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

were unnerving the rest of his customers.
    It should be light soon, Flinx mused as he neared the major route leading from Drallar to the city’s shuttleport. There landing craft transferred local goods to great KK-drive starships waiting in orbit and brought outworld goods into the city. Along this broad avenue he was sure to encounter either a jinx driver looking for a first-morn fare or one of many huge powered cargo transports. The latter he could always obtain a ride on, sometimes with the knowledge and consent of the operator, often without. In spite of his present relative affluence, he knew, old talents often came in handy.
    As morning neared, the mist-fog thickened. To an outworlder it presented an imposing obstacle to travel. To a native of Moth, it was as natural and expected as a sunrise. Drizzle ran steadily off Flinx’s slickertic cape. At least, that was the way it appeared to an on looker. Actually, the drops never touched the material itself. A steady static charge kept the rain from ever making contact with the always-dry cape.
    Flinx noticed a huge skimmer parked close by the last warehouse bordering the busy right-of-way. It was stacked with many tons of cargo.
    A bipedal figure suddenly appeared out of the fog, stumbling toward him. Pip was off his shoulder in an instant. Flinx started to reach for the fresh blade in his boot, then hesitated. He sensed no aura of danger about the figure. A shouted command brought Pip back; the anxious minidrag hovered in a tight spiral over Flinx’s head. Pip’s response assured Flinx that the weaving form ahead wasn’t dangerous; if it had been, Pip would have ignored the command.
    The figure stumbled onward, something gripped tightly in one hand. As the man neared, he seemed for the first time to take notice of Flinx. His glazed eyes appeared to clear slightly. Summoning fresh strength, the man increased his pace and steadied himself somewhat. For a minute Flinx thought he might have to free Pip after all. Then the man’s pupils filmed over again. He tripped on nothingness and fell sideways into the drainage ditch lining the right-hand side of the access road Flinx was walking on.
    His body formed a dam for the running water. The runoff rose and began to flow around the man’s arm and shoulder, the limp limb a long, slowly bleeding dike. Nor was the shoulder wound the only one visible on the man. He had been badly hurt in an efficient, professional manner.
    Sidling cautiously up to the corpse, Flinx found he was trying to watch every direction at once. His erratic talent, naturally, revealed nothing at the moment. Yet no one, injured or healthy, charged from the darkness at him. He returned his attention to the body.
    The black skullcap with its embroidered crimson insignia had fallen from the hairless pate when the man fell. Several portions of the tight black suit were soaked with blood. The fringed cloak was torn. It hung loosely from a single neck clasp.
    Further examination was unnecessary. The Qwarm was dead. Yet Flinx persisted, disbelieving. It was known that the Qwarm were masters of many bodily functions. Imitating death was a useful way to lull the suspicions of an intended victim. But Flinx was positive this one was not faking, nor would he ever fake anything again.
    Curious, he kneeled to examine the object clutched convulsively in the assassin’s right hand: a short, grayish metal cylinder that looked much like pewter. A tiny red light was still gleaming near the cylinder’s middle.
    Flinx found a loose scrap of pavement and passed it carefully between the out-pointing end of the cylinder and the air. There was a tiny
ping,
and a millimeter-wide hole appeared in the thick section of stone.
    To protect the many inquisitive children prowling the night streets of Drallar, Flinx touched a stud at the haft of the weapon. The red light went out. A repeat pass with the stone did not produce a puncture. Flinx pulled the tiny device free of its former