Alan Dean Foster - Flinx 1 - For love of Mother-Not

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Author: Alan Dean Foster
Title: For Love Of Mother-Not
Original copyright year: 1983
Genre: Science Fiction
Version: 1.0
Date of e-text: 11/28/00
Source:
Prepared by:
Comments: Please correct the errors you find in this e-text,
update the version number and redistribute
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Chapter One
“Now there’s a scrawny, worthless-looking little runt.” Mother Mastiff thought. She cuddled the
bag of woodcarvings a little closer to her waist, mating certain it was protected from the rain by
a flap of her slickertic. The steady drizzle that characterized Drallar’s autumn weather fled from
the water-resistant material.
Offworlders were hard pressed to distinguish any difference in the city’s seasons. In the summer,
the rain was warm; in autumn and winter, it was cooler. Springtime saw it give way to a steady,
cloying fog. So rare was the appearance of the sun through the near-perpetual cloud cover that
when it did peep through, the authorities were wont to call a public holiday.
It was not really a slave market Mother Mastiff was trudging past. That was an archaic term,
employed only by cynics. It was merely the place where labor-income adjustments were formalized.
Drallar was the largest city on the world of Moth, its only true metropolis, and it was not a
particularly wealthy one. By keeping taxes low, it had attracted a good number of offworld
businesses and trading concerns to a well-situated b at mostly inhospitable planet. It compensated
by largely doing away with such annoying commercial agravations as tarifis and regulations. While
this resulted in considerable prosperity for some, it left the city government at a loss for
general revenue.
Among the numerous areas that were rarely self~apportIng was that involving care of the
impoverished. In cases In which indigence was total and an individual was isolated by
circumstance, it was deemed reasonable to allow a wealthier citizen to take over responsibility
from the government. This thinned the welfare rolls and kept the bureaucracy content, while
providing better care for the individual involved-or so the officials insisted-than he or she
could receive from under funded and impersonal government agencies.
The United Church, spiritual arm of the Common-wealfh frowned on such one-sided economic policies.
But The Commonwealth did not like to interfere with domestic policies, and Drallarian officials
hastened to assure the occasional visiting padre or counselor that legal safeguards prevented
abuse, of “adopted” individuals. So it was that Mother Mastiff found herself leaning on tier cane,
clutching the bag of artwork, and staring at the covered dispersement platform while she tried to
catch her breath. One curious attendee moved too close, crowding her. He glowered when she jabbed
him in the toot with her cane but moved aside, not daring to confront her.
Standing motionless on the platform within the Circle of Compensation was a thin, solemn boy of
eight or nine years. His red hair was kicked down from the rain and contrasted sharply with his
dark skin. Wide, innocent eyes, so big they seemed to wrap around the sides of his face, stared
out across the rain-dampened assembly. He kept his hands clasped behind his back. Only those eyes
moved, their gaze flicking like an insect over the upturned faces of the crowd. The majority of
the milling, would-be purchasers were indifferent to his presence.
To the boy’s right stood a tall, slim representative of the government who ran the official sale-
an assignment of responsibility, they called it-for the welfare bureau. Across from her a large
readout listed the boy’s vital statistics, which Mother Mastiff eyed casually.
Height and weight matched what she could see. Color of hair, eyes, and skin she had already noted.
Living relative, assigned or otherwise-a blank there. Personal history-another blank. A child of
accident and calamity, she thought, thrown like so many others on the untender mercies of
government care. Yes, he certainly would be better off under the wing of a private individual, by
the looks of him. He might at least receive some decent food.
And yet there was something more to him, something that set him apart from the listless precision
of orphans who paraded across that rain-swept platform, season after season. Mother Mastiff sensed
something lurking behind those wide, mournful eyes-a maturity well beyond his years, a greater
intensity to his stare than was to be expected from a child in his position. That stare continued
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to rove over the crowd, probing, searching. There was more of the hunter about the boy than the
bunted.
The rain continued to fall. What activity there was among the watchers was concentrated on the
back right comer of the platform, where a modestly attractive girl of about sixteen was next in
line for consignment. Mother Mastiff let out a derisive snort. Government assurances or not, yea
couldn’t tell her that those pushing, shoving snots in the front row didn’t have something on
their minds be-yond an innocently altruistic concern for the girl’s future. 0h,no!
The ever-shifting cluster of potential benefactors formed an island around which eddied the
greater population of the marketplace. The marketplace itself was concentrated into a ring of
stalls and shops and restaurants and dives that encircled the city center. The result was just
modem enough to function and sufficiently unsophisticated to at’ tract those intrigued by the
mysterious.
It held no mysteries for Mother Mastiff. The marketplace of Drallar was her home. Ninety years she
had spent battling that endless river of humanity and aliens, some-times being sucked down,
sometimes rising above the flow, but never in danger of drowning. Now she had a shop-small, but
her own. She bargained for objects d’art, traded knicknacks, electronics, and handicrafts, and
managed to make just enough to keep herself clear of such places as the platform on which the boy
was standing. She put herself in his place and shuddered. A ninety-year-old woman would not bring
much of a price.
