Alan Dean Foster - Flinx 4 - End of the Matter

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The End of the Matter -- Alan Dean Foster

(Version 1.0 -- 12/07/2000)

For Tim Kirk,

With thranx …

Prologue

Take a God-sized bottle of hundred-proof night, spill it across a couple of dozen light-years, and

you have the phenomenon humanxkind called the Velvet Dam. A dark nebula so dense that no near star

was powerful enough to excite it to glow, the Dam drew an impenetrable curtain across a vast

portion of the stage of space. No sun shone through it to the inhabited region known as the Humanx

Commonwealth. No broadcasts, transmissions, or birthday greetings could be sent from beyond the

vast ebony wall.

It lay far above the burgeoning ellipsoid of the Commonwealth, and ran roughly parallel to the

galactic equator. Yet since that which is unseeable is ever the most attractive, humanx

exploratory efforts had already begun to probe persistently at its flanks.

One mission was the same as any other to the drone. Whether it sought out new information behind

the as- yet-unexplored Dam or above the surface of Earth's own moon made no difference to its

tireless mind. Not that the drone was ignorant, however. The enormous distances traveled by such

long-range sensor vehicles rendered constant monitoring impossible. So in addition to the plethora

of precision recorders and scientific instrumentation provided for sampling the far reaches of

space, the independent robotic drones were equipped with sophisticated electronic brains. Of

necessity, they also possessed a certain amount of decision making ability.

Its own incredibly complex collage of minute circuitry was what changed the drone's preprogrammed

course. In its limited mechanical fashion, the drone had determined that the new subject was of

sufficient importance to dictate a shift in plans. So it broke from its assigned path, fired its

tiny KK drive, and relayed its decision to the drone mother monitor station.

Though small, the tiny drive could push the unmanned vehicle at a speed no humanx-occupied craft

could attain. As it raced toward the source of the extraordinary disturbance, it continued to

relay its readings back to the monitoring station. Before very long (drone time) it had approached

a spot where visual recording was possible. Without judging, without evaluating, the drone worked

hard to send a flood of information back to the station banging just at the corner of the Velvet

Dam.

What the drone recorded and relayed was consumption on a cosmic scale. It hunted through its

memory for records of similar phenomena, but came up empty. This was shattering, since in its

ultraminiaturized files the drone retained some mention of every variety of astronomical

occurrence ever witnessed and noted by humanxkind.

The drone-mind worked furiously. Preliminary surveillance was complete-should it depart now and

return to its original task or continue to study this momentous event? This was a critical

decision. The drone was aware of its own value, yet it seemed inarguable that any additional bit

of information it could obtain here would be more valuable to its makers than everything else it

might accomplish elsewhere. So the crucial circuits were engaged, locked with religious fervor.

The drone moved nearer, closer, ever studying and transmitting new knowledge until, without so

much as an electronic whimper, it too was devoured.

The drone protested electronically its own destruction, but its message was not heard or seen.

That wasn't the drone's fault. There was, at the moment of ingestion, simply nothing to see. But

other instruments were better equipped to tell of those last seconds, and they told the drone

station all that was necessary.

Several months passed.

In the station's center a circuit closed. Powerful machinery was engaged. All the information

gathered by a dozen far-ranging drones was concentrated into a tight beam for deep-space

transmission. With a violent belch of energy, the station spat the knowledge to an occasionally

manned station on a far-distant humanx colony world. That station shunted the transmission on to

another world, and then on to another, and finally on to Earth, one of the Commonwealth's two

capitals. Commonwealth Science Headquarters was located there, on the outskirts of a city on a

high mountain plain whose inhabitants had once practiced human sacrifice.

Patiently computers decoded, unraveled, and otherwise made the transmission comprehensible. One

small portion of that information was marked for special notice. In due course it reached the eyes

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of a competent but bored human being. As she examined the information, her eyes grew wide and her

boredom vanished. Then she alerted others-human and thranx-and initial puzzlement became panic,

then metamorphosed into stunned resignation. The information was reprocessed, rechecked,

reexamined. The science staff of the station became reresigned to the situation.

A meeting quickly convened on the other side of the world. The four people present-two human, two

thranx-were very important-important enough to have passed beyond arrogance to humility.

One of the thranx was the 'current President of the Commonwealth, the other head of all

Commonwealth- sponsored scientific research. One of the humans was the Last Resort of the United

Church. The other would not normally be considered as important as the other three beings

assembled in that room, but circumstances had temporarily made him so. He was the technical

supervisor in charge of processing drone information at the Mexico City complex.

When the discussion finally had run out of new things that needed saying, the aged President

trieint "Drusindromid folded truhands over his thorax and sighed through his spicules. His chiton

shone violet with many years, and his antennae drooped so low they hung before his glowing

compound eyes. He turned multicolored ornmatidia on the waiting human technician. "The information

is accurate. There are no mistakes. This you are sure of?'

Both the human technician and the thranx science chief nodded, the human adding: "We are running

an- other drone to the area, sir. It will move on a projected intercept path. Since by the time

the drone reaches the region the sun which was being absorbed will have been completely destroyed,

we will have to depend on nonvisual instrumentation to detect the wanderer. But I don't really

think all this is necessary, sir. The first drone's report is unchallengeable."

