"Alan Dean Foster - Flinx 3 - Orphan Star" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

"It's his head I'm interested in, not his body," sighed Challis, "though this is a matter of my
pleasure." Puffing like a leaky pillow, he led them through the bustling, shouting crowd. Humans,
thranx, and representatives of a dozen other commercial races slid easily around and past them as
though oiled, all intent on errands of importance.
"It's my Janus jewel. It bores me."
The smaller man looked disgusted. "How can any- one rich enough to own a Janus jewel be bored?"
"Oh, but I am, Nolly-dear, I am."
Nanger made a half-smirk. "What's the trouble, Challis? Your imagination failing you?" He laughed,
short, stentorian barks.
Challis grinned back at him. "Hardly that, Nanger, but it seems that I have not the right type of
mind to produce the kind of fine, detailed resolution the jewel is- capable of. I need help for
that. So I've been at work these past months looking for a suitable mental adept, trying to find a
surrogate mind of the proper type to aid in operating the jewel. I've paid a lot of money for the
right information," he finished, nodding at a tall Osirian he knew. The avian clacked its beak
back at him and made a gesture with its graceful, ostrichlike neck, its periscope form weaving
confidently through the crowd.
Nanger paused to buy a thisk cake, and Challis continued his explanation as they walked on.
"So you see why I need that boy."
Nolly was irritated now. "Why not just hire him? See if he'll participate willingly?"
Challis looked doubtful. "No, I don't think that would work out, Nolly-dear. You're familiar with
some of my fantasies and likes?" His voice had turned inhumanly calm and empty. "Would you
participate voluntarily?"
Nolly looked away from suddenly frightening pupils. In spite of his background, he shuddered.
"No," he barely whispered, "no, I don't guess that I would...."
"Hello, lad," boomed Small Symm-the giant was incapable of conversing in less than a shout. "What
of your life and what do you hear from Malaika?"
Flinx sat on one of the stools lined up before the curving bar, ordered spiced beer for himself
and a bowl of pretzels for Pip. The flying snake slid gracefully from Flinx's shoulder and worked
his way into the wooden bowl of trapezoidal dough. This action was noted by a pair of wide-eyed


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unsavory types nearby, who promptly vacated their seats and hastily made for the rearmost booths.
"I've had no contact with Malaika for quite a while, Symm. I've heard he's attending to business
outsystem."
Flinx's wealthy merchant friend had enabled him to quit performing his personal sideshow, having
provided him with a substantial sum for his aid in exploring the Tar-Aiym world of the Krang. Much
of the money had gone to set up Flinx's adoptive mother. Mother Mastiff, in a well-stocked shop in
one of Drallar's better market districts. Muttering at her capriciousness, the old woman had
rescued Flinx as a child from the slave-seller's block, and had raised him. She was the only
parent he had ever known. She muttered still, but with affection.
"As a matter of fact," he went on, sipping at the peppery brew, "Malaika wanted me to go with him.
But while I respect the old hedonist, he'd eventually get ideas about putting me in a starched
suit, slicking my hair back, and teaching me diction." Flinx shuddered visibly. "I couldn't stand
that. I'd go back to juggling and audience guessing games first. What about you, father of oafs?
I've heard that the municipal troops have been harassing you again."
The owner of the bar leaned his two-and-a-half-rneter-tall, one-hundred-seventy-five-kilo frame
onto the absorbent wood-plastic counter, which creaked in protest. "Apparently the marketplace