared into the air and performed a delicate, spiraling descent, to settle like a crown around the

boy's head. It then proceeded to catch each ball arid toss it high into the air, changing the

shape but not the rhythm of the act. The unbroken fluorescent trail took on a more intricate

weave. A mild pattering of applause greeted this innovation. Jugglers were more than common in

Drallar, but a young one who worked so deftly with a poisonous reptile was not. A few coins landed

on the platform, occasionally bouncing metallically off the big pans. More applause and more coins

when the snake flipped all five balls, one after another, into a small basket at the rear of the

dais.

'Thank you, thank you, gentlebeings!' said Flinx, bowing theatrically, thinking, now for

the real part of the act. 'And now, for your information, mystification, and elucidation . . . and

a small fee' (mild laughter), 'I will endeavour to answer any question, any question, that any one

in the audience, regardless of his race or planet of origin, would care to tempt me with.'

There was the usual sceptical murmuring from the assembly, and not a few sighs of boredom.

' All the change in my pocket,' blurted a merchant in the first row, 'if you can tell me

how much there is!' He grinned amid some nervous giggling from within the crowd.

Fiinx ignored the sarcasm in the man's voice and stood quietly, eyes tightly shut. Not

that they had to be. He could 'work' equally as well with them wide open. It was a piece of pure

showmanship which the crowds always seemed to expect. Why they expected him to look inward when he

had to look outwards remained ever-puzzling So him. He had

no real idea how his answers came to him. One minute his mind was empty, fuzzy, and the next ...

sometimes ... an answer would appear. Although 'appear' wasn't quite right either. Many times he

didn't even understand the questions, especially in the case of alien questioners. Or the answers.

Fortunately that made no difference to the audience. He could not have promised interpretations.

There!

'Good sir, you have in your pocket four tenth pieces, two hundredth pieces ... and a key

admitting you & certain club that...'

'Stop, stop!' The man was waving his gnarled hands frantically and glancing awkwardly at

those in the crowd nearest him. That will do! I am convinced.' He dug into his pocket, came out

with a handful of change, thrust the troublesome key back out of sight of the curious who leaned

close for a look. He started to hand over the coins, then paused almost absently, a look of

perplexity on his face. It changed slowly to one of surprise.

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'By Pali's tide-bore, the whelp is right! Forty-two hundredths. He's right!' He hand ad

over the corns and left, mumbling to himself.

Flying coins punctuated the crowd's somewhat nervous applause. Flinx judged their mood

expertly. Belief had about pulled even with derision. There were naturally those who suspected the

merchant of being a plant. They granted he was a very convincing one.

"Come, come, gentlebeings! What we have here is larvae plav. Surely there are those among

you with questions worth tempting my simple skill'?'

A being at the hack of the crowd, a Quillp in full postmating plumage, craned its thin

ostrichlike neck forward and asked in a high, squeaky voice, 'In what summer-month my hatchlings

come a-bout will?'

'I am truly sorry, sir, but that is a question that involves the future, and I am not a

clairvoyant.' The creature sighed unhappily and prepared to leave the gathering. At this sign of

mortality on Flinx's part a number of others seemed inclined to go with the tall Ornithorpe. Flinx

said hurriedly, 'But I hope fervent all five of your hatchlings successful are!'

The Quillp whirled in surprise and turned goggling eyes on the small stage. 'How did you

know that number my Circle had?' In its excitement it spoke in its native tongue and had to be

reminded by a neighbour to shift to symbo-speech.

I make it a policy not to reveal professional secrets.' Flilix yawned with calculated

elaboration. 'Come, a real question, gentle beings. I bore quickly. Miracles I cannot produce,

though, and they usually bore anyway.' Two humans, big, muscular fellows, were pushing their way

ungently to the stage. The one on Flinx's left wore glasses-not for their antique therapeutic

value, but because in some current fashion circles it was considered something of a fad. He

extended a credcard.

'Can you accept this, boy?'