"I know the speed of which those drones are capable," the President murmured. "Yet this object is

so massive that it surely will have sucked an entire star into itself by the time the new drone

arrives?"

"Yes, Honored One," the thranx science chief admitted dolefully. "The radiation that first led our

drone to it was from the last of the sun's plasma being dravm off from the surface. That portion

of space was full of a ginhought amount of particulate radiation, especially gamma rays. It-'” The

science chief respectfully halted, seeing that the President was absorbed with less technical

worries.

The old thranx shook his head slowly, a gesture the insectoids had picked up near the beginning of

the Amalgamation, the joining of human- and thranxkind several hundred years ago. "This course,"

he said, gesturing with a foothand toward the three-dimensional star projection floating above the

center of the table, "how long?"

Brushing back white-brown hair, the human technician replied mechanically, "Unless for some

unimaginable reason it alters its path, sir, the massive collapsar will emerge from the Velvet Dam

in seventy-two point one standard Commonwealth years. Fifteen point six years thereafter, it will

impact tangent to the projected critical distance from the sun around which the twin Commonwealth

worlds of Carmague-Collangatta orbit. We estimate"- he paused to swallow-" that the sun of the

twin worlds will have completely vanished down the hole within a week."

"So fast," the President whispered, "so fast."

"Twenty-seven point three years later," the technician continued remorselessly, "the same

catastrophe will befall the star around which the world Twosky Bright circles." He paused a

moment, then went on. "No other Commonwealth suns or worlds lie within crisis range of the

collapsar’s projected path through our galaxy. It will continue on through the galactic axis.

Several thousand years from now, it will leave the Milky Way, traveling in the general direction

of RNGC 185."

"How can the collapsar move so fast?" the President asked.

The technician glanced at his superior; it was the science chief who replied. "We still do not

fully understand all the mechanics of collapsars, Honored One. Such radical distortions of the

stellar matrix retain many secrets. It is enough to know that it is moving at the indicated speed,

on the predicted path."

The President nodded and touched a switch, throwing a vast semicircular map onto the ceiling. He

studied the map, ignoring the view of sweltering jungle and marshland visible through the window

below the ceiling screen. "What of the three worlds, then?"

Rising, the Last Resort moved to stand next to the science counselor. A tail human, be towered

over the President-but only physically. One of the three endangered worlds was inhabited almost

solely by thranx, yet they were as much a part of his flock, as devout and inspiring, as was his

own family. His robes, in the aquamarine of the Church, were simple and comfortable. Only a single

gold insignia on sleeve and collar indicated that he was the ranking member of the Commonwealth's

major spiritual organization.

"Caimague and Collangatta are the fourth and twelfth most populous worlds in the Commonwealth,

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sir," he declared. "Twosky Bright is the twenty-third, but ranks fifteenth in real economic

production. Together, the three endangered planets have a population of over three and a half

billion. From both a humanxistic and an economic standpoint, their destruction would be a stunning

blow."

Great compound eyes stared expectantly up at him. The President hoped wisdom was shining from each

of them, instead of the anxiety and helplessness he felt. "What can be done for them?"

The supreme spiritual leader of the Commonwealth turned eyes downward but found no inspiration in

the tiled floor. "The Church's logisticians tell me ... very little, sir. Even given the nearly

ninety years left to us, actual evacuation is not practical. It would take the resources of the

entire navy plus every Church peace- forcer to shift even a fraction of the populations safely and

successfully to other worlds. As soon as such a movement was initiated, the reason behind it would

be impossible to keep secret. There would be panic of the worst sort. Naturally, we cannot

consider such action. And with the Commonwealth so weakened, there are those who would take

advantage of our absent defense."

"I know," murmured President Drusindromid. "What is the maximum number that can be saved with- out

weakening our forces to the point of inviting scavengers?"

"The figures are not exact ..." the Last Resort began apologetically.

Abruptly, the President's voice cut instead of soothed: "I dislike inaccuracy where humanx lives

are concerned, Anthony,"

"Yes, sir. If we are lucky, I am told, we may hope to rescue as many as five percent."

There was silence m the tower chamber. Then the President mumbled to himself in High Thranx. Aware

that no one had heard, he raised his voice. "Set the necessary events in motion. If it were but

one percent, I would still consider the effort worthwhile."

"The problem of panic remains, sir," the Last Resort pointed out.

"We will think of a suitable excuse," the President assured him. "But this must be done. Five

percent is nearly two hundred million. Saving two hundred mil- lion lives is worth the risk of

panic. And we may be lucky and save even more."

"Science does not allow much leeway for luck," the Commonwealth -science chief muttered, but only

to himself. The President was eyeing them each in turn.

"If there is nothing else, gentlesirs?" Silence in the room. "We have much to do, then, and I have

another meeting in half an hour. This one is at an end."

At that signal, the Last Resort, the science chief, and the technician started from the chamber.

The President saw them out, using foothands in addition to all four trulegs to support himself. As

always, everything rested finally on those aged antennae, the technician thought as he was about

to bid the President goodbye. But a truhand reached out and stopped him.

"A moment, young man." The technician was nearly seventy. The President was, however, a good deal

older. "There is, of course, no way of stopping, turning, or destroying a collapsar?"

Remembering to whom he was talking, the physicist kept any sign of condescension from his voice.

