Foster, Alan Dean - Flinx 6 - Mid - Flinx
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Author: Alan Dean Foster
Title: Mid-Flinx
Original copyright: 1995
Genre: Science Fiction
Version: 1.0
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By Alan Dean Foster : Published by Ballantine Books:
The Icenggger Trilogy
ICERIGGER
MISSION TO MOULOKIN
THE DELUGE DRIVERS
The Adventures of Flinx of the Commonwealth
FOR LOVE OF MOTHER‑NOT
THE TAR‑AIYM KRANG
ORPHAN STAR
THE END OF THE MATTER
FLINX IN FLUX
MID‑FLINX
BLOODHYPE
THE HOWLING STONES
The Damned
Book One: A CALL TO ARMS
Book Two: THE FALSE MIRROR
Book Three: THE SPOILS OF WAR
THE BLACK HOLE CACHALOT
DARK STAR THE METROGNOME and Other Stories
MIDWORLD NOR CRYSTALTEARS
SENTENCED TO PRISM SPLINTER OF THE MIND'S EYE
STAR TREK@ LOGS ONE‑TEN VOYAGE TO THE CITY OF THE DEAD
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . . ... WHO NEEDS ENEMIES?
MAD AMOS PARALLELITIES*
* forthcoming
Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity
discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund‑raising, and special
sales use. For details, please call 1‑500‑733‑3000.
*******************************************************
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is
coverIess, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed"
and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
A Del Rey® Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1995 by Thranx. Inc.
All rights reserved under International and Pan‑American Copy-right Conventions.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House,
Inc., New York, and simulta-neously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited,
Toronto.
htpp://www.randomhouse.com
Cover art by Bob Eggleton
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96‑96371
ISBN 0‑345‑40644‑3
Printed in Canada
First Hardcover Edition: November 1995
First Mass Market Edition: October 1996
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Chapter One
If everyone's going to chase me, Flinx thought, I should've been born with eyes
in the back of my head. Of course, in a sense, he had been.
He couldn't see behind himself. Not in the commonly accepted meaning of the
term. Not visually. But he could "sense" behind him. Most sentient creatures
generated patterns on the emotional level that Flinx could, from time to time,
detect, descry, or perceive. Depending on the wildly variable sensitivity of his
special talent, he could feel anger, fear, love, sorrow, pain, happiness, or
simple contentment in others the way ordinary folk could feel heat or cold,
slipperiness or stickiness, that which was sharp and that which was soft.
The emotional states of other beings prodded him with little jabs, twitches, icy
notions in his brain. Sometimes they arrived on the doorstep of his mind as a
gentle knock or comforting greeting, more often as a violent hammering he was
unable, despite his most ardent ef-forts, to ignore.
For years he believed that any refining of his talent would be an improvement.
He was no longer so sure. Increased sensitivity only exposed him to more and
more personal distress and private upsets. He had discovered that the emotional
spectrum was a roiling, violent, crowded, generally unpleasant place. When he
was especially receptive, it washed over him in remorseless waves, battering and
pounding at his own psyche, leav-ing scant room for feelings of his own. None of
this was apparent to others. Years of practice enabled him to keep the turmoil
inside his head locked up, hidden away, art-fully concealed.
Much to his distress, as he matured it became harder instead of easier to
maintain the masquerade.
Used to be that he could distance himself from the emotional projections of
others by putting distance be-tween himself and the rest of humanxkind. Now that
he'd grown more sensitive still, that kind of peace came to him only in the
depths of interstellar space itself.
His situation wasn't entirely hopeless. With advancing maturity had come the
ability to shut out the majority of background low‑level emotional emanations.
Spousal ire directed silently at mates, the petty squabbles of children, silent
internalized hatreds, secret loves: he'd managed to reduce them all to a kind
off perceptual static in the back of his mind. He couldn't completely relax in
the com-pany of others, but neither was his mind in constant tur-moil. Where and
when possible, he favored town over city, hamlet over town, country over hamlet,
and wilder-ness over all.
Still, as his erratic control of his fickle talent improved, his worries only
expanded, and he found himself plagued by new fears and uncertainties.
As he watched Pip slither silently across the oval glass-ine tabletop, hunting
for fallen crumbs of salt and sugar, Flinx found himself wondering not for the
first time where it would all stop. As he grew older and taller he continued to
grow more sensitive. Would he someday be privy to the emotional state of
insects? Perhaps a couple of distraught bacteria would eventually be all that
was necessary to incite one of his recurring headaches.
