Free Reunion by Alan Dean Foster

mougs who were still conscious had drawn weapons of their own, as had the man and his companions who had been loping toward him from the other end of the alley. Pip sped back to hover protectively above her master, slitted eyes alert, still full of piss and poison.
    Glancing backward, one of the mougs suddenly paused and muttered something to her mate. Holstering her weapon, she broke into a run. Flinx watched as they passed right by him. Joining the surviving pack members, they fled up the alley.
    He lowered his hands. Pip descended toward him but remained airborne and alert. A lone figure was coming up the alley toward them, advancing at a leisurely pace. Flinx searched for the sheen of a police uniform.
    The old man was solidly built but not tall. White stubble covered his squarish face, indifferent to depilatory and fashion. His lower jaw protruded as if he suffered from some incurable orthodontic contraction. Like the facial stubble, his hair was entirely white and combed back over his high head, to pause at the collar of his rough, natural cotton shirt. A small communicator was visible hanging from his waist, and he wore a finger-sized reader/probe above one ear. His back was only slightly bent. He might have been 70, or 170.
    Halting a safe distance from Flinx, he flourished a grandfatherly smile and surprisingly good teeth. One thick, callused finger jabbed at the air above the younger man’s head.
    “Call off thy winged devil, sonny. The street slime have all run away.” He nodded in the direction of the dead pack leader and his twitching, silent girlfriend. “Them that could, anyways.”
    Flinx searched for the glint of a weapon. “They ran from you, but you’re not armed.”
    “Only with my reputation.” The old man chuckled with amusement. “Afraid old Cayacu would hex ’em. I would, too. Eight against one—not righteous.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “What’s thy name?”
    The subject of the old man’s query almost started to say Philip, but hastily corrected himself. “I’m Flinx. The one with the wings is Pip.” As he spoke, the flying snake settled back onto his shoulder, remaining vigilant and visible. In this new arrival she sensed no threat.
    “She be a one, too.” The oldster chortled a second time, then beckoned with a broad gesture. “Thou’rt the one hub security’s looking for, aren’t thou? Come with me.”
    Straining, Flinx tried to appraise the elder without speaking. Like Pip, he perceived no threat. “Why should I go with you? So you can turn me in for the citizen’s reward?”
    “I don’t need the government’s credit. Thou’rt a strange one. I like strange things.” He indicated the far reaches of the alley into which the surviving pack members had fled. “They knew that. That’s why they ran.” Aged but still bright brown eyes met those of the younger man. “You know what a shaman be, sonny?”
    Flinx frowned. “Some kind of witch doctor?” He stared. “In this day and age?”
    “What day and age be that?” The deeply lined, weathered face overflowed with wisdom and good humor. “Shamanism never goes out of style, sonny. No matter how advanced the technology, no matter how grand the accomplishments of hard science, there’ll always be them for whom mysticism and magic transcend knowledge. Never forget that for many folk, it’s always easier to believe than to think.”
    “Then you’re a self-confessed fraud.” Flinx had always been too forthright for his own good.
    “Didn’t say that.” The old man chuckled. “Come on, sonny. Let’s get thee out of here.” He turned to leave.
    Flinx continued to hesitate. “You still haven’t given me a compelling reason for going with you.” On his shoulder, Pip was finally relaxing, her tiny but powerful heart pounding like a miniature impulse drive.
    Cayacu looked back. “Because I can get thee to wherever it be thou wantst to go. Assuming, that is, that thou hast someplace thou wantst to go. Or