"Hardly, sir. Anything we could throw at it, whether a million SCCAM projectiles or another star,

would simply be sucked in. The more we tried to destroy it, the larger it would become, though we

wouldn't notice its growth, since it would still be only a point in space. Furthermore, we already

know from measurements sent back by the first drone that this wanderer consists of much more than

a single collapsed star. Much more.

Perhaps several hundred suns." He shrugged. "Some of my colleagues believe that because of the

wanderer's speed and theoretical mass, it may be an object only guessed at by recent mathematics:

a collaxar. A collapsed galaxy, sir, instead of a single star."

"Oh" was all the President said immediately. Upper mandibles scraped at the lower pair as he

considered this information. "There is a political analogy, young man," he finally ventured.

"Something like an idea whose time has come. The more insults and arguments you throw at it, the

more powerful it becomes, until one is overwhelmed by it."

"Yes, sir," the technician agreed. "I wish all we were dealing with here was an idea, sir."

"Don't underestimate the destructive power of an idea, hatchling," the President admonished him.

He glanced at a wrist chronometer banding a truhand. "Twenty-four minutes till my next

appointment. Good day, gentlesir."

"Good day, Mr. President," the technician said; then he left the chamber.

Each of the beings who had joined briefly for the momentous meeting returned to his own task. Each

had much to do that did not relate to the subject of the meeting, and glad of it. Being busy was a

blessing. It was not healthy to dwell on the unavoidable premature death of over three billion of

one's fellow creatures.

Chapter One

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"Your offer," the withered woman screamed, "is worthy of a kick in the groin!" She lowered her

voice only slightly. "However, I am an old, weak woman. You are younger, larger, stronger,

healthier, and wealthier." One hand curled defiantly around the hilt of a crooked blade jutting

out from a hole in the dirty brown rag of a skirt. Her other hand held the object under

discussion. "So what am I to do?" she finished expectantly.

"Please don't get so excited," the young man standing across from her pleaded, making quieting

motions at her with his hands as he looked nervously from side to side.

No one in the shifting mob of sidewalk vendors and buyers was paying any attention to the

argument. But, being an outworlder, the young man was sensitive to the old lady's accusations.

After all, he and his bride were scheduled to be on Moth for only three days be- fore moving on to

New Paris with the rest of the tour. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown in jail, on his

honeymoon, for fighting with one of the locals.

"Really," he explained desperately to her, adjusting his rain-soaked mustard-and-puce weather

slicker, "thirty credits is all I can afford. Have some sympathy for me. My wife is back in our

hotel. She's not feeling very well. The daily rain and constant cloud cover is depressing her, I

think. I want something to cheer her up. But we have a long way to travel yet. Thirty credits is

all I can afford for a trinket."

The old woman proudly drew herself up to her full height. Her eyes were now level with the young

man's chest. She held the object of contention firmly in one hand as she shook it accusingly at

him. The slim, graceful bracelet of some silvery metal was inlaid with fragments of polished wood

and stone.

"This wristlet was worked and set by Cojones Cutler himself, infant! Do you have any idea, any

idea, what that signifies?"

"I'm sorry," the youth tried to explain, sniffing, "but I've been trying to explain all along that

I am only a visitor here."

Clearly the woman restrained herself only by some great inner effort. "Very well," she said

tightly, "never mind the honored name of Cojones Cutler," She indicated the oval bulges set in the

bracelet. "Look at these whirlwood cabochons- forget the topazes for now." As she turned the

bracelet, the naturally hardened) polished sap facing the wood broke the dim daylight into points

of azure-and-green fire.

"Hardly a tree in a million has the genetic deficiency necessary to produce such colors, boy.

Hardly one in a million, and those grow only in the far north of Moth, where the nomads hunt the

Demichin devilope. Why, it takes-"

"Oh, all right." The young man sighed, exasperated. "Anything to get this over with. Thirty-five

credits, then." He couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. His face was soft and

earnest. "We'll just have to stay at a lower-class hotel on New Paris, that's all."

The old woman stared up at him and shook her head in disbelief "You talk of hotels, and me with

three starving children and a husband long dead. You can stand there and talk of hotels, brazen

child, while offering me thirty-live credits for the finest bracelet I've been lucky to get on

consignment in twenty years. Twenty years!" Her voice rose to a hoarse shout again. "Make me a

decent offer or go room with the devil, I say!" she screeched, loudly enough to turn a few heads

in the crowd. "But don't stand there innocently and insult a poor old woman!"

"For Church's sake," the youth pleaded, "lower your voice."

Sheltered beneath a rain cape of Violet-gray charged slickertic, the young man who had been idly

observing the noisy byplay of buyer and seller licked the last sweet traces of thisk-cake honey

from his fingers. Then he rose and sauntered toward the quarreling pair,

Slightly under average height, with smoothly arcing cheekbones and deeply tanned skin, he did not

present a particularly eye-catching figure. A thatch of curly red hair roofed his skull, hair the

color of a field of fireweed on the open tundra. It tumbled over his fore- head and ears. Only the

odd movement of something under the right side of his rain cape indicated anything out of the

ordinary, but the object-whatever it was- was too well concealed to be identified.