There was an awkwardly patched rip at the neck of her slickertic, and rain was beginning to find
its way through the widening gap. The pouch of salables she clutched to her thin waist wasn’t
growing any lighter. Mother Mastiff had other business to transact, and she wanted to be back home
before dark. As the sun of Moth set, the murky daylight of Drallar would fade to a slimy darkness,
and things less than courteous would emerge from the slums that impinged on the marketplace. Only
the careless and the cocky wandered abroad at such times, and Mother Mastiff was neither.
As the boy’s eyes roved over the audience, they eventually reached her own-and stopped. Suddenly,
Mother Mastiff felt queasy, unsteady. Her hand went to her stomach. Too much grease in the
morning’s breakfast, she thought. The eyes had already moved on. Since she had turned eighty-five,
she had had to watch her diet. But, as she had told a friend, “I’d rather die of indigestion and
on a full stomach than waste away eating pills and concentrates.”
“One side there,” she abruptly found herself saying, not sure what she was doing or why. “One
side.” She broke a path through the crowd, poking one observer in the ribs with her cane,
disturbing an ornithorpe’s ornate arrangement of tail feathers, and generating a chirp of
indignation from an overweight matron. She worked her way down to the open area directly in front
of the platform. The boy took no notice of her; his eyes continued to scan the uncaring crowd.
“Please, ladies and gentle beings,” the official on the platform pleaded, “won’t one of you give
this healthy, honest boy a home? Your government requests it of you; civilization demands it of
you. You have a chance today to do two good turns at once; one for your king and the other for
this unfortunate youth.”
“Id like to give the king a good turn, all right,” said a voice from the milling crowd, “right
where it would do him the most good.”
The official shot the heckler an angry glare but said nothing.
“What’s the minimum asking?” Be that my voice? Mother Mastiff thought in wonderment.
“A mere fifty credits, madam, to satisfy department obligations and the boy is yours. To watch
over and care for.” She hesitated, then added, “If you think you can handle as active a youngster
as this one.”
“I’ve handled plenty of youngsters in my time,” Mother Mastiff returned curtly. Knowing hoots
sounded from the amused assembly. She studied the boy, who was looking down at her again. The
queasiness that had roiled in her stomach the first time their eyes had met did not reoccur.
Grease, she mused, have to cut down on the cooking grease.
“Fifty credits, then,” she said.
“Sixty.” The deep voice that boomed from somewhere to the rear of the crowd came as an unexpected
interruption to her thoughts.
“Seventy,” Mother Mastiff automatically responded. The official on the platform quickly gazed back
into the crowd.
“Eighty,” the unseen competitor sounded. She hadn’t counted on competition. It was one thing to do
a child a good turn at reasonable cost to herself, quite another to saddle herself with an
unconscionable expense.
“Ninety-curse you,” she said. She turned and tried to locate her opponent but could not see over
the heads of the crowd. The voice bidding against her was male, powerful, piercing. What the devil
would the owner of such a voice want with a child like this? she thought.
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“Ninety-five,” it countered.
“Thank you, thank you. To you both, the government says.” The official’s tone and expression had
brightened perceptibly. The lively and utterly unexpected bidding for the redheaded brat had
alleviated her boredom as well as her concern. She would be able to show her boss a better than
usual daily account sheet. “The bid is against you, madam.”
“Damn the bid,” Mother Mastiff muttered. She started to turn away, but something held her back.
She was as good a judge of people as she was of the stock she sold to them, and there was
something particular about this boy-though she couldn’t say precisely what, which struck her as
unusual. There was always profit in the unusual. Besides, that mournful stare was preying
unashamedly on a part of her she usually kept buried.
“Oh, hell, one hundred, then, and be damned with it!” She barely managed to squeeze the figure
out. Her mind was in a whirl. What was she doing there, neglecting her regular business, getting
thoroughly soaked and bidding for an orphaned child? Surely at ninety her maternal instinct wasn’t
being aroused. She had never felt the least maternal instinct in her life, thank goodness.
She waited for the expected nimble of “one hundred and five,” but instead heard a commotion toward
the back of the crowd. She craned her neck, trying to see, cursing the genes that had left her so
short. There were shouts, then yells of outrage and loud cursing from a dozen different throats.
To the left, past the shielding bulk of the ornithorpe behind her, she could just make out the
bright purple flash of uniformed gendarmes, their slickertics glaring in the dim light. This group
seemed to be moving with more than usual energy.
She turned and fought her way forward and to the right, where a series of steps led to the
platform. Halfway up the stairs, she squinted back into the crowd. The purple ‘tics were just
merging into the first wall of office and shop complexes. Ahead of them a massive human shape
bobbed and dipped as it retreated from the pursuing police.
Mother Mastiff permitted herself a knowing nod. There were those who might want a young boy for
other than humanitarian purposes. Some of them had criminal dossiers on file that stretched as far
back as her lifeline. Obviously someone in the crowd, a salaried informer, perhaps, had recognized
the individual bidding against her and had notified the authorities, who had responded with
commendable speed.
