Free Orphan Star by Alan Dean Foster

“May I be of service, sir?” he inquired politely, unobtrusively turning his head to one side.
    Flinx explained his needs. The information he provided was fed to a computer. A short while later the machine insisted that the person standing before the counter—name Flinx, given recorded name Philip Lynx, retina pattern so-and-so, pulse variables such-and-such, heart configuration thus-and-that—was indeed a registered depositor at the King’s Bank on Moth, in the city of Drallar, and that his present drawable balance as of this date was . . .
    The clerk stood a little straighter, fought to face Flinx. “Now then, sir, how did you happen to lose your registered cardmeter?”
    “I had an accident,” Flinx explained cryptically, “and it fell out of my pocket.”
    “Yes.” The clerk continued to smile. “No need to worry. As you know, only you can utilize a personal cardmeter. We will note the disappearance of your old cardmeter and within the hour you will have a new one waiting at this desk for you.”
    “I can wait. However,” he indicated his clothing with an eloquent sweep of his hands, “I’d like to buy some new clothes, and get cleaned up a little.”
    “Naturally,” the clerk agreed, reaching professionally into a drawer. “If you’ll just sign this slip and permit me to register your eyeprint on it, we can advance you whatever you require.”
    Flinx applied for a ridiculously modest amount, listened to the clerk’s directions as to where he could hire a bath and buy clothing, and left with a grateful handshake.
    The jumpsuit he eventually chose was more elaborate than the two Hivehom had already appropriated, but he felt he owed himself a little luxury after what he had been through.
    The bath occupied most of the rest of the hour, and when he returned to the overbank desk he once more resembled a human being instead of a denizen of Hivehom’s jungles. As promised, his new cardmeter was ready for him.
    “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”
    “Thanks, you’ve done more than enough. I . . .” He paused, looked to his left. “Excuse me, but I see an old friend.”
    He left the clerk with an open mouth and a tip of ten percent of his total withdrawal.
    The central terminal floor was high-domed and filled with the noise of travelers arriving and departing. The smallish thranx Flinx strode up behind was engaged in activity of a different sort.
    “I think you’d better give that lady back her abdomen purse,” he whispered to the insectoid lightfinger. As he spoke, a lavishly inlaid and chiton-bejeweled thranx matron, her flaking exoskeleton elegantly streaked with silver, turned to stare curiously at him.
    At the same time the thranx Flinx had surprised started visibly and whirled to confront his accuser. “Sir, if you think that I have . . .” The voice turned to a clacking gargle. Flinx smiled engagingly as Pip stirred on his shoulder.
    “Hello, Bisondenbit.”
    The concept of compound eyes bugging outward was unreasonable from a physiologic standpoint, but that was the impression Flinx received. Bisondenbit’s antennae were quivering so violently Flinx thought they might shake free, and the thranx was staring in expectant terror at the lethal length of Pip.
    “The abdomen purse,” Flinx repeated softly, “and calm down before you crack your braincase.”
    “Y-ye-yes,” Bisondenbit stuttered. Interesting! Flinx had never heard a thranx stutter before. Turning to the old female, Bisondenbit reached into an overly capacious b-thorax pouch and withdrew a small, six-sided bag of woven gold-colored metal.
    “You just dropped this, Queen Mother,” he muttered reluctantly, using the formalized honorific. “The hooks have come all unbent . . . see?”
    The matron was checking her own abdomen with a foothand while reaching for the purse with a truhand.
    “I don’t understand. I was certain it was secured . . .” She broke off, ducked her head and executed a movement with