"Foster, Alan Dean - Flinx - Tar Aiym Krang" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

The husband commenced negotiations in an admirably of hand manner, 'Well ... perhaps something might be engendered ... we already have a number of such baubles ... exorbitant prices ... a reasonable level ...'
'Level! You speak of levels?' Mother Mastiff's gasp of outrage was sufficiently violent to carry the odour of garlic all the way to where Flinx stood. The thranx, remarkably, ignored it. 'Good sir, I survive at but a subsistence level now". The government takes all my money, and I have left but it pittance, a pittance, sir, for my three sons and two daughters!'
Flinx shook his head in admiration of Mother Mastiff's unmatched style. Thranx offspring always came in multiples of two, an inbred survival trait. With most things terrene and human there had been little or no conflict, but due to a quirk of psychology the thranx could not help but regard human odd-numbered births as both pathetic and not a little obscene.
'Thirty credits,' she finally sighed.
'Blasphemous!' the husband cried, his antennae quivering violently. 'They are worth perhaps ten, and at that I flatter the craftsman unmercifully.'
'Ten!' moaned Mother Mastiff, feigning a. swoon. 'Ten the creature says, and boasts of it I Surely ... surely, sir, you do not expect me to consider such an offer seriously'. 'Tis not even successful as a jest.'
Fifteen, then, and I should report you to the local magistrate Even common thieves have the decency to work incognito.'
'Twenty-five. Sir, you, a cultured and wealthy being, surely you can do better than taunt and make sport of an old female. One who has doubtless fertilized as many eggs as you ..." The female had the grace to lower her head and blush. The thranx were quite open about sex ... their's or anyone else's ... but still, Flinx thought, there were lines over which it was improper to step.
Good manners it might not have been, but in this case at least it appeared to be good business. The male harrumphed awkwardly, a deep, vibrant hum. 'Twenty, then.'
'Twenty-three five., and a tenth credit less I will not say!' intoned Mother Mastiff. She folded her arms in a recognizable gesture of finality.
'Twenty-one,' countered the male.
Mother Mastiff shook her head obstinately, immovable as a Treewall. She looked ready to wait out entropy.
'Twenty-three five, not a tenth credit less. My last and final offer, good sir. This pair will find its own market. I must survive, and I fear I may have allowed you to sway me too far already.'
The male wouid have argued further, on principle if for nothing else, but at that point the female put a truehand on his b-thorax, just below the ear, and stroked lightly. That ending the bargaining.
'Ahhh, Dark Centres! Twenty-five ... no, twenty-three five, then! Thief! Assaulter of reason! It is well known that a human would cheat its own female-parent to make a half- credit!'
'And it is well known also,' replied Mother Mastiff smoothiy as she processed the sale, 'that the thranx are the most astute bargainers in the galaxy. You have gotten yourself a steal, sir, and so 'tis you and not I the thief"
As soon as the exchange of credit had been finalized, Flinx left his resting place by the old wall and strolled over to the combination booth and home. The thranx had departed happily, antennae entwined. On their mating flight'? The male, at least, had Seemed too old for that. His chiton had been shading ever so slightly into deep blue. despite the obvious use of cosmetics, while the female had been a much younger aquamarine. The thranx too took mistresses. In the moist air, their delicate perfume lingered-
'Well, Mother,' he began. He was not indicating parentage - she had insisted on that years ago - but using the title bestowed on her by the folk of the markets. Everyone called her mother. 'Business seems good.' She apparently had not noticed his approach and was momentarily flustered. 'What? What? Oh, 'tis you, cub! Pah!' She gestured in the direction taken by the departed thranx. 'Thieves the bugs are, to steal from me so I But have I a choice?' She did not wait for-an answer. 1 am an old wornaa and must sell occasionally to support myself, even at such prices, for who in this city would feed me?' 'More likely, Mother, it would be you who would feed the city, I saw you purchase those same mugspirals from Olin the Coppersmith not six days ago... for eleven credits.' 'Ay? Harrumph,' she coughed. 'You must be mistaken, boy. Even you can make a mistake now and then, you know. Um, have you eaten yet today?'
'A thisk-cake only.' 'Is that the way I raised ye, to live on sweets?' In her gratefulness for a change of subject she feigned anger. 'And I'll wager ye gave half of it to that damned snake of yours, anyway!' Pip raised his dozing head at that and let out a mild hiss. Mother Mastiff did not like the minidrag and never had. Few people did. Some might profess friendship, and after coaxing a few could even be persuaded to pet it. But none could forget that its kind's poison could lay a man dead in sixty seconds, and the antidote was rare. Flinx was never cheated in business or pleasure when the snake lay curled about his shoulder. 'Gentle, Mother. He understands what you say, you know. Nor 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 humourful, Mother. Besides, it does work in the act ...'
'Gimmick,' she snorted, but not loudly.
'And as to its sleeping and easing habits, it is an alien tiling 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 doubts 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 banned no one (Flinx knew otherewise, 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.'
Id wager,' he chucked. He turned to survey the chromaticalllly coloured crowd which flowed unceasingly around and in front of the little shop, trying to gauge the proportion firweiilthy 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 UV they pulsed with a faint yellow light. They were per Feet 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 outwards like invisible tentacles, occasionally snatching fin of her person here, another there, from the fringes of the shuffling mob. Soon be bad acquired his own substantial little island of watchful beings. He whispered softy 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 arid 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 endeavour to answer any question, any question, that any one in the audience, regardless of his race or planet of origin, would care to tempt me with.'
There was the usual sceptical 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.
Fiinx 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 outwards remained ever-puzzling So 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 & 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 Pali's tide-bore, the whelp is right! Forty-two hundredths. He's right!' He hand ad over the corns 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 plav. Surely there are those among you with questions worth tempting my simple skill'?'
A being at the hack of the crowd, a Quillp in full postmating plumage, craned its thin ostrichlike neck forward and asked in a high, squeaky voice, 'In what summer-month my hatchlings come a-bout 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 neighbour to shift to symbo-speech.
I make it a policy not to reveal professional secrets.' Flilix yawned with calculated elaboration. 'Come, a real question, gentle beings. I bore quickly. Miracles I cannot produce, though, and they usually bore anyway.' Two humans, big, muscular fellows, were pushing their way ungently 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 card meter. "Indeed I can, sir. Ask your question.'
The man opened his mouth, paused. 'How do I know what to pay you?'