Strange Music

by Alan Dean Foster

  He shrugged. Find those he sought and he would likely find the answers to such questions. But in order to do that, he first had to find the trader Wiegl.

  Darkness was suffusing the clouds when he entered the local equivalent of a sleepover establishment. It was less than a hotel, more than an inn. Even here his presence provoked no surprise. The attitude seemed to be, Not a Larian but you want a place to sleep? Not a problem—as long as you can pay.

  The manager’s obsidian-black eyes took the measure of Flinx’s lanky frame. Reaching out, Flinx could sense the individual’s indifference—until he started sing-talking, and his emotional state went blank. “We’ll put end-to-end two resting cots for you; so as to make your sleep most comfortable, so as to make your visit a pleasant memory, so that it will linger warmly in your thoughts.”

  “I thank you.” Taking note of the manager’s Larian equivalent of a wince, Flinx hastened to add more melodiously, “Thanks I am offering, to one who is accommodating; both in deeds and words accommodating.”

  The manager’s posture unclenched. “Better,” he said, “since proper speaking is your second try, for conversing is your latter effort. Better I have another listening, than to fall to lamentation, at the painful mouth-noises you were making.”

  “Strive to do so will I always,” his guest mumbled, relieved to have his presence and his business accepted. So unreceptive had been the manager’s initial reaction to the automatic thank-you Flinx had voiced that he had feared being hustled from the establishment and forced out into the night. Drizzle had metamorphosed into a steady rain whose acquaintance he had no wish to make, especially in the dark.

  “Evening meal will you be taking?” The manager spoke as he counted the flat, stamped metal discs Flinx had handed him as payment. “Or mysterious offworld practices will you be following, that I myself nor any of my staff, have any wish to see?”

  It had long been established that not only could humans eat Larian food, it was suitably nourishing and on fortuitous occasions at least as tasty as an undercooked potato. Though his backpack held an ample supply of concentrates and supplements, Flinx hoped to conserve them for as long as possible. He had no idea how long he would be away from the station and its comforts. That included familiar food.

  “Here I’ll sleep and here I’ll eat, happy to avail myself of what you offer.”

  “What I offer will bring contentment, with full belly will you retire.”

  The manager indicated a far room. Now that he had gone quiet again, Flinx could sense that he meant his unusual guest no ill will. It was plain that his emotional response to Flinx’s poorly rendered initial expression of gratitude had been due to exhaustion and resignation, not aggression.

  Crude but efficient oil lamps splashed a cheery glow into even the farthest corners of the eating area as their wicks danced to an unknown incendiary tune. Passing one on his way to an empty booth, Flinx leaned close and sniffed experimentally. Save to recognize that it was not petroleum, he was unable to identify the oil in use. Like many of the trade goods that kept offworlders coming to Largess, the lamp gave off an enticing aroma.

  Settling his pack between himself and the stone wall, he used a hand scanner to decipher an actual printed menu. Although the Larians were omnivores, what he ordered was wholly vegetarian, on the theory that foreign plant matter was less likely to unsettle his digestive system than cooked animal protein.

  He was halfway through his meal when the discussion that had been taking place at the table across from him erupted into violent argument. In the vernacular of singspeech, it might have been said to have transitioned from casual folk singing to the realm of grand opera.

  Other patrons of the establishment did their best to ignore it, though whether because it was a common occurrence or out of fear of being dragged into the argument, Flinx did not know. Much agitated waving of webbed three-fingered hands on the part of the disputants was accompanied by a rising singsong that did not so much form a chorus as a clamor. Of the four individuals who were involved in the escalating outburst, the voices of two had taken to imitating actual instruments. Leastwise, they sounded like modified instruments to the fascinated Flinx. Interspersed with angry words, flutes a-trilling alternated with oboe-like bleats in punctuating the flow of perfervid invective.

  Like the rest of the diners, Flinx hunkered down over his meal and did his best to ignore the racket. Surely, he thought, the manager would by now have sent word that the presence of local law enforcement was desired? Though ignorant of how such social constraints were carried out among the Larians, he suspected they were unlikely to involve active finger-wagging coupled with a severe tongue-lashing. Larian society operated on more basic and less subtle principles.

  He did not get the opportunity to find out, because one of the combatants tripped and the ongoing melee found its way to his table. Finding himself knocked sideways and preceded by the remnants of his meal, he had no choice but to defend himself. This he did in as minimally engaging a manner as possible, by calmly shoving away the fighter who had fallen on top of him. Despite his effort to remain nonaligned, it appeared that physical contact was by itself sufficient to draw him into the fracas. As he struggled to right himself and scramble to his feet, a part of him noted that he had just had his first physical contact with a native. The short fur he had pushed against was unbelievably soft.

  One of their number continued to engage the original subject of their attention. Locked together in a hostile embrace, they rolled across the floor. Knives flashed but failed to strike home. As they progressed between tables, other diners helpfully lifted their tails and legs to allow the growling, singing pair to maintain their pace unobstructed.

