"Foster, Alan Dean - Flinx 1 - For Love of Mother-Not" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

"Don't come near me, boy. Not with that monster sleeping on your arm."
"He wouldn't hurt you. Mother. Really."
"I'd feel more confident if I had the snake's word on it as well as yours, boy. Now go on, get out, be off with the both of ye. If we're fortunate, perhaps it will have some homing instinct and fly off when you're not looking."
But Pip did not fly off. It gave no sign of wishing to be anywhere in the Commonwealth save on the shoulder of a certain redheaded young man.
As Flinx strolled through the marketplace, he was startled to discover that his ability to receive the emotions and feelings of others had intensified, though none of the isolated bursts of reception matched in fury that first over-powering deluge of the night before. His receptivity bad increased in frequency and lucidity, though it still seemed as unpredictable as ever. Flinx suspected that his new pet might have something to do with his intensified abilities, but he had no idea how that worked, anymore than he knew how his Talent operated at the best of times.
If only he could find someone to identify the snake! He could always work through his terminal back home, but requests for information were automatically monitored at Central, and he was afraid that a query for information on so rare a creature might trigger alarm on the part of curious authorities. Flinx preferred not to go through official channels. He had acquired Mother Mastiff's opinion of governmental bueaucracy, which placed it somewhere between slime mold .and the fleurms that infested the alleys.
By now, he knew a great many inhabitants of the marketplace. Wherever he stopped, he inquired about the identity and origin of his pet. Some regarded the snake with curiosity, some with fear, a few with indifference. But none recognized it.
"Why don't you ask Makepeace?" one of the vendors eventually suggested. "He's traveled offworld. Maybe he'd know."
Flinx found the old soldier sitting on a street corner with several equally ancient cronies. All of them were pensioneers. Most were immigrants who had chosen Moth for their final resting place out of love for its moist climate and because it was a comparatively cheap world to live on, not to mention the laxity of its police force. On Moth, no one was likely to question the source of one's pension money. For several of Makepeace's comrades, this was the prime consideration.
The other aged men and women studied the snake with nothing more than casual interest, but Makepeace reacted far more enthusiastically. "Bless my remaining soul," he muttered as he leaned close-but not too close, Flinx noted-for a better look. Pip raised his head curiously, as if sensing something beyond the norm in this withered biped.
"You know what he is?" Flinx asked hopefully.
"Aye, boy. Those are wings bulging its flanks, are they not?" Flinx nodded. "Then it's surely an Alaspinian miniature dragon."
Flinx grinned at the old man, then down at Pip. "So that's what you are." The snake looked up at him as if to say. I'm well aware of what I am, and do you always find the obvious so remarkable?
"I thought dragons were mythical creatures," he said to Makepeace.
"So they are. It's only a name given from resemblance, Flinx."
"I suppose you know," Flinx went on, "that he spits out a corrosive fluid."
"Corrosive!" The old man leaned back and roared with laughter, slapping his legs and glancing knowingly at his attentive cronies. "Corrosive, he says!" He looked back at Flinx.
"The minidrag's toxin is, my boy, a venomous acid known by a long string of chemical syllables which this old head can't remember. I was a soldier-engineer. Biochemistry was never one of my favorite subjects. I'm more comfortable with mathematical terms than biological ones. But I can tell you this much, though I never visited Alas-pin myself." He pointed at the snake, which drew its head back uncertainly. "If that there thing was to spit in your eye, you'd be a kicking, quivering mess on the ground inside a minute-and dead in not much more than that.
I also remember that there's no known antidote for several of the Alaspinian toxins, of which that minidrag of yours wields the most potent. A corrosive, neurological poison-aye, who wouldn't remember hearing about that? You say you know it's corrosive?"
Flinx had an image of the dissolved end of the broomstick, the metal melted away ike cheese before a hot blade. He nodded.
"Just make sure you never get to know of it personally, lad. I've heard tell of such creatures being kept as pets, but it's a rare thing. See, the associational decision's all made by the snake. The would-be owner has no choice in the matter. You can't tame 'em. They pick and choose for themselves." He gestured toward Flinx's shoulder. "Looks like that one's sure settled on you."
"He's more than welcome," Flinx said affectionately. "He feels natural there."
"Each to his own," an elderly woman observed with a slight shudder. Affirmative nods came from others in the group.
"And there's something else, too." The old soldier was frowning, struggling to remember long-dormant knowledge."What you just said about it feeling 'natural' there reminded me. They say those flying snakes have funny mental quirks all their own. Now me, I wouldn't be able to say for certain if that's so-I'm only relating hearsay, didn't read it off no chip. But the stories persist."
"What kind of stories?" Flinx asked, trying not to appear overanxious.
"Oh, that the snakes are empathic. You know, telepathic on the emotional level." He scratched his head. "There's more to it than that, but I'm damned if I can remember the rest of it."
"That's certainly interesting," Flinx said evenly, "but pretty unlikely."
"Yeah, I always thought so myself," Makepeace agreed."You wouldn't have noticed anything like that since being around this one, of course."
"Not a thing." Flinx was an expert at projecting an aura of innocence; in this case, it glowed from his face, not his mind. "Thanks a lot for your time, Mr. Makepeace, sir."
"You're more than welcome to it, boy. Old knowledge dies unless somebody makes use of it. You watch yourself around that thing. It's no saniff, and it might could turn on you."