“One hundred credits, then,” the disappointed official announced from the platform. “Do I hear any
more?” Naturally, she would not, but she played out the game for appearance’s sake. A moment
passed in silence. She shrugged, glanced over to where Mother Mastiff still stood on the
stairway. “He’s yours, old woman.” Not “madam” any longer, Mother Mastiff thought sardonically.
“Pay up, and mind the regulations, now.”
“I’ve been dealing with the regulations of this government since long before ye were born, woman.”
She mounted the last few steps and, ignoring the official and the boy, strode back toward the
Processing Office. Inside, a bored clerk glanced up at her, noted the transaction-complete record
as it was passed to his desktop computer terminal, and asked matter-of-factly, “Name?”
“Mastiff,” the visitor replied, leaning on her cane.
“That the last name?”
“First and last.”
“Mastiff Mastiff?” The clerk gave her a sour look.
“Just Mastiff,” the old woman said.
“The government prefers multiple names.”
“Ye know what the government can do with its preferences.”
The clerk sighed. He tapped the terminal’s keys. “Age?”
“None of your business.” She gave it a moment’s thought and added, “Put down old.”
The clerk did so, shaking his head dolefully. “Income?”
“Sufficient.”
“Now look here, you,” the clerk began exasperated, “in such matters as the acquisition of
responsibility for welfared individuals, the city government requires certain specifics.”
“The city government can shove its specifics in after its preferences.” Mother Mastiff gestured
toward the platform with her cane, a wide, sweeping gesture that the clerk had the presence of
mind to duck. “The bidding is over. The other bidder has taken his leave. Hastily. Now I can take
my money and go home, or I can contribute to the government’s balance of payments and to your
salary. Which is it to be?”
“Oh, all right,” the clerk agreed petulantly. He completed his entries and punched a key. A
seemingly endless form spat from the printout slot. Folded, it was about half a centimeter thick.
“Read these.”
Mother Mastiff hefted the sheaf of forms. “What are they?”
“Regulations regarding your new charge. The boy is yours to raise, not to mistreat. Should you
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ever be detected in violation of the instructions and laws therein stated”-he gestured at the wad-
“he can be recovered from you with forfeiture of the acquisition fee. In addition, you must
familiarize yourself with-“ He broke off the lecture as the boy in question was escorted into the
room by another official.
The youngster glanced at the clerk, then up at Mother Mastiff. Then, as if he’d performed similar
rituals on previous occasions, he walked quietly up to her, took her left hand, and put his right
hand in it. The wide, seemingly guileless eyes of a child gazed up at her face. They were bright
green, she noted absently.
“The clerk was about to continue, then found something unexpected lodged in his throat and turned
his attention instead back to his desk top. “That’s all. The two of you can go.”
Mother Mastiff harrumphed as if she had won a victory and led the boy out onto the streets of
Drallar. They had supplied him with that one vital piece of clothing, a small blue slickertic of
his own. He pulled the cheap plastic tighter over his head as they reached the first intersection.
“Well, boy, ‘tis done. Devil come take me and tell me if I know why I did it, but I expect that
I’m stuck with ye now. And ye, with me, of course. Do you have anything at the dorm we should go
to recover?”
He shook his head slowly. Quiet sort, she thought. That was all to the good. Maybe he wouldn’t be
a quick squaller. She still wondered what had prompted her sudden and uncharacteristic outburst of
generosity. The boy’s hand was warm in her gnarled old palm. That palm usually enfolded a credcard
for processing other people’s money or artwork to be studied with an eye toward purchase and even,
on occasion, a knife employed for something more radical than the preparation of food, but never
before the hand of a small child. It was a peculiar sensation.
They worked their way through crowds hurrying to beat the onset of night, avoiding the drainage
channels that ran down the center of each street. Thick aromas drifted from the dozens of food
stalls and restaurants that fringed the avenue they were walking. Still the boy said not a word.
Finally, tired of the way his face would turn toward any place from which steam and smells rose,
Mother Mastiff halted before one establishment with which she was familiar. They were nearly home,
anyway.
“You hungry, boy?”
He nodded slowly, just once.
“Stupid of me. I can go all day without food and not give it a second thought. I forget sometimes
that others have not that tolerance in their bellies.” She nodded toward the doorway. “Well, what
are ye waiting for?”
She followed him into the restaurant, then led the way to a quiet booth set against the wall. A
circular console rose from the center of the table. She studied the menu imprinted on its flank,
compared it with the stature of the child seated expectantly next to her, then punched several
buttons set alongside the menu.
Before too long, the console sank into the table, then reappeared a moment later stacked with
food; a thick, pungent stew dimpled with vegetables, long stalks of some beige tuber, and a mass
of multistriped bread.
“Go ahead,” she said when the boy hesitated, admiring his reserve and table manners. “I’m not too
hungry, and I never eat very much.”
She watched him while he devoured the food, sometimes picking at the colorful bread to assuage
what little hunger she felt herself, barely acknowledging the occasional greeting from a passing
acquaintance or friend. When the bottom of the stew bowl had been licked to a fine polish and the
last scrap of bread had vanished, she asked, “Still hungry?”
