The End of the Matter

  Behind those decorative murals lay expensive, sensitive equipment, which the law had determined necessary. If any of them felt that Flinx’s mind or that of any other prospective patron was ill equipped to handle the fluctuating environment of the spin, alarms would sound and human or mechanical attendants would appear. They would announce with regret that those so analyzed would have to search elsewhere for amusement.

  It was interesting that although a simiespin could serve food and drink that by themselves produced mental effects, there was no age restriction. What was required was a firm grasp on reality. Children were notoriously weak in that area, and so in general were barred from entering. But those children whom the machines passed were welcome within, whereas certain adults were rejected. It could and did lead to occasional embarrassment for overconfident parents, when they were denied entrance and their offspring were passed on.

  Flinx found himself wondering how many politicians would be refused admittance to a simiespin. He was not surprised when the machinery also passed Ab. His alien tag-along had no grip on reality, and so was freely granted admittance to the lesser madness ahead.

  Before him the door pulsed with an internal ruby glow, a promise of pleasure beyond. A sensuous mechanical voice murmured softly, “You have paid for and have been granted permission to sample our palette of a thousand worlds. Your pet”—an apparent reference to Ab—“may enter with you but must be kept under control at all times. You will be charged . . .” and the voice quoted various figures; the rate went down as the length of time increased. “On your way out or in, partake of the invigorating refreshments we offer,” the voice concluded. Flinx nodded. It was a bar, as he had suspected.

  Smoothly the pulsing red door slid into the floor. Flinx braced himself mentally and walked forward. His initial reaction was one of letdown. The simiespin chamber was huge, a good three stories high inside. Though it didn’t look like an ordinary gathering chamber at present. Instead of benches and booths and a bar, he found himself looking at a sloping beach studded with boulders. It was evening. A sun much pinker and hotter than either Moth’s or Alaspin’s was turning the drifting stratus clouds above the color of wine. The sky matched the ocean, whose purple-lavender waves lapped sonorously at the yellow sands. A few strange plants swung lazily in the hot breeze off the water, almost in time to the humming sound of unknown source.

  Nearby a man and a woman lay entwined in each other’s arms. Their filthy prospectors’ clothing was grotesquely out of place in the idyllic scene, but neither appeared to mind. They were elsewhere anyway, no doubt partly as a result of whatever they were sucking from a nearby boulder through a pair of long, sturdy plastic siphons.

  “Where are we?” Flinx asked, his curiosity at the vision around him overcoming his unease at invading the couple’s privacy.

  The man didn’t object. Pulling the tip of the siphon from his lips, he eyed Flinx and muttered dreamily, “Quofum, I think. Quofum.”

  That was a world Flinx had heard of once. It supposedly lay far from the Commonwealth’s boundaries, somewhere along the inner edge of the Arm. Only a few humans and thranx had ever succeeded in visiting it. Something was wrong with space in that region, something which caused Quofum to appear only occasionally at the coordinates recorded.

  Fabled Quofum, where the sky was as clear as a virgin’s conscience and the wine-colored seas tasted of everything from ouzo to Liebfraumilch. For the oceans of Quofum were varied, though the sea-stuff normally ran about nine percent alcohol. In the endless oceans of Quofum, so the tale ran, swam fish who were never unhappy.

  Stepping off the wooden landing, he found his feet sinking slightly into warm sand. Then he was by the edge of the sea, which stretched endlessly to the horizon. Sunset outdid itself as he kneeled at the edge of the water. Purple comfort ran over his knees and extended hands. Pip stirred uneasily on Flinx’s shoulder, shook him with a start back to reality. It was the most perfect illusion Flinx had ever experienced.

  Cupping his hands, Flinx dipped them into the sea, brought them up, and sipped a double palmful of ocean. The flavor of the seawater was rich, fruity, and strong, with a powerful bouquet and a gentle perfume caused by the warming effect of his hands.

  Rising, he noticed the stains on his jumpsuit and frowned.

  Someone chuckled.

  Looking behind, he saw the two minidrag tamers he had followed in, leaning up against a wave-worn rock. The one with the aquiline nose called to him. His accent was unplaceable.

