The End of the Matter Read online

  Despite Pip’s nervous stirrings on his shoulder, Flinx moved closer. Still the Qwarm gave no indication that they were at all aware of him. At the moment he had nothing in mind beyond following the two killers to the source of their confusion.

  A small crowd formed a bottleneck just ahead. The black-clad couple paused and talked together in whispers. Flinx thought he could sense muscles tensing. They ceased conversing and seemed to be straining to see over the heads of the cluster of beings ahead of them.

  Moving forward, Flinx encountered a low section of ancient wall off to one side. Part of it was occupied by seated figures staring over the heads of the crowd. No one spared him a glance as he mounted the wall and joined them. Seated securely on the damp, slick stone, he found he could easily see over the heads of even the tall avians in the crowd, which consisted mostly of local humans sprinkled with a few warmly bundled thranx and a smattering of other alien types. His position afforded him a clear view of the center of attraction. He could also keep an eye on the Qwarm, off to his right.

  In front of the crescent of laughing, appreciative creatures was a small raised stage. Flinx experienced a jolt of recognition. Jongleurs, magicians, and other entertainers were using the public stage to perform their various specialties for the entertainment of the crowd and the enhancement of their own empty pockets. Not much more than a year and a half ago, he had been one of those hopeful, enthusiastic performers. He and Pip had gone through much since those days. He felt the snake relax, responding to his nostalgic mood.

  A juggler currently working the stage finished manipulating four brightly colored spheres. One by one he tossed them into the air, and one by one they vanished, to the apparent mystification of the performer and the appreciative oohs and ahs of the crowd. The watchers applauded; the juggler collected. Life advanced.

  Flinx smiled. The material of which the balls were composed remained visible only when heat was steadily applied—such as that generated by the juggler’s rapidly moving hands. When that activating body heat was removed, even for a couple of seconds, the spheres became invisible. Behind the stage, Flinx knew, the juggler’s assistant waited to catch the carefully thrown invisible objects. Timing was essential to the act, since the assistant had to be in just the right position to catch the spheres.

  The juggler departed. As the next act came out on stage, Flinx felt a supple dig at his mind. For a brief instant he was experiencing the same feeling as the Qwarm. Looking over, he felt that they were straining to see a little harder.

  He turned his attention to their intended victim.

  A tall, robust-looking individual, the figure on stage was not as dark-skinned as Flinx. Black hair fell in greasy strands down his neck. He was dressed simply in sandals, loose slickertic pants, and a shirt opened to show a mat of thick curls on his chest. The shift sleeves were puffed, possibly to hide part of the act.

  Try as he would, Flinx could see or detect nothing remarkable about the man—certainly nothing that might require the attention of two Qwarm instead of one. Yet something here worried someone enough to engage the services of those dread people.

  Holding on to a shiny cord, the man was pulling at something still hidden behind the stage backdrop. The jokes and insults he alternately bestowed on whatever was at the other end of the cord were not particularly clever, but the crowd was well baited, anxious to see what could absorb such comments without responding.

  It was beginning to drizzle again. The crowd, used to omnipresent precipitation, ignored the rain. The jokes started to wear thin, and the crowd showed signs of restlessness. Having built the suspense, the rope-handler vented a violent curse and gave a hard yank on the cord. Flinx tensed slightly, now really anxious to see what was at the other end of the tether.

  When the creature finally wobbled unsteadily around the backdrop, its appearance was so anticlimactic, so utterly ludicrous, that Flinx found himself laughing in mixed relief and disbelief. So did the rest of the crowd.

  What emerged from behind the wall was probably the dopiest-looking creature he had ever seen, of a species completely unknown to him. Barely over a meter and a half tall, it was shaped roughly like a pear. The ovoid skull tapered unbroken into a conical neck, which in turn spread out into a wide, bulbous lower torso. It stumbled about on four legs ending in circular feet tipped with toe stubs. Where the neck began to spread into the lumpy body, four arms projected outward, each ending in four well-developed, jointless fingers. The thing gave the impression of being rubbery, boneless.

