For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [104]
But somehow that didn’t make much sense, either.
“I wish you’d tell me what you want with me,” he said aloud, “and what’s going on.”
“It’s not our place to explain.” The man glanced at his companion and then said, as if unable to suppress his own curiosity, “Have you ever heard of the Meliorare Society?”
Flinx shook his head. “No. I know what the word means, though. What’s it got to do with me?”
“Everything.” He seemed on the verge of saying more, but the old woman shushed him.
The building they entered was surrounded by similarly nondescript edifices. They were off the main shuttleport accessway. Flinx had seen only a few people about from the time they had entered the area. No one was in the dingy hallway.
They rode an elevator to the third floor. His escorts led him through broad, empty corridors, past high-ceilinged storage rooms filled with plasticine crates and drums. Finally, they halted before a small speaker set into the plastic of an unmarked door. Words were exchanged between Flinx’s escort and someone on the other side, and the door opened to admit them.
He found himself in still another room crammed full of bundles and boxes. What set it apart from a dozen similar rooms was the right-hand wall. Stacked against it was an impressive array of electronics. Empty crates nearby hinted at recent and hasty unpacking and setup. The consoles were powered-up and manned. Their operators spared curious glances for the new arrivals before returning their attention to their equipment. Save for their uniformly grim expressions, they looked like retirees on a holiday outing.
Two people emerged from a door at the rear of the room. They were soon joined by a third—a tall, silver-haired, ruggedly handsome man. He carried himself like a born leader, and Flinx concentrated on him immediately. The man smiled down at Flinx. Even though he was close to Mother Mastiff’s age, the man held himself straight. If he was subject to the infirmities of old age, he did a masterful job of concealing them. Vanity or will? Flinx wondered. He sought the man’s emotions and drew the usual blank. Nor could he feel anything of Pip’s presence in the room or nearby.
Even as the tall senior was shaking his hand and mouthing platitudes, Flinx was searching for the most likely escape route. There seemed to be only one exit: the door through which he had entered. He had no idea where the door at the far end of the room led, but suspected that freedom was not one of the possibilities.
“What a great pleasure to finally meet you, my boy,” the old man was saying. His grip was firm. “We’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to arrive at this meeting. I would rather not have had to proceed in this fashion, but circumstances conspired to force my hand.”
“It was you, then”—Flinx gestured at the others—“who were responsible for abducting my mother?”
Cruachan relaxed. There was no danger in this skinny, innocent boy. Whatever abilities he might possess remained dormant, awaiting proper instruction and development. Certainly his attitude was anything but threatening.
“I asked him,” the man who had brought Flinx from the marketplace reported, “if he’d heard of the Society. He said no.”
“No reason for him to,” Cruachan observed. “His life has been restricted, his horizons limited.”
Flinx ignored that appraisal of his limitations. “Where’s Pip?”
“Your pet, I assume? Yes.” The tall man turned and called out toward the rear doorway. The section of wall containing the door creaked as hidden winches pulled it aside. Beyond lay still another of the endless series of storage chambers, packed with the usual containers and drums and crates. On a table in the forefront stood a transparent cube, perhaps a meter square, topped with several small metal tanks. Hoses ran from the tanks into the cube.
To the left of the table stood a nervous-looking old man holding a small, flat control box. His thumb was pressed hard against one