"I'll be careful," Flinx assured him brightly. He turned and hurried away from the gaggle of attentive oldsters.Makepeace was rubbing his chin and staring after the youngster as he vanished into the swirling crowd. "Funny. Wonder where the little flying devil came from? This is one hell of a long way from Alaspin. That reminds me of the time ..."
Flinx glanced down at his shoulder. "So you're poisonous, hub? Well, anyone could have guessed that from the little demonstration you gave with Mother's broom this morning. If you spit in my eye, I'll spit in yours."
The snake did not take him up on the offer. It stared at him a moment, then turned its head away and studied the street ahead, evidently more interested in its surroundings than in its master's indecipherable words.
Maybe miniature dragons don't have much of a sense of humor, Flinx mused. Probably he would have ample opportunity to find out. But at least he knew what his pet was. Glancing up beyond the fringe of the slickertic hood, he wondered where the snake's home world lay. Alaspin, old Makepeace had called it, and said it was far away.
The morning mist moistened his upturned face. The cloud cover seemed lighter than usual. If he was lucky, the gloom would part sometime that night and he would have a view of Moth's fragmented ice rings, of the moon Flame, and beyond that, of the stars.
Someday, he thought, someday I'll travel to far places as Makepeace and the others have. Someday I'll get off this minor wet world and go vagabonding. I'll be a free adult, with nothing to tie me down and no responsibilities. I'll lead a relaxed, uncomplicated life of simple pleasures. He glanced down at his new-found companion. Maybe someday they would even travel to the snake's home world of Alaspin, wherever it might be.
Sure you will, he thought bitterly. Better be realistic, like Mother Mastiff says. You're stuck here forever. Moth's your home, and Moth's where you'll spend the rest of your days. Count yourself fortunate. You've a concerned mother, a warm home, food ....
Food. Surely the flying snake was hungrier than ever. "We'd better get you something to eat," he told Pip, who gazed up at him with fresh interest.
He checked his credcard. Not much money there. Not that there ever was. Well, he could manage. Trouble was, he had no idea what Alaspinian minidrags liked to eat. "I wonder what you'd settle for," he murmured. The snake did not respond. "If it's live food only, then I don't think there's much I can do to help you. Not on a regular basis, anyway. Let's try here, first."
They entered a stall well known to Flinx. Most of the booths and tables were unoccupied, since it was between mealtimes. As it developed, finding suitable food for the minidrag turned out to be less of a problem than he had feared. Much to Flinx's surprise, the flying snake was omnivorous. It would eat almost anything he set in front of it, but raw meat seemed to be a special favorite. Flinx cut the meat into small chunks, which the snake gulped down whole. Flinx helped himself to an occasional bite. When times were bad, he and Mother Mastiff had existed on far less savory items.
Pip was fond of any kind of fruit or berry, though it shied away from vegetables. Something else they had in, common. Flinx thought. Oddly enough, the snake would even lap up milk. Flinx was sure he could supply enough variety to keep his pet both happy and alive. Maybe it would even eat table scraps. Perhaps that would weaken Mother Mastiff's antagonism. As be experimented further, he discovered that the snake was particularly fond of anything with a high iron content, such as raisins or flakes of guarfish. Had he been a biochemist equipped with a field laboratory, he might have learned that the minidrag's blood contained an extraordinary amount of hemoglobin, vital to transport the oxygen necessary to sustain the snake's hummingbirdlike flight.
When Pip had swollen to twice his normal diameter, Flinx stopped trying new foods on his pet. He relaxed in the booth, sipping mulled wine and watching the lights of the city wink to life. It wouldn't be too bad to live out his life on Moth, he admitted to himself. Drallar was never dull, and now he had a special companion with whom to share its excitement.
Yes, the flying snake had filled a definite void in his life as well as in some mysterious, deeper part of himself. But he still longed for the stars and the magical, unvisited worlds that circled them.
Be realistic, he ordered himself.
He waved to some acquaintances as they strolled past the restaurant. Older men and women. Sometimes Mother Mastiff worried that he preferred the company of adults to youngsters his own age. He couldn't help it. It wasn't that he was antisocial, merely that he chose his friends carefully. It was the immaturity of those his own age that drove him into the company of adults.
A fleeting emotion from one of those to whom he had waved reached back to him as the group rounded a corner, laughing and joking in easy camaraderie. Flinx snatched at it, but it was gone. He sat back in his booth, the wine making him moody. Better to have no Talent at all, he thought, than an unmanageable one that only teases.
He paid the modest bill, slipping his card into the table's central pylon. Outside, the evening rain had begun. Pip rode comfortably on his shoulder beneath the slickertic, only its head exposed. It was sated, content. Ought to be after all you ate, Flinx thought as he gazed fondly down at his pet.
Rain transformed the brilliant scales of the snake's head into tiny jewels. The moisture did not seem to bother the snake. I wonder, Flinx thought. Is Alaspin a wet world, also? I should have asked old Makepeace. He'd probably have known. People lucky enough to travel learn every-thing sooner or later.
Suddenly a stinging, serrated burst of emotion-hammer blow, unexpected, raw-doubled him over with its force. It was like a soundless screaming inside his head. Flinx was feeling the naked emotion behind a scream instead of hearing the scream itself. He had never experienced anything like it before, and despite that, it felt sickeningly familiar.
A bundled-up passer-by halted and bent solicitously over the crumpled youngster. "Are you all right, son? You-" He noticed something and quickly backed off.