  The creature was dressed in a vest with holes cut at equal intervals for the four arms. Baggy, comical trousers completed the attire. Four large holes were set around the top of the head. Flinx guessed these were hearing organs. Beneath them, four limpid eyes stared stupidly in all directions. Occasionally one or two would blink, revealing double lids which closed like shades over the center of each pupil.

  A single organ like an elephant’s flexible trunk protruded from the top of the bald skull. It ended in a mouth, which served, Flinx guessed, as both eating and speaking organ . . . assuming the thing was capable of making noises.

  As if this grotesque farrago of organs, limbs, and costume wasn’t hysterical enough, the creature was colored bright sky-blue, with green vertical stripes running from neck to feet. Its owner-manager-trainer gave the cord another sharp yank, and the apparition wobbled forward, letting out a comical honk. Those in the front of the crowd burst into laughter again.

  Flinx only winced. Although the tugs on the cord didn’t seem to be injuring the creature physically, he didn’t like to see anything mistreated. Besides, no matter how hard its owner pulled, Flinx had the feeling that the creature was moving at its own speed, in its own time.

  Then, abruptly, Flinx wondered what he was doing there. He ought to be hunting down officials and records, not watching an unremarkable sideshow. The training which had preserved him as a child in Drallar began to reassert itself. It was none of his business if the Qwarm wanted to kill an itinerant animal trainer. He could gain nothing by intruding himself into this affair, Flinx reminded himself coldly. His curiosity had gotten him into trouble often enough before.

  He began to slip from his perch as the man in question ran through his routine, prancing about on stage while the crowd laughed at his antics and at those of the poorly trained but funny-looking creature. As the owner attempted to get the creature to execute various movements and the thing clumsily tried to comply, the laughter rose steadily.

  Flinx was about to abandon his place when something happened to give him pause—at a command from the owner, the creature spoke.

  It had an arresting, well-modulated, and undeniably intelligent voice, and it spoke quite comprehensible Terranglo despite its alien vocal organs. At another command, the creature switched to symbospeech, the commercial and social dialect of the Commonwealth. The alien’s voice was a high, mellifluous tenor that bordered on the girlish.

  It was reciting gibberish. The words each meant something, but the way the alien was stringing them together made no sense. Over this rambling monologue, the trainer was speaking to the crowd. “Alas,” the man was saying, “this strange being, who lives to delight and amuse us all, might possibly be as intelligent as you or I. Yet it cannot learn to speak understandably, for all that it could be our superior.”

  At this the alien produced—on cue from its trainer, Flinx suspected—another of its hysterical honks. The crowd, momentarily mesmerized by the trainer’s spiel, collapsed with laughter again.

  “Unfortunately,” the trainer went on when the roar had subsided, “poor Ab is quite insane. Isn’t that right, Ab?” he asked the alien. It responded with more of its nonstop gibbering, only this time all in rhyme. “Maybe he’s glad, maybe he’s sad, but as the philosopher once said, he is undoubtedly mad,” the trainer observed, and the alien honked again, beaming at the crowd.

  Flinx made an attempt to plunge into that alien mind. He achieved just what he expected, which was no
thing. If an intelligence capable of something greater than mimicry existed there, it was hidden from him. More likely, there was nothing there to read.

  Flinx pitied the creature and idly wondered where it had come from as he jumped down off the wall and brushed at the seat of his clammy pants. No doubt the Qwarm were going to perform their job soon, and he had no morbid desire to stay around to discover what method they were going to employ.

  It hit him like a hammer blow when he was halfway up the street. The imagery had come from the Qwarm. Turning and walking quickly back toward the crowd, he had a glimpse of them heading for a nearby building. The image they had unexpectedly projected explained the cause of their confusion: Their intended victim was not the simple animal trainer but rather his subject.

  It was reputed that the Qwarm did not hire themselves out for killing cheaply or frivolously. Therefore, one had to assume that in utter seriousness, and at considerable expense to someone—they were about to murder a foolish, seemingly harmless alien.

