The Tar-aiym Krang (Adventures of Pip and Flinx)

by Alan Dean Foster

  A being at the back of the crowd, a Quillp in full post-mating plumage, craned its thin ostrichlike neck forward and asked in a high, squeaky voice, “In what summer-month my hatchlings come about will?”

  “I am truly sorry, sir, but that is a question that involves the future, and I am not a clairvoyant” The creature sighed unhappily and prepared to leave the gathering. At this sign of mortality on Flinx’s part a number of others seemed inclined to go with the tall Ornithorpe. Flinx said hurriedly, “But I hope fervent all five of your hatchlings successful are!”

  The Quillp whirled in surprise and turned goggling eyes on the small stage. “How did you know that number my circle had?” In its excitement it spoke in its native tongue and had to be reminded by a neighbor to shift to symbospeech.

  “I make it a policy not to reveal professional secrets.” Flinx yawned with calculated elaboration. “Come, a real question, gentlebeings. I bore quickly. Miracles I cannot produce, though, and they usually bore anyway.”

  Two humans, big, muscular fellows, were pushing their way urgently to the stage. The one on Flinx’s left wore glasses—not for their antique therapeutic value, but because in some current fashion circles it was considered something of a fad. He extended a credcard.

  “Can you accept this, boy?”

  Flinx bridled at the “boy,” but extracted his cardmeter. “Indeed I can, sir. Ask your question.”

  The man opened his mouth, paused. “How do I know what to pay you?”

  “I can’t set value on my answers, only on your question. Whatever you deem it worth, sir. If I give no answer I will refund your credits.” He gestured to where the minidrag rested alertly on his shoulder. “My pet here seems to have a feel for the emotional states of others which is quite sensitive. Even more so than myself. A swindler, for example, exudes something that he is especially sensitive to. I am rarely swindled.”

  The man smiled without mirth. “I wonder why?” He dialed a setting on the card, extended it again. “Will a hundred credits do?”

  Flinx was quick to stifle his reaction. A hundred credits! That was more than he sometimes made in a month! For a moment he was tempted to lower the figure, mindful of the laugh Mother Mastiff might have if she found out. Especially after his comments on her pricings this morning. Then he reminded himself that, after all, the man had set the price and surely would not cheat himself. He tried but could detect no trace of humor about the man. Nor his companion. Quite the contrary. And he hadn’t heard the question yet. What if he couldn’t answer it?

  “A . . . a hundred credits would be most satisfactory, sir.”

  The man nodded and stuck his card in the little black meter. The compact machine hummed softly and the amount, one-oh-oh-zero-zero, clicked into place on its tiny dial. There was a brief pause and then it buzzed once, the red light on its top glowing brightly. It noted that the amount of so-and-so, card number such-and-such, was good for the amount dialed, and that credits numbering one hundred (100) had been transferred to the account of one Philip Lynx (his given name in the city records) in the Royal Depository of the sovereign Republic of Moth. Flinx returned the box to its place in his pouch and looked back to the two expectant men.

  “Ask your question, sirs.”

  “My companion and I are searching for a man . . . a friend . . . whom we know to be somewhere in this part of the city, but whom we have been unable as yet to contact.”

  “What is there distinctive about him?” Flinx asked from under closed eyes.

  The other man spoke for the first time. His voice revealed an impatience that his mind confirmed. It was brusque and low-pitched. “He is not tall . . . thin, has red hair like yourself, only darker and tightly curled. Also his skin is not so dark as yours. It is mottled, and he has wet eyes.”

  That helped. Redheads were not plentiful in Drallar, and the reference to “wet eyes” indicated a man with a high sexual potential. The combination ought to be easy to locate. Flinx began to feel more confident. Still, Drallar was large. And there was the shuttleport to consider, too.

  “Not enough. What else?”

  The two looked at each other. Then the bigger one spoke again. “This man is dressed in navigator’s clothes. He has with him . . . probably on his person a small map. A star map. It is hand-drawn and very unprofessional looking. He usually keeps it in his blouse, which bulges slightly in consequence.”

