"Alan Dean Foster - Flinx 5 - Flinx in Flux" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

Lastly there was Flinx.
He belonged to none of the recognized classes that flitted across Alaspin's
humid surface. He was not there to prospect and he was not there to do research,
though he studied hard everything he encountered. Solitude was his primary
backer.
The scientists thought him a peculiar student working on a thesis. The
prospectors recognized a loner when they saw one and considered him one of their
own. Who else but a prospector would have an Alaspinian flying snake, or
minidrag, constantly riding his shoulder? Who else would discourage casual
friendships and conversation? Not that the young man had to discourage actively.
The presence of his horridly lethal pet kept the curious well away.
To those who were bold enough or ignorant enough to sidle up next to him on the
street or in the dining room of the small hotel, he was always polite. No, he
was not a student. Nor a prospector either. Nor did he work for one of the
planetary service corporations. He was on Alaspin, he freely admitted, to
perpetrate a homecoming. On hearing this, his questioners invariably departed
more puzzled than they had been before accosting him.
Flinx treasured everyone he encountered, both those who questioned him and those
who recognized Pip's distinctive blue and pink diamondback coloring and
hurriedly crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him coming. The
older he grew, the more fascinating he found mankind. Until recently his
immaturity had prevented him from truly appreciating the uniquely diverse
organism that was the human race.
As for the thranx, they were equally interesting in their own way. Their social


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system was very different from mankind's. For all that the two species got on
supremely well, they had different individual priorities and beliefs. Yes, he
was becoming quite a student of people, regardless of their size and shape and
where they happened to wear their skeletons. Part of it was that he kept looking
for another as unique as himself. So far he had not found one.
As he pondered, he wielded a machete. It was an extraordinary primitive
instrument, no more than a large chunk of sharpened metal. Cheap laser cutters
were available for sale in every outfitter's shop in Mimmisompo, but he had
chosen the antique instead. Aiming a cutter and pulling the trigger did not
convey the same sense of satisfaction that swinging the heavy blade did. A
cutter worked neatly and soundlessly. With the machete you could smell your
progress as you chopped your way through green and purple stems and striated
leaves. The destruction did not trouble him because he knew how temporary it
was. Within a week the trail he was cutting would be gone as new growth swamped
it, devouring the sunlight it admitted to the jungle floor.
Tall trees rose all around him. He was fascinated by one that was all
buttressing roots and little trunk. It was festooned with epiphytes ablaze with
bright crimson flowers. Swarms of tiny blue‑black insects crowded around
blossoms shaped like miniature trumpets. Four-winged relatives of Terran
lepidoptera pushed and shoved for their turn at the nectar.
Less decorative creatures tried to bite through his boots, which sank three