The End of the Matter (20 page)

“Not if in activation it neutralized itself,” Truzenzuzex argued charmingly.

“You can’t convince me with semantics.”

“I know, young lady. You require physical proof.” More Thranx chuckling, a sound like seashells sliding against each other. “We think it worth trying to locate such proof, if it does exist. We have nothing to lose except three worlds.”

Chapter Eleven

After a moment’s silence, Flinx pointed back at Ab, “How do you know Ab knows anything more about the Hur’rikku than he’s already said?”

“He appears to be a limitless fount of information, Flinx. Or haven’t you noticed that he never repeats the same rhyme twice?”

“That may be so,” Flinx conceded, “but he only talks nonsense.”

“Much of it probably is nonsense that will always remain incomprehensible to us.” Truzenzuzex was agreeable. “But some of it is not.”

“How do you propose to get any more Hur’rikku information out of him?”

Truzenzuzex sighed deeply, an eerie whistling sound in the near-empty chamber. “We’ve chased him across two planets now so that I can do just that. But why don’t you do it, Flinx?”

“Do what, sir?”

“Ask him. Ask him about the Hur’rikku.”

“I . . .” Flinx noticed that the philosoph had switched on a tiny recorder attached to his thorax vest. The insect was serious about this. Well, he could play along. Turning, he faced Ab and said sharply, “Ab! Abalamahalamatandra!” All twelve rocks fell to the stone floor, their juggler ignoring them save for a single blue orb. He gazed wanly at the stones until they stopped bouncing.

“What about the Hur’rikku, Ab?” Flinx asked, feeling like an idiot as he talked sensibly to his ward. “Tell us about the Hur’rikku. Tell us about how they stopped the collapsar rogue.”

“Nine and five, five and nine, loverly to dine if fine. ‘Ricku, ‘Ricku, sing to hicku, haiku you, you key me.”

“There, you see?” Flinx turned and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It’s useless—he’s crazy.”

“Not completely,” countered Truzenzuzex. “It’s simply a matter of points of tangency. You have none. Bran and I have learned several. For example,
Neinenive
is a Geeprolian translation for Hur’rikku neuter. They had three sexes, it seems. Ab is trying to convey information, but it’s garbled through maybe a dozen languages at a time, all of which he’s trying to pronounce as Terranglo.”

Flinx threw Ab a look of pure incredulity before returning his attention to the expectant philosoph. “You mean Ab’s been making sense all along?”

“No. Some of his chattering seems to be pure nonsense. The trouble is separating out the sense. Or perhaps I am wrong and everything he is saying would make sense if only we had some way of breaking it down. His name, Abalamahalamatandra, for example. I wonder if that’s just a collection of conveniently collected syllables, or if it actually means something.” The philosoph rose from his squatting position. “Let us take your Ab along, probe and prod him, and see what other insightful nonsense he can spout.”

Tse-Mallory and September clambered back down the steps and stood at the base. “Patience, ship-brother,” Truzenzuzex called to his companion. “We are coming.”

“Now,” Tse-Mallory responded in Terranglo. “We’ve wasted too much time here. September and I killed two Otoid scouts a few minutes ago. They must be returning. There are also the Qwarm to consider.”

Flinx started. He had almost forgotten about the professional assassins, with all the amazing talk of lost races, ultimate weapons, and a coherent Ab.

“You brought a fair-sized skimmer, sirs,” said September. “I think we can all fit inside.”

“We can if you take no more than that.” Tse-Mallory indicated Hasboga, who was laden with tapes, real books, and a few modest Mimmisompo artifacts.

“Nothing here for me,” September commented with a grunt. “I can always come back for whatever the abos leave.”

“Why bother, Skua?” Hasboga wanted to know. “We found nothing here. We probably never would.” Her gaze roamed the chamber floor a last time. “We tried the wrong building. I see no profit in returning. Next time we’ll try somewhere else.”

“Sure we will, silly,” September said reassuringly. “We’ll raise the credit somewhere, don’t worry.” He shifted the enormous Mark Twenty from his shoulder to a ready position. “Gentlesirs, if you’ll lead the way I’ll endeavor to keep an eye or two on the tree trunks, in case the need rises for me to incinerate one or two overcurious little green brothers.”

“We will chance your expertise in the jungle.” Tse-Mallory’s mouth twisted in distaste. “Though I wish you’d phrase your intent in a less primitive fashion. All intelligent beings are brothers, you know. The Otoid as well.”

