For Love of Mother-Not

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  He forced himself to take an inventory out front. There was no sign of anything missing. The shop's stock seemed to be intact. Not thieves, then, surprised in the act of burglary. Then what? If not for the ample evidence that there had been a struggle, he would not even have suspected that anything was amiss.

  No, he reminded himself, not quite true. The lockseal on the front door was dead. It would have taken half the thieves in Drallar to drag Mother Mastiff from her shop while it stood unsealed. He thought of thieves a second time, knowing he would not be staying here long. His mind full of dark and conflicting thoughts, he set about repairing the lock.

  Chapter Six

  "Pssst! Boy! Flinx-boy!"

  Flinx moved the door aside slightly and gazed out into the darkness. The man speaking from the shadows operated a little shop two stalls up the side street from Mother Mastiff's, where he made household items from the hard-woods that Moth grew in abundance. Flinx knew him well, and stepped out to confront him.

  "Hello, Arrapkha." He tried to search the man's face, but it was mostly hidden by the overhanging rim of his slickertic. He could feel nothing from the other man's mind. A fine and wondrous Talent, he thought sarcastically to himself.

  "What happened here? Did you see anything?"

  "I shouldn't be out like this." Arrapkha turned to glance worriedly up the street to where it intersected the busy main avenue. "You know what people say in Drallar, Flinx-boy. The best business is minding one's own."

  "No homilies now, friend," Flinx said impatiently. "You've been neighbor to my mother for many years, and you've watched me grow up. Where is she?"

  "I don't know." Arrapkha paused to gather his thoughts.Flinx held back his anxiety and tried to be patient with the man--Arrapkha was a little slow upstairs but a good soul.

  "I was working at my lathe, feeling good with myself. I'd only just sold a pair of stools to a programmer from the Welter Inurb and was counting my good fortune when I thought I heard noises from your house." He smiled faintly. "At first, I thought nothing of it. You know your mother. She can fly into a rage at anytime over nothing in particular and make enough noise to bring complaints from the avenue stores.

  "Anyhow, I finished turning a broya post--it will be a fine one, Flinx-boy, fashioned of number-six harpberry wood--"

  "Yes, I'm sure," Flinx said impatiently. "I'm sure it will be a fine display stand, as all your work is, but what about Mother Mastiff?"

  "I'm getting to that, Flinx-boy," Arrapkha said petulantly. "As I said, I finished the post, and since the noise continued, I grew curious. It seamed to be going on a long time even for your mother. So I put down my work for a moment and thought to come see what was going on. I mediate for your mother sometimes.

  "When I was about halfway from my shop to yours, the noise stopped almost entirely. I was about to return home when I saw something. At least, I think I did." He gestured toward the narrow gap that separated Mother Mastiff's shop from the vacant shop adjoining hers.

  "Through there I thought I saw figures moving quickly up the alley behind your home. I couldn't be certain. The opening is small, it was raining at the time, and it's dark back there. But I'm pretty sure I saw several figures."

  "How many?" Flinx demanded. "Two, three?"

  "For sure, I couldn't say," Arrapkha confessed sadly. "I couldn't even for certain tell if they were human or not.More than two, surely. Yet not a great number, though I could have missed seeing them all.

  "Well, I came up to the door quickly then and buzzed. There was no answer, and it was quiet inside, and the door was locked, so I thought little more of it. There was no reason to connect shapes in the alleyway with your mother's arguing. Remember, I only heard noise from the shop.

  "As it grew dark I started to worry, and still the shop stayed closed. It's not like Mother Mastiff to stay closed up all day. Still, her digestion is not what it used to be, and sometimes her liver gives her trouble. Too much bile.She could have been cursing her own insides."

  "I know," Flinx said. "I've had to listen to her complaints lots of times."

  "So I thought best not to interfere. But I have known both of you for a long time, Flinx-boy, just as you say, so I thought, when I saw you moving about, that I ought to come and tell you what I'd seen. It's clear to me now that I should have probed deeper." He struck his own head. "I'm sorry. You know that Frn not the cleverest man in the marketplace."

