Orphan Star by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page B

shoulder bag and the single large perforated case. Bisondenbit didn’t try to conceal his surprise.
    “That’s all you’ve brought all this way with you, without knowing how long it will take you to find this human Challis?”
    “I’ve always traveled light,” was his companion’s explanation. The drink was typically sweet, with a faint flavor of raisin. It went down warm and smooth. The trip, he decided, was beginning to catch up with him. He was more tired than he should be this early in the day. Obviously he wasn’t quite the urbane interstellar traveler he pictured himself as.
    “Besides, it shouldn’t be hard to find Challis. Certainly he’ll be staying at his local company headquarters.” Flinx let another swallow of the thick, honeylike fluid slide down his throat, then frowned. Despite his age, he considered himself a good judge of intoxicants, but this new brew was apparently more potent than the menu description indicated. He found his vision blurring slightly.
    Bisondenbit peered at him solicitously. “Are you all right? If you’ve never had Sookcha before, it can be a bit overwhelming. Packs quite a concussion?”
    “Punch,” Flinx corrected thickly.
    “Yes, quite a punch. Don’t worry . . . the feeling will pass quick enough.”
    But Flinx felt himself growing steadily groggier. “I think . . . if I could just get outside. A little fresh air . . .” He started to get up, but discovered his legs responded with indifference while his feet moved as if he were walking on an oiled treadmill. It was impossible to get any traction.
    Abandoning the effort, he found that his muscular system was entering a state of anarchy. “That’s funny,” he murmured, “I can’t seem to move.”
    “No need to be concerned,” Bisondenbit assured him, leaning across the table and staring at him with an intensity that was new to Flinx. “I’ll see that you’re properly taken care of.”
    As all visual images faded, Flinx feared his strange, new acquaintance would do just that . . .
    Flinx awoke to the harmony of destruction, accompanied by curses uttered in several languages. Blinking—his eyelids felt as if they were lined with platinum—he fought unsuccessfully to move his arms and legs. Failing this, he settled for holding his eyes partially open. Dim light from an unseen source illuminated the little room in which he lay. Spartan furnishings of rough-hewn wood were backed by smooth walls of argent gunite. As his perceptions cleared he discovered that metal bands at his wrists and ankles secured him to a crude wooden platform that was neither bed nor table.
    He lay quietly. For one thing, his stomach was performing gymnastics and it would be best to keep the surroundings subdued until the internal histrionics ceased. For another, the sensations and sounds surrounding him indicated it would be unwise to call attention to his new consciousness.
    The sounds of destruction were being produced by the methodical dissection of his personal effects. Looking slowly to his right, he saw the shredded remains of his shoulder bag and clothing. These were being inspected by three humans and a single thranx. Recognizing the latter as his former games mentor and would-be friend, Bisondenbit, he damned his own naïveté.
    Back in Drallar he would never have been so loquacious with a total stranger. But he had been three days isolated and friendless on board ship when the thranx had approached him with his offer of games instruction. Gratitude had shunted aside instinctive caution.
    “No weapons, no poison, no beamer, needler—not even a threatening note,” complained one of the men in fluent symbospeech.
    “What’s worse,” one of his companions chipped in, “no money. Nothing but a lousy cardmeter.” He held up the compact computer unit which registered and transferred credit in unforgeable fashion, and tossed it disgustedly onto a nearby table. It landed among the rest of Flinx’s few possessions.