He hesitated, measuring her, then gave her a half nod. “I’m not surprised,” she replied, “but I
don’t want ye to have any more tonight. You’ve just downed enough to fill a grown man. Any more on
top of what you’ve already had and you’d end up wasting it all. Tomorrow morning, okay?” He nodded
slowly, understanding.
“And one more thing, boy. Can ye talk?”
“Yes.” His voice was lower than anticipated, unafraid and, she thought, tinged with thankfulness.
“I can talk pretty good,” he added without further prompting, surprising her. “I’ve been told that
for my age I’m a very good talker.”
“That’s nice. I was starting to worry.” She slid from her seat, using her cane to help her stand,
and took his hand once again. “It’s not too far now.”
“Not too far to where?”
“To where I live. To where ye will live from now on.” They exited the restaurant and were
enveloped by the wet night.
“What’s your name?” He spoke without looking up at her, preferring instead to study the dim
storefronts and isolated, illuminated shops. The intensity of his inspection seemed unnatural.
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“Mastiff,” she told him, then grinned. “ Tis not my real name, boy, but one that someone laid upon
me many years ago. For better or worse, it’s stuck longer with me than any man. ‘Tis the name of a
dog of exceptional ferocity and ugliness.”
“I don’t think you’re ugly,” the boy replied. “I think you’re beautiful.”
She studied his open, little-boy expression. Dim-witted, dim-sighted, or maybe just very smart,
she thought.
“Can I call you Mother?” he asked hopefully, further confusing her. “You are my mother now, aren’t
you?”
“Sort of, I expect. Don’t ask me why.”
“I won’t cause you any trouble.” His voice was suddenly concerned, almost frightened. “I’ve never
caused anyone any trouble, honest. I just want to be left alone.”
Now what would prompt a desperate confession like that? she wondered. She decided not to pursue
the matter. “I’ve no demands to make on ye,” she assured him. “I’m a simple old woman, and I live
a simple life. It pleases me. It had best please ye as well.”
“It sounds nice,” he admitted agreeably. “I’ll do my best to help you any way I can.”
“Devil knows there’s plenty to do in the shop. I’m not quite as flexible as I used to be.” She
chuckled aloud. “Get tired before midnight now. You know, I actually need a full four hours’
sleep? Yes, I think ye can be of service. You’d best be. Ye cost enough.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, abruptly downcast.
“Stop that. I’ll have none of that in my home.”
“I mean, I’m sorry that I upset you.”
She let out a wheeze of frustration, knelt and supported herself with both hands locked to the
shaft of the cane. It brought her down to his eye level. He stood there and gazed solemnly back at
her.
“Now ye listen to me, boy. I’m no government agent. I don’t have the vaguest notion what possessed
me to take charge of ye, but ‘tis done. I will not beat you unless you deserve it. I’ll see to it
that you’re well fed and reasonably warm. In return, I demand that ye don’t go about braying
stupid things like I’m sorry.’ Be that a deal?”
He didn’t have to think it over very long. “It’s a deal-Mother.”
“That’s settled, then.” She shook his hand. The gesture brought forth a new phenomenon: his first
smile. It made his tiny, lightly freckled face seem to glow, and suddenly the night seemed less
chilly.
“Let’s hurry,” she said, struggling erect again. “I don’t like being out this late, and you’re not
much the body-guard. Never will be, by the looks of ye, though that’s no fault of yours.”
“Why is it so important to be home when it’s dark?” he asked, and then added uncertainly, “Is that
a stupid question?”
“No, boy.” She smiled down at him as she hobbled up the street. “That’s a smart question. It’s
important to be safe at home after dark because the dead tend to multiply in direct ratio to the
absence of light. Though if you’re cautious and never grow overconfident and learn the ways of it,
you’ll find that the darkness can be your friend as well as your enemy.”
“I thought so,” he said firmly. “I’ve thought so for”-his face screwed up as he concentrated hard
on something-“for as long as I can remember.”
“Oh?” She was still smiling at him. “And what makes you think that it’s so besides the fact I just
told it to ye?”
“Because,” he replied, “most of the times I can ever remember being happy were in the dark.”
She pondered that as they turned the comer. The rain had lessened considerably, giving way to the
mist that passed for normal air in the city. It didn’t trouble her lungs, but she worried about
the boy. The one thing she didn’t need was a sick child. He had cost her enough already.
Her stall-home was one of many scattered through the seemingly endless marketplace. Stout shutters
protected the nondescript facade, which occupied ten meters at the far end of a side street. She
pressed her palm to the door lock. The sensitized plastic glowed brightly for an instant, beeped
twice, and then the door opened for them.
Once inside, she shoved the door shut behind them, then automatically turned to inspect her stock
to make certain nothing had disappeared in her absence. “There were racks of copper and silver
wares, rare carved hardwoods for which Moth was justly renowned, well-crafted eating and drinking
utensils, including many clearly designed for non-humans, cheap models of Moth itself with
interrupted rings of flashy floatglitter, and various items of uncertain purpose.
Through this farrago of color and shape, the boy wandered. His eyes drank in everything, but he
asked no questions, which she thought unusual.