  "It's all right, Arrapkha. There's no blame for you in this matter." Flinx stood there in the mist for a long moment, silent and thinking hard.

  Arrapkha hesitantly broke in on his contemplation. "So sorry I am, Flinx-boy. If there's anything I can do to help, if you need a place to sleep tonight, ay, even with the devil thing on your shoulder, you are welcome to share my home."

  "I've spent many a night out on my own, sir," Flinx told him, "but the offer's appreciated. Thank you for your help. At least now I have a better idea of what happened, though not for the life of me why. Could you see if Mother Mastiff was among those running down the alley? She's not here."

  "So I guessed from your look and words. No, I cannot say she was one of them. I saw only shapes that seemed to be human, or at least upright. But they seemed to run with difficulty."

  "Maybe they were carrying her."

  "It may be, Flinx-boy, it may be. Surely she would not go off on her own with strangers without leaving you so much as a message."

  "No, she wouldn't," Flinx agreed, "and if she went with the people you saw, it wasn't because they were her friends. The inside of the house is all torn up. She didn't go with them quietly."

  "Then surely for some reason she's been kidnaped,"Arrapkha concurred. "Fifty years ago, I might could give a reason for such a thing. She was a beauty then. Mother Mastiff, though she has not aged gracefully. Grace was not a part of her, not even then. A hard woman always, but attractive. But for this to happen now--" He shook his head. "A true puzzle. Did she have access to much money?"

  Flinx shook his head rapidly.

  "Urn. I thought not. Well, then, did she owe anyone any dangerous amounts?"

  "She owed a lot of people, but no great sums," Flinx replied. "At least, nothing that she ever spoke to me about and nothing I ever overheard talk of."

  "I do not understand it, then," Arrapkha said solemnly.

  "Nor do I, friend."

  "Perhaps," Arrapkha suggested, "someone wished a private conversation with her and will bring her back in the morning?"

  Flinx shook his head a second time. "I think that since she didn't go with them voluntarily, she won't be allowed to come back voluntarily. Regardless, one thing she always told me was not to sit around and stare blankly at the inexplicable but always to try and find answers. If she does come walking freely home tomorrow, then I can at least try to meet her coming."

  "Then you're determined to go out after her?" Arrapkha lifted bushy black eyebrows.

  "What else can I do?"

  "You could wait. You're a nice young fellow, Flinx-boy." He waved toward the distant avenue. "Most every-one in the marketplace who knows you thinks so, also.You won't lack for a place to stay or food to eat if you decide to wait for her. Your problem is that you're too young, and the young are always overanxious."

  "Sorry, Arrapkha. I know you mean well for me, but I just can't sit around here and wait. I think I'd be wasting my time and, worse, maybe hers as well. Mother Mastiff doesn't have much time left to her."

  "And what if her time, excuse me, has already fled?" Arrapkha asked forcefully. Subtlety was not a strong trait of the marketplace's inhabitants. "Will you involve your-self then in something dangerous which has chosen to spare you?"

  "I have to know. I have to go after her and see if I can help."

  "I don't understand," Arrapkha said sadly. "You're a smart young man, much smarter than I. Why risk your-self? She wouldn't want you to, you know. She's not really your mother."

  "Mother or mother-not," Flinx replied, "she's the only mother I'v
e ever known. There's more to it than simple biology, Arrapkha. The years have taught me that much."

  The older man nodded. "I thought you might say something like that, Flinx-boy. Well, I can at least wish you luck. It's all I have to give you. Do you have credit?"

  "A little, on my card."

  "If you need more, I can transfer." Arrapkha started to pull out his own card.

  "No, not now, anyway. I may need such help later." He broke into a broad smile. "You're a good friend, Arrapkha. Your friendship is as solid as your woodwork." He turned. "Did you see which direction these figures took?"

  "That's little to start on." He pointed to the north. "That way, up the alley. They could have turned off any time. And in the weather"--he indicated the clouds hanging limply overhead--"they'll have left no trail for you to follow."

  "Perhaps not," Flinx admitted. "We'll see."

  "I expect you will, Flinx-boy, since you feel so strongly about this. All I can do, then, is wish luck to you." He turned and strode back up the street toward his shop, keeping the slickertic tight around his head and neck.

