The End of the Matter by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page A

from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, with tiny squares. Examining the wall, he finally touched several minute buttons. One of the squares clicked and extended itself into a meter-long tray. A single thin piece of dark plastic popped out of the tray.
    Removing the thin square, the old man inserted it into a boxy machine on the left side of his desk. Then he turned it to face the left-hand wall, which was coated with a silvery-white substance.
    At that point he paused, one wrinkled hand hovering over the controls of the machine. “I need to know the reason and justification for showing this, boy,” he announced pleasantly. Flinx laid a discreet but ample bribe in the hovering palm. After transferring the money to a pocket, the hand activated the controls on the device.
    “You don’t have to tell me,” the old man went on, “and it’s none of my business, but why this transaction, exactly?”
    “You’re correct, it’s none of your businesss.” The old man looked resigned and, disappointed, turned away from Flinx. Motivated by some perverse impulse, Flinx blurted it out: “It’s myself that was sold. I’m that same Philip Lynx.”
    Rheumy eyes squinted at him, but the man said nothing, merely nodded slowly. Aware that he had learned more than he was entitled to, he activated the projector. A series of seemingly endless tiny figures appeared on the wall. The oldster was experienced at his task. He scanned the figures and words as they flashed past on the wall faster than Flinx could follow. Abruptly, the flash flood of figures slowed, then began to back up, and finally it stopped.
    “Here we are,” the clerk declared with satisfaction, using a built-in arrow to indicate one thin line. “A tax of twenty-two credits paid to the municipal fund on the sale in the city of one boy Lynx, Philip. Selling price was . . .” and he ran off figures and fact Flinx already knew. Date of transaction, time . . . Flinx grinned when the name of the purchaser was read. So, Mother Mastiff had paid the tax under a false name.
    “That’s all?” he inquired when the wall unexpectedly went dark. “Nothing on the origin of the shipment, where it arrived from?”
    “I’m truly sorry, boy,” the old man confessed, sounding as if he meant it. He turned and folded his hands on the desk. “What did you expect? This department holds only financial records. But . . .” He hesitated, then went on. “If you want more information, if I were you I’d look up Arcadia Organics in the slave traders’ offices. That’s the firm that sold you. They might still retain some records themselves. They’re not the largest concern of that type on Moth, but they’re not the smallest, either. That’s what I’d do if I were you, boy.”
    “I’d rather not,” Flinx admitted. Returning to the slave market under any circumstances was a disquieting prospect. “But since that’s where my only remaining hope leads, I suppose I must.” Rising, he nodded thankfully to the old man. “You’ve been very kind, old sir.” He turned to go.
    “Just a minute, boy.” Flinx turned, and winced reflexively as he caught something thrown at him. It was a small but still substantial credit chip—the same one he had given the oldster moments ago. His gaze went to the aged clerk, who could expect little more in the way of promotion or money in his lifetime. His eyes framed an unvoiced question.
    “I don’t have much drive, never did, and I’m a stranger to greed, I’m afraid,” he explained slowly. “Also, compassion—that’s out of keeping with being a successful bureaucrat.”
    “I can see that, old sir,” Flinx acknowledged, respectfully tossing the chip back. It clattered faintly on the table top. “That’s why you’re going to keep this.”
    “I don’t take bribes,” the old clerk said firmly, ignoring the chip, “from those more unfortunate than myself.”
    “Appearances can be deceiving, old man,” Flinx insisted, giving the