  Sucking in long, deep breaths through their open mouths and quivering nostrils, the remaining two participants now gazed wide-eyed at the human visitor with whom they’d had unexpected contact. Pumped full of the Larian equivalent of adrenaline, one male and one female regarded him in the same way they might a good haul of edible invertebrates from a nearby inlet. The female held in one three-fingered hand a crude single-shot pistol; the male, a short, curved blade. The male waved his weapon.

  “Finding a solitary offworlder presents an opportunity, the taking of which should not be allowed to pass: should not be wasted, or regrets will be sung.”

  The female’s short ears twitched once as she showed her teeth. Though they were omnivores, the formidable Larian canines had evolved to crack the shells of edible crustaceans and suckable bone.

  “Concede I the point without argument,” she sang. “Far from the offworlder station is this one slumming, here to sample our backward culture, no doubt to return laughing about our ways. Simple are we, in the eyes of the offworlders. Easy to insult, prone to ignorance; remembering such insults is why they piss me off!”

  Raising a hand defensively, Flinx did his best to explain his intentions. He did not need to read their emotions. Their singspeech told him all he needed to know about their respective feelings. “I’m not here because I’m ‘slumming’ and I have no quarrel in your fight. I’m traveling to learn, not to insult, and…”

  He halted. In his haste to reply, he had neglected everything he had learned about Larian speech. Not only did they fail to understand what he was saying, their expressions showed that his reply only reinforced their surly opinion of offworlders. He hurried to restate his response.

  “Here am I in hopes of learning, the ways of the Larians. The better to know them, to better understand, so that in my travels, no offense may I give.” He was briefly interrupted as a distant crash indicated that the two natives locked in combat on the floor had finally encountered an immovable barrier. “No fight have I in me, for contending with locals. No interest have I in me, in a dispute that is not my own.”

  Cutting air with the curved knife he held in his left hand, the male touched the tip of the blade to his own face, below the eyes and above the protruding snout. “Glad am I to hear such straightforward expla
ining, I have to confess in surprised reply. Glad am I, to know your limits, as dicing your eyes easy it should be.” Weapons raised, the pair took a simultaneous step toward the offworlder.

  Once again it was not necessary for Flinx to have to perceive the emotions of those confronting him, “dicing your eyes” being more than adequately indicative. Had he been assaulted from behind by singspeaking assailants who had not verbally signaled their intentions, he might well have been in trouble. There was no reason for hesitation, however, when confronted by drawn knives and raised pistols. Reaching to his right, he picked up his metal walking tube and thrust it in the direction of his incipient assailants.

  “No farther step, I warn you coldly, or a sudden ending will make itself known, will draw down a shade over the window of your lives. No more warning can I give, than this one spoken, though I carry no familiar weapons, of my kind or of yours.”

  The female’s second nictitating membranes flashed over her dark eyes. Her mouth opened wider, so that now her impressive dentition was visible all the way to the back of her mouth.

  “I look but see nothing: a tube of metal, a stick for walking, a support for weakness. Stories have I heard of wondrous offworld weapons, tales of power and of devastation.” She gestured with the primitive but still-lethal pistol she held. “None have spoken of something so simple, all I see before us is a blatant ploy. Dully gleaming but without a trigger; without a stock, without a load. Forbidden are offworlders to use their weapons here, lest we settle scores among us with unequal ease.” Her singspeech rose to a crescendo along with the broad flange of highlighted fur that comprised her neck flare.

  “I see no gun but perhaps a stick only, even if made of metal hardly to be feared. I would prefer that it were a gun worthy of taking, but only a bluff becoming, it is now quite clear; a feeble effort, and hardly threatening.”

  By way of response Flinx, gripping the tube firmly with both hands about two-thirds of the way down its length, raised it so that its open end was now aimed at the ceiling.

  “Final warning I give in earnest: do not make me strike at you. On your world I am an unarmed guest, and dealing death is not polite, is not friendly, is done only as a last resort.”

  The male let out the Larian equivalent of a grunt, something like a bassoon operating at the lower registers. “Listened have I to too much talking, any bluff becomes boring soon enough.” The hand holding the knife gestured toward the far side of the room. “Growing tired is our partner Jailax; soon to finish, soon to ending, is he in fighting the thief we know. Let us take down this offworlder and slake his trending, words and goods we both shall have. If an unarmed being, so much the better; quicker and easier will be the end.” One long, limber finger started to draw and aim the single-shot pistol that hitherto had rested in the holster slung across his chest.

  Out of options and regretting it, Flinx had no choice but to snap the metal tube downward in the direction of his imminent attackers. Reacting to the suddenness of the offworlder’s gesture, the female flinched slightly. In the absence of any noise and smoke from the human’s device, her companion held steady as he fired.

  Flinx ducked to his right as a sphere of solid shot whizzed past his head to bury itself in the wood of the wall behind him. Splinters of shattered planking nicked his neck. At the same time something slender and brightly colored shot out of the long tube he was holding. The instant it emerged from containment, it spread brilliantly hued blue and pink wings that became an instant blur.

  The Larian thug who had fired the shot barely had time enough to gape at the alien shape that came rocketing toward him. Flexible as he was, he could not avoid the drop of venom ejected by the minidrag. It struck one half-closed black eye, from which smoke instantly began to curl.