"... and if there's nothing better yon can say," the old woman was raving on, "then you'd better-"

"Excuse me," a quiet voice interrupted. "I'd say tbirty-five credits for that bracelet is a fair

price."

Mouth agape in puzzlement, the young husband stared, uncomprehending, at the slim youth, and

wondered why a native should interfere on his behalf. The old vendor turned a furious gaze on the

brazen interloper.

"I don't know who you are, sir," she rumbled dangerously, "but if you don't mind your own business

I'll-" She stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth frozen in an 0 of shock,

"You'll do what, old woman?" the youngster asked. "Send me to bed without supper?" Sensing an.

advantage without knowing its origin, the dazed bracelet-buyer was quick to act. "Thirty-five

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credits is really a fair price, as he says."

"Yes ... I ..." The old woman, appearing a little stunned herself, hardly seemed to hear the

offer. "Thirty-five, then, and be done with it."

"You're certain?" The outworlder, now sure of his purchase, was anxious to ingratiate himself with

the seller. Since he was a good deal bigger than the new arrival, he took a step forward. "If this

boy is intimidating you. I'd be glad to ..."

Something moved and partially emerged from cape folds. It was leathery, thin, and brightly

colored. Without actually recognizing the object, the outworld tourist nonetheless had an

immediate impression of serpentine lethality. His hand proffered his credit slip instead of

closing into a fist.

"Here's your money, then."

Mesmerized by the caped figure, the old woman mechanically processed the credit slip through her

cardmeter; she handed it back to the buyer without even troubling to check the reference number.

"The bracelet," the young visitor urged impatiently.

"Hrnmm? Oh, yes." She handed it over. Flushed with pleasure at his imagined bargain, the tall

tourist vanished into the milling crowd of humans and aliens.

Slowly the old woman studied the unimposing figure standing before her. Then she abruptly threw

thin but still muscular arms around him and squeezed tightly. "Flinx!" she shouted exuberantly.

"Flinx, boy, you've come home!" She shook the lanky youth out of sheer Joy, for the familiar feel

of him. Jostled, Pip the mini- drag shifted uncomfortably on Flinx's shoulder and attempted to

tolerate the roughhousing with fine reptilian indifference.

"For a little while, Mother Mastiff," the youth re- plied quietly. He grinned and nodded in the

direction of the departed outworlder. "I see you're having as much fun as ever."

"Fun!" she snorted derisively, making an obscene gesture in the general direction of the

marketplace into which her customer had disappeared. "Pathetic, most of them. They suck the

enjoyment from trading. Sometimes I wonder how the Commonwealth hangs together, with cement like

that." A triangular head flanked by eyes of fire peeked out from beneath the slickertic. The old

woman eyed it with evident distaste. "See you're still dragging that creature around with you."

Pip responded with a nasty hiss. There had never been any love lost between Mother Mastiff and the

minidrag.

"Many times I think it's Pip who drags me, Mother," the youth argued.

"Well, no matter perversions I can't cure you of, boy. At least you're here." She whacked him on

the left shoulder in mock anger. "Here you are ... you good-for-nothing, forgetful, heartless

lump of immature meat! Where have you been to? It's been over a year. A year, paragon of ingrates!

Not a tridee tape, not a card, nothing!"

"I am sorry. Mother Mastiff," he confessed, putting his arm around her bony shoulders. She

shrugged angrily, but not hard enough to dislodge his arm. "It wasn't that I didn't think of you.

But I was far from modem communications."

"Ah, in trouble again?" She shook her head. "Is that the way I raised you?" He started to reply,

but she cut him off hastily. "Never mind that now. Where were yon? Come, tell me back at the

shop."

They started down the street. Aromatic scents and the cries of Drallar's inner marketplace filled

the air around them. "Come, boy, tell me, where were you, that you couldn't let me know if your

worthless carcass was still intact?"

Flinx considered his response carefully. He had good reasons for wanting to keep his whereabouts

of the past year secret. What Mother Mastiff didn't know she could never reveal.

"I took a job, sort of," he finally explained.

She gaped at him. "You ... a job?"

"I'm not lying," he argued uncomfortably, unable to meet those disbelieving eyes. "I set my own

hours and work pretty much as I want to."

"Now I just might, just might believe you. What kind of job?"

Again he glanced away evasively. "I can't say exactly. I'm sort of a teacher, a private tutor."

"A teacher," she echoed, evidently impressed. "A private tutor, eh?" She let out a snicker. "What

is it you teach? Pickpocketing, breaking and entering, or general theft?"

"Now what would I know about such things?" he countered in astonishment. "Is that how you brought

me up?" They both chuckled. "No, I'm kind of a general-purpose instructor in basics."

"I see" was all she said this time, so he was spared the difficulty of explaining what kind of

basics he taught) and to whom. Especially to whom; it was not time for Mother Mastiff or anyone

else to know about the Ulru-Ujurrians, the race he had adopted and which had adopted him. The race

that could turn this corner of creation inside out.

"Never mind me," he insisted, staring at her. "Here I take money and set you up in one of the

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fanciest shop districts of Drallar, with top-flight stock, and how do I find you? Like this!" He

indicated her ragged clothes, torn skirt and overblouse, the ugly muffin of a hat perched

precariously on long, straggly hair. "Out in the street in the rain and damp, clad in scraps."