  There was no hint of worry or suspicion in the trainer’s mind, and nothing at all in that of his muddled ward. The minds of the Qwarm held only continued confusion and a desire to complete their assigned task. They could not question their task aloud, but they wondered privately.

  The stone-and-wood structure they vanished into was slightly over two stories tall, backed up against several other old, solid edifices. As if in a daze, Flinx found himself moving toward the same building. Listening with mind and ears, hunting with eyes, he stopped at the threshold. No one was standing guard inside the doorway. And why should they? Who would trail Qwarm, especially these Qwarm?

  He stepped into the building. The old stairway at the far end of the hallway showed one of the Qwarm ascending out of view. It was the woman, and she had been pulling something from a pouch. Flinx thought the object she removed might be a very tiny, expertly machined pistol of black metal.

  Cautioning Pip to silence, Flinx approached the railing and started upward, alert for any movement from above. As he mounted the rickety spiral he ran his last image of her over again in his mind. Probably a dart pistol, he mused. He knew of organic darts that would dissolve in a victim’s body immediately after insertion. Both the dart and the toxin it carried would become undetectable soon after injection.

  The staircase opened onto a second floor. Flinx turned his head slowly. Both Qwarm were standing by a window. One of them pulled the shade aside and peered through cautiously.

  A quick glance revealed that this floor was being lived on. It was sparsely but comfortably appointed. In a far, dark corner an attractive but tired-looking young woman was huddling on cushions, cuddling a much younger girl protectively in her arms. She was staring fearfully at the Qwarm.

  Flinx returned his attention to the assassins. While her companion held the shade back, the woman was readying the black pistol, her arm resting motionless on the windowsill. Without question, she was about to murder the alien.

  He had learned everything he could here; there was no point in staying around. As he started to retreat back down the stairs, the woman in the dark corner saw him and drew in a startled breath. No normal person would have noticed it, but to the Qwarm it might just as well have been a scream. Both whirled from the window, startled. Pip was off Flinx’s shoulder before the youth could restrain the minidrag.

  Reaching for his boot top, Flinx heard a slight phut from the supposed dart pistol. The explosive shell blew apart the section of floor he had just been leaning against. Then he rose and threw the knife in one smooth motion at the other Qwarm, who was fumbling at a belt pouch. It struck the man in the neck. He went down, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his severed artery.

  The female hesitated ever so slightly, unable to make up her mind whether to fire at Flinx or at the darting, leathery little nightmare above her. The hesitation was fatal. Pip spat, and the minidrag’s venom struck the woman in the eyes. Unbelievably, she didn’t scream as she stumbled about the room, clawing frantically at her face. She banged into the wall, fell over the twitching body of the man, and began rolling on the floor.

  Fifteen seconds later, she was dead.

  The man continued to bleed, though he had stopped moving. Flinx entered the room and rapidly inspected side rooms and closets. He was safe—for the moment. The little girl in the corner was crying softly now, but the woman holding her merely stared wide-eyed at Flinx, still too terrified to scream.

  “Don’t tell a soul of this,” Flinx admonished her as a nervous Pip coiled once more around his right shoulder.

  “We won’t . . . please, don’t kill us,” the woman whispered in fear. Flinx gazed into blank, pleading eyes. The little girl stared at the two motionless bodies, trying to understand.

  Flinx found himself staggering back toward the stairway. Without even bothering to recover his knife, he plunged down the steps. Somehow he had completely lost control of events and as had happened too often in the past, events had ended up controlling him.

  At the bottom of the stairs he paused, regarding the open doorway as an enemy. A glance right and left showed that this floor was still deserted. There had to be a back way out; he went hunting and found a little-used exit opening onto a narrow, smelly alley. The pathway appeared empty. After a careful search, he started down it at a brisk trot. Soon he was back on the streets. The moment he was convinced he wasn’t being followed, he turned and angled back toward the stage, approaching it from a new direction.