It was in the nature of children to inquire about everything. But then, this was no ordinary
child.
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Toward the rear of the shop front a silver box stood on a dais. Its touch-sensitive controls
connected the shop directly to the central bank of Drallar and enabled Mother Mastiff to process
financial transactions for all customers, whether they came from up the street or halfway across
the Commonwealth. A universal credcard allowed access to its owner’s total wealth. Banks stored
information; all hard currency was in general circulation.
Past the dais and the door it fronted were four rooms: a small storage chamber, a bathroom, a
kitchen-dining area, and a bedroom. Mother Mastiff studied the arrangement for several minutes,
then set about clearing the storage room. Ancient and long-unsold items were shoveled out onto the
floor, together with cleaning equipment, clothing, canned goods, and other items. Somehow she
would find room for them elsewhere.
Propped up against the far wall was a sturdy old cot. She touched a button on its side, and the
device sprang to life, skittering about as it arranged itself on springy legs. Further excavation
revealed a bag of support oil, which she plugged into the mattress. It was full and warm in
minutes. Finally, she covered the cot with a thin thermosensitive blanket.
“This’ll be your room,” she told him. “ Tis no palace, but ‘tis yours. I know the importance of
having something ye can call your own. Ye can fix up this bower however ye like.”
The boy eyed her as if she had just bestowed all the treasures of Terra on him. “Thank you.
Mother,” he said softly. “It’s wonderful.”
“I sell things,” she said, turning away from that radiant face. She gestured toward the storeroom
out front. “The things ye saw on our way in.”
“I guessed that. Do you make much money?”
“Now ye sound like the government agent back there at the platform.” She smiled to show him she
was teasing. “I get by. I’d much like to have a larger place than this, but at this point in my
life”-she leaned her cane up against her bed as she strolled into the larger room-“it seems not
likely I ever will. It does not bother me. I’ve had a good, full life and am content. You’ll soon
discover that my growls and barks are mostly show. Though not always.” She patted him on the head
and pointed toward the com-pact kitchen.
“Would ye like something hot to drink before we re-tire?”
“Yes, very much.” Carefully, he took off his slickertic, which was dry by then. He hung it on a
wall hook in his bedroom.
“We’ll have to get ye some new clothes,” she comment-ed, watching him from the kitchen.
“These are okay.”
“Maybe they are for ye, hut they’re not for me.” She pinched her nose by way of explanation.
“Oh. I understand.”
“Now what would ye like to drink?”
His face brightened once again. “Tea. What kinds of tea do you have?”
“What kinds of tea do ye like?”
“All kinds.”
“Then I’ll choose ye one.” She found the cylinder and depressed the main switch ‘on its side as
she filled it with water from the tap. Then she searched her store of food-stuffs.
“This is Anar Black,” she told him, “all the way from Rhyinpine. Quite a journey for dead leaves
to make. I think ‘tis milder than Anar White, which comes from the same world but grows further
down the mountain sides. I have some local honey if ye like your drink sweet. Expensive, it is.
Moth’s flowers are scarce save where they’re grown in hothouses. This world belongs to the fungi
and the trees; the bees, poor things, have a hard time of it, even those who’ve grown woolly coats
thick enough to keep the damp and cold out. If honey’s too thick for ye, I’ve other sweeteners.”
Hearing no reply, she turned to find him lying still on the floor, a tawny, curled-up smudge of
red hair and dirty old clothes. His hands were bunched beneath his cheek, cushioning his head.
She shook her head and pushed the cylinder’s off but-ton. The pot sighed and ceased boiling.
Bending, she got her wiry ‘arms beneath him and lifted. Somehow she wrestled him onto the cot
without waking him. Her hands pulled the thermal blanket up to his chin. It was programmed and
would warm him quickly.
She stood there awhile, amazed at how much pleasure could be gained from so simple an activity as
watching a child sleep. Then, still wondering what had come over her, she left him and made her
way across to her own room, slowly removing her clothes as she walked. Before long, the last light
in the rear of the little shop winked out, joining its neighbors in nightfall. Then there was only
the light wind and the hiss of moisture evaporating from warm walls to break the silence of the
mist-shrouded dark.
Chapter Two
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The boy ate as if the previous night’s dinner had been no more substantial than a distant dream.
She cooked him two full breakfasts and watched as he finished every bite. When the last pachnack
was gone, and the final piece of bread wolfed down, she took him into the shop.
He watched intently as she entered the combination to the metal shutters. As they rose, they
admitted a world entirely different from the empty night. One moment he was staring at the dully
reflective line of metal strips. “The next brought home to him all the noise, the confusion, and
bustle and sights and smells of the great Drallarian marketplace; they flooded the stall,
overwhelming him with their diversity and brilliance. Mother Mastiff was not a late sleeper-which
was good, for the crowd would rise in tandem with the hidden sun. Not that the marketplace was
ever completely deserted. There were always a few merchants whose wares benefited from the mask of
night.
The boy could tell it was daytime because it had grown less dark. But the sun did not shine; it
illuminated the raindrops. The morning had dawned warm, a good sign, and the moisture was still
more mist than rain. A good day for business.
