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

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insect‑free. Outside the capital city of Alaspinport you could not expect more
than that.
She was breathing easily, and he rolled over to stare at her. Pip assumed her
familiar position at his feet while Scrap settled close by.
If others were searching frantically for her, they would have to wait until he
had had a decent night's sleep, he reflected. He had earned it. Another day
would make no difference to her or her colleagues, assuming she had any in
Mimmisompo. He did not worry about other unlikely possibilities. Not with Pip
resting alertly at his feet.
At least, he thought lazily as he drifted off to sleep, this was one time he had
managed to do a good deed without involving himself deeply in someone else's
problems.
Morning proved it was not going to be that easy. Somehow it never was. She was
still resting peacefully when he awoke, rose soundlessly, and prepared to go
out.
As he dressed, he could not help glancing in her direction‑ She was lying on her
side, and the sheets had draped themselves provocatively over her body. In the
light she was not merely attractive, she was beautiful. He kept telling himself
as he studied the rise and fall of her chest that he was only checking the
regularity of her breathing. It was impossible for him to lie to himself,
however. Pip's reactions always truthfully mirrored what he was feeling.
He left hurriedly, sealing his jumpsuit on the way out. She was not hurting, he
was sure of that. Not with all the antibios, specifics, and endorphine analogs
he had pumped into her. If anything, she ought to be floating half a meter above
the bed. A last pass with the scanner was accomplished without a beep. She was
healing rapidly, as much a credit to her own constitution as to his amateur
treatment of her injuries.
Tough little lady, he mused. All the more reason to try to find out how she had
come to be beaten up and dumped in the middle of the Ingre.
This was only his second visit to Mimmisompo, and he did not know the town that
well, but he had learned long ago that information was often available in such
places in inverse proportion to the actual population. Furthermore, it was not
necessary to scour the entire community to find the answers he needed. There
were always logical places to make inquiries. The official information booths
were at the bottom of any such list.
Because of her wholly inadequate attire, Flinx went on the assumption that she
was a recent arrival to the Ingre region. No half‑experienced prospector or
scientist would have been caught dead in the kind of clothing she had been
wearing when he had found her, not even if traveling in a vehicle as secure as
the crawler. You never knew when you might have to go outside. At the minimum
she should have been wearing boots, a long‑sleeved shirt, long‑legged pants,
repellers, and cooling threads.
Her assailants had known their business. You could not walk out of the Ingre. By
the time a body could be located, the local fauna would have made identification
difficult, determination of cause of death impossible.
What kept nagging at him was the apparent professionalism with which the beating