He knew that would never happen. Not because it wasn't theoretically possible‑he
was such a genetic anomaly that where his nervous system was concerned, anything
was theoretically possible‑but because long before he could ever attain that
degree of sensitivity he would certainly go mad. If the pain of his headaches
didn't overwhelm him, an excess of knowledge would.
He sat alone in the southwest corner of the restaurant, but for all it distanced
him from the emotional outpour-ings of his fellow patrons, he night as well have
been sit-ting square in their midst. His isolation arose not from personal
choice but because the other diners preferred it that way. They shunned him, and
not the other way around.
It had nothing to do with his appearance. Tall, slim but well‑proportioned, with
his red hair and green eyes he was a pleasant‑looking, even attractive young
man. Much to his personal relief, he'd also lost nearly all the freckling that
had plagued him since his youth.
The most likely explanation for his isolation was that the other diners had
clustered at the opposite end off the dining room in hopes of avoiding the
attentions of the small, pleat‑winged, brightly colored flying snake which was
presently foraging across her master's table in search of spice and sustenance.
While the combined specific xenozoological knowledge of the other patrons peaked
not far above zero, several dutifully recalled that con-trasting bright colors
in many primitive creatures consti-tuted a warning sign to potential predators.
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Rather than chance confirmation of this theory, all preferred to order their
midday meal as far from the minidrag as possible.
Pip's pointed tongue flicked across the tabletop to evaluate a fragment of
turbinado sugar. Delighted by the discovery, she pounced on the energy‑rich
morsel with a languid thrust of her upper body.
Credit was due the restaurant's host. When Flinx had appeared at the entrance
with the living snake coiled decorously about his left arm and shoulder, the
older man had stiffened instinctively while listening to Flinx's ex-planation
that the minidrag was a longtime pet fully un-der control who would threaten no
one. Accepting the tall young guest at his word, the unflinching host had led
him to a small, isolated table which partook fully of the establishment's
excellent view.
Samstead was a peaceful world. Its three large conti-nents were veined by many
rivers which drained into oceans congenial of coast and clime. Its weather was
consistent if not entirely benign, its settlers hardworking and generally
content. They raised up light industries and cut down dense forests, planted
thousands of fields and drew forth from the seas a copious harvest of savory
alien protein. In dehydrated, freeze‑dried, and otherwise commercially
profitable compacted forms, this bounty found its way packed, labeled, and
shipped to less fruitful systems.
It was a world of wide‑open spaces buttoned together by innumerable small towns
and modest, rurally attuned metropolises. While air transport was widely
available, citizens preferred where possible to travel by means of the many
rivers and connecting canals. Working to-gether, humans and thranx had over the
years woven a relatively pleasant fabric of life out of the natural threads
supplied by their planet, which lay on the fringes of the Commonwealth. It was a
pleasant place to call home.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Samstead was that there was nothing
remarkable about it. It had been a long time since Flinx had come across so
docile an outpost of civilization. Since his arrival he'd given se-rious thought
to extending his visit beyond his original intent, perhaps even settling down‑if
such a thing were possible for him.
It was a world where a new colonist might be able to lose himself in idyllic
contentment. A world where even he might no longer need to continually employ
those fig-urative eyes in the back of his head. Flinx wasn't para-noid, but
bitter experience had taught him caution. This was the inevitable consequence of
an adolescence that had been, well, something other than normal.
For the moment, he was content to travel, to observe, to soak up the gentle,
genial, country feel of this place. If its appeal held, he would linger. If not
he would, as al-ways, move on.
Departure would be effected by means of his remark-able ship, the Teacher,
presently drifting in parking orbit over Samstead's equator in the company of
several hun-dred other KK‑drive craft. As far as Samstead Authority was
concerned, it was bonded to a Mothian company, which was in fact a fiction for
private ownership: a not uncommon practice.
As he slipped a forkful of some wonderful grilled fresh fish into his month, he
drank in the view beyond the sweeping glass wall that fronted the backside of
the restaurant. The establishment clung to the edge of a thirty‑meter‑high bank
of the Tumberleon River, one of Samstead's hundred principal watercourses.
Trans-lucent graphite ribs reinforced the wall, becoming soaring arches
overhead. These supported a ceiling of photosensitive panels which darkened
automatically whenever Samstead's sun emerged from behind the clouds.