  As for the woman with the child, he suspected she would find new lodgings as quickly and quietly as possible. She might notify the police and she might not.

  By the time he reached his destination, the show was concluding. He slipped easily into the protective wall of bodies. Nothing had changed: The trainer was still making jokes at the dopey alien’s expense and the alien was bearing it all with the serenity of the softheaded. And that oval head did look soft, Flinx reflected. So why had the Qwarm felt it necessary to use such dangerously identifiable explosive projectiles?

  A respectable amount of applause and some tossed coins were awarded at the end of the show, as much for uniqueness as for polish, he suspected. The trainer scrambled about after the coins without regard for dignity.

  The crowd started to disperse. Apparently the alien act was the last for the afternoon at this location. Flinx sauntered casually backstage, where he found the trainer counting his money and inspecting his few props. Almost at once, the man grew aware of Flinx’s attention and looked up sharply. On seeing that it was only a youth, he relaxed.

  “What do you want, youngling?” he inquired brusquely.

  “We have something in common, sir.”

  “I can’t imagine what.”

  ‘We both train aliens.” Pip moved suddenly on Flinx’s shoulder, showing bright colors in the cloud-filtered light. The man frowned, and squinted as he peered close.

  “I don’t recognize your pet, boy.”

  Whoever this fellow was, Flinx thought, he wasn’t well traveled or informed. Minidrags were not common, but their reputation far exceeded their numbers. Yet this man obviously didn’t know one when he saw one.

  Flinx found his attention shifting to the alien, which stood patiently to one side, muttering rhythmically to itself in some unknown language. “In any case,” he explained, “I’m curious about your pet. I’ve never seen anything like him.” To make conversation, he went on, “Where did you get its name from?”

  Flinx’s politeness disarmed the man a little. “It came with the poor dumb monster,” he explained, exhibiting more sympathy than Flinx would have suspected of him. “I bought it from an animal dealer who thought it no more than that. But the creature has some kind of intelligence. It can speak as well as you or I, and in many languages. But in none of ‘em does it make sense. Oh, Ab’s quite mad, it is, but he can learn. Slowly, but enough to serve in the act.” He smiled, now filled with pride. “I was smart enough to recognize his uniqueness. No one else has ever bee
n able to identify Ab’s species either, boy. I hope it’s a long-lived one, though, since this one’s irreplaceable.

  “Far as the name goes, that’s kind of a funny tale. Only time he’s ever made sense.” He frowned. “I was trying to decide what to call ‘im when he gave out with one of his crazy ramblings.” He turned and eyed the alien. One egg-yolk eye watched him while the other three operated independently. Flinx considered that a creature capable of looking in four directions at once must have a mind of considerable complexity, simply to monitor such a flood of neural responses.

  “What’s your name, idiot,” the trainer asked, pronouncing the words slow and careful. “Name!”

  “Mana, Orix, Gelmp nor Panda,” the liquid tones ventured promptly, “my name is Abalamahalamatandra.”

  While the creature continued to mumble on in verse, the man looked back at Flinx. “Easy to see why I call ‘im Ab, hey?” he bent over and wiped at his muddy boots. “Dealer I bought him from had no clue to his species. Just assured me he was docile and friendly, which he is.”

  “It’s remarkable,” Flinx observed, flattering the man as he studied the blue-and-green lump, “that as mad as Ab is, you’ve managed to teach him so much.”

  “Told you, boy, all I’ve taught Ab are the rules of the act. He’s a mind of his own, of sorts. I said he can talk in many tongues, didn’t I?” Flinx nodded. “Terranglo and symbospeech are just two of ‘em. Every once in a while Ab gives me a start when I think he’s said something almost sensible.” He shrugged. “Then when I try to follow it up he goes on blabbin’ about the taste of the sky or the color of air or stuff I can’t make any sense of whatsoever. You’re curious about ‘im, are you? Go over and say hello, then.”

  “You’re sure it’s all right?”

  “I said he was friendly, boy. In any case, he’s got no teeth.”