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

The owner of the bar leaned his two-and-a-half-rneter-tall,
one-hundred-seventy-five-kilo frame onto the absorbent wood-plastic
counter, which creaked in protest. "Apparently the marketplace commissioner
took it as a personal affront when I ejected the first group of officious
do-gooders he sent round to close you down. Maybe I shouldn't have broken
their vehicle. Now they are trying to be more subtle. I had one in just
this week, who claimed to have observed me serving borderline minors
certain hallucinogenic liquids."

"Obviously you deserve to be strung up by your extremities," commented
Flinx with mock solemnity. He, too, was underage for much of what Symm
served him.

"Anyway," the giant went on, "this heckster flies out of a back booth,
flashes his municipal peace card, and tries to tell me I'm under arrest. He
was going to take me in, and I had best come along quietly." Small Symm
shook his massive head mournfully as Flinx downed several swallows.

"What did you do?" He licked liquid from the corners of his mouth.

"I really don't want any more trouble, certainly not another assault
charge. I thought an inferential demonstration of a mildly physical nature
might be effective in persuading the gentleman to change his opinion. It
was, and be left quietly." Symm gestured at Flinx's now empty mug.
"Refill?"

"Sure. What did you do?" he repeated.

"I ate his peace card. Here's your beer." He slid a second mug alongside
the first.

Flinx understood Small Syrnm's gratification. He had his reputation to
uphold. His was one of the few places in Drallar where a person could go at
night with a guarantee of not being assaulted or otherwise set upon by
rambunctious rovers. This was because Small Symm dealt impartially with all
such disturbers of the peace.

"Be back in a minute," Flinx told his friend. He slid off the stool and
headed for the one room whose design and function had changed little in the
past several hundred years. As soon as he stepped inside he was overwhelmed
by a plethora of rich smells and sensations: stale beer, hard liquor,
anxiety, tension, old water, dampness, fearful expectation. The combination
of thick thoughts and airborne odors nearly overpowered him.

Looking to his left, where the combination was strongest, he noticed a
small twitch of a man watching him anxiously. Flinx observed the man's
outward calm and felt his internal panic. He was holding an osmotic syringe
in one hand, his finger coiled about it as-if it were a weapon. As Flinx
started to yell for help, his rising cry was blanketed by the descent of
something dark and heavy over his head. A mental cry was aborted by the