At this point, three‑quarters of its way to the Kil Sea, the river was some
three kilometers wide. All manner of contemporary river craft plied the
languorous yet mus-cular stream: sailboats whose ultralight fabrics responded
automatically to shifts in wind speed and direction, hovercraft built up out of
ultralight composites, MAG barges which utilized the minute differences in
electric charge between air and water to lumber along several centimeters above
the surface of the water, big power-boats, tiny super fast pleasure craft, and
land‑based skimmers.
There was even a small group of children splashing about in some nearby
shallows, looking for all the world tike an undisciplined pod of playful
amphibians. They seemed to be having a good time without the aid or
inter-vention of any advanced technology whatsoever. Though timeless, it was a
tableau less frequently encountered on the more urbanized worlds like Terra or
Centauri.
Flinx found himself envying that unrestrained inno-cence. The pace of life on
Samstead was much slower. It was a world on which one could live and work and
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still take time.
Flinx had managed to live, but so far his work had consisted of trying to stay
alive and unnoticed. As for time, there never seemed to be enough of that
intangible yet most precious of commodities.
Raising the upper third of her body off the table, Pip fully unfurled her
pleated pink and blue wings and stretched. Across the room a family of four,
stolid farm-ers clad in dress‑gray coveralls and green paisley shirts, did their
best to ignore the display. All except the youngest, a perfect little blond girl
of seven who excit-edly called attention to the unparalleled flash of color.
Her mother leaned over and spoke sharply, quickly quashing the girl's initial
delight at the sight, while her father growled something under his breath and
remained hunched over his meal. They were trying their best to ig-nore him,
Flinx knew. He cast his perception their way. Instantly Pip froze, the better to
serve as an empathetic lens for her master's talent.
He sensed fear lightly tinged with revulsion. There was also curiosity, which
emanated principally from the children. This was directed more toward Pip than
him-self, which was to be expected. It would be remarkable if there was another
Alaspinian minidrag anywhere on Samstead. This system was a long way from
Alaspin, and Pip was usually an exotic no matter where they were.
Flinx was thankful he was no taller, no handsomer, no more distinctive in
appearance than he was. The singular alignment of neurons within his cerebrum
was distinction enough. The last thing he wanted was anything that would call
additional attention to himself. He lived in constant terror of sprouting a
third eye, or horns, or a bulging forehead. Knowing what had been done to him
before birth, none of those developments would sur-prise him.
Sometimes it was hard to wake up and look in a mirror for fear of what he might
see there. Others might wish for more height, or great beauty, or exaggerated
muscu-larity. Flinx prayed frequently for the daily forgiveness of normalcy.
Pip attacked a pretzel while her master drank deep from a tall curved glass
fashioned of self‑chilling purple metal. An import, most likely. Though nearly
done with his meal, he was reluctant to abandon the view. His fish had probably
been netted in the river below that very morning. While it could not project,
food possessed an emotional resonance all its own.
How wonderful were those times when he could simply sit and be.
Pip rose to land gently on his shoulder. This time it was the boy who gestured
and exclaimed, only to be hastily slapped down by his father. Flinx sensed the
older man's unease, but continued to ignore the family. That was what they
wanted, anyway.
Fear of a different kind abruptly rippled through the dining room. Flinx tensed
and Pip lifted her head from his shoulder, responding to his heightened
emotional state.
That was odd. Calmly he scrutinized hits fellow diners, seeing nothing to
inspire such a sudden upsurge of appre-hension. The ground was stable, the sky
clear, the view outside unchanged. Raising his glass, he searched for the source
of the disturbance.
Three men had arrived. They paused just inside the en-trance. Two were much
bigger than average. All three were exceptionally well dressed and would have
stood out in any crowd on Samstead, though they would have been far less likely
to attract attention on sophisticated Tetra or Hivehom.
It was clear that the one in the middle was in charge. He wasn't more than four
or five years older than Flinx; shorter, ordinary of build and sharp of
countenance. Ills dark maroon whispershirt concealed a sinewy muscularity.
Over the top of his glass Flinx studied the narrow, pale face. The uncleft jaw
protruded distinctively. It was matched above by an aquiline nose and unusually
deep-set black eyes. The forehead was high, the black hair combed straight back
in the most popular local fashion. Eyeing him, Flinx decided that this was a man
for whom any expression would be an effort. His two overbearing associates were
much more animated.
