Read Online The End of the Matter by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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acquired his lethal pet elsewhere. But a destination was better than nothing.
“Thank you again, Char Mormis.” Flinx rose to leave, and saw that the elevator had returned, along with its hulking operator. “I just wish,” he offered in parting, “that one as nice as you were engaged in some other business.”
“The morality of it can weigh heavily at times,” the slaver confessed as the lift door closed on Flinx and Ab. “But not,” he concluded softly after the elevator was on its way surfaceward, “enough to make this one want to quit.”
Chapter Four
It was a busy, fruitful day, and Mormis thought no more of his interesting visitor. By the time darkness had come and he locked up for the night, he had forgotten the incident completely.
The modest Mormis tower home lay in a nearby inurb, one of many such restricted enclaves in Drallar. It was a pleasant evening, and Mormis decided to walk. His monolithic manservant strode comfortingly alongside.
Out of necessity, the streets were relatively well lit. Perpetual cloud cover hid any light the planet’s bright moon, Flame, might have thrown on the pavement.
Mormis tugged his thick cloak closer about him. He was afflicted with bursitis, an ancient disease. Mournfully he mused that the only part of his life which was not well lubricated involved his aching joints. Physicians and wishans, none could help.
When he was halfway home, a strong yet gentle voice called out of shadows to him: “We would request of you a few minutes of your time, Char Mormis of Arcadia. We wish minimum delay in your homeward journey.”
Despite the assurances in that voice, Mormis reacted as any man in his profession might. Voices in the night usually meant only one thing on Moth, where darkness was the shield of beings with less-than-civil intentions.
Throwing aside his cloak to give himself maximum mobility, he turned, hunting for the source of the request. As if in response, a figure emerged from the fog around him. It approached on four legs, foothands and truhands all extended in a pose of insectoid placation. Vast compound eyes shone bright with reflected light from the street illuminators.
Mormis took in the shiny, exfoliating chiton, the deep purple coloring. But neither the thranx’s obvious age nor his conciliatory manner served to relax him. He hadn’t had any dealings with a thranx in some time. Not that they didn’t own slaves. For all their vaunted logic, the thranx were still a race of individuals, some of whom were as subject to vice as their human counterparts were.
So he retreated from the advancing figure and ordered his manservant to take defensive action. When the insect was pinioned, then, perhaps, he would talk.
The massive, blue-cloaked golemite lumbered forward. The slaver was not eased in mind when the fragile-looking insect stood his ground. “Really, Char Mormis,” he observed in the delightfully musical voice of the thranx, “inhospitality is hardly the mark of a successful businessman. I am disappointed. And this looking for a hidden weapon on my person . . .”
Mormis was about to interrupt to say that it was the thranx who was about to be disappointed when his fears were partially confirmed. A second figure emerged from the fog to intercept his servant.
The new figure was human, somewhat taller than average but slim and unimpressive. His advanced age was belied by the suppleness of his movements. He looked like an ambulatory birch tree. Gray hair, cavernous wrinkles, and other age signs were held at bay by eyes that were coal-black shards.
This steely-looking scarecrow blocked the advance of the servant, who reacted rapidly and directly. A short but furious scuffle followed in the middle of the street. The great mass of Mormis’s servant seemed to obliterate his opponent, but when movement ceased, it was to reveal the tall, lanky stranger standing over the motionless bulk of the golemite.
The tall man, part Oriental,
“Thank you again, Char Mormis.” Flinx rose to leave, and saw that the elevator had returned, along with its hulking operator. “I just wish,” he offered in parting, “that one as nice as you were engaged in some other business.”
“The morality of it can weigh heavily at times,” the slaver confessed as the lift door closed on Flinx and Ab. “But not,” he concluded softly after the elevator was on its way surfaceward, “enough to make this one want to quit.”
Chapter Four
It was a busy, fruitful day, and Mormis thought no more of his interesting visitor. By the time darkness had come and he locked up for the night, he had forgotten the incident completely.
The modest Mormis tower home lay in a nearby inurb, one of many such restricted enclaves in Drallar. It was a pleasant evening, and Mormis decided to walk. His monolithic manservant strode comfortingly alongside.
Out of necessity, the streets were relatively well lit. Perpetual cloud cover hid any light the planet’s bright moon, Flame, might have thrown on the pavement.
Mormis tugged his thick cloak closer about him. He was afflicted with bursitis, an ancient disease. Mournfully he mused that the only part of his life which was not well lubricated involved his aching joints. Physicians and wishans, none could help.
When he was halfway home, a strong yet gentle voice called out of shadows to him: “We would request of you a few minutes of your time, Char Mormis of Arcadia. We wish minimum delay in your homeward journey.”
Despite the assurances in that voice, Mormis reacted as any man in his profession might. Voices in the night usually meant only one thing on Moth, where darkness was the shield of beings with less-than-civil intentions.
Throwing aside his cloak to give himself maximum mobility, he turned, hunting for the source of the request. As if in response, a figure emerged from the fog around him. It approached on four legs, foothands and truhands all extended in a pose of insectoid placation. Vast compound eyes shone bright with reflected light from the street illuminators.
Mormis took in the shiny, exfoliating chiton, the deep purple coloring. But neither the thranx’s obvious age nor his conciliatory manner served to relax him. He hadn’t had any dealings with a thranx in some time. Not that they didn’t own slaves. For all their vaunted logic, the thranx were still a race of individuals, some of whom were as subject to vice as their human counterparts were.
So he retreated from the advancing figure and ordered his manservant to take defensive action. When the insect was pinioned, then, perhaps, he would talk.
The massive, blue-cloaked golemite lumbered forward. The slaver was not eased in mind when the fragile-looking insect stood his ground. “Really, Char Mormis,” he observed in the delightfully musical voice of the thranx, “inhospitality is hardly the mark of a successful businessman. I am disappointed. And this looking for a hidden weapon on my person . . .”
Mormis was about to interrupt to say that it was the thranx who was about to be disappointed when his fears were partially confirmed. A second figure emerged from the fog to intercept his servant.
The new figure was human, somewhat taller than average but slim and unimpressive. His advanced age was belied by the suppleness of his movements. He looked like an ambulatory birch tree. Gray hair, cavernous wrinkles, and other age signs were held at bay by eyes that were coal-black shards.
This steely-looking scarecrow blocked the advance of the servant, who reacted rapidly and directly. A short but furious scuffle followed in the middle of the street. The great mass of Mormis’s servant seemed to obliterate his opponent, but when movement ceased, it was to reveal the tall, lanky stranger standing over the motionless bulk of the golemite.
The tall man, part Oriental,
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