Flinx bridled at the 'boy.' but extracted his card meter. "Indeed I can, sir. Ask your

question.'

The man opened his mouth, paused. 'How do I know what to pay you?'

I can't set value on my answers, only on your question. Whatever you deem it worth, sir.

If I give no answer I will refund your credits.' He gestured to where the minidrag rested alertly

on his shoulder. 'My pet here seems to have a feel for the emotional states of others which is

quite sensitive. Even more so than myself. A swindler, for example, exudes something that he is

especially sensitive to. I am rarely swindled.'

The man smiled without mirth. I wonder why'?' He dialled a setting on the card, extended

it again. 'Will a hundred credits do?'

Flinx was quick to stifle his reaction. A hundred credits! That was more than he sometimes

made in a month! For a moment he was tempted to lower the figure, mindful of the laugh Mother

Mastiff might have if she Found out. Especially after his comments on her pricings this morning.

Then he reminded himself that, after all, the man had set the price and surely would not cheat

himself. He tried but could detect no trace; of humour about the man. Nor his companion. Quite the

contrary. And he hadn't heard the question yet. What if he couldn't answer it?

'A ... a hundred credits would be most satisfactory, sir.' The man nodded and stuck his

card in the little black meter. The compact machine hummed softly and the amount, one-oh-oh-zero-

zero, clicked into place on its tiny dial. There was a. brief pause and then it buzzed once, the

red light on its top glowing brightly. It noted that the amount of so-and-so, card number such-and-

such, was good for the amount dialled, and that credits numbering one hundred (100) had been

transferred to the account of one Philip Lynx (his given name in the city records) in the Royal

Depository of the sovereign Republic of Moth. Flinx returned the box to its place in his pouch

and looked back to the two expectant men.

'Ask your question, sirs.'

'My co in pan ion and I are searching for a man ...a friend... whom we know to be

somewhere in this part of the city, hut whom we have been unable as yet to contact.'

'What is there distinctive about him?' Flinx asked from under closed eyes.

The other man spoke for the First time. His voice revealed an impatience that his mind

confirmed. It was brusque and low-pitched. "He is not tall ... thin, has red hair like your-self,

only darker and tightly curled. Also his skin is not so dark us yours, it is mottled, and he has

wet eyes.'

That helped. Redheads were not plentiful in Drailar, and ihe reference to 'wet eyes'

indicated a man with a high Sexual potential. The combination ought to be easy to locate. Flinx

began to feel more confident, Still, Drallar was large. And there was the shuttleport to consider

too.

'Not enough. What else?'

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The two looked at each other. Then the bigger one spoke again. 'This man is dressed in

navigator's clothes. He has with him ... probably on his person ... a small map. A star map. It is

hand "drawn and very unprofessional looking. He usually keeps it in his blouse, which bulges

slightly in consequence.'

Flinx concentrated harder. So, a shift in the internal abstract, an angle resolved ... He

opened his eyes, looked up in suprise. His gaze roved over the rear of the silent crowd and came

to rest on an individual at the back. A red headed man, not tall, with mottled skin, wet eyes, and

a slight bulge over his heart. Not surprisingly, Flinx sensed paper therein. As soon as their eyes

met the map's went wide. He broke and plunged into the market mob. At the ensuing commotion the

big man turned his head and strained to see through the mass. He clasped a hand on his companion's

shoulder and pointed urgently. They started out in the direction of the disturbance, forcing the

other members of the assembly out of their way with far more strength than tact.

Flinx almost called to them, but the action turned to a shrug instead. If this form of an

answer satisfied the two, he certainly wasn't going to argue the matter. A hundred credits!

Without even committing himself. And the loose coin on the dais for Mother Mastiff. He waved an

impulsive band at the crowd.

'Thank you ever so for your attention, gentlebeings. For today, at least, the show is

over.'