  Flinx concentrated harder. So, a shift in the internal abstract, an angle resolved. . . . He opened his eyes, looked up in surprise. His gaze roved over the rear of the silent crowd and came to rest on an individual at the back. A redheaded man, not tall, with mottled skin, wet eyes, and a slight bulge over his heart. Not surprisingly, Flinx sensed paper therein. As soon as their eyes met the man’s went wide. He broke and plunged into the market mob. At the ensuing commotion the big man turned his head and strained to see through the mass. He clasped a hand on his companion’s shoulder and pointed urgently. They started off in the direction of the disturbance, forcing the other members of the assembly out of their way with far more strength than tact.

  Flinx almost called to them, but the action turned to a shrug instead. If this form of an answer satisfied the two, he certainly wasn’t going to argue the matter. A hundred credits! Without even committing himself. And the loose coin on the dais for Mother Mastiff. He waved an impulsive hand at the crowd.

  “Thank you ever so for your attention, gentlebeings. For today, at least, the show is over.”

  The assemblage began to melt back into the flow of traffic, accompanied by not a few groans of disappointment from would-be questioners. With the unexpected dramatic build-up he had been given by the two strangers he probably could have milked the remainder for a pile, but his gift was capricious and possessed of a tendency to tire him quickly. Best to halt with an unchallanged success. This windfall entitled him to a serious celebration, and he was already impatient to get on with it.

  “Pip, if we could take in what we took today on a regular basis, the king would make me royal treasurer and you his official guardian.” The snake hissed noncommitally, the jet-black eyes staring up at him. Ink boiled in those tiny poolings. Apparently government work didn’t have much appeal.

  “And you are no doubt hungry again.” This produced a more positive hiss, and Flinx chuckled, scratching the minidrag under its leather-soft snout. “That’s what I thought. However, I feel that something of a more liquid nature is in order for myself. So we will make our way over to Small Symm’s, and I will guzzle spiced beer, and you may have all the pretzels your venomous little carcass will hold!” The snake wagged its tail at this, which involved its quivering all over, since it was mostly tail in the first place.

  As they made their way over the cobblestone back street he began mentally to reproach himself for not playing the crowd longer. He still felt that to overuse his talent would be to burn it out. But there were times when one had to be businesslike as well as cautious, a point Mother Mastiff had made to him many times. Still, he had slept late today and gotten started later than was usual. It would probably have proved difficult to hold the crowd much longer anyway. In Drallar darkness had a tendency to disperse people rapidly, and it was even now quite black out. Besides, he had a hundred credits in his pocket! Effectively, not actually, since it was in his account at the depository. So why worry? Did the sun fight to gather new hydrogen?

  He had almost reached the dimly lit bar when he tasted the sounds. They came filtering out of the alleyway to his left, a hole dark as the gullet of a giant pseudo-sturgeon from one of the Great Northern Lakes. It sounded very much like a fight. A questing probe brought back overtones of fear/ anger/terror/greed/bloodlust. Fighting in fun was accompanied by much cursing and shouting. None were uttered in a battle to the death since the participants were too busy and too intent of purpose to waste the breath. Only humans fought quite that silently, so he knew they were not a part of the city’s alien populace. There was that peculiar muteness of tho
ught . . .

  Flinx did not mix in such conflicts. In a city like Drallar where fat bellies and empty purses coexisted in abundance, one’s own business remained healthy so long as one minded it. He had taken one step toward the peace of the bar when Pip uncoiled himself from his shoulder and streaked into the alley.

  Even at his comparatively young age, Flinx could curse fluently in fourteen languages. He had time for only five before he was hurtling into the blackness after his pet. It was only in precaution that he drew the thin stiletto from its boot sheath without breaking stride.

  Now he could perceive three forms in the dim light from the cloud-masked stars and the city-glow. Two were large and stood upright. The other was slight of build and lay with a recognizable stillness on the ground. One of the others bent over the prostrate body. Before it could carry out its unknown purpose, it jerked and roared loudly in the quiet.

  “GODDAMN!”