Flagrantly indifferent to the reaction his arrival had en-gendered, the young
man scanned and dismissed the room with a flick of his eyes before moving off to
his left. The self‑important heavies continued to flank him.
To Flinx, the lessening of emotional tension in the din-ing area as the new
arrivals turned away was palpable. A measurable quantity of joie de vivre having
been sucked out of them, the patrons gratefully returned to their conversation
and meals as the recently arrived trio disap-peared through a service doorway.
Flinx returned to the last of his meal, but unlike everyone else, continued to
monitor the disturbance that centered around the recently arrived trio. It had
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simply shifted from the dining room proper to the kitchen in back.
After a while the three reemerged, followed by a very attractive young woman
dressed in chef's whites. Save for her red hair, her features reflected an
Oriental heri-tage. Her prosaic attire could not completely conceal her figure.
Flinx couldn't hear a word they were saying. He didn't have to; not while he
could effortlessly monitor the ebb and flow of their respective emotional
states. The great-est intensity emanated from the slim young man and the chef,
the two heavies projecting nothing more vivid than mild amusement leavened with
boredom.
One leaned back against the wall and crossed his lower left leg over his right,
while his counterpart took in the view and occasionally cast an intimidating
glare at any diners bold and foolish enough to glance in the direction of the
altercation.
As the conversation reached audible levels, the degree of emotional distress
intensified correspondingly. The woman was shouting now. She sounded defiant,
but alone in the room only Flinx could sense her underlying terror. A mother
shook a child too young and innocent to remain indifferent. Near the back, two
couples rose and left quickly without finishing their meals.
The chef turned back toward the kitchen, only to have the heavy who'd been
leaning against the wall step side-ways to block her retreat. Flinx saw him
grin. His em-ployer grabbed the woman by her left arm, none too gently, and spun
her around. The surge of fear that rushed through her started a throbbing at the
back of Flinx's head.
That was typical of his unpredictable, erratic talent. A whole room full of
uneasy people hadn't caused him so much as a twinge, but one woman's distress
sparked the inevitable headache.
It was evident that the young man wasn't going to let her return to the kitchen
until he'd achieved whatever sort off satisfaction he'd come for. Even without
the two heavies, it was an unequal confrontation.
Flinx had passed by or otherwise ignored a thousand such encounters. Calmly he
worked on the last of his meal. For all he cared or could do about it, the
confronta-tion taking place behind him could escalate to actual vio-lence.
Either way, it was none of his business. Nothing that happened in this city,
along this river, or on this rus-tic world off Samstead, was any of his
business. Circum-stances beyond his control, indeed, beyond his birth, had
estranged him from the rest of humankind. It was a sepa-ration that for his
safety and peace of mind he was forced to acknowledge. All he wanted was to
finish his food, pay, and leave quietly.
That didn't mean he wasn't upset by the situation. Having been looked down on
for much of his life, he hated to see anyone bullied. But interfering would draw
attention to him, something he was at constant pains to avoid.
An older man emerged from the kitchen, painfully in-tent on resolving the
confrontation. If anything, Flinx de-cided, the level of tension and unease he
was generating exceeded that of the young woman. The heavy who'd been enjoying
the view promptly put a palm on the se-nior's chest and shoved him back toward
the kitchen doorway. The woman tried to intercede but the man holding her arm
refused to relinquish his grip.
The heavy finished pushing the oldster back into the kitchen and turned,
blocking the doorway with his bulls. Flinx wondered at the old man's interest.
Was he merely an associate, or perhaps a relative? An uncle, or even her father?
Again, it was none of his business.
Noting her master's steadfast emotional keel, a relaxed Pip fluttered back down
to the table and resumed picking among the crumbs there. Flinx watched her
fondly. Dig-ging through the remnants of his lunch, he. slipped half a nut onto
his spoon and flipped it into the air. With a light-ning thrust of neck and
flash of wings, Pip darted up and snatched it before it could hit the table,
swallowing the morsel whole.
"Just a minute."
The voice came from behind him, completely under control yet hinting it was
always on the verge of violent exclamation. It suggested tension without
edginess. Un-intentionally. Flinx had attracted the attention of the prin-cipal
protagonist in the unpleasant domestic drama being played out near the entrance
to the kitchen.