The assemblage began to melt back into the flow of traffic, accompanied by not a few

groans of disappointment from would-be questioners. With the unexpected dramatic build-up he had

been given by the two strangers he probably could have milked the remainder for a pile, but his

gift was capricious and possessed of a tendency to tire him quickly. Best to halt with an

unchallenged success. This windfall entitled him to a serious celebration, and he was already

impatient to get on with it.

'Pip, if we could take in what we took today on a regular basis, the king would make me

royal treasurer and you his official guardian. The snake hissed non-committally, the jet-black

eyes staring, up at him. Ink boiled in those tiny poolings. Apparently government work didn't have

much appeal.

'And you are no doubt hungry again.' This produced a more positive hiss, and Flinx

chuckled, scratching the mini-drag under its leather-soft snout. 'That's what I thought. However,

I feel that something of a more liquid nature is in order for myself. So we will make our way over

to Small Symm's, and I will guzzle spiced beer, and you may have all the pretzels your venomous

little carcass will hold!' the snake wagged its tail at this, which involved its quivering all

over, since it was mostly tail in the first place.

As they made their way over the cobblestone back street he began mentally to reproach

himself for not playing the crowd longer. He still felt that to overuse his talent would he to

burn it out. But there were times when one had to be businesslike as we11 as cautious, a point

Mother Mastiff had made to him many times. Still, he had slept late today and gotten started later

than was usual. It would probably have proved difficult to bold the crowd much longer anyway. In

Diallar darkness had a tendency to disperse people rapidly, and it was even now quite black out.

Besides, be had a hundred credits in his pocket! Effectively, not actually, since it was in his

account at the depository. So why worry? Did the sun fight to gather new hydrogen?

He had almost reached the dimly lit bar when he tasted the sounds. They came filtering out

of the alleyway to his left a hole dark as the gullet of a giant pseudo-sturgeon from one of the

Great Northern Lakes. It sounded very much like a fight. A questing probe brought back overtones

of fear/anger/terror/greed/bloodlust. Fighting in fun was accompanied by much cursing and

shouting. None were uttered in a battle to the death since the participants were too busy and too

intent of purpose to waste the breath. only humans fought quite that silently, so he knew they

were not a part of the city's alien populace. There was that peculiar muteness of thought ...

Flinx did not mix in such conflicts. In a city like Drallar where fat bellies and empty

purses coexisted in abundance, one's own business remained healthy so long as one minded it. He

had taken one step towards the peace of the bar when Pip uncoiled himself from his shoulder and

streaked into the alley.

Even at his comparatively young age, Flinx could curse fluently in fourteen languages. He

had time for only five before he was hurtling into the blackness after his pet. It was only in

precaution that he drew the thin stiletto from its boot sheath without breaking stride.

Now he could perceive three forms in the dim light from the cloud-masked stars and the

city-glow. Two were large and stood upright. The other was slight of build and lay with a

recognizable stillness on the ground. One of the others bent over the prostrate body. Before it

could carry out its unknown purpose, it jerked and roared loudly in the quiet.

'GODDAMN!'

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The man began flailing wildly at a thin, leathery shape which dived and swooped at his

head, The other pulled the wicked shape of a neuronic pistol from a shoulder cup and tried to

sight on the rapidly moving object. Flinx had no time to think. With vague thoughts of forcing the

man to the ground and knocking him out, be leaped on to the man's back. The thick ropes of broad

muscle he felt beneath the man's blouse rapidly squelched that idea. The man lurched. In another

second he'd be smashed against the wall of the nearest building. The thin blade plunged once,

instinctively. The big man buckled horribly and crashed to the ground like a great tree. Flinx had

already left the dead hulk before it reached the pavement,

The other whirled, to meet this new menace as his companion pitched forward on to his

face. Cursing, he fired in Flinx's direction. Rolling-like mad, the youth had made the cover of a

broken metal crate, Fortunately the man's night vision didn't seem as good as his own. Even so,

the near miss sent a painful tingle up his leg. An almost-hit with the ugly weapon would cause a

man literally to shake himself to death in a series of uncontrollable muscular spasms, A direct

hit to the heart or brain would kill instantly. Supposedly such weapons were outlawed on Moth.