  “Join us, young dragon lord, and sit with your fellow reptiles.”

  Flinx started up the beach, brushing fitfully at his pants.

  “Don’t worry,” the swarthy man assured him, “the stains will disappear the moment you leave. They’re as unreal as the sand and the drunken oceans.”

  Even so, Flinx could still taste the smooth wine in his mouth, feel the wetness where it had swirled around his wrists and knees. The sand remained hot underfoot. Yet despite the heat, he realized, he was comfortable. No wonder only those of stable mind were permitted entry into such places! One with a less solid grasp of reality could go quite mad here.

  As if to test his thoughts, the sky above suddenly blurred, as did the landscape around him. When the brief moment of disorientation had passed, he saw storm clouds overhead. Rain was falling steadily, and lightning crashed around him as electrons warred in the heavens.

  Flinx blinked away drops that he knew weren’t real, that were only the products of machinery so sophisticated and sensitive that few humanx really understood how they operated. But he had to blink, the water dimmed his vision.

  Jungle and high ferns closed tightly around him, the startling climax vegetation of a cold-weather rain forest. He felt stifled, and looked around frantically for the simiespin entrance. Naturally, he could see nothing so out of keeping with the forest simulacrum. Rain continued to pelt his head and shoulders, sending Pip deep into the folds of Flinx’s jumpsuit material. Ab singsonged behind them, oblivious to the cold downpour.

  Except . . . Flinx wasn’t cold.

  “We’re over here,” a laughing voice called to him.

  He hunted but saw nothing. “Where?”

  “Behind the big tree, straight ahead. We haven’t moved.”

  Flinx walked around a meter-thick bole which looked like a cross between a Terran redwood and a bundle of black lizards tied together. As he walked past, he tapped the trunk. It responded with a stentorian bark that made him jump.

  His response prompted another laugh, nearer now. Behind the tree, the two minidrag tamers stood as before, only now they were leaning up against a rotting stump. Rainbow-hued fungi formed a riot of color on the dead wood.

  “First time in a simiespin, compadre?” the small man asked with a grin.

  “Yes. I had some idea of what to expect but”—he took in a deep breath—“it’s still awfully disconcerting. Especially the suddenness of the changes.”

  “That’s one of the attractions,” the other man countered. “As it is with everything in life.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to Habib,” the short one advised. “One drink and he turns morbidly philosophical.” He extended an open hand. “My name’s Pocomchi.” A nod toward Pip, peeking out from beneath Flinx’s shirt top. “You’re the youngest I’ve ever seen with a tame drag.”

  They were already on a first-name basis—good. As Flinx shook the proffered palm, Pocomchi extended the other. It held a large, fat mushroom. At least, that’s what it looked like. Flinx reached for it. As he did so, the large triangular head cradled next to the short man’s neck lifted. A slight sneeze from that head and Flinx would be dead. But at a word from its master, it relaxed.

  The mushroom turned out to be full of a brown liquid. It looked like gravy, but it held the kick of the whole bull. After a stunned taste, Flinx handed it back.

  Meanwhile, Pip’s head was weaving back and forth, up and down in jerky, dancing motions. His excitement was understandable. Since Flinx
had found him, this was the first time he’d ever set slitted eyes on another of his own kind. The two minidrags opposite were apparently more used to others like themselves. They regarded Pip with only mild interest.

  “I’m Flinx,” he replied when he had his breath back. As they sat down across from him, Flinx made a seat on the stump of another dead bush; the spongy mold crushed to cushion his backside against the hard wood.

  “Tell me, is this a chair I’m sitting on, or . . . ?”

  “You guess as well as we,” the one called Habib told him languidly. “All life’s an illusion.”

  “There he goes again,” grumbled Pocomchi good-naturedly. He pointed behind Flinx. “Since that’s remained constant, I assume it’s not an illusion.” Flinx saw that the man was gesturing at Ab.

  “He’s a ward of mine. Crazy as a drive lubricator from too many fumes, but completely harmless.”

  “Funny-looking creature,” Pocomchi decided. He swigged his mushroom.