"Are you going to let me go now?" The woman's voice was insistent and frightened
all at once. Her emo-tional temperature was fully reflective of her false
bravado. Flinx had to admire her for it.
"Yes, Geneen." It was the tight, soft voice of the man who'd been holding, and
hurting, her arm. "Go back to your cooking. For now. We'll continue this later."
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“But Jack‑Jax ...” the heavy blocking the doorway protested.
"I said let her go, Peeler." Paradoxically, the quieter he became, the more
intimidating the speaker managed to sound. "Don't try to leave, Geneen."
Flinx didn't have to turn to know that the three had started toward his table.
He sighed resignedly. At the first sign of trouble he should have risen quietly
from his chair, paid his bill, and departed. Now it was too late.
Only the one called Jack‑Jax evinced any real emotion. The two heavies were
emotional blanks, waiting to be im-printed by the whims of their master. As they
drew near, Peeler projected a modicum of disappointment, no doubt displeased at
the interruption of what had been for him an amusing diversion. Flinx disliked
him immediately.
Reflexive as automatons, the two big men took up positions on either side of the
table. Peeler stopped be-hind Flinx while his counterpart eyed the recumbent
minidrag curiously. Neither showed any fear. They were paid not to.
The one called Jack‑Jax, whose presence had so thor-oughly and effortlessly
intimidated the entire dining es-tablishment, sauntered around the table until
he was blocking the view. His piercing jet‑black eyes bordered on the
remarkable. The emotions Flinx sensed behind them were uncontrolled, unformed,
and immature. Out-wardly he was the soul of calm, but internally the man seethed
and boiled like a sealed pot on a high flame. Only Flinx knew how close to the
proverbial edge his visitor was treading.
Unable to ignore that intense stare, he raised his own gaze to meet it. "Yes?"
he ventured politely.
The response was as cordial as it was superficial. "That's a very, very
interesting pet you have there."
"Thanks. So I've been told."
"I'm Jack‑Jax Landsdowne Coerlis." A little emo-tional pop accompanied each
name.
It was an innocuous enough salutation. "Lynx," Flinx replied pleasantly. "Philip
Lynx." He didn't offer a hand. Neither did Coerlis.
Lips didn't so much smile as tighten. "You don't know who I am, do you?"
"Sure I do. You're Jack‑Jax Landsdowne Coerlis. You just told me so."
"That's not what I mean." Impatience bubbled beneath the other's impassive
visage. "It doesn't really matter."
Knowing he should leave it alone and, as was too often the case, unable to do
so, Flinx nodded tersely in the di-rection of the kitchen. "Girlfriend?"
"After a fashion." The lips thinned like flatworms. "I have a lot of
girlfriends. It's a matter of timing."
"You didn't seem to be getting along too well."
"A minor disagreement easily resolved. I'm good at resolving things."
"Lucky you. I wish I could say the same."
This semi complimentary rejoinder caused Coerlis to mellow slightly. His
attention shifted back to the snake shape relaxing on the table.
"Absolutely gorgeous. Really magnificent. It's an Alaspinian miniature dragon,
isn't it? Warm‑blooded, toxic reptiloid?"
Flinx displayed surprise, deliberately flattering the other. "You're very
knowledgeable. It's not a well‑known species and we're a long ways from
Alaspin."
"Exotics are a hobby of mine, especially the resplen-dent ones. I have a private
zoo." Flinx looked appropri-ately impressed and was rewarded with something akin
to a genuine smile of satisfaction. "I collect all kinds of beautiful things.
Animals, sculptures, kinetics." Coerlis jerked a thumb in the direction of the
kitchen. "Women."
"It must be nice to be able to indulge in such a diver-sity of interests."
Despite the cordial banter, Flinx was very much aware that Jack‑Jax Coerlis was
an emotional bomb waiting to go off. For one thing, beneath the under-lying
tension and anger a vast sorrow lingered, turgid and repressed, which bordered
on despair.
Curious patrons kept sneaking looks in their direction, frantic to ignore the
confrontation but unable to wholly rein in their curiosity.
"How much?" Coerlis said abruptly.
"How much what?"
"How much did she cost you?" He indicated the flying snake.
"Nothing." Reaching out, Flinx gently rubbed Pip on the back of her head. The
minidrag couldn't purr. Be-yond an occasional expressive hiss, she made hardly
any noise at all. Instead her eyes closed contentedly and a small but powerful
warmth emanated from within her pleasure center.
