Free The End of the Matter by Alan Dean Foster Page A

profit, Mormis spoke freely. “It was a trivial matter, interesting for one reason. The boy was originally sold by Arcadia.”
    “What did I say?” the tall human told his companion.
    “It seems the lad has done well since then,” Mormis went on.
    “Well enough,” the thranx commented enigmatically.
    “Now the orphan is hunting diligently and foolishly for his natural sire and dame. A harmless but expensive obsession. He searches now for his father.”
    “And you were able to give him information?” the man asked.
    ‘”No, I had no such details. However, I did relate to him an intriguing anecdote involving the circumstances of his sale. If you wish it, I can—”
    The thranx cut him off impatiently, checking a wrist chronometer as he spoke. “That is not necessary. We need to know only what he intends to do now, where he is going.”
    Mormis backed off. “Revealing that information would be unethical, sir.” He glanced significantly in the direction from which credit cubes of impressive size came. “To reveal such would be a violation of confidence.”
    “You are neither physician nor padre,” the tall man rumbled, “so don’t prattle to us of confidentialities and revelations.”
    “You have been paid enough,” the thranx declared quietly, adding in a politely blood-curdling way, “we are through wasting time.”
    “The boy might,” the slaver ventured as quickly as he could, “be traveling to Alaspin. He seemed anxious enough to go there. Driven, one could almost say. I would guess that at this very minute he is on his way to Drallarport.”
    “Your civility and common sense are respected,” the thranx told him, finishing a touch sarcastically, “along with your wonderfully responsive memory. We will bother you no longer. Go home, Char Mormis.”
    Turning in the way of the thranx, the insect started off into the fog at a fast jog. The tall human followed him easily, stepping over the body of Mormis’s manservant.
    The slaver watched as the odd twosome was absorbed by the mist. “It’s sure I won’t bother either of you,” he muttered to himself, slipping the credit cube into his shirt. His slave was breathing noisily now. Mormis walked over and kicked the recumbent bulk hard in the ribs. A second kick produced a weak groan.
    Then the massive humanoid sat up. He blinked and looked up at Mormis. “I request abjuration, master,” he muttered dully. “I no excuse, but opponent was much more than—”
    Mormis kicked him again. “I know that, idiot. Get up.” He found he was shivering, though not from the dampness. “I’m in a hurry to get home . . .”
     
    “Exalla Cadella morphine centalla, espoused lost in the woods. A time to conjure redonjure skull face from under the hoods,” Ab hummed softly.
    Flinx turned and called back to his dutifully trailing acquisition, disgust plain in his voice, “If you have to ramble, can’t you at least say something sensible once in a while?”
    Four arms made incomprehensible, meaningless gestures. The upper half of the blue torso leaned slightly forward. One bright-blue eye winked blankly at him, and the trunk atop the smooth skull weaved in time to some unspoken alien rhythm.
    Flinx sighed and continued trudging up the road. Carts were scarce this late at night—early in the morning, rather. Since taking leave of Mormis’s place he had seen none plying the streets.
    Supper still sat warm and heavy in his belly. He had eaten in a small comestabulary partway out of the city proper.
Quda
chips had come with his stew, and he had amused himself for a while by throwing the circular chips into the air, whereupon Pip would launch himself, lightninglike, from his shoulder to snatch them before they could hit the floor. The minidrag was extremely fond of anything heavily laced with salt. Flinx had halted the game only after the owner approached him to plead desperately for an end to it. It seemed that the venomous flying snake’s dives and swoops