For Love of Mother-Not by Alan Dean Foster Page B

comparatively cheap world to live on, not to mention the laxity of its police force. On Moth, no one was likely to question the source of one’s pension money. For several of Makepeace’s comrades, this was the prime consideration.
    The other aged men and women studied the snake with nothing more than casual interest, but Makepeace reacted far more enthusiastically. “Bless my remaining soul,” he muttered as he leaned close—but not too close, Flinx noted—for a better look. Pip raised his head curiously, as if sensing something beyond the norm in this withered biped.
    “You know what he is?” Flinx asked hopefully.
    “Aye, boy. Those are wings bulging its flanks, are they not?” Flinx nodded. “Then it’s surely an Alaspinian miniature dragon.”
    Flinx grinned at the old man, then down at Pip. “So that’s what you are.” The snake looked up at him as if to say, I’m well aware of what I am, and do you always find the obvious so remarkable?
    “I thought dragons were mythical creatures,” he said to Makepeace.
    “So they are. It’s only a name given from resemblance, Flinx.”
    “I suppose you know,” Flinx went on, “that he spits out a corrosive fluid.”
    “Corrosive!” The old man leaned back and roared with laughter, slapping his legs and glancing knowingly at his attentive cronies. “Corrosive, he says!” He looked back at Flinx.
    “The minidrag’s toxin is, my boy, a venomous acid known by a long string of chemical syllables which this old head can’t remember. I was a soldier-engineer. Biochemistry was never one of my favorite subjects. I’m more comfortable with mathematical terms than biological ones. But I can tell you this much, though I never visited Alaspin myself.” He pointed at the snake, which drew its head back uncertainly. “If that there thing was to spit in your eye, you’d be a kicking, quivering mess on the ground inside a minute—and dead in not much more than that.
    “I also remember that there’s no known antidote for several of the Alaspinian toxins, of which that minidrag of yours wields the most potent. A corrosive, neurological poison—aye, who wouldn’t remember hearing about that? You say you know it’s corrosive?”
    Flinx had an image of the dissolved end of the broomstick, the metal melted away like cheese before a hot blade. He nodded.
    “Just make sure you never get to know of it personally,lad. I’ve heard tell of such creatures being kept as pets, but it’s a rare thing. See, the associational decision’s all made by the snake. The would-be owner has no choice in the matter. You can’t tame ’em. They pick and choose for themselves.” He gestured toward Flinx’s shoulder. “Looks like that one’s sure settled on you.”
    “He’s more than welcome,” Flinx said affectionately. “He feels natural there.”
    “Each to his own,” an elderly woman observed with a slight shudder. Affirmative nods came from others in the group.
    “And there’s something else, too.” The old soldier was frowning, struggling to remember long-dormant knowledge. “What you just said about it feeling ‘natural’ there reminded me. They say those flying snakes have funny mental quirks all their own. Now me, I wouldn’t be able to say for certain if that’s so—I’m only relating hearsay, didn’t read it off no chip. But the stories persist.”
    “What kind of stories?” Flinx asked, trying not to appear overanxious.
    “Oh, that the snakes are empathic. You know, telepathic on the emotional level.” He scratched his head. “There’s more to it than that, but I’m damned if I can remember the rest of it.”
    “That’s certainly interesting,” Flinx said evenly, “but pretty unlikely.”
    “Yeah, I always thought so myself,” Makepeace agreed. “You wouldn’t have noticed anything like that since being around this one, of course.”
    “Not a thing.” Flinx was an expert at projecting an aura of innocence; in this case, it glowed from