Now it was Mother Mastiff's turn to glance away. They turned up a cobblestone street and entered a

less frenetic section of the city.

"I got itchy nervous, boy, sitting in that fancy store all day. I missed the streets, the

contacts, the noise-"

"The arguments and shouting," Flinx finished for her.

"And the gossip," she went on. "Especially the gossip." She eyed him defiantly. "At my age it's

one of the few disreputable delights I haven't grown too old for."

Flinx indicated the street ahead. "So that's why we're not headed for the shop?"

"No, not that stuffy snuffbox, not on a beautiful day like today." Flinx studied the gray,

overcast sky, blinked at the ever-present mist, but said nothing. Actually, it was a rather nice

day for Drallar. It wasn't raining. He had been home for two weeks and had yet to see the sun.

"Let's go to Dramuse's stall. I'll treat you to lunch."

Flinx expressed surprise. "You buy someone else lunch? Still, after the profit you made on that

bracelet ..."

"Pfagh! I could have gotten that callow stripling up to fifty credits easy. Knew it the second he

set eyes on that bracelet. Then you bad to come along."

"One of these days. Mother, you'll go too far with some knowledgeable offworlder and he'll turn

you in to the Ring's police. I broke in because he seemed like a decent man on his mating flight,

and I didn't want to see him cheated too badly."

"Shows what you know," she snapped back. "He wasn't as ignorant as he made you think. You weren't

there to see his eyes light up when I mentioned the street my shop is on and told him that's where

it was stolen from. He knew what he was about, all right. Did you see him shout for the police?

No, he was cuddling his hot property like any decent good citizen. Here." She stopped and gestured

beyond a gate to tables covered with brightly dyed canopies.

They had entered the last of the concentric rings that formed Drallar's marketplace. This

outermost ring consisted entirely of restaurants and food stalls. "They ranged from tiny one-being

operations with primitive wood-fired stoves to expensive closed-in establishments in which

delicacies imported from the farthest corners of the Commonwealth were served on utensils of

faceted veridian. Here the air currents stalled, weaving languorous zephyrs of overpowering

potency.

They entered a restaurant that used neither wood nor veridian plates and was somewhere between the

opulent and the barely digestible in terms of menu. After taking seats, they ordered food from a

creature who looked like a griffin with tentacles instead of legs. Then Mother Mastiff exchanged

her gentle accusations for more serious talk.

"Now, boy, I know you went off to look for your natural parents." It was a sign of her strength

that she could voice the subject without stumbling. "You've been gone for over a year. You must

have learned something,"

Flinx leaned back and was silent for a moment. Pip wiggled out from beneath the cape folds, and

Flinx scratched the flying snake under its chin. "As far as I know," he finally responded tersely,

"they're both long dead." Pip shifted uneasily, suddenly sensitive to his master's somber mood.

"My mother ... at least I know who she was. A Lynx, a concubine. I also found a half sister, and

when I found her, I ended up having to kill her."

Food arrived, spicy and steaming. They ate quietly for a while. Despite the heavy spices, the food

tasted flat to both of them.

"Mother dead, half sister dead," Mother Mastiff grunted. "No other relatives?" Flinx shook his

head curtly. "What about your natural father?"

"Couldn't find a thing about him worth following up."

Mother Mastiff wrestled with some private demon, and finally murmured, "You've run far and long,

boy. But there's still a possibility."

He glanced sharply at her, "Where?"

"Here. Yes, even here."

"Why," he said quietly, "didn't you ever tell me?"

Mother Mastiff shrugged once. "I saw no reason to mention it. It's an obscure chance, boy, a waste

of time, an absurd thought."

"I've spent a year pursuing absurdities," he reminded her. "Give, Mother."

"When I bought you in the market," she began easily, as if discussing any ordinary transaction,

"it was a perfectly ordinary sale. Still don't know what possessed me to waste good money."

Flinx stifled a grin. "Neither do 1. I don't follow you throuh "

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"Find the dealer who sold you, Flinx. Perhaps he or she is still in business. There's always the

chance the firm kept decent records. I wasn't too concerned with your pedigree. Might be there's

some additional in- formation in their records that wasn't provided with the bill of sale. Not

likely, now. But all I was interested in was whether or not you were diseased. You looked it, but

you weren't." She sipped from a mug. "Sometimes those slavers don't give out all the information

they get. They've got their reasons."

"But how can I trace the firm that sold me?"

"City records," she snuffled, wiping liquid from her chin. "There would have been a tax on the

business, Try the King's tax records for the year I bought you. Waste of time, though."

"I've plenty of time now," he said cryptically. "I'll try it and gladly." He reached out across

the table and patted a cheek with the look and feel of tired suede. "But for the rest of the day,

let's be mother and son."

She slapped the caressing hand away and fussed at him... but softly.

Chapter Two

The following day dawned well. The morning ram was light, and the cloud cover actually snowed some

signs of clearing. Flinx was spared the shocking sight of sunlight in Drallar when the clouds

thickened after he started toward the vast, rambling expanse of official buildings. They clustered

like worker ants around the spines of their queen, whose body was the King's palace.

Damp, cool weather invigorated Flinx. Moist air felt familiar in his lungs; it was the air of the

only home he had ever known. Or could remember, he corrected himself.