A reflective grin split the giant’s tanned face. “I had a brother once. Didn’t like him either. I . . .” He cut the story short with an expansive gesture. “After you, gentlesirs and lady.”

As they emerged from the sheltering stone walls of the temple, Flinx found himself nervously eying every branch and vine and creeper, convinced that a thousand Otoid were concealed nearby. At any second he expected to feel a rain of darts, loosed from the nearest trees.

Ahead of him, Truzenzuzex was murmuring deeply in Low Thranx. Nonsense rhymes and songs emanated from Ab with the usual unconcern of the mad. Only now they seemed to be in response to the philosoph’s hypnotic mutters. Some were in Ab’s mangled Terranglo, the rest in languages unknown to Flinx. But twice, he thought he heard mention of the Hur’rikku, so perhaps the philosoph was learning something after all. Privately, Flinx couldn’t help but think his two wizened friends were engaged in a fruitless chase founded on a futile assumption.

All the jungle noises which assaulted his ears were animalistic and indifferent. There was no sign of the native Otoid. It was only a short walk to the hovering skimmer.

Tse-Mallory employed a control panel on his belt to deactivate the protective energy shield surrounding the craft and then to have it sink to the ground for easy boarding. It was a small cargo craft, much larger than the tiny two-man ship Flinx and Pocomchi had traveled in.

That forced Pocomchi and Habib into his thoughts again. Indirectly, at least, he was the cause of their deaths.

Why, he mused in anguished fury, did so many people have to perish around him, when what he sought was neither wealth nor power but only knowledge of his origins?

Tse-Mallory boarded the skimmer first, followed, with the always unexpected agility, by Truzenzuzex, then Hasboga and September. As soon as Flinx entered the broad cockpit, with Ab bringing up the rear, Tse-Mallory touched a switch and the canopy door slid shut.

The engine whined expectantly. Soon they would be back in Alaspinport, where he could press September to finish his explanation, no matter how much the giant tried to put off Flinx’s questions this time. His gaze rose curiously, why he didn’t know, to the transparent roof. Something moved against the clear sky. Squinting, he stood on tiptoes and peered so hard the back of his eyes hurt. Then Flinx was jumping up and down, shouting violently, “Stop the skimmer, stop, stop!”

Tse-Mallory hit a switch reflexively, and the craft, which had commenced a slow turn, came to an abrupt halt. September was struggling to reclaim his rifle from the cargo area, while Truzenzuzex was digiting the skimmer’s heavy armament uncertainly.

“What troubles you, Flinx?” the philosoph inquired, glancing back over a shoulder turned Tyrolean purple.

For an answer Flinx continued to stare skyward, though he gestured with his right hand toward the control panel. “Put back the canopy,” he requested. Tse-Mallory started to object. Flinx’s voice rose almost hysterically! “The canopy—put it back!”

The human scientist exchanged looks with his thranx companion, who simply shrugged. Tse-Mallory activated a control, and the transparent polyplexalloy dome slid back into the body of the skimmer, leaving only transparent sides, doors, and front windshield in place.

Hasboga moved to stand alongside Flinx. She stared into the sky. “I don’t see anything, Flinx,” she said with surprising gentleness.

“There,” he told her, pointing. “Coming toward us out of the sun . . . it has to be . . . I’m sure it is!”

Two shapes wove a descending spiral, dancing on the air. Two small dragon-forms stark against mountains of cloud. One was noticeably larger than the other.

A hundred meters above the skimmer, they finished their aerial choreography and separated. Balthazaar flew off in the direction of the sun. The other began a steady twisting dive toward the open skimmer.

“That’s a dragon!” Hasboga gasped, reaching for her sidearm. Flinx put a restraining hand on hers.

“No, it’s all right, Isili. It’s mine. It’s Pip.” His voice was cracking, despite his best efforts at self-control.

A familiar diamond-patterned shape braked, pleated wings backbeating the air, tail and lower body hooked out and extended. Flinx raised his right arm out from his side. Pip dropped for it, tail curving around the proffered perch. The pleated wings folded tight to the body, and then the flying snake was ensconced in its usual position of rest on Flinx’s shoulder.

Reaching down, its master affectionately stroked the back of the triangular head. While the minidrag, as always, showed no outward sign of emotion, Flinx could sense a feeling of pleasure in his pet. Empathy cloaked him like the warm glow of stones surrounding a wood fire. Several moments passed in silence before Flinx noticed that everyone in the skimmer was staring at him.

