Flinx Transcendent_ A Pip & Flinx Adventure - Alan Dean Foster [30]
Kiijeem patiently indicated fourth-degree ignorance. “What iss a ‘hat’?”
Flinx passed a hand over his red hair. “An item of clothing designed to cover the head.”
“Why would one want to cover one's head?”
“Well, for one thing, to keep the sun off.”
“Why would you want to keep the ssun off your head?” Instead of being enlightened, Kiijeem found himself more confused than ever.
Flinx sighed as Pip glided down to land softly in his lap. Absently, he stroked the back of her head and upper body as she curled up against him. “My kind can suffer if the head is exposed to too much sun.”
“What a sstrange concept.” Every time the softskin said something, Kiijeem learned something new about this alien species. “We welcome the ssun on our headss.”
“It's really not the sun I need to block, but my bogus reptilian visage.” From a distance Flinx continued to study the folds of his disguise. “What I need is the AAnn equivalent of a chameleon suit. Even if you could get hold of one for me, I probably couldn't make it fit right.” He chewed worriedly on his lower lip. “There has to be some way to hide my face.”
Kiijeem had a thought. “Perhapss if your face wass bandaged up, as if you had been in a sseriouss accident.”
Flinx considered the notion for several moments before finally shaking his head. Kiijeem had come to learn that among softskins, this odd side-to-side motion was a simplistic indication of negativity.
“Good thought,” Flinx told his young friend. “Your kind are sufficiently private so that no one would be likely to pry about the cause of the bandaging. But what about one of your publicans, those who are employed by the state to aid citizens in distress? I can't have a solicitous health professional inquiring about my ‘condition,’ no matter how caring their intentions. All it would take is for one specialist to have a close look at my simsuit and my subterfuge would be exposed.”
“That iss sso.” Kiijeem slumped. “I had not thought of that.”
“We'll think of something,” Flinx assured his young friend. “What we have to do is come up with a list of possibilities and winnow them down to the least inauspicious.”
As an assessment of available options intended to save his life, it was a conclusion decidedly lacking in optimism.
Vunkiil BNCCRSQ did not very much like her job. For one thing, the work was too easy, too repetitive. Without challenge there was little room in which to acquire status and therefore few opportunities for advancement. She longed for a crisis that would allow her to demonstrate her exceptional competency. One serious enough to allow her to reap the formal name of BNCCRS. Alas, it seemed that the “Qucent” of her family name was likely to be attached to her until her scales dulled in hue and her claws grew blunt and old.
What attracted her attention that afternoon did not exactly qualify as a crisis, but it was at least curious enough to entice her away from her tiresome regular duties.
In her position in the station as one of a dozen monitors of traffic in orbit above Blasusarr's largest continent, it was her task to keep track of a certain number of vessels both coming and going that had been assigned to her watch. Over the past several days one had drawn just a little more notice than most. Not because it had done anything unusual, not because its visual or electronic signature was in any way out of the ordinary, but simply because it had done precisely that—nothing. Not merely nothing unusual, but nothing at all. That was in and of itself—unusual.
Vessels did not arrive in orbit around the homeworld for no reason. Interstellar travel was always difficult, dangerous, and expensive. It was not undertaken for a lark. As with any action taken by the AAnn and their allies, reason and purpose underlay every activity. Yet in all the time it had been in quiet, standard orbit around Blasusarr since arriving from outsystem, this particular