  The man began flailing wildly at a thin, leathery shape which dived and swooped at his head. The other pulled the wicked shape of a neuronic pistol from a shoulder cup and tried to sight on the rapidly moving object. Flinx had no time to think. With vague thoughts of forcing the man to the ground and knocking him out, he leaped onto the man’s back. The thick ropes of broad muscle he felt beneath the man’s blouse rapidly squelched that idea. The man lurched. In another second he’d be smashed against the wall of the nearest building. The thin blade plunged once, instinctively. The big man buckled horribly and crashed to the ground like a great tree. Flinx had already left the dead hulk before it reached the pavement.

  The other whirled to meet this new menace as his companion pitched forward onto his face. Cursing, he fired in Flinx’s direction. Rolling like mad, the youth had made the cover of a broken metal crate. Fortunately the man’s night vision didn’t seem as good as his own. Even so, the near miss sent a painful tingle up his leg. An almost-hit with the ugly weapon would cause a man literally to shake himself to death in a series of uncontrollable muscular spasms. A direct hit to the heart or brain would kill instantly. Supposedly such weapons were outlawed on Moth. Obviously the law could be circumvented. The man rayed the area to his left. It was a mistake. Unhampered, Pip had the time he needed. The minidrag spat once.

  It was not a gesture of defiance, but of death. The flying snakes or “miniature dragons” of Alaspin are akin to a few other carnivorous creatures. Among these is the Hemachacus, or spitting cobra, of Terra. The latter has forward-facing fangs, and instead of injecting its venom via a bite, can spit it to a surprising distance with remarkable accuracy. The Alaspinian minidrags, however, have no fangs. Only small cutting teeth for biting. Little work has actually been done on them on their seldom visited planet, but they apparently, eject their poison through a narrowing tube of cartilaginous material running along the roof of the mouth. Muscles running the length of the jaw and along the neck force the venom even farther than the Terran types, and with greater accuracy. Fortunately the minidrag has a relatively mild disposition and attacks only when threatened. Pip’s actions were therefore unusual but not incomprehensible.

  The man gave vent to a shockingly shrill, soul-tearing scream and sank to his knees, clawing at his eyes. The venom was corrosive as well as killing. It was not fatal unless it got into the bloodstream, and so by rubbing at his eyes the man effectively killed himself. In thirty seconds he had become incapable of even that.

  In another thirty he was incapable of doing anything at all.

  Pip returned to his familiar resting place. As he settled his coils around Flinx’s shoulder, the boy could feel the unnatural tension in the reptile’s muscles. There was a brief urge to bawl the minidrag out good and proper, but his narrow escape and the fact that the snake had once again saved his life put it off. Time pressed. Still shaking slightly from muscular reaction of his own, he crept from his hiding place to the results of an undesired action.

  The only sounds in the alley were the ruffling whispers made by the always moist air flowing over the silk-cool stones and the steady plop, plop, plop of blood flowing from the wound in the back of the man the stiletto had finished. There remained the third body. In spite of everything, he had been too late to help the small man. His neck had been broken cleanly. Unmoving, the sightless eyes reflected the silent stars.

  There was just sufficient light for him to make out the man’s brilliant red hair.

  A crumpled piece of plastic lay clutched in a spasmodically frozen hand. Flinx pried it from his grasp, bending open the lifeless but still stubborn fingers. Above him lights began to come on as the cautious inhabitants of the alleyway decided it was safe to trust their precious selves to the quiet uncertainty of the night. Prudence had been served and now curiosity had taken over. It was time for him to leave. Now that the locals had bestirred themselves and the action had been resolved the local constabulary would be arriving. Although they would take their time, they would get here nonetheless. It would not do to be found standing over three lifeless bodies, all of them blatantly outworld. Especially when one of them had registered a hundred credits to his account only this afternoon.

  He didn’t like stealing from the dead, but anything that small that could cause the death of three men in one night was too important to leave to the discretion of the police. Without more than a casual glance at it, he shoved the rumpled sheet into his pouch.