  Flinx waited until the rain had swallowed up the older man before going back inside and closing the door behind him. He wandered morosely around the living area, salvaging this or that from the mess and returning things to their proper places. Before long, he found himself in Mother Mastiff's room. He sat down on the bed and stared at the ajar slip-me-out that led to the alley.

  "What do you think, Pip? Where did she go, and who took her, and why? And how am I going to find her? I don't even know how to start."

  He shut his eyes, strained, tried to sense the kinds of emotions he knew she must be generating, wherever she had been taken. There was nothing. Nothing from Mother

  Mastiff, nothing from anyone else. His Talent mocked him. He started fixing up the bedroom, hoping that contact with familiar objects might trigger some kind of reaction in his mind. Something, anything, that would give him a start on tracking her down. Pip slipped off his shoulder and slithered across the bed, playing with covers and pillows.

  There were gaps--missing clothing--in the single closet, Flinx noted. Whoever had abducted her evidently intended to keep her for a while. The sight cheered him because they would not have troubled to take along clothing for someone they intended to kill immediately.

  Pip had worked its way across the bed to the night table and was winding its sinuous way among the bottles and containers there. "Back off that, Pip, before you break something. There's been enough damage done here today." The irritation in his voice arose more out of personal upset than any real concern. The minidrag had yet to knock over anything.

  Pip reacted, though not to his master's admonition. The snake spread luminous wings and fluttered from the tabletop to the slip-me-out. It hovered there, watching him. While Flinx gaped at his pet, it flew back to the night table, hummed over a bottle, then darted back to the opening.

  Flinx's momentary paralysis left him, and he rushed to the end table. The thin plasticine bottle that had attracted Pip was uncapped. It normally held a tenth liter of a particularly powerful cheap perfume of which Mother Mastiff was inordinately fond. Now he saw that the bottle was empty.

  If Mother Mastiff had retained enough presence of mind to remember that the Drallarian gendarmery occasionally employed the services of tracking animals--for the first time hope crowded despair from Flinx's thoughts. Those animals could track odors even through Moth's perpetual dampness.

  If an Alaspinian minidrag possessed the same ability ... Was he completely misinterpreting the flying snake's actions? "Pip?"

  The flying snake seemed to accept the mention of its name as significant, for it promptly spun in midair and darted through the slip-me-out. Flinx dropped to his hands and knees and crawled after. In seconds, he was in the alley again. As he climbed to his feet, he searched for his pet. It was moving eastward, almost out of sight.

  "Pip, wait!" The snake obediently halted, hovering in place until its master had caught up. Then it took off up the alley again.

  Flinx settled into a steady run. He was an excellent runner and in superb condition, on which he had always prided himself. He resolved to follow the flying snake until one or the other of them dropped.

  Any moment he expected the snake to pause outside one of the innumerable faceless structures that peppered the commercial sections of Drallar. But while the minidrag twisted and whirled down alleys and up streets, not once did it hesitate in its steady flight. Soon Flinx found his wind beginning to fail him. Each time he stopped, the snake would wait impatiently until its master caught up again.

  Drallar was the largest city on Moth, but it was a village compared to the great cities of Terra or the under-ground complexes of Hivehom and Evoria, so Flinx was not surprised that when Pip finally began to slow, they had reached the northwestern outskirts of the metropolis. Here the buildings no longer had to be built close to one another. Small storage structures were scattered about, and individual homes of blocked wood and plastic began to blend into the first phalanx of evergreen forest. Pip hesitated before the trees, zooming in anxious circles, soaring to scan the treetops. It ignored Flinx's entreaties and calls until finally satisfied, whereupon the snake turned and dropped down to settle once again on the familiar perch of his master's shoulder.

  Turning a slow circle, Flinx fought to pick up even a fragment of lingering emotion. Once again, his efforts met with failure. It seemed clear that whoever had carried off Mother Mastiff had taken her into the forest and that the olfactory trail that had led Pip so far had finally dissipated in the steady onslaught of mist and rain. On a drier world or in one of Moth's few deserts, things might have been different, but here Pip had come to a dead end.