“Your pet came back,” Truzenzuzex finally said, explaining Pip to the still-uncertain Hasboga and September. “I am pleased for you, Flinx. I remember what you two meant to each other.” With that, he turned and activated the skimmer controls.

Hasboga eyed the snake warily, but settled back in her seat as the lithe craft picked up speed. Soon they were speeding back toward Alaspinport, traveling just above the waving grass of the savannas.

When the exuberance experienced on his pet’s return had faded some, Flinx thought to turn and look over at September. The giant was enjoying the ride, since someone else was doing the piloting for a change. Thick fingers were running absently through his wild, wavy white hair. His nose interrupted the view behind him like a plow.

“Skua?”

September faced him and offered a pleasant, toothy smile. “What is it, young feller-me-lad?”

Flinx glanced significantly down at his now-occupied right shoulder. “My minidrag. His name is Pip.” He touched one leathery wing, and the snake shifted sleepily. His attention returned to September. “Twelve years ago, back on Moth, you lost a young minidrag, remember?”

“I see what you’re thinking, lad.” September put both hands around one knee, which resembled a knot on a tree, and leaned back again, thinking. “All minidrags look the same to me, lad. As to whether your Pip happens to be the one I lost, I’m guessing it’s possible. I never named my snake, so there’s no way of knowing, is there? Minidrags aren’t common off Alaspin. I wouldn’t know of any others that had been on Moth then. Might have been. If your Pip is the one, that would be an interesting coincidence, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it sure would.” Flinx kept his voice carefully even.

“Signifying nothing.” September finished with that, and turned his gaze to the scenery slipping past outside.

Flinx did likewise, watching the savanna roll past as Truzenzuzex and Tse-Mallory skillfully maneuvered the craft over low hills, around trees and upthrust, unweathered rock spires.

“Signifying nothing,” he murmured softly to himself.

At Alaspinport, Flinx was forced to reveal that he had his own ship. That was fine with Tru and Bran. Flinx permitted them to commandeer it—on one condition. “I’m not through questioning September,” he whispered to Tse-Mallory.

The scientist regarded him somberly. “You’ll have him around for a while yet, Flinx. Hasboga has undoubtedly told him of our plans. For their own protection, we must take both with us until this matter is resolved. If not, they will be questioned by the Qwarm. I don’t think they would be permitted to live.”

Neither Hasboga nor September objected to a free trip off Alaspin, once it was explained to them what might happen if they remained. Both appeared to be under the impression that they would be delivered immediately to some larger, safe world like Terra or New Paris. Flinx didn’t exactly lie about that, he simply neglected to tell either of them that they would be taking a long route around.

As they left the surface of Alaspin, Truzenzuzex’s damnable curiosity prompted him to ask Flinx how he had acquired the impressive sum necessary to purchase and operate a private, system-jumping vessel like the
Teacher.
Flinx could not explain that the
Teacher
had been built by his precocious pupils, the Ulru-Ujurrians. Yet it was extremely difficult to lie believably in front of someone as perceptive as Truzenzuzex. So, in what he hoped was a natural tone of voice, he explained that he had purchased the ship out of the money given him by Maxim Malaika as reward for his part in discovering the Krang. When he ran out of money to operate the vessel, he would have to sell it.

Truzenzuzex appeared to accept this facile explanation readily enough, though Flinx could detect a familiar twinge of suspicion in the philosoph’s mind even as he acknowledged the story.

Presently, they entered the
Teacher
with the insect explaining that Flinx’s fast ship was the reason they were so long in tracking him down on Alaspin. Meanwhile, Flinx went about the difficult task of assigning quarters to everyone on a ship that had not been designed with passengers in mind.

“We’ve always been just a step behind you, Flinx,” Truzenzuzex said. “On Moth we had to stop and deal with the Qwarm, while you made your way to the shuttleport. Then you outdistanced us because we were forced to take a commercial ship to Alaspin, one which stopped several times along the way, while you raced here directly. We were lucky to find you as soon as we did.”

They entered the spacious lounge, spacious because Flinx enjoyed space and the
Teacher
had that to spare. The room accommodated them all comfortably.

The philosoph gazed around approvingly. “A fine ship you have for yourself, Flinx.”

“Adequate” was the youth’s response.

“I do not understand where the name came from.”

“A whim.” Flinx managed only a half-lie this time. “I’ve always had thoughts about being a teacher.”