tape would be hard to do, perhaps even impossible. The local peaceforcers would not be city-soft.
That left him with only the prospect of endless questioning ahead. Angrily he mused that coming here had probably been a mistake. Mother Mastiff was right—he was going to find nothing. In his anger he didn’t notice that he was now walking through a section of town he had not been to before.
Besides, there were his responsibilities to the Ulru-Ujurrians. Without his supervision their innocent experiment could prove dangerous, to themselves and to others. They needed him to explain the rules of civilization as they constructed their own.
What was he wasting his time for, then? Probably the man he sought had never set foot on the soil of Alaspin, had acquired his minidrag elsewhere, just as Flinx had. Time was passing. Why, in a little while he’d be twenty. Twenty! An old man.
A tightening on his shoulder caused him to look that way and speak comfortingly. “I know, Pip . . . don’t worry.” The minidrag stared back up at him with slitted, anxious eyes. “I’m just nervous, that’s all.” But it wasn’t Flinx’s state of mind which had caused his pet to tense. The source lay ahead.
A group of locals—prospectors, by the look of their clothes—were chatting in front of a business which managed to flourish a garish front even in the still-bright light of late afternoon. Concluding their conversation, one man and the two women miners left and walked on up the street. They turned to wave a goodbye, which the two men who stayed behind returned before entering the building.
Flinx had a good look at one, less so at his companion. The man nearest him was short, his skin darker than Flinx’s but not black. That color was reserved for his hair, which fell straight and slick to just above his shoulders. Cheekbones bulged in his face like apples in a child’s pocket, and his nose was as sharp and curved as the fins of an atmosphere flier. The other man was not nearly so swarthy, and was of a different ethnic background.
These details were interesting, but they were only incidental to what had caused both man and minidrag to tense. Each man had displayed a curled form on a shoulder, one on the left, the other on the right. Even from a distance there was no mistaking that blue-and-pinkish-red pattern of interlocking diamond shapes.
Minidrags!
Tame ones, probably as domesticated as Pip. His pet was the only miniature dragon Flinx had ever seen. While he had known that Pip came from here, he had had no idea that the practice of domesticating the venomous creatures was popular. Certainly it wasn’t widespread, because he had wandered through much of the town without seeing any tame flying snakes. Until now.
He increased his speed and found himself facing the entrance. If nothing else, he would learn something of his pet on this trip. The two men inside, living as they did on the snakes’ native planet, likely knew more about minidrags than Flinx had been able to learn on his own. Seeing the two men together, he suspected that the bond achieved between man and reptile led to one between men capable of taming such a dangerous animal. It was a suspicion compounded of equal parts naiveté and reason. If he was right, they would greet him as a friend.
Despite his anxiety, the entrance to the structure still gave him pause—the two men had entered a simiespin. Flinx was familiar with the notorious, barely tolerated simie booths. Places of unrefined amusement often advertised such booths for use.
In a simie booth, an individual’s thoughts were read, amplified, and displayed three-dimensionally in the booth user’s mind. The dreamlike simulacrum was complete with all relevant sensory accompaniment: sight, smell, touch, everything. All it took was the modest fee.
Naturally, a simie booth was private. Intrusion into a private booth, during which the intruder could also partake of some private dream, was one of the most
That left him with only the prospect of endless questioning ahead. Angrily he mused that coming here had probably been a mistake. Mother Mastiff was right—he was going to find nothing. In his anger he didn’t notice that he was now walking through a section of town he had not been to before.
Besides, there were his responsibilities to the Ulru-Ujurrians. Without his supervision their innocent experiment could prove dangerous, to themselves and to others. They needed him to explain the rules of civilization as they constructed their own.
What was he wasting his time for, then? Probably the man he sought had never set foot on the soil of Alaspin, had acquired his minidrag elsewhere, just as Flinx had. Time was passing. Why, in a little while he’d be twenty. Twenty! An old man.
A tightening on his shoulder caused him to look that way and speak comfortingly. “I know, Pip . . . don’t worry.” The minidrag stared back up at him with slitted, anxious eyes. “I’m just nervous, that’s all.” But it wasn’t Flinx’s state of mind which had caused his pet to tense. The source lay ahead.
A group of locals—prospectors, by the look of their clothes—were chatting in front of a business which managed to flourish a garish front even in the still-bright light of late afternoon. Concluding their conversation, one man and the two women miners left and walked on up the street. They turned to wave a goodbye, which the two men who stayed behind returned before entering the building.
Flinx had a good look at one, less so at his companion. The man nearest him was short, his skin darker than Flinx’s but not black. That color was reserved for his hair, which fell straight and slick to just above his shoulders. Cheekbones bulged in his face like apples in a child’s pocket, and his nose was as sharp and curved as the fins of an atmosphere flier. The other man was not nearly so swarthy, and was of a different ethnic background.
These details were interesting, but they were only incidental to what had caused both man and minidrag to tense. Each man had displayed a curled form on a shoulder, one on the left, the other on the right. Even from a distance there was no mistaking that blue-and-pinkish-red pattern of interlocking diamond shapes.
Minidrags!
Tame ones, probably as domesticated as Pip. His pet was the only miniature dragon Flinx had ever seen. While he had known that Pip came from here, he had had no idea that the practice of domesticating the venomous creatures was popular. Certainly it wasn’t widespread, because he had wandered through much of the town without seeing any tame flying snakes. Until now.
He increased his speed and found himself facing the entrance. If nothing else, he would learn something of his pet on this trip. The two men inside, living as they did on the snakes’ native planet, likely knew more about minidrags than Flinx had been able to learn on his own. Seeing the two men together, he suspected that the bond achieved between man and reptile led to one between men capable of taming such a dangerous animal. It was a suspicion compounded of equal parts naiveté and reason. If he was right, they would greet him as a friend.
Despite his anxiety, the entrance to the structure still gave him pause—the two men had entered a simiespin. Flinx was familiar with the notorious, barely tolerated simie booths. Places of unrefined amusement often advertised such booths for use.
In a simie booth, an individual’s thoughts were read, amplified, and displayed three-dimensionally in the booth user’s mind. The dreamlike simulacrum was complete with all relevant sensory accompaniment: sight, smell, touch, everything. All it took was the modest fee.
Naturally, a simie booth was private. Intrusion into a private booth, during which the intruder could also partake of some private dream, was one of the most
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