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file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20Alan%20Dean%20-%20Flinx%201%20-%
20For%20Love%20of%20Mother-Not.txt the lakes which bore that collective
description. The lake itself he could not put a name to, not without his map.
It was only one of hundreds of similarly impressive bodies of fresh water
whose names he had had no need to memorize during his readings, for he had
never expected to visit that part of the world.
The glare imprisoned between surface and clouds brought tears to his eyes as
he headed the mudder toward the water's edge. The lake blocked his path
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northward. He needed to know whether to skirt it to the east or the west or to
attempt a crossing. He had no way of figuring out what his quarry had done.
The weather was calm. Only a modest chop broke the otherwise smooth expanse
before him. A mudder could travel over water as well as land, provided its
charge held out; if not, the vehicle would sink quickly.
Flinx decided that the first thing he needed was some advice. So he turned to
his map, which showed a single, isolated lodge just to the east. He headed for
it.
The building came into view ten minutes later, a large rambling structure of
native stone and wood. Boats were tied up to the single pier out back. Several
land vehicles were parked near the front. Flinx tensed momentarily, then
relaxed. None of the craft displayed government markings.
Surely his theft had been discovered by now, but it was likely that the search
would tend more in the direction of populated areas to the south-toward
Drallar-rather than into the trackless north.
.
Nevertheless, he took a moment to inspect the assembled vehicles carefully.
All four were deserted. Two of them were tracked-strictly land transportation.
The others were mudders, larger and fancier than his own, boasting thickly
upholstered lounges and self-darkening protective domes. Private transport, he
knew. More comfortable than his own craft but certainly no more durable. There
was no sign of riding animals. Probably anyone who could afford to travel this
far north could afford mechanized transportation.
Flinx brought the mudder to a stop alongside the other vehicles and took the
precaution of disconnecting the ignition jumper. It wouldn't do to have a
curious passer-by spy the obviously illegal modification. The mudder settledto
the ground, and he stepped out over the mudguard onto the surface.
The parking area had not been pounded hard and smooth, and his boots picked up
plenty of muck as he walked up to the wooden steps leading inside. Suction
hoses cleaned off most of the mud. The steps led onto a covered porch
populated by the kind of rustic wooden furniture so popular with tourists who
liked to feel they were roughing it. Beyond was a narrow hall paneled with
peeled, glistening tree trunks, stained dark.
Flinx thought the inn a likely place to obtain information about lake
conditions, but before that, something equally important demanded his
attention. Food. He could smell it somewhere close by, and he owed himself a
break from the concentrates that had been fueling him for many days. His
credcard still showed a positive balance, and there was no telling when he
would be fortunate enough to encounter honest cooking again. Nor would he have
to worry about curious stares from other patrons-Pip, still unable to eat,
would not be dining with him this time. He inhaled deeply.
It almost smelled as if the food were being prepared by a live chef instead of
a machine.
Flinx found his way to the broad, exposed-beam dining room. The far wall had a
fire blazing in a rock fireplace. To the left lay the source of the wonderful
aroma: a real kitchen. A couple of furry shapes snored peacefully nearby. An
older couple sat near the entrance. They were absorbed in their meal and
didn t even turn to look up at him. Two younger couples ate and chatted close
by the fireplace. In the back comer was a group of oldsters, all clad in heavy
north-country attire.
He started down the few steps into the dining room, intending to question
someone in the kitchen about the possibility of a meal. Suddenly, something
hit his mind so hard he had to lean against the nearby wall for support.
Two younger men had entered the dining room from a far, outside door. They
were talking to the group of diners in the far corner. No one had looked
toward Flinx; no one had said a word to him.
He tottered away from the wall, caught and balanced himself at the old
couple's table. The man looked up from his plate at the uninvited visitor and
frowned.
"You feeling poorly, son?"
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Flinx didn't answer, but continued to stare across the room. Faces-he couldn't
make out faces beneath all that heavy clothing. They remained hidden from his
sight-but not from something else.
He spoke sharply, unthinkingly.
"Mother?"
Chapter Nine
file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20...inx%201%20-%20For%20Love%20of
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One of the bundled figures spun in its chair to gape at him. Her eyes were
wide with surprise as well as with a warning Flinx ignored. She started to
rise from her seat. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]