For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [3]
“I’ve been dealing with the regulations of this government since long before ye were born, woman.” She mounted the last few steps and, ignoring the official and the boy, strode back toward the Processing Office.
Inside, a bored clerk glanced up at her, noted the transaction-complete record as it was passed to his desk-top computer terminal, and asked matter-of-factly, “Name?”
“Mastiff,” the visitor replied, leaning on her cane.
“That the last name?”
“First and last.”
“Mastiff Mastiff?” The clerk gave her a sour look.
“Just Mastiff,” the old woman said.
“The government prefers multiple names.”
“Ye know what the government can do with its preferences.”
The clerk sighed. He tapped the terminal’s keys. “Age?”
“None of your business.” She gave it a moment’s thought and added, “Put down old.”
The clerk did so, shaking his head dolefully. “Income?”
“Sufficient.”
“Now look here, you” the clerk began exasperated, “in such matters as the acquisition of responsibility for welfared individuals, the city government requires certain specifics.”
“The city government can shove its specifics in after its preferences.” Mother Mastiff gestured toward the platform with her cane, a wide, sweeping gesture that the clerk had the presence of mind to duck. “The bidding is over. The other bidder has taken his leave. Hastily. Now I can take my money and go home, or I can contribute to the government’s balance of payments and to your salary. Which is it to be?”
“Oh, all right,” the clerk agreed petulantly. He completed his entries and punched a key. A seemingly endless form spat from the printout slot. Folded, it was about half a centimeter thick. “Read these.”
Mother Mastiff hefted the sheaf of forms. “What are they?”
“Regulations regarding your new charge. The boy is yours to raise, not to mistreat. Should you ever be detected in violation of the instructions and laws therein stated”—he gestured at the wad—“he can be recovered from you with forfeiture of the acquisition fee. In addition, you must familiarize yourself with—” He broke off the lecture as the boy in question was escorted into the room by another official.
The youngster glanced at the clerk, then up at Mother Mastiff. Then, as if he’d performed similar rituals on previous occasions, he walked quietly up to her, took her left hand, and put his right hand in it. The wide, seemingly guileless eyes of a child gazed up at her face. They were bright green, she noted absently.
The clerk was about to continue, then found something unexpected lodged in his throat and turned his attention instead back to his desk top. “That’s all. The two of you can go.”
Mother Mastiff harrumphed as if she had won a victory and led the boy out onto the streets of Drallar. They had supplied him with that one vital piece of clothing, a small blue slickertic of his own. He pulled the cheap plastic tighter over his head as they reached the first intersection.
“Well, boy, ’tis done. Devil come take me and tell me if I know why I did it, but I expect that I’m stuck with ye now. And ye with me, of course. Do you have anything at the dorm we should go to recover?”
He shook his head slowly. Quiet sort, she thought. That was all to the good. Maybe he wouldn’t be a quick squaller. She still wondered what had prompted her sudden and uncharacteristic outburst of generosity. The boy’s hand was warm in her gnarled old palm. That palm usually enfolded a credcard for processing other people’s money or artwork to be studied with an eye toward purchase and even, on occasion, a knife employed for something more radical than the preparation of food, but never before the hand of a small child. It was a peculiar sensation.
They worked their way through crowds hurrying