Mid-Flinx Read Online Free PDF

floor. There he turned down another hall. It was quiet and very few workers