For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [45]
There had been no real danger, he thought. On the other hand, if he had lost his saddle and fallen off—he recalled clearly the long, toothy snout of the carnivore and watched the forest with more respect.
Nothing else emerged to menace them. They encountered nothing larger than the many soaring rodents which inhabited that part of the forest. Pip amused itself by flying circles around them, for they were natural gliders rather than true filers. They could do nothing but squeak angrily at the intruder as it executed intricate aerial maneuvers in their midst. Those that chattered and complained the loudest, the flying snake selected for lunch.
“That’s enough, Pip,” Flinx called out to the gallivanting minidrag one day. “Leave them alone and get down here.” Responding to the urgency of its master’s mind, the flying snake stopped tormenting the flying rodents and zipped down to wrap itself gently around Flinx’s neck.
The inn they were approaching was one of hundreds that formed an informal backwoods network in the uninhabited parts of the vast forests. Such establishments provided temporary home to hardwood merchants and cutters, sightseers, fishermen and hunters, prospectors, and other nomadic types. There were more inns than a casual observer might expect to find because there were more nomads. They liked the endless forest. The trees concealed many people and a comparable quantity of sin.
Flinx tethered the stupava in the animal compound, next to a pair of muccax. The inn door sensed his presence and slid aside, admitting him. Smoke rose from a central chimney, but the stone fireplace was more for atmosphere than for heating. The latter was handled by thermal coils running beneath the inn floors. Many of the structures dotting the forest were rustic only in appearance, their innards as modern in design and construction as the shuttleport outside Drallar. The offworlder tourists who came to Moth to sample the delights of its wilderness generally liked their rough accommodations the same as their liquor: neat.
“Hello.” The innkeeper was only a few years older than Flinx. “You’re out by yourself?” He glanced at Pip. “That’s an interesting pet you have.”
“Thanks,” Flinx said absently, ignoring the first comment “What time do you serve midday meal?” He looked longingly toward the nearby dining room, calculating what remained on his credcard. At the present rate, he would starve before he could catch up to his quarry.
“You don’t want a room, then?”
“No, thanks.” He would sleep in a tube tent in the forest, as usual. Exhaustion made him sleep as soundly these days as any soft bed.
“What about your animal?” The innkeeper gestured toward the animal compound outside.
“He’ll be all right”
The young innkeeper looked indifferent. A pleasant-enough sort, Flinx thought, but sheltered—like so many of his potential friends back in Drallar.
“You can get a meal here anytime. We’re all autoserve here. This isn’t a fancy place. We can’t afford a live kitchen.”
“The machines will be fine for me,” Flinx told him. He walked through the entry area and on into the dining room. Other people were already seated about, enjoying their food. There was a young touring couple and one solitary man far back in a corner. After the usual curious glance at Pip, they ignored the newcomer.
Flinx walked over to the autochef, his mouth watering. Living off the land was fine for the stupava, but occasionally he needed something neither stale nor dehydrated. He made his selections from the extensive list, inserted his card, and waited while it processed the request. Two minutes later he picked up his meal, chose a table, and dug into the roast, fried tuber, and crisp green vegetable. Two tall cups of domestic coffee-substitute washed it down.
The innkeeper strolled in. He chatted a moment with the couple, then sauntered over to Flinx’s table. Despite his desire for solitude, Flinx didn’t feel much like arguing, so he said nothing when the ’keeper pulled over