Mother Mastiff showed the boy around the shop, describing various items and reciting their prices
and the reasons behind such pricing. She hoped to someday entrust the operation of the business to
him. That would be better than having to close up every time she needed to rest or travel
elsewhere. The sooner he learned, the better, especially considering the way he ate.
“I’ll do everything I can, Mother,” he assured her when she had concluded the brief tour.
“I know ye will, boy.” She plopped down into her favorite chair, an over upholstered monstrosity
covered with gemmae fur. The skins were worn down next to nothing, and the chair retained little
value, but it was too comfort-able for her to part with. She watched as the boy turned to stare
at the passing crowd. How quiet he is, she thought. Quiet and intense. She let him study the
passers-by for a while before beckoning him closer.
“We’ve overlooked several things in the rush of the night, boy. One in particular.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I can’t keep calling ye ‘boy’. Have ye a name?”
“They call me Flinx.”
“Be that your last name or your first?”
He shook his head slowly, his expression unhappy. “Mother, I don’t know. It’s what they called
me.”
“What ‘they’ called ye. Who be ‘they’? Your”-she hesitated-“mother? Your father?’”
Again, the slow sad shake of the head, red curls dancing. “I don’t have a mother or a father. It’s
what the people called me.”
“What people?”
“The people who watched over me and the other children.”
Now that was strange. She frowned. “Other children? Ye have brothers and sisters, then?”
“I don’t”-he strained to remember-“I don’t think so. Maybe they were. I don’t know. They were
just the other children. I remember them from the early time. It was a strange time.”
“What was so strange about it?”
“I was happy.”
She nodded once, as though she understood. “So. Ye remember an early time when you were happy and
there were lots of other children living with you.”
He nodded vigorously. “Boys and girls both. And we had everything we could want, everything we
asked for. All kinds of good food and toys to play with and . . .”
A wealthy family brought to ruin, perhaps. She let him ramble on about the early time, the happy
time, a while longer. What catastrophe had overtaken the boy in infancy?
“How big was this family?” she asked. “We’ll call it your family for now. How many other boys and
girls were there?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Lots.”
“Can you count?”
“Oh, sure,” he said proudly. “Two, three, four, five, and lots more than that.”
Sounded like more than just a family, though an extend-ed family could not be ruled out, she knew.
“Do ye remember what happened to them, and to you? Ye were all happy, and ye had lots of friends,
and then something happened.”
“The bad people came,” he whispered, his expression turning down. “Very bad people. They broke
into where we lived. The people who watched us and fed us and gave us toys fought the bad people.
There was lots of noise and guns going off and-and people fell down all around me. Good people
and bad people both. I stood and cried until somebody picked me up and carried me away. They
carried me down lots of halls and dark places, and I remember getting into some kind of a-car?”
She nodded approvingly. “Probably. Go on, boy.”
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“I was moved around a lot. That was the end of the happy time.”
“What happened after that?” she prompted him.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “It’s so hard to remember.”
“I know ‘tis painful for ye, Flinx. I need to know all about ye that I can, so I can help ye as
best as I’m able.”
“If I tell you,” he asked uncertainly, “you won’t let the bad people come and take me away?”
“No,” she said, her voice suddenly soft. “No, I won’t let them come and take ye away, Flinx. I
won’t let anyone come and take ye away. Ever. I promise ye that.”
He moved a little nearer and sat down on the extended leg support of the big chair. He had his
eyes closed as he concentrated.
“I remember never staying in one place for very long at a time. The people, the good people who
took care of me and fed me, they kept the bad people away. They were al-ways upset about
something, and they yelled at me a lot more than before.”
“Were they mad at ye?”
“I don’t think so. Not really.” He licked his lips. “I think they were scared. Mother. I know I
was, but I think they were, also. And then”-a look of confusion stole over his face-“I went to
sleep. For a long time. Only, it wasn’t really a sleep. It was like I was asleep and yet like I
wasn’t.” He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Do you understand that. Mother? I don’t.”
“No, I’m not sure I do, boy.” Her mind worked. Now who, she wondered, would take the time and
trouble to sedate a child for a long period of time? And why bother?
“Then some more bad people suddenly showed up, I think,” he went on. “I didn’t see them this time.
But some of the people who watched me died or went away. Then there was just me and one man and
one lady, and then they were gone, too.”
“Your mother and father?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he told her. “Anyway, they never called themselves that. They were just
two of the good people. Then some other people came and found me. People I’d never seen before.
They took me away with them.”
“Were they good people or bad people?”
“I don’t think they were either,” the boy replied care-fully. “I think they were kind of in-
between people. I think maybe they were sorry for me. They tried to be nice, but”-he shrugged-
“they were just in-between people. They moved me around a lot again, and there were different
places and lots of new children I didn’t know, and then there was yesterday, and you bought me.
Right?”
She put a hand to her mouth and coughed. “I didn’t buy ye, actually. I agreed to take
responsibility for ye.”
“But you paid the government money for me, didn’t you? I was told that was what was going to
happen to me.”