He stopped to chat with two side-street vendors, people he had known since childhood. Yet at first

neither of them recognized him. Had he changed so much in one year? Was he so different at

seventeen from what he had been at sixteen? True, he had gone through a great deal in that year.

But when he looked in the mirror it was no stranger he saw. No fresh lines marred his smooth brown

skin, no great tragedy welled out of cocoa eyes. Yet to others he was somehow not the same.

Possibly the crashing kaleidoscope that was Drallar simply made people forget. Resolutely he shut

out the shouts and excitement of the city, strode past intriguing stalls and sights while ignoring

the implorings of hawkers and merchants. No more time to waste on such childish diversions, he

instructed himself. He had responsibilities now. As the leader of an entire race in the Great Game

he must put aside infantile interests.

Ah, but the child in him was still strong, and it was a hard thing to do, this growing up ...

Like a granite ocean the myriad walls of Old Drallar crashed in frozen waves against the sprawling

bastion of bureaucracy which was the administrative center of Drallar and of the entire planet

Moth. Modern structures piled haphazardly into medieval ones. Beyond lowered the King's palace)

spires and minarets and domes forming a complex resembling a gigantic diatom. Like much of the

city, the building looked as if it had been designed by a computer programmed with the Arabian

Nights instead of up-to-date technologies.

Flinx was crossing the outermost ring of stalls when two striking figures passed in front of him-a

man and woman, both slightly taller than Flinx but otherwise physically unimpressive. What was

striking about them was the reaction they provoked in others. People took pains to avoid the

couple, even to avoid looking in their direction. But they did so carefully, to be certain of not

giving offense.

The couple were Qwarm.

Barely tolerated by the Commonwealth government, the Qwarm were a widely dispersed clan of

professional enforcers, whose services ranged from collecting overdue debts to assassination.

Despite being shunned socially, the clan had prospered with the growth of the Commonwealth. Since

the beginning of time, there had always been a market for the services they chose to provide.

Flinx knew that the two walking past him were related in some fashion to every other Qwarm in the

Commonwealth. Both wore skin-tight jet-black jump- suits ending in black ankle boots. Those

boots, he knew, contained many things besides feet, A decorative cape of black and rust-red

streamers fluttered from each collar to the waist, like the tail of an alien bird.

Having heard of the Qwarm but never having had the opportunity to see one, Flinx paused at a small

booth. Pretending to inspect a copper-crysacolla pitcher, he surreptitiously eyed the two

retreating strangers.

Standing behind them now, he could no longer see their faces, but he knew that the bodies inside

the jumpsuits would be as hairless as their heads were beneath the black skullcaps. Red foil

designs marked each cap, the only decorative touch aside from the streamers on their clothing.

Various pouches and containers hung from each black belt-pouches and containers which held a great

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many varieties of death, Flinx knew. If he remembered correctly, each belt would be joined in

front by a buckle cut from a single orange-red vanadium crystal, which would be inlaid with a gold

skull-and-crossbones. Their uniform was sufficient to identify them.

The crowd parted for them without panic. To run might be to give offense. No one desired to give

offense to a Qwarm.

Flinx took a step away from the booth-and froze. Unbidden, as it often was, his talent had

unexpectedly given him an image. The image was of incipient murder. He hadn't sought the

information. The most frustrating feature of his peculiar abilities was that they of- ten

functioned most effectively when he had no need of them.

Instantly he knew that the man and woman were a husband-wife team and that their quarry was very

near. He tried for a picture of the quarry and, as he half expected, saw nothing.

Even more bewildering were the waves of curiosity and confusion that emanated from the Qwarm

couple. Flinx bad heard that the Qwarm were never puzzled about anything, least of all anything

related to their work. Someone was nearby whom they had to murder, and this puzzled them. Strange.

What could so puzzle a pair of professional killers?

Flinx cast about for an explanation and found only a mental blank. He was human and only human

once more. So he found himself torn between common sense and his damnably intense curiosity. If

only that powerful sensation of uncertainty from the couple hadn't leaped into his mind. Nothing

should puzzle a Qwarm so. Nothing! Cause concern, yes, because murder was still illegal and if

caught they could be tried and punished by the authorities.

But confusion? Impossible!

Suddenly Flinx found himself walking not toward the receding solidity of the administration center

but back into the depths of the sprawling, chaotic marketplace. The black-clad pair were easy to

follow. They were utterly devoid of suspicion. Qwarm stalked others; no one followed a Qwarm.

Despite Pip's nervous stirrings on his shoulder, Flinx moved closer. Still the Qwarm gave no

indication that they were at all aware of him. At the moment he had nothing in mind beyond

following the two killers to the source of their confusion.

A small crowd formed a bottleneck just ahead. The black-clad couple paused and talked together in

whispers. Flinx thought he could sense muscles tensing. They ceased conversing and seemed to be

straining to see over the heads of the cluster of beings ahead of them.

Moving forward, Flinx encountered a low section of ancient wall off to one side. Part of it was

occupied by seated figures staring over the heads of the crowd. No one spared him a glance as he

mounted the wall and joined them. Seated securely on the damp, slick stone, he found he could

easily see over the heads of even the tall avians in the crowd, which consisted mostly of local

humans sprinkled with a few warmly bundled thranx and a smattering of other alien types. His

position afforded him a clear view of the center of attraction. He could also keep an eye on the

Qwarm, off to his right.