  Flinx studied his seat. It looked exactly like a dead stump. As he regarded it, it turned into an eight-legged, blue-furred spider-shape which rolled bug-eyes and hearing organs at him. It didn’t move, however, and seemed content to support him. Somehow Flinx managed not to jump.

  But his new friends noticed the irrepressible twitch. “First time in a simiespin for sure,” Pocomchi chuckled, as the sky turned pale puce above them. Then his expression turned curious, although the friendliness remained in his voice. “And maybe the first time on Alaspin as well? But that makes no sense. Dragon lords are few, Flinx. I don’t recall seeing you before.”

  “I’m from offworld, all right,” he admitted. For some reason, he didn’t hesitate to reveal information to these men. Anyone who could tame one of the empathic telepaths called minidrags could employ them only for defense, never to attack or bully or cajole others. The snakes wouldn’t do it. They would never associate with such a being in the first place.

  If these men were not informative, they might at least be potential allies.

  “Not only is it my first time here,” he continued, “but it’s Pip’s as well. He was abandoned on my home planet when we were both much younger. In a way, I suppose,” he concluded, fondly rubbing the minidrag under one pleated wing, “it’s more of a homecoming for him than it is anything for me.”

  “Your dragon is as welcome as you,” Pocomchi assured him. He leaned back into the supportive limbs of a multitentacled creature. As Flinx watched, the alien octopus-shape became a small tornado. Wind whistled and howled all around them. The jungle was gone.

  “Isn’t that right, Balthazaar, old fellow?” Pocomchi had reached up to rub the neck muscles back of his snake’s skull. The big minidrag was obviously as much older as it was larger than Pip.

  “How does one get a drink in here?” Flinx asked.

  “If you don’t want to try the mushrooms, or other decor,” Habib told him, “you can always tuck-a-tube.” He extended a hand downward to pull a red siphon out of the ground. “If this doesn’t appeal to you, there’s a fairly standard mechbar back there.” He pointed at a giant bird, which abruptly turned into an emerald cactus. “I much prefer the tube, because it matches the simie.”

  “I don’t understand,” Flinx confessed, taking the tube with one hand and eyeing it uncertainly.

  Habib smiled. “The liquid changes to match the new environment. You never know what you’re going to be sipping next.” Flinx made a face, and Habib hastened to reassure him. “You can’t get sick. This is a legitimate place. Plenty of modifiers included in the drinks to make sure no one gets ill. The owner’s proud of his reputation. Wouldn’t do to have customers puking all over his simulacra.”

  Habib retrieved the tube, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and leaned back. “How do I get one?” Flinx asked, studying the ground unsuccessfully.

  “There’s one by your right hip,” Pocomchi informed him. “It was sticking out of the left leg of that spider thing you were sitting on a few minutes ago.”

  Looking down, Flinx saw the whirlwind he was sitting on change into a blue stalagmite. Now they were in a cave filled with chromatically colored formations: stalagtites, helicites, flowstone, and much more. Cool cave air hung motionless around him.

  One of the helicites sticking to his seat was longer and straighter than its neighbors. It was also flexible, Flinx discovered when he pulled on it. Sticking it into his mouth, he sucked experimentally. A thin syrup flowed through the tube, with a taste redolent of overripe pomegranate. It coated his throat. The sweetness did not make him sick.

  There was, he decided, plenty of time to ask the important questions. For now, he would enjoy the simiespin’s delights and the company of these two companionable men.

  Chapter Six

  At least an hour passed, although within the simiespin there was no way of knowing the exact time, before Flinx spoke again.

  “What do you two do?” Curious, he examined them, the quick-moving, enthusiastic Pocomchi and his lanky, mournful companion. “Surely you’re not attached to one of the scientific teams working on Alaspin?”

  “Who, us—archeologists?” gasped Pocomchi, eyes flashing in the dim light. The cave simulacrum, apparently proving popular, had been returned. “Fine chance you’d have, Flinx, of finding one of those brain-cases in a simiespin. No, they get their kicks down in the town library that the Commonwealth maintains for them.”

