For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [29]
“I also remember that there’s no known antidote for several of the Alaspinian toxins, of which that minidrag of yours wields the most potent. A corrosive, neurological poison—aye, who wouldn’t remember hearing about that? You say you know it’s corrosive?”
Flinx had an image of the dissolved end of the broomstick, the metal melted away like cheese before a hot blade. He nodded.
“Just make sure you never get to know of it personally, lad. I’ve heard tell of such creatures being kept as pets, but it’s a rare thing. See, the associational decision’s all made by the snake. The would-be owner has no choice in the matter. You can’t tame ’em. They pick and choose for themselves.” He gestured toward Flinx’s shoulder. “Looks like that one’s sure settled on you.”
“He’s more than welcome,” Flinx said affectionately. “He feels natural there.”
“Each to his own,” an elderly woman observed with a slight shudder. Affirmative nods came from others in the group.
“And there’s something else, too.” The old soldier was frowning, struggling to remember long-dormant knowledge. “What you just said about it feeling ‘natural’ there reminded me. They say those flying snakes have funny mental quirks all their own. Now me, I wouldn’t be able to say for certain if that’s so—I’m only relating hearsay, didn’t read it off no chip. But the stories persist”
“What kind of stories?” Flinx asked, trying not to appear overanxious.
“Oh, that the snakes are empathic. You know, telepathic on the emotional level.” He scratched his head. “There’s more to it than that, but I’m damned if I can remember the rest of it.”
“That’s certainly interesting,” Flinx said evenly, “but pretty unlikely.”
“Yeah, I always thought so myself,” Makepeace agreed. “You wouldn’t have noticed anything like that since being around this one, of course.”
“Not a thing.” Flinx was an expert at projecting an aura of innocence; in this case, it glowed from his face, not his mind. “Thanks a lot for your time, Mr. Makepeace, sir.”
“You’re more than welcome to it, boy. Old knowledge dies unless somebody makes use of it. You watch yourself around that thing. It’s no saniff, and it might could turn on you.”
“I’ll be careful,” Flinx assured him brightly. He turned and hurried away from the gaggle of attentive oldsters.
Makepeace was rubbing his chin and staring after the youngster as he vanished into the swirling crowd. “Funny. Wonder where the little flying devil came from? This is one bell of a long way from Alaspin. That reminds me of the time . . .”
Flinx glanced down at his shoulder. “So you’re poisonous, huh? Well, anyone could have guessed that from the little demonstration you gave with Mother’s broom this morning. If you spit in my eye, I’ll spit in yours.”
The snake did not take him up on the offer. It stared at him a moment, then turned its head away and studied the street ahead, evidently more interested in its surroundings than in its master’s indecipherable words.
Maybe miniature dragons don’t have much of a sense of humor, Flinx mused. Probably he would have ample opportunity to find out. But at least he knew what his pet was. Glancing up beyond the fringe of the slickertic hood, he wondered where the snake’s home world lay. Alaspin, old Makepeace had called it, and said it was far away.
The morning mist moistened his upturned face. The cloud cover seemed lighter than usual. If he was lucky, the gloom would part sometime that night and he would have a view of Moth’s fragmented ice rings, of the moon Flame, and beyond that, of the stars.
Someday, he thought, someday I’ll travel to far places as Makepeace and the others have. Someday I’ll get off this minor wet world and go vagabonding. I’ll be a free adult, with nothing to tie me down and no responsibilities. I’ll lead a relaxed, uncomplicated life of simple pleasures. He glanced down at his new-found companion. Maybe someday they would even