"Alan Dean Foster - Flinx 21 - Sideshow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

It was good to roam the backstreets and alleys of the hodgepodge of a city, taking in sights both new
and familiar; inhaling the amalgamating aromas of a hundred worlds; observing the free-floating, arguing,
laughing, chattering farrago of humans, thranx, and other citizens of the Commonwealth. Here he had no
responsibilities. Here his only concern was relaxation. Here he could mix freely without constantly having
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to look over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Here he could-

Without warning, Pip, his Alaspinian minidrag, promptly uncoiled herself from his shoulder, launched
herself into the fragrant, damp air, and took off down a minor side avenue crammed with vendors and
street merchants. Fortunately, he reflected bemusedly as he took off after her, she flew high enough to
avoid precipitating a panic. Among those strollers and vendors who did see her, few were
knowledgeable enough to identify her and recognize her lethal capabilities.

She landed on a diffusion grating the size of a dinner plate that projected from the crest of a
three-story building. As soon as he slowed, staring up at her, she launched herself into the air and glided
back down to settle once more on his shoulder, her petite but powerful coils securing herself to him.

"Now, what was that all about?" he murmured soothingly to her. "What set you off? I'll bet it was a
smell, wasn't it? Some kind of exotic food full of especially attractive trace minerals?" The only problem
with this theory was that the nearest food stall lay two blocks distant. No vendors of unusual victuals
were open nearby.

What was close at hand was a performance by one of Drallar's innumerable, alien, untaxed, and
probably illegal street performers. The human was short, florid of face, glistening of scalp, and thick of
arm, leg, and middle. His black sideburns fronted his ears and threatened to overwhelm his jawline. His
trained subordinate was decidedly nonhuman, not quite as tall, considerably slimmer, and clad in an
elegant coat of soft white fur marked with bright blue stripes and splotches. Its eyes were elongated and
yellow, with dark blue vertical pupils. Dressed in short pants and matching vest of garish green and gold
silk, with flower-studded beret and oversized necktie for emphasis, the alien was performing a simple yet
lively dance routine to the accompaniment of music that poured from its master's quinube player. Almost
lost among the fur and silks was the control band, no thicker than a piece of string, that fit tightly around
its neck.

Watching the performance, Flinx let his peculiar talent expand to encompass the appreciative crowd,
not all of whom were human. The expected emotions were all there: amusement, low-grade wonder,
expectation, curiosity. With growing maturity, he had developed the ability to focus his abilities on
selected individuals. Probing the musician-master, he sensed approval and contentment, but also an
underlying, simmering anger.

Well, the personal emotional problems of the player-owner were no more his concern or
responsibility than were those of the hundreds of intelligent beings whose feelings he had sampled since
awakening in Mother Mastiff's home early this morning. After watching the performance for another
couple of minutes, mildly admiring the owner's skill with the quinube and his creature's agile, three-toed
feet, he turned to leave.