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

commissioner took it as a personal affront when I ejected the first group of officious do-gooders
he sent round to close you down. Maybe I shouldn't have broken their vehicle. Now they are trying
to be more subtle. I had one in just this week, who claimed to have observed me serving borderline
minors certain hallucinogenic liquids."
"Obviously you deserve to be strung up by your extremities," commented Flinx with mock solemnity.
He, too, was underage for much of what Symm served him.
"Anyway," the giant went on, "this heckster flies out of a back booth, flashes his municipal peace
card, and tries to tell me I'm under arrest. He was going to take me in, and I had best come along
quietly." Small Symm shook his massive head mournfully as Flinx downed several swallows.
"What did you do?" He licked liquid from the corners of his mouth.
"I really don't want any more trouble, certainly not another assault charge. I thought an
inferential demonstration of a mildly physical nature might be effective in persuading the
gentleman to change his opinion. It was, and be left quietly." Symm gestured at Flinx's now empty
mug. "Refill?"
"Sure. What did you do?" he repeated.
"I ate his peace card. Here's your beer." He slid a second mug alongside the first.
Flinx understood Small Syrnm's gratification. He had his reputation to uphold. His was one of the
few places in Drallar where a person could go at night with a guarantee of not being assaulted or
otherwise set upon by rambunctious rovers. This was because Small Symm dealt impartially with all
such disturbers of the peace.
"Be back in a minute," Flinx told his friend. He slid off the stool and headed for the one room
whose design and function had changed little in the past several hundred years. As soon as he
stepped inside he was overwhelmed by a plethora of rich smells and sensations: stale beer, hard
liquor, anxiety, tension, old water, dampness, fearful expectation. The combination of thick
thoughts and airborne odors nearly overpowered him.
Looking to his left, where the combination was strongest, he noticed a small twitch of a man
watching him anxiously. Flinx observed the man's outward calm and felt his internal panic. He was
holding an osmotic syringe in one hand, his finger coiled about it as-if it were a weapon. As
Flinx started to yell for help, his rising cry was blanketed by the descent of something dark and
heavy over his head. A mental cry was aborted by the cool efficiency of the syringe....
He awoke to find himself staring at a tumbled panoply of lights. They were spread out before and
below him, viewed as they were through a wall and floor of transparent plastic.
Slowly he struggled to a sitting position, which was accomplished with some difficulty since his
wrists were manacled together by two chromed metal cuffs. A long tube of flexible metal ran off
from them and disappeared among rich furniture. The chain meandered through the thick transparent
carpet like a mirror- backed worm.
Looking out, Flinx could see the lights that were the city-pulse of Drallar, dominated by the
glowing spires of the King's palace off to the left. The view enabled him to orient himself.
Combining the position of the palace with the pattern of lower lights and the knowledge that he
was several stories above ground indicated that he was being held captive in one of the four
sealed inurbs of the city. These guarded, restrictive enclaves held the homes of the upper
classes, of those native to Drallar and those off-worlders who had commerce here. His assailants,
then, were more than gutter thieves.
He was unable to pick tip any impressions nearby. At the moment the only alien sensation he could
detect was a slight throbbing in the muscles of his upper right arm, where the syringe had struck


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