"Foster, Alan Dean - Flinx - Orphan Star" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

the shifting crowd of traders, hawkers, beg- gars, and craftsmen who were
slowing and beginning to form a small eddy of humanity in the
round-the-clock hurricane of the Drallarian marketplace.

"I said I was sorry," Flinx repeated tensely.

A blocky fist started to rise.

"Sorry indeed. I think I'm going to have to teach you ..." The merchant
halted in his stride, the threatening fist abruptly frozen in midair. His
face rapidly turned pale and his eyes seemed fixed on Flinx's far shoulder.

A head had somehow emerged from beneath the loose folds of the youth's
cape. Now it regarded the merchant with a steady, unblinking gaze that held
the quality of otherworld death, the flavor of frozen methane and
frostbite. In itself the skull was tiny and unimpressive, scaled and
unabashedly reptilian. Then more of the creature emerged, revealing that
the head was attached to a long cylindrical body. A set of pleated
membranous wings opened, beat lazily at the air.

"Sorry," the merchant found himself mumbling, "it was all a mistake ... my
fault, really." He smiled sickly, looked from left to right. The eyes of
the small gathering stared back dispassionately.

It was interesting how the man seemed to shrink into the wall of watchers.
They swallowed him up as neat and clean as a grouper would an ambling
angelfish. That done, the motionless ranks blended back into the moving
stream of humanity.

Flinx relaxed and reached up to scratch the flying snake under its leathery
snout. "Easy there, Pip," he whispered, thinking warm relaxing thoughts at
his pet. "It's nothing, settle down now."

Reassured, the minidrag hissed sibilantly and slid back beneath the cape
folds, its pleated wings collapsing flat against its body. The merchant had
quickly recognized the reptile. A well-traveled individual, he knew that
there was no known antidote for the poison of the Alaspin miniature dragon.

"Maybe he learned whatever lesson he had in mind to give us," Flinx said.
"What say we go over to Small Symm's for a beer and some pretzels for you.
Would you like that, summm?"

The snake summmed back at him.

Nearby buried within the mob, an obese, unlovely gentleman thanked a
gratified goldsmith as he pocketed a purchase indifferently made. This
transaction had served the purpose of occupying time and covering up his
true focus of attention, which had not been the just-bought bauble.

Two men flanked him. One was short and sleek, with an expression like a wet