  “You go to extremes, Poco,” Habib insisted. He ran a hand through thick, curly black hair. “Even the thranx among them aren’t strictly mental machines. You see thranx in here too, don’t you?” With an arm he gestured toward a cluster of sparkling aragonite crystals, delicate as flowers. A male and female thranx were sprawled on their stomachs, immersed in illusion and each other. The male was caressing his companion’s ovipositors suggestively.

  The cave vanished as snow started to sift down over them. Now Flinx’s seat was a rough block of solid ice. Yet he remained comfortable, even as the breath congealed in front of his mouth.

  “We wander around a lot,” explained Pocomchi.

  Habib leaned back into a snowbank and sucked silver from the siphon. “What we actually do, Flinx, is . . . not much.” He noticed the youth staring at his associate. “Tell the boy where you’re from, Poco. He’s shared with us.”

  “I was born and raised in . . .” Pocomchi hesitated. “Just say it was on Earth, near the middle of what teachers call the Hourglass. Near a place called Taxem.” Flinx admitted ignorance of the name, though he knew of the Hourglass, where the two smaller continents met.

  “It’s an old archeological site,” Pocomchi went on. “I grew up surrounded by ancient temples. When I was seven I was running the tiller in my family’s quartomaize field when something went clunk and the machine stopped. I sat there and cried for hours, afraid I’d busted the damn expensive thing.” He grinned at the memory as he watched Ab’s antics.

  “My mother finally heard me crying over the locater I always wore . . . there were creatures called jaguars living in our neighborhood. When she and my uncle came out and moved the tiller, they found I’d hit a buried stone head about twenty-six hundred years old. It was on our land. The local museum paid one-hundred fifty credits for it. I got ten whole credits of my own to spend. I bought out part of the local sweetshop and for a week I was sicker than a boa trying to swallow a maiden aunt.” He took a swig from his tube, which now projected from the head of a glowing fish. They were underwater, Flinx noted with interest. Bubbles rose from his nose and mouth, yet it felt as if he were breathing clean air.

  His sensory apparatus was beginning to handle the extreme shifts in environment. Ab seemed to float in the water behind him.

  “I’ve been trying to stumble over credit-producing heads and related stuff ever since,” finished Pocomchi.

  “In short, he’s as money-hungry as I am,” Habib put in with a supple smile. “We’re as bad as a Moth merchant.”

  Flinx bridled slightly at the deprecator
y comment directed at his home world, then relaxed. Why should he take umbrage at the reference? He was no merchant. And if he had one friend in that trade, it was off-balanced by a dozen enemies.

  “So now you know what we’re hunting for,” muttered Habib, after explaining that he came from a part of Earth called Lebanon. “What are you hunting here?”

  “A man.”

  From nearby, Ab let out a startlingly clear bit of nonsense rhyme. Habib sat forward; he seemed to notice the alien for the first time.

  “Why’s that with you?”

  “His associate,” quipped Pocomchi. “Both Flinx and I share the same fate.”

  “I acquired Ab by default,” Flinx explained yet again, as Habib threw his grinning partner a sour look. “I haven’t the heart to abandon him, and I’m not sure I could sell him. Besides, Ab’s not good for anything except singing madness and serving as the butt of bad jokes.”

  “Never seen anything like it before,” Habib admitted.

  “Neither have I,” added Pocomchi. “The simie admitted him?”

  “I don’t think environment affects Ab,” Flinx theorized, as the subject of the discussion drew lines in the snow. “Once in a while he almost makes sense. I’m afraid Ab exists in a universe of his own.”

  Ab bent over to stare with a single eye at something on the ground. Apparently the thing was moving, since Ab’s head inclined to follow it between his legs. Slowly he tucked head and then neck beneath him, until he fell over on his back—if it was his back and not his front—into the snow. Flinx smiled sympathetically, while both men laughed.

  “See?” Flinx said. “He’s too pitiful a creature to just leave some place.”

  “You sure you’re not a slaver?” Pocomchi inquired with sudden sharpness. “You don’t look the—”

  “No, no,” Flinx corrected, shaking his head rapidly. “I’m just here looking for a man.”

  “For what?” Habib asked with unexpected directness.