For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [46]
“Excuse me,” the young man said cheerfully. “I don’t see many people my own age here, let alone anyone younger traveling on his own—certainly never with so interesting a companion.” He pointed to Pip.
The flying snake had slithered down from Flinx’s neck and was sprawled across the table, gulping down green seeds. They complemented a steady diet of arboreal rodents. The seeds really weren’t necessary, but the minidrag was not one to pass up a meal that couldn’t fight back.
“What are you doing out here all by yourself?”
A real diplomat, this one, Flinx thought to himself. “I’m looking for a friend,” he explained, chewing another chunk of roast.
“No one’s left any messages for you here if that’s what you’re wondering,” the innkeeper said.
“The friends I’m looking for don’t like to leave messages,” Flinx said between mouthfuls. “Maybe you’ve seen them,” he asked without much hope. “A very old woman is traveling with them.”
“We don’t get many very old people out this way,” the innkeeper confessed. “They stay closer to the city. That’s what’s so funny.” Flinx stopped in midchew. “There was a group in here just recently that might be the friends you’re looking for.”
Flinx swallowed carefully. “This old woman is short, a good deal shorter than me. She’s close to a hundred.”
“Except for her mouth, which is a lot younger?”
“You’ve seen her!” The meal was suddenly forgotten.
“Five days ago,” the innkeeper said. Flinx’s heart sank. The distance between them was increasing, not growing shorter.
“Did you happen to see which way they went?”
“Their mudder took off almost due north. I thought that was odd, too, because the line of inns most tourists follow runs pretty much northwest from here, not north. There are a few lodges due north, of course, up in the Lakes District, but not many. They were a funny bunch, and not just because the old woman was with them. They didn’t look like sightseers or fishermen.”
Trying not to show too much anxiety, Flinx forced himself to finish the rest of his meal. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the help, but the talkative youth seemed just the type to blab to anyone who might be curious about a visiting stranger, including the forest patrol. Flinx did not want anyone slowing his pursuit with awkward questions—especially since he intended to increase his speed as soon as feasible and like as not by methods the police would frown upon. Nor had he forgotten the watchman in Drallar whose helpfulness had nearly turned to interference.
“You’ve been a big help,” he told the other.
“What’s all this about?” the innkeeper persisted as Flinx finished the last of his food and let Pip slide up his proffered arm and onto his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Flinx thought frantically. What could he say to keep this loudmouthed innocent from calling up the patrol? “They’re on vacation—my great-grandmother and some other relatives. They argue a lot.” The innkeeper nodded knowingly. “I wasn’t supposed to be able to go along,” Flux continued with a wink. “But I slipped away from my studies, and I’ve sort of been playing at trailing them. You know. When they get to the lodge where they’ll be spending the rest of the month, I’m going to pop in and surprise them. Once I land in their laps, they can hardly send me home, can they?”
“I get it.” The innkeeper smiled. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thanks.” Flinx rose. “Food’s good.” He gathered up Pip and headed for the door.
“Hey,” the innkeeper called out at a sudden thought, “what lodge are your relatives headed for?” But Flinx was already gone.
Outside, he hurriedly mounted his stupava and turned it into the woods. Five days, he thought worriedly. Two more at this pace and they would be ten ahead of him. The stupava was doing its best, but that was not going to be good enough. Somehow he had to increase his speed. He reined in and let the bird catch its breath as he extracted a ten-centimeter-square sheet of plastic from his backpack. It was half a centimeter thick and had cost him plenty back in the marketplace, but he could hardly