“It was only to pay off the debt the government incurred for taking care of ye,” she explained to
him. “I don’t actually own ye. I would never do that.”
“Oh,” he said quietly. “That’s nice. I’m glad.” He waited a moment, watching her, then added,
“That’s everything I can remember.”
“Ye did fine.” She leaned forward and pointed to her right, up the street. The chair groaned. “If
ye walk six stalls that way, yell find a very small shop run by a mur man. His name be Cheneth. Go
up to him and tell him who ye be and where ye came from. And ye can buy from him”-she thought a
moment, not wishing to overdo things-“a half credit’s worth of whatever ye see in his shop.”
“What kind of shop is it?” he asked excitedly.
“Candy,” she said, enjoying the light that came into his face. “Ye remember what candy is, don’t
ye? I can see by the expression on your face that ye do.” She could also tell by the speed with
which he took off up the street. He was back before long, those deep emerald eyes shining from his
dark face. “Thank you. Mother.”
“Go on, go on, move to one side! You’re blocking my-our-view of the customers. Wander about, learn
the ins and outs of where ye live now.”
He vanished like a ray of sunshine, his red hair disappearing into the crowd.
Expensive, she thought to herself. That boy’s going to be expensive to raise. How by the ringaps
did I ever let myself fall into this? She grumbled silently for another several minutes until a
potential customer appeared.
Flinx learned rapidly. He was undemonstrative, highly adaptable, and so quiet she hardly knew when
he was around. Soon he was amazing her with his knowledge of the layout and workings of the
marketplace and even the greater city beyond. He worked constantly on expanding his store of
information, badgering shopkeepers with persistent questions, refusing to take “I don’t know” for
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an answer.
Mother Mastiff put no restrictions on him. No one had ever told her it was improper to give an
eight-year-old the run of a city as wild as Drallar. Never having raised a child before, she could
always plead ignorance, and since he returned dutifully every night, unscathed and unharmed, she
saw no reason to alter the practice despite the clucking disapproval of some of her neighbors.
“That’s no way to handle a boy of an age that tender,” they admonished her. “If you’re not
careful, youll lose him. One night, he won’t come home from these solo forays.”
“A boy he is, tender he’s not,” she would reply. “Sharp he be, and not just for his age. I don’t
worry about him. I haven’t the time, for one thing. No matter what happens to him, he’s better off
than he was under government care.”
“He won’t be better off if he ends up lying dead in a gutter somewhere,” they warned her.
“He won’t,” she would reply confidently.
“You’ll be sorry,” they said. “You wait and see.”
“I’ve been waiting and seeing going on ninety years” was her standard reply, “and I haven’t been
surprised yet. I don’t expect this boy to break that record.”
But she was wrong.
It was midafternoon. The morning mist had developed into a heavy rain. She was debating whether or
not to send the boy out for some food or to wait. Half a dozen people were wandering through the
shop, waiting for the down-pour to let up-an unusually large number for any day.
After a while, Flinx wandered over and tugged shyly at her billowing skirt. “Mother Mastiff?”
“What is it, boy? Don’t bother me now.” She turned back to the customer who was inspecting antique
jewelry that graced a locked display case near the rear of the stall. It was rare that she sold a
piece of the expensive stuff. When she did, the profit was considerable.
The boy persisted, and she snapped at him. “I told ye, Flinx, not now!”
“It’s very important. Mother.”
She let out a sigh of exasperation and looked apologetically at the outworlder. “Excuse me a
moment, good sir. Children, ye know.”
The man smiled absently, thoroughly engrossed in a necklace that shone with odd pieces of metal
and worn wood.
“What is it, Flinx?” she demanded, upset with him. “This better be important. You know how I don’t
like to be disturbed when I’m in the middle of-“ He interrupted her by pointing to the far end of
the shop. “See that man over there?”
She looked up, past him. The man in question was bald and sported a well-trimmed beard and
earrings. Instead of the light slickertic favored by the inhabitants of Moth, he wore a heavy
offworld overcoat of black material. His features were slighter than his height warranted, and his
mouth was almost delicate. Other than the earrings he showed no jewelry. His boots further marked
him as an offworld visitor-they were relatively clean.
“I see him. What about him?”
“He’s been stealing jewelry from the end case.”
Mother Mastiff frowned. “Are you sure, boy?” Her tone was anxious. “He’s an offworlder, and by the
looks of him, a reasonably substantial one at that. If we accuse him falsely-“
“I’m positive, mother.”
“You saw him steal?”
“No, I didn’t exactly see him.”
“Then what the devil”-she wondered in a low, accusatory voice-“are ye talking about?”
“Go look at the case,” he urged her.
She hesitated, then shrugged mentally. “No harm in that, I expect.” Now whatever had gotten into
the boy? She strolled toward the case, affecting an air of unconcern. As she drew near, the
outworlder turned and walked away, apparently unperturbed by her approach. He hardly acted like a
nervous thief about to be caught in the act.
Then she was bending over the case. Sure enough, the lock had been professionally picked. At
least four rings, among the most valuable items in her modest stock, were missing. She hesitated
only briefly before glancing down at Flinx.
