For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [99]
Pip emerged atop the roof into the light, early-morning rain. Up that way the hate lay, to the north, up the alley. Wings unfolded and fanned the air. The minidrag circled once above the shop, paused to orient itself, then buzzed determinedly into the opening nearby where the alley emerged into cloudlight.
It braked to a halt and hovered, hissing at the mental snarl that had drawn it.
“Over here pretty, pretty,” coaxed a voice. “You know who hates, your master, don’t you? And you know what we’ll do to him if we get the chance.”
The flying snake shot through the partly open doorway into the hate-filled room beyond. Two humans awaited it with deadly calm. Never would they have the chance to harm the minidrag’s master. Never!
A thin stream of venom spewed from the roof of the flying snake’s upper jaw and struck toward the nearest of the vicious bipeds. It never reached the man. Something was between him and Pip, something hard and transparent. The venom contacted it, hissed in the still air as it started to eat at the transparent shield. Startled, the two monsters seated behind the shield flinched and began to rise.
But the door opening on the alley had already slammed shut behind the minidrag. Suddenly, a strange, sweet smell filled the room. Wingbeats slackened and grew weak. Twin eyelids fluttered and closed. The flying snake flopped about on the floor like a fish out of water, wings beating futilely against the plastic as it gasped for breath.
“Be careful,” a distant voice warned. “We don’t want to overdose it. It’s no good to us dead.”
“I’d sooner see it dead and take our chances with the subject,” another said.
“We need every hold we can manage, including the possibility raised by this little devil.”
The voices faded. Soon the flying snake had stopped moving. Long minutes passed before a man dared to enter the sealed room. He was dressed head to toe in a protective suit. His eyes were anxious behind the transparent visor. With the long metal prod he carried he poked once, twice at the comatose minidrag. It jerked convulsively in response to the touches, but otherwise displayed no sign of life.
The man took a deep breath and set the long prod aside as he bent to pick up the thin body. It hung limply in his gloved hands as he inspected it.
“Still breathing,” he declared to the people pressed close to the transparent wall.
“Good. Get it in the cage quick,” said the shorter of the two observers. Her companion was studying the hole where the venom had finally eaten through the protective shield.
“I’d like to see a molecular breakdown on this stuff,” he murmured, careful to keep his fingers clear of the still-sizzling edges of the ragged gap. “Anything that can eat through pancrylic this fast . . .” He shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t see how the venom sacs can contain the stuff without dissolving right through the creature’s jaw.”
“You’d need a toxicologist and biochemist to explain it, if they could,” said the woman standing next to him, likewise taking a moment to examine the hole. “Perhaps there’s more to it than just a straightforward poison. The snake’s mouth may hold several separate sacs whose contents mix only when it’s spraying someone.”
“Makes sense.” The man turned away from the shield that had nearly failed them. “We better get moving. The subject may awaken any minute now. Be sure you keep the monster thoroughly narcotized.”
“Is that necessary?” She frowned. “Surely the cage will hold it.”
“That’s what we thought about the wall. The cage is tougher, but we don’t want to take any chances. I don’t want our guest spitting his way free while we’re asleep in our beds.”
“No, we sure as hell don’t.” The woman shuddered slightly. “I’ll take charge of it myself.