  The police arrived shortly after he had exited the mouth of the alley. A sudden increase in the babble of thoughts and voices told him that the bodies had been discovered. For locals action was time-defined and pedantic. When the police discovered that the three corpses were outworlders, a search pattern would be put into effect with small delay. Murder was not conducive to increased tourism. He hurried a mite faster toward the bar.

  Small Symm’s establishment was notable not so much for its food and drink, but rather for the reputation it enjoyed as being one of the few places in Drallar where a being could go at night, get comfortably drunk, and still be assured of retaining the same amount of body fluid that he had commenced the evening with. Small Symm himself was well aware of the business this favorable standing attracted to his place and so labored mightily to maintain it. He did not know it, but if his business had been a country on Terra several odd centuries ago, it would have been called Switzerland.

  As Small Symm stood well over two meters tall and weighed in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty kilos, few felt inclined to dispute his neutrality. Those who had yearnings to contented themselves with imbibing elsewhere and commenting on the inordinate size of the barkeep’s ears.

  There were no drinking laws on Moth. Only sober ones, as the saying went. As far as the judges were concerned one could proceed directly from the mother’s breast to a bottle of Old Yeast-Bubble’s best mash brew liquor. The end result of this oft-commented upon degenerate policy was a thriving local industry and a surprisingly small number of alcoholics.

  However, there had been a few who had commented at times on Flinx’s comparative youth and thereby questioned his right to imbibe fermented spirits. One particular person, a traveling sinspinner from Puritan, had been especially obnoxious in this respect. Small Symm had lumbered over and politely advised the fellow to mind his own business. Holding fast to the tenets of his faith (and being a bit tipsy himself), the man had told Symm in no uncertain terms what he could do with his suggestions. The next thing he knew, his right arm had been neatly broken in two places. As gently as possible. The outworlder had gone straight to the police and the police had objected . . . after all, an outworlder, respected . . . but not too vigorously. Especially after Symm had picked up their paddycraft and jammed it immovably into a sewer opening. After that Flinx and Symm both found themselves little troubled by minions of either God or Cop.

  The giant was pleased to see him. Not the least of the things they had in common was the fact that both were technically orphans.

  “A dry hearth, young master! And how does the world find you tonight?”


  Flinx took the seat at the end of the bar. “It finds me well enough, enormous one. Well enough so that I will have a bottle of your very finest Burrberry beer, and a cauldron of pretzels for my friend.”

  He rubbed the snake under the jaw and Pip’s eyes slitted in appreciation. There were times when he would swear he could hear the thing purr. But since no one else could, he never made it a point of discussion.

  Symm’s eyebrows went up slightly. Burrberry was expensive, and potent. He was far more concerned about the youth’s ability to handle the former, however. The red ale was imported all the way from Crnkk, a thranx planet, and packed quite a kick for even a full-grown human. But he fetched it, and the pretzels for the minidrag.

  When he returned, the snake did not wait for an invitation, but dived immediately into the bowl and began wallowing around in the salty twists, its tongue darting and flicking with machinelike rapidity at the big halite crystals. Like many things in Drallar, even the pretzels disdained subtlety. Flinx reflected again that for an undeniably carnivorous animal, his pet was notoriously fond of grain products. The minidrag’s culinary adaptability had been one reason why it had been able to thrive so well in the city. There had been times when meat had been scarce, and vermin as well, and he and Mother Mastiff had watched in wonderment as the reptile happily downed large portions of salted bread or pime, the cheap cornlike growths that infested many of Moth’s softwoods.

  Flinx hefted the delicately formed bottle and poured the cherry-red brew, watching it foam pinkly over the lip of the mug. Brewing was one of the thranx’s most polished abilities. It was too late for the few perpetual drunkards and too early for most night crawlers. Small Symm satisfied himself that his other customers were taken care of and hunkered himself over the bar, leaning on crossed arms like hirsute trees. He watched silently as the boy downed a long draught of the effervescent liquid, then began on the remainder with short, caressing sips. Now and then a satisfied hiss would come from the region to their right, among the pretzels.