“You’re positive it was him, ye say?”
He nodded energetically.
Mother Mastiff put two fingers to her lips and let out a piercing whistle. Almost instantly, a
half-dozen neighboring shopkeepers appeared. Still the bald man showed no hint of panic, simply
stared curiously, along with the others in the store at the abrupt arrivals. The rain continued to
pelt the street. Mother Mastiff raised a hand, pointed directly at the bald man, and said,
“Restrain that thief!”
The man’s eyes widened in surprise, but he made no move toward retreat. Immediately, several angry
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shopkeepers had him firmly by the arms. At least two of them were armed.
“The bald man stood it for a moment or two, then angrily shook off his captors. His accent, when
he spoke, marked him as a visitor from one of the softer worlds, like New Riviera or Centaurus B.
“Now just a moment! What is going on here? I warn you, the next person who puts hands on me will
suffer for it!”
“Don’t threaten us, citizen,” said Aljean, the accomplished clothier whose big shop dominated the
far corner. “We’ll settle this matter quick, and without the attention of police. We don’t much
like police on this street.”
“I sympathize with you there,” the man said, straightening his overcoat where he had been roughly
handled. “I’m not especially fond of them myself.” After a pause, he added in shock, “Surely that
woman does not mean to imply that I -“
“That’s what she’s implyin’, for sure,” said one of the men flanking him. “If you’ve nothin’ to
fear, then you’ve no reason not to gift us a moment of your time.”
“Certainly not. I don’t see why-“ The outworlder studied their expressions a moment, then
shrugged. “Oh, well, if it will settle this foolishness.”
“It’ll settle it,” another man said from behind a pistol.
“Very well. And I’ll thank you to keep that weapon pointed away from me, please. Surely you don’t
need the succor of technology in addition to superior numbers?”
The shopkeeper hesitated and then turned the muzzle of his gun downward. But he did not put it
away.
Mother Mastiff stared at the man for a moment, then looked expectantly down at Flinx. “Well? Did
ye see where he put the rings?”
Flinx was gazing steadily at the bald man, those green eyes unwinking. “No, I didn’t, Mother. But
he took them. I’m sure of it.”
“Right, then.” Her attention went back to the offworlder. “Sir, I must ask ye to consent to a
brief body search.”
“This is most undignified,” he complained. “I shall lodge a complaint with my tourist office.”
“I’m sorry,” she told him, “but if you’ve nothing to hide, it’s best that we’re assured of it.”
“Oh, very well. Please hurry and get it over with. I have other places to go today. I’m on
holiday, you know.”
Acting uncertainly now, two of the men who had responded to Mother Mastiff’s whistle searched the
visitor. They did a thorough job of it, working him over with the experience of those who had
dealt with thieves before. They searched everything from the lining of his overcoat to the heels
of his boots. When they had finished, they gazed helplessly over at Mother Mastiff and shook their
heads.
“Empty he is,” they assured her. “Nothing on him.”
“What’s missing. Mother?” Aljean asked gently.
“Kill rings,” she explained. “The only four kill rings in my stock. Took me years to accumulate
them, and I wouldn’t know how to go about replacing them. Search him again.” She nodded at the
bald man. “They’re not very big and would be easy enough to hide.”
They complied, paying particular attention this time to the thick metal belt buckle the man wore.
It revealed a bidden compartment containing the man’s credcard and little else. No rings.
When the second search proved equally fruitless, Mother Mastiff gazed sternly down at her charge.
“Well, Flinx, what have ye to say for yourself?”
“He did take them, he did,” the boy insisted, almost crying. “I know he did.” He was still staring
at the bald man. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “He swallowed them.”
“Swallowed-now just a minute,” the visitor began. “This is getting ugly. Am I to wait here,
accused by a mischievous child?” He shook an angry finger at Flinx, who did not flinch or break
his cold, green stare.
“He took them,” the boy repeated, “and swallowed them.”
“Did you see me take these rings?” the bald man demanded.
“No,” Flinx admitted, “I didn’t. But you took them. You know you did. They’re inside you.”
“Charming, the experiences one has on the slumworlds,” the man said sarcastically. “Really,
though, this exercise has ceased to be entertaining. I must go. My tour allots me only two days in
this -wonderful city, and I wouldn’t want to waste any more time observing quaint local customs.
Out of the kindness of my nature, I will not call upon the gendarmes to arrest you all. One side,
please.” He shoved past the uncertain shopkeepers and walked easily out into the rain.
Mother Mastiff eyed the man’s retreating back. Her friends and fellow merchants watched her
expectantly, helplessly. She looked down at the boy. Flinx had stopped crying. His voice was calm
and unemotional as he gazed back up at her.
“He took them, mother, and he’s walking away with them right now.”
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摘要：

file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20Alan%20Dean%20-%20Flinx%201%20-%20For%20Love%20of%20Mother-Not.txt****************************************************Author:AlanDeanFosterTitle:ForLoveOfMother-NotOriginalcopyrightyear:1983Genre:ScienceFictionVersion:1.0Dateofe-text:11/28/00Source:Prep...

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