In front of the crescent of laughing, appreciative creatures was a small raised stage. Flinx

experienced a jolt of recognition. Jongleurs, magicians, and other entertainers were using the

public stage to perform their various specialties for the entertainment of the crowd and the

enhancement of their own empty pockets. Not much more than a year and a half ago, he had been one

of those hopeful, enthusiastic performers. He and Pip had gone through much since those days. He

felt the snake relax, responding to his nostalgic mood.

A juggler currently working the stage finished manipulating four brightly colored spheres. One by

one he tossed them into the air, and one by one they vanished, to the apparent mystification of

the performer and the appreciative oohs and ahs of the crowd. The watchers applauded; the juggler

collected. Life advanced.

Flinx smiled. The material of which the balls were composed remained visible only when heat was

steadily applied-such as that generated by the juggler's rapidly moving hands. When that

activating body heat was removed, even for a couple of seconds, the spheres became invisible.

Behind the stage, Flinx knew, the juggler's assistant waited to catch the carefully thrown

invisible objects. Timing was essential to the act, since the assistant had to be in just the

right position to catch the spheres.

The juggler departed. As the next act came out on stage, Flinx felt a supple dig at his mind. For

a brief instant he was experiencing the same feeling as the Qwarm. Looking over, he felt that they

were straining to see a little harder.

He turned his attention to their intended victim.

A tall, robust-looking individual, the figure on stage was not as dark-skinned as Flinx. Black

hair fell in greasy strands down his neck. He was dressed simply in sandals, loose slickertic

pants, and a shirt opened to show a mat of thick curls on his chest. The shift sleeves were

puffed, possibly to hide part of the act. Try as he would, Flmx could see or detect nothing

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remarkable about the man-certainly nothing that might require the attention of two Qwarm instead

of one. Yet something here worried someone enough to engage the services of those dread people.

Holding on to a shiny cord, the man was pulling at something still hidden behind the stage

backdrop. The jokes and insults he alternately bestowed on whatever was at the other end of the

cord were not particularly clever, but the crowd was well baited, anxious to see what could absorb

such comments without responding.

It was beginning to drizzle again. The crowd, used to omnipresent precipitation, ignored the rain.

The jokes started to wear thin, and the crowd showed signs of restlessness. Having built the

suspense, the rope-handler vented a violent curse and gave a hard yank on the cord. Flinx tensed

slightly, now really anxious to see what was at the other end of the tether.

When the creature finally wobbled unsteadily around the backdrop, its appearance was so

anticlimactic, so utterly ludicrous, that Flinx found himself laughing in mixed relief and

disbelief. So did the rest of the crowd.

What emerged from behind the wall was probably the dopiest-looking creature he had ever seen, of a

species completely unknown to him. Barely over a meter and a half tall, it was shaped roughly like

a pear. The ovoid skull tapered unbroken into a conical neck, which in turn spread out into a

wide, bulbous lower torso. It stumbled about on four legs ending in circular feet tipped with toe

stubs. Where the neck began to spread into the lumpy body, four arms projected outward, each

ending in four well-developed, jointless fingers. The thing gave the impression of being rubbery,

boneless.

The creature was dressed in a vest with holes cut at equal intervals for the four arms. Baggy,

comical trousers completed the attire. Four large holes were set around the top of the head. Flinx

guessed these were hearing organs. Beneath them, four limpid eyes stared stupidly in all

directions. Occasionally one or two would blink, revealing double lids which closed like shades

over the center of each pupil.

A single organ like an elephants flexible trunk protruded from the top of the bald skull. It ended

in a mouth, which served, Flinx guessed, as both eating and speaking organ ... assuming the thing

was capable of making noises.

As if this grotesque farrago of organs, limbs, and costume wasn't hysterical enough, the creature

was colored bright sky-blue, with green vertical stripes running from neck to feet. Its owner-

manager-trainer gave the cord another sharp yank, and the apparition wobbled forward, letting out

a comical honk. Those in the front of the crowd burst into laughter again.

Flinx only winced. Although the tugs on the cord didn't seem to be injuring the creature

physically, he didn't like to see anything mistreated. Besides, no matter how hard its owner

palled, Flinx had the feeling that the creature was moving at its own speed, in its own time.

Then, abruptly, Flinx wondered what he was doing there. He ought to be bunting down officials and

records, not watching an unremarkable sideshow. The training which had preserved him as a child in

Drallar began to reassert itself. It was none of his business if the Qwarm wanted to kill an

itinerant animal trainer. He could gain nothing by intruding himself into this affair, Flinx

reminded himself coldly. His curiosity had gotten him into trouble often enough before.

He began to slip from his perch as the man in question ran through his routine, prancing about on

stage while the crowd laughed at his antics and at those of the poorly trained but funny-looking

creature. As the owner attempted to get the creature to execute various movements and the thing

clumsily tried to comply, the laughter rose steadily.

Flinx was about to abandon his place when something happened to give him pause-at a command from

the owner, the creature spoke.

