The Tar-aiym Krang (3 page)

“Gentle, mother. He understands what you say, you know. Not so much what as why, really.”

“Oh surely, surely! Now claim intelligence for the monster! Bewitched it is, perhaps. I believe it that latter, at least, for I can’t deny I’ve seen the thing react oddly, yes. But it does no work, sleeps constantly, and eats prodigiously. You’d be far better off without it, lad.”

He scratched the minidrag absently behind the flat, scaly head. “Your suggestion is not humorful, mother. Besides, it
does
work in the act. . . .”

“Gimmick,” she snorted, but not loudly.

“And as to its sleeping and eating habits, it is an alien thing and has metabolic requirements we cannot question. Most importantly, I like it and . . . and it likes me.”

Mother Mastiff would have argued further except that they had gone through uncounted variations of this very argument over the years. No doubt a dog or one of the local domesticated running-birds would have made a more efficacious pet for a small boy, but when she’d taken in the maltreated youngster Mother Mastiff’d had no credits for dogs or birds. Flinx had stumbled on the minidrag himself in the alley behind their first shack, rooting in a garbage heap for meats and sugars. Being ignorant of its identity, he’d approached it openly and unfearing. She’d found the two huddled together in the boy’s bed the following morning. She had hefted a broom and tried to shoo it off, but instead of being frightened the thing had opened its mouth and hissed threateningly at her. That initial attempt constituted her first and last physical effort at separating the two.

The relationship was an unusual one and much commented upon, the more so since Alaspin was many parsecs away and none could recall having heard of a minidrag living unconfined off its native world before. It was widely surmised that it had been the pet of some space trader and had gotten loose at the shuttleport and escaped. Since the importation of poisonous animals was a felony on most planets, Moth included, few were surprised that the original owner had not made noisy efforts to reclaim his property. In any case it had harmed no one (Flinx knew otherwise, and better than to boast the fact) and so none in the marketplace protested its presence to the authorities, although all wished with a passion it would go elsewhere.

He moved to change the subject.

“How are you equipped for credit, mother?”

“Fah! Poorly, as always. But,” and this with a sly, small grin, “I should be able to manage for a while off that last transaction.”

“I’d wager,” he chuckled. He turned to survey the chromatically colored crowd which flowed unceasingly around and in front of the little shop, trying to gauge the proportion of wealthy tourists among the everyday populace. The effort, as usual, made his head ache.

“A normal day’s passings or not, mother?”

“Oh, there’s money out there now, all right! I can smell it. But it declines to come into my shop. Better luck to you, perhaps, lad.”

“Perhaps.” He walked out from under the awning and mounted the raised dais to the left of the shop. Carefully he set about rearranging the larger pots and pans which formed the bulk of Mother Mastiff’s cheaper inventory to give himself sufficient room to work.

His method of enticing an audience was simple and timeworn. He took four small
brana
balls from a pocket and began to juggle them. These were formed from the sap of a tree that grew only in Moth’s equatorial belt. Under the sun’s diffused DV they pulsed with a faint yellow light. They were perfect for his needs, being solid and of a uniform consistency. A small crowd began to gather. He added a fifth ball now, and began to vary the routine by tossing them behind his back without breaking rhythm. The word was passed outward like invisible tentacles, occasionally snatching another person here, another there, from the fringes of the shuffling mob. Soon he had acquired his own substantial little island of watchful beings. He whispered softly to the minidrag, almost buried in the soft fur.

“Up, boy.”

Pip uncurled himself from Flinx’s shoulder, unfurling his leathery wings to their fullest extent. In spite of its rarity the crowd recognized the lethal shape and drew back. The snake soared into the air and performed a delicate, spiraling descent, to settle like a crown around the boy’s head. It then proceeded to catch each ball and toss it high into the air, changing the shape but not the rhythm of the act. The unbroken fluorescent trail took on a more intricate weave. A mild pattering of applause greeted this innovation. Jugglers were more than common in Drallar, but a young one who worked so deftly with a poisonous reptile was not. A few coins landed on the platform, occasionally bouncing metallically off the big pans. More applause and more coins when the snake flipped all five balls, one after another, into a small basket at the rear of the dais.

“Thank you, thank you, gentlebeings!” said Flinx, bowing theatrically, thinking, now for the real part of the act. “And now, for your information, mystification, and elucidation . . . and a small fee” (mild laughter), “I will endeavor to answer any question,
any
question, that anyone in the audience, regardless of his race or planet of origin, would care to tempt me with.”

There was the usual skeptical murmuring from the assembly, and not a few sighs of boredom.

“All the change in my pocket,” blurted a merchant in the first row,” if you can tell me how much there is!” He grinned amid some nervous giggling from within the crowd.

Flinx ignored the sarcasm in the man’s voice and stood quietly, eyes tightly shut. Not that they had to be. He could “work” equally as well with them wide open. It was a piece of pure showmanship which the crowds always seemed to expect. Why they expected him to look inward when he had to look outward remained ever-puzzling to him. He had no real idea how his answers came to him. One minute his mind was empty, fuzzy, and the next . . . sometimes . . . an answer would appear. Although “appear” wasn’t quite right either. Many times he didn’t even understand the questions, especially in the case of alien questioners. Or the answers. Fortunately that made no difference to the audience. He could not have promised interpretations. There!

“Good sir, you have in your pocket four tenth pieces, two hundredth pieces . . . and a key admitting you to a certain club that. . . .”

“Stop, stop!” The man was waving his gnarled hands frantically and glancing awkwardly at those in the crowd nearest him. “That will do! I am convinced.” He dug into his pocket, came out with a handful of change, thrust the troublesome key back out of sight of the curious who leaned close for a look. He started to hand over the coins, then paused almost absently, a look of perplexity on his face. It changed slowly to one of surprise.

“By Pall’s tide-bore, the whelp is right! Forty-two hundredths. He’s right!” He handed over the coins and left, mumbling to himself.

Flying coins punctuated the crowd’s somewhat nervous applause. Flinx judged their mood expertly. Belief had about pulled even with derision. There were naturally those who suspected the merchant of being a plant. They granted he was a very convincing one.

“Come, come, gentlebeings! What we have here is larvae play. Surely there are those among you with questions worth tempting my simple skill?”

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?