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"I found her. Or rather, she found me."
"Then that should make my offer all the more inviting. What do you say to fifty
credits?" When no response was forthcoming, Coerlis added, as if the actual
amount was a matter of supreme indifference to him, "How about a hundred? Two
hundred?" He was smiling, but internally the first stirrings of irritation were
beginning to surface.
Flinx withdrew his finger. "She's not for sale. At any price."
Coerlis's emotions were as easy to read as if he'd pre-sented them to Manx in
the form off a printed hardcopy. "Three hundred."
A flicker of interest showed in Peeler's eyes.
Flinx offered up his most ingratiating yet apologetic smile. "I told you: she's
not for sale. See, she's been with me since I was a child. I couldn't part with
her. Besides, no one knows how long Alaspinian minidrags live. She could up and
die on you next year, or next month. A poor investment"
"Let me be the judge of that." Coerlis was unrelenting.
Flinx tried another tack. "You're aware that Alas-pinian minidrags spit a highly
lethal poison?" This time both heavies reacted. Flinx sensed a jolt of real
unease in the one standing behind his chair. To his credit, the man held his
ground.
Coerlis didn't flinch. "So I've heard. She doesn't look very threatening. If
she's sufficiently domesticated to al-low you to pet her like that, I think I
could handle her. She'll be in a safe cage, anyway." He reached toward the
table.
The flying snake instantly coiled and flared her wings parting her jaws and
hissing sharply. Coerlis froze, still smiling, while his companions reached for
their jacket pockets.
"I wouldn't do that" Flinx spoke softly but firmly. "Alaspinian minidrags are
telepathic on the empathic level. She's sensitive to my feelings. If I'm happy,
she's happy. If I'm angry, she's angry. If I feel threatened‑ If I feel
threatened, she reacts accordingly."
Impressed, Coerlis slowly withdrew his hand. Pip shuttered her wings but
remained alert, watching the stranger. "Not only beautiful, but useful. Whereas
I have to rely for that degree of protection on these two clumsy, ugly lumps of
mindless protein." Neither of the heavies reacted. "She can ride your arm
beneath a jacket, or sleep inside a travel bag. I'm sure she's capable of
delivering a really nasty surprise."
Flinx said nothing, willing to let Coerlis draw his own conclusions. He was
growing tired of the game, and the confrontation was attracting entirely too
much attention. By now it was reasonable to assume that someone in the kitchen,
the old man if not the pretty chef, had taken the step of notifying the
authorities. Flinx didn't want to be around when they arrived. He glanced toward
the service doorway.
Though he wasn't telepathic on any level, Jack‑Jax Coerlis had a feral
understanding of human nature. "If you're waiting for someone to call the police
to come and mediate, I wouldn't. You see, in Tuleon Province I pretty much go
where I want and do as I please." Keeping a thoughtful eye on Pip, he leaned
forward slightly.
"Any decisions reached between you and I will be achieved without the
intervention of any outside parties." With a finger, he nudged the purple glass.
"Anything else you'd like to know?"
"Yes. Who have you lost recently?"
The question took Coerlis completely by surprise. He straightened, gaze
narrowing. "What are you talking about?"
"You've lost someone close to you, someone very im-portant. You're still
mourning them. The result is anxi-ety, fear, sorrow, and a mindless desire to
strike out at those less powerful than yourself. It's a way of reassert-ing
control: not over others, but over yourself."
Coerlis's uncharacteristically unsettled tone reflected his sudden inner
turmoil. "Who are you? What are you?"
"A perceptive visiter."
"You some kind of traveling therapist?"
"No." Flinx had very slowly edged his chair away from the table.
Attempting to reassert himself, Coerlis's tight grin twisted into an unpleasant
smirk. "You've been poking around, asking questions. I'll bet my cousins hired
you. Not that it matters. They can dig all they want. They're still getting
nothing." He plunged on without waiting for his assumptions to be confirmed or
denied. "So you know about my father. What of it? He's been dead two years last
month."
file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20Alan%20Dean%20-%20Flinx%206%20-%20Mid-Flinx.txt (7 of 124) [1/16/03 6:50:33 PM]
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file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20Alan%20Dean%20-%20Flinx%206%20-%20Mid-Flinx.txt**************************************************************************************************************Author:AlanDeanFosterTitle:Mid-FlinxOriginalcopyright:1995Genre:ScienceFictionVersion:1.0Origin...
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