It had an arresting, well-modulated, and undeniably intelligent voice, and it spoke quite

comprehensible Terrangio despite its alien vocal organs. At another command, the creature switched

to symbospeech, the commercial and social dialect of the Commonwealth. The alien's voice was a

high, mellifluous tenor that bordered on the girlish.

It was reciting gibberish. The words each meant something, but the way the alien was stringing

them together made no sense. Over this rambling monologue, the trainer was speaking to the crowd.

"Alas," the man was saying, "this strange being) who lives to delight and amuse us all, might

possibly be as intelligent as you or I. Yet it cannot learn to speak understandably, for all that

it could be our superior."

At this the alien produced- on cue from its trainer, Flinx suspected- another of its hysterical

honks. The crowd, momentarily mesmerized by the trainer's spiel, collapsed with laughter again.

"Unfortunately," the trainer went on when the roar had subsided, "poor Ab is quite insane. Isn't

that right, Ab?" he asked the alien. It responded with more of its nonstop gibbering, only this

time all in rhyme. "Maybe he's glad, maybe he's sad, but as the philosopher once said, he is

undoubtedly mad," the trainer observed, and the alien honked again, beaming at the crowd.

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Flinx made an attempt to plunge into that alien mind. He achieved just what he expected, which was

nothing. If an intelligence capable of something greater than mimicry existed there, it was hidden

from him. More likely, there was nothing there to read.

Flinx pitied the creature and idly wondered where it bad come from as he jumped down off the wall

and brushed at the seat of his clammy pants. No doubt the Qwarm were going to perform their job

soon, and he had no morbid desire to stay around to discover what method they were going to

employ.

It hit him like a hammer blow when he was halfway up the street. The imagery had come from the

Qwarm. Turning and walking quickly back toward the crowd, he had a glimpse of them heading for a

nearby building. The image they had unexpectedly projected explained the cause of their confusion:

Their intended victim was not the simple animal trainer but rather his subject.

It was reputed that the Qwarm did not hire themselves out for killing cheaply or frivolously.

Therefore, one had to assume that in utter seriousness, and at considerable expense to someone-

they were about to murder a foolish, seemingly harmless alien.

There was no hint of worry or suspicion in the trainer's mind, and nothing at all in that of his

muddled ward. The minds of the Qwarm held only continued confusion and a desire to complete their

assigned task. They could not question their task aloud, but they wondered privately,

The stone-and-wood structure they vanished into was slightly over two stories tall, backed up

against several other old, solid edifices. As if in a daze, Flinx found himself moving toward the

same building. Listening with mind and ears, hunting with eyes, he stopped at the threshold. No

one was standing guard inside the doorway. And why should they? Who would trail Qwarm, especially

these Qwarm?

He stepped into the building. The old stairway at the far end of the hallway showed one of the

Qwarm ascending out of view. It was the woman, and she had been pulling something from a pouch.

Flinx thought the object she removed might be a very tiny, expertly machined pistol of black

metal.

Cautioning Pip to silence, Flinx approached the railing and started upward, alert for any movement

from above. As he mounted the rickety spiral he ran his last image of her over again in his mind.

Probably a dart pistol, he mused. He knew of organic darts that would dissolve in a victim's body

immediately after insertion. Both the dart and the toxin it carried would become undetectable soon

after injection.

The staircase opened onto a second floor. Flinx turned his head slowly. Both Qwarm were standing

by a window. One of them pulled the shade aside and peered through cautiously.

A quick glance revealed that this floor was being lived on. It was sparsely but comfortably

appointed. In a far, dark corner an attractive but tired-looking young woman was huddling on

cushions, cuddling a much younger girl protectively in her arms. She was staring fearfully at the

Qwarm.

Flinx returned his attention to the assassins. While her companion held the shade back, the woman

was readying the black pistol, her arm resting motionless on the windowsill. Without question, she

was about to murder the alien.

He had learned everything he could here; there was no point in staying around. As he started to

retreat back down the stairs, the woman in the dark corner saw him and drew in a startled breath.

No normal person would have noticed it, but to the Qwarm it might just as well have been a scream.

Both whirled from the window, startled. Pip was off Flinx's shoulder before the youth could

restrain the minidrag.

Reaching for his boot top, Flinx beard a slight phut from the supposed dart pistol. The explosive

shell blew apart the section of floor he bad just been leaning against. Then he rose and threw the

knife in one smooth motion at the other Qwarm, who was fumbling at a belt pouch. It struck the man

in the neck. He went down, trying to staunch the Sow of blood from his severed artery.

The female hesitated ever so slightly, unable to make up her mind whether to fire at Flinx or at

the darting, leathery little nightmare above her. The hesitation was fatal. Pip spat, and the

minidrag’s venom struck the woman in the eyes. Unbelievably, she didn't scream as she stumbled

about the room, clawing frantically at her face. She banged into the wall, fell over the twitching

body of the man, and began rolling on the floor.

Fifteen seconds later, she was dead.

The man continued to bleed, though he had stopped moving. Flinx entered the room and rapidly

inspected side rooms and closets. He was safe-for the moment. The little girl in the corner was

crying softly now, but the woman holding her merely stared wide-eyed at Flinx, still too terrified

to scream.

"Don't tell a soul of this," Flinx admonished her as a nervous Pip coiled once more around his

right shoulder.

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Alan Dean Foster - Flinx 4 - End of the Matter

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