Obviously the law could be circumvented. The man rayed the area to his left. It was a mistake.

Unhampered, Pip had the time he needed. The mini drag spat once.

It was not a gesture of defiance, but of death. The flying snakes or 'miniature dragons'

of Alaspin are akin to a few other carnivorous creatures. Among these is the Hema-chacus, or

spitting cobra, of Terra. The latter has Forward-facing fangs and instead of injecting its venom

via a bite, can spit it to a surprising distance with remarkable accuracy. The Alaspinian

minidrags, however, have no fangs. Only small cutting teeth for biting. Little work has actually

been done on them on their seldom visited planet, but they apparently, eject their poison through

a narrowing tube of cartilaginous material running along the roof of the mouth. Muscles running

the length of the jaw and along the neck force the venom even further than the Terran types, and

with greater accuracy. Fortunately the minidrag has a relatively mild disposition and attacks only

when threatened. Pip's actions were therefore unusual but not incomprehensible.

The man gave vent to a shockingly shrill, soul-tearing scream and sank to his knees,

clawing at his eyes. The venom was corrosive as well as killing. It was not fatal unless it got

into the bloodstream, and so by rubbing at his eyes the man effectively killed himself. In thirty

seconds he had become incapable of even that.

In another thirty he was incapable of doing anything at all, Pip returned to his

familiar resting place. As he settled his coils around Flinx's shoulder, the boy could feel the

unnatural tension in the reptile's muscles, There was a brief urge to bawl the minidrag out good

and proper, but his narrow escape and the fact that the snake had once again saved his life put it

off. Time pressed. Still shaking slightly from muscular reaction of his own, he crept from his

hiding place to the results of an undesired action.

The only sounds in the alley were the ruffling whispers made by the always moist air

flowing over the silk-cool stones and the steady plop, plop, plop of blood flowing from the wound

in the back of the man the stiletto had finished. There remained the third body. In spite of

everything, he bad been too late to help the small man. His neck had been broken cleanly.

Unmoving, the sightless eyes reflected the silent stars.

There was just sufficient light for him to make out the man's brilliant red hair.

A crumpled piece of plastic lay clutched in a spasmodically Frozen hand. Flinx pried it

from his grasp, bending open the lifeless but still stubborn fingers. Above him lights began to

come on as the cautious inhabitants of the alleyway decided it was safe to trust their precious

selves to the quiet uncertainty of the night. Prudence had been seized and now curiosity had taken

over. It was time for him to leave. Now that the locals had bestirred themselves and the action

had been resolved the local constabulary would be arriving. Although they would take their time,

they would get here none the less. It would not do to be found standing over three lifeless

bodies, all of them blatantly out world. Especially when one of them had registered a hundred

credits to his account only this afternoon.

He didn't like stealing from the dead, but anything that small that could cause the death

of three men in one night was too important to leave to the discretion of the police. Without more

than a casual glance at it, he shoved the rumpled sheet into his pouch.

The police arrived shortly after lie had exited the mouth of the alley. A sudden increase

in the babble of thoughts and voices told him that the bodies had been discovered. For locals

action was time-defined and pedantic. When the police discovered that the three corpses were

outworlders, a search pattern would be put into effect with small delay. Murder was not conducive

to increased tourism. He hurried a mite faster towards the bar.

Small Symm's establishment was notable not so much for its food and drink, hut rather for

the reputation it enjoyed as being one of the few places in Drallar where a being could go at

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file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20Alan%20Dean%20-%20Flinx%20\2%20-%20Tar-Aiym%20Krang.txtAuthor:AlanDeanFosterTitle:TheTar-AiymKrangSeries:FlinxoftheCommonwealthCHAPTERONETheFlinxwasanethicalthiefinthathestoleonlyfromthecrooked.A\nd'atthat,onlywhenitwasabsolutelynecessary.Well,perhapsnot...

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Alan Dean Foster - Flinx 2 - Tar Aiym Krang

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