  Letting out an atonal scream that stunned every patron who had remained to watch the fight, the male dropped his weapons and slapped both webbed hands over his injured eye. As he staggered backward, tendrils of smoke emerged from between his fingers. A moment later they dropped away as he fell, slamming into a deserted table before sliding to the floor. In place of one gleaming black eye, a smoking pit extended all the way to the orbital bone.

  Though she had not been struck by the humming, darting flying thing, the female likewise had abandoned her weapons in favor of making a run for the far doorway as fast as her short legs would propel her. Unreadable emotions wrapped in contemptuous speech had been replaced by a woodwind-like whimpering and pure naked fear. Now that she was not singspeaking, Flinx could perceive them clearly. Those attentive clients who remained in the dining area followed her out the portal with alacrity. Pip started to pursue, only to be called back by her fellow empath.

  That left the flying snake and her master alone in the room save for the two contending Larians still locked in combat on the floor. To Flinx’s surprise, even though he had called her back to him, the minidrag stopped in midair to hover above the pair of still-skirmishing males. He started to call out to her again, but paused. She was simply hovering, without evident lethal intent.

  Of course, he told himself. Since neither of the two whistling, cursing, instrument-imitating individuals on the floor currently posed a threat to him, there was no reason for Pip to react defensively. At least, he assumed they posed no threat to him. As long as they were singspeaking, or in their case singscreaming, he could not sense what they were feeling. But Pip plainly felt something. And she had chosen simply to watch.

  His attention distracted from the ongoing struggle long enough to espy the alien winged shape floating above him, the Larian on the bottom let out a loud yelp that was part bark, part trumpet blast. His opponent stilled the hand that was raised to slice downward, and his breathing proboscis gave a couple of twitches. As that individual turned his head Flinx noted that the gray-furred representative of his species was capable of looking back over his own shoulder. Taking the measure of the deadly alien flying creature that continued to hover just above him, the combatant’s ears locked in place and his eyes bulged. Flinx felt for him. Suddenly finding an Alaspinian minidrag centimeters from one’s face would be enough to unsettle the staunchest fighter, even one who was unfamiliar with the flying snake’s potent offensive capabilities.

  Scuttling backward, the Larian rolled over once. This brought him in contact with his now chaotically deceased companion. Smoke still rose from the empty eye socket where Pip’s corrosive venom had struck. Scrabbling onto his feet, the slow-breathing attacker took note of those around him. His initial quarry, one of his own kind, now lay nearby on the floor, exhausted and confused. In front of him stood a tall bipedal offworlder, upright and unharmed. Of most immediate note, there was the brilliantly colored flying creature whose wings were a blur and whose eyes were devoid of affection. It was watching him intently. All three sights coalesced in his mind to generate a single unvoiced song: one that recommended a speedy farewell. Whirling, he turned and fled from the room as fast as his muscular legs could carry him.

  Finding himself still intact and now with his assailants fled, the remaining male Larian picked himself up, patted the sides and backs of his legs with his tail to knock off all the dust and grime he had accumulated from rolling about on the wooden floor, and turned to regard his unlikely brace of saviors with an appraising eye. As he did so Flinx took a step toward him, arm and open hand outstretched. When the panting survivor of the attack retreated two steps in response, Flinx hastily remembered that the shaking of hands among the inhabitants of Largess was a possible invitation to wrestle, and nothing more. He halted.

  Determining that the remaining native posed no immediate threat to her master, Pip returned to him, folded her wings against her sides, and like an exotic dancer squeezing into a form-fitting leotard, slithered back down into the cushioned, insulated interior of the metal tube Flinx had fashioned to keep her warm and comfortable while they were traveling.

  He had never intended for the tube to substitute for a gun. Now that it had demonstrated its use
fulness in that regard, he had to admit that while it remained a single-shot, its ammunition was nothing short of unique.

  Stepping back, he put his hand over his throat and swept it sharply downward. From his studies he knew that variations of the gesture could indicate a friendly greeting, insults of varying degree, or an attempt to assuage a sore larynx. He hoped he’d performed the salutation correctly. It was not all that different from a traditional AAnn greeting, though no gripping or head-turning was involved.

  It took a moment for the survivor of the assault to process what he was seeing: an offworlder, a human-thing, smartly executing a routine Larian greeting. As soon as realization struck home, the bruised but otherwise unharmed native responded in kind. The feelings he projected before he began talking were more reflective of uncertainty than fear.

  “Heard I you speaking, before the cowardly assault, before the unbirthed miscreants came on me, our local language?” Flinx noted that the speaker’s singspeaking voice was especially easy on the ear. On Largess, possessing the “gift of gab” meant having excellent pitch.

  “I try my best.” The rattled local’s ears flattened against the top of his head as he struggled to make sense of the human’s response. Flinx hastened to rephrase—and remodulate—his reply. “Make an effort I do, to understanding achieve.”

  “An effort admirable compared to most of your kind, who sound like gears a-rusting.” Without waiting for an invitation, the speaker came forward and took a seat on the empty bench on the other side of Flinx’s table, carefully stepping over the corpse of his attacker where it lay motionless on the floor.