  After a moment's thought, Flinx started away from the trees. In addition to the storage buildings and homes, several small industrial complexes were visible nearby, including two of the ubiquitous sawmills that ringed the city and processed Moth's most prolific crop. Plinx wandered among them until he located a public corn station on a service street. He stepped inside and slid the spanda-wood door shut behind him. Even after curing, spanda retained 'a significant coefficient of expansion. When he closed the door, it sealed itself against the elements, and only the ventilation membranes would keep him from suffocating. He took out his battered credcard and slid it into the receptacle on the unit, then punched the keyboard. A pleasant-looking middle-aged woman appeared on the small viewscreen. "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

  "Is there a Missing Persons Bureau in the Drallar Municipal Strata?"

  "Just a moment, please." There was a pause while she glanced at something out of range of the pickup.

  "Human or alien?"

  "Human, please."

  "Native or visitor?"

  "Native."

  "You wish connection?"

  "Thank you, yes." The woman continued to stare at him for a moment, and Flinx decided she was fascinated by the coiled shape riding his shoulder. The screen finally flashed once and then cleared.

  This time, the individual staring back at him was male, bald, and bored. His age was indeterminate, his attitude barely civil. Flinx had never liked bureaucrats. "Yes, what is it?

  "Last night," he declared, "or early this morning"--in his rush through the city streets he'd completely lost track of the time--"I--my mother disappeared. A neighbor saw some people running away down an alley, and our house was all torn apart. I don't know how to start looking for her. I think she's been taken out of the city via the north-west quadrant, but I can't be sure."

  The man perked up slightly, though his voice sounded doubtful. "I see. This sounds more like a matter for the police than for Missing Persons."

  "Not necessarily," Flinx said, "if you follow my meaning."

  "Oh." The man smiled understandingly. "Just a moment. I'll check for you." He worked a keyboard out of

  Flinx's view. "Yes, there was a number of arrests made last night, several of them including women.
How old is your mother?"

  "Close to a hundred," Flinx said, "but quite lively."

  "Not lively enough to be in with the group I was thinking of," the clerk responded. "Name?"

  Flinx hesitated. "I always just called her Mother Mastiff."

  The man frowned, then studied his unseen readout. "Is Mastiff a first name or last name? I'm assuming the 'Mother' is an honorific."

  Flinx found himself staring dumbly at the clerk. Suddenly, he was aware of the enormous gaps that made up much of his life. "I--I don't know, for sure."

  The bureaucrat's attitude turned stony. "Is this some kind of joke, young man?"

  "No, sir," Flinx hastened to assure him, "it's no joke. I'm telling you the truth when I say that I don't know. See, she's not my natural mother."

  "Ah," the clerk murmured discreetly. "Well, then, what's your last name?"

  "I--" To his great amazement, Flinx discovered that he was starting to cry. It was a unique phenomenon that he had avoided for some time; now, when he least needed it, it afflicted him.

  The tears did have an effect on the clerk, though. "Look, young man, I didn't mean to upset you. All I can tell you is that no woman of that advanced an age is on last night's arrest recording. For that matter, no one that old has been reported in custody by any other official source. Does that help you at all?"

  Flinx nodded slowly. It helped, but not in the way he'd hoped. "Th-thank you very much, sir."

  "Wait, young man! If you'll give me your name, maybe I can have a gendarme sent out with--" The image died as Flinx flicked the disconnect button. His credcard popped from its slot. Slowly, wiping at his eyes, he put it back inside his shirt. Would the clerk bother to trace the call? Flinx decided not. For an instant, the bureaucrat had thought the call was from some kid pulling a joke on him. After a moment's reflection, he would probably think so again.

  No one of Mother Mastiff's age arrested or reported in. Not at Missing Persons, which was bad, but also not at the morgue, which was good because that reinforced his first thoughts: Mother Mastiff had been carried off by unknown persons whose motives remained as mysterious as did their identity. He gazed out the little booth's window at the looming, alien forest into which it seemed she and her captors had vanished, and exhaustion washed over him. It was toasty warm in the corn booth.