For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [50]
When neither the cloud of fliers nor attacking poppers showed any signs of thinning, Flinx made the decision to move forward. He traveled slowly, picking his way through the trees. He had traveled nearly a kilometer before the swarms started to disperse, and eventually he passed into open forest once again. A backward glance showed a solid wall of gray, black, and yellow-orange shifting like smoke among the trees. It took a moment before he realized something was missing from the mudder.
“Pip?” The minidrag was not coiled on the passenger seat, nor was it drifting on the air currents above the mudder.
It took Flinx several worried minutes before he located his pet lying on its belly in the storage compartment behind the seats, swollen to three times its usual diameter. It had thoroughly gorged itself on the tasty little gray fliers. Flinx was convinced that his currently immobile companion did not look at all well.
“That’ll teach you to make a durq of yourself,” he told his pet. The minidrag moved once, slowly, before giving up totally on the effort. It would be a while before it flew again, even to its master’s shoulder.
Flinx continued northward, hardly pausing to sleep. Two days had passed since he had appropriated the mudder. Given the likely laxity of rural bureaucratic types, it might be some time before its absence was remarked upon. By the time someone figured out that a real theft had been pulled off, Flinx would be two hundred kilometers away, and the local authorities would have no way of knowing which direction he had taken. Skimming along just above the surface, a mudder left no trail. Its simple electric jet emitted practically no waste heat to be detected from the air. But Flinx did not expect any kind of elaborate pursuit, not for a single, small, comparatively inexpensive vehicle.
He continued to wonder about all the effort and expense someone was going through to abduct a harmless old woman. The implausibility of the whole situation served only to heighten his anxiety and did nothing to dampen his anger or determination.
Several days went by before he detected the change in the air. It was an alien feeling, something he couldn’t place. The omnipresent dampness remained, but it had become sharper, more direct in his nostrils. “Now what do you suppose that is, Pip?” he murmured aloud. The flying snake would not have answered had it been able. All its efforts and energies were still directed to the task of digesting fur, meat, and bone.
The mudder moved up a slight hill. At its crest a gap in the trees revealed a scene that took Flinx’s breath away. At first, he thought he had somehow stumbled onto the ocean. No, he knew that couldn’t be. No ocean lay north from Drallar, not until one reached the frozen pale or unless one traveled east or west for thousands of kilometers.
Though the body of water looked like an ocean, he recognized it for what it was: a lake, one of the hundreds that occupied the territory from his present position northward to the arctic. No sunlight shone directly on it, for the clouds were as thick here as they were in distant Drallar, but enough light filtered through to create a glare—a glare that exploded off that vast sheet of water to reflect from the cloud cover overhead and bounced again from the water.
The-Blue-That-Blinded, Flinx thought. He knew enough of Moth’s geography to recognize the first of the lakes which bore that collective description. The lake itself he could not put a name to, not without his map. It was only one of hundreds of similarly impressive bodies of fresh water whose names he had had no need to memorize during his readings, for he had never expected to visit that part of the world.
The glare imprisoned between surface and clouds brought tears to his eyes as he headed the mudder toward the water’s edge. The lake blocked his path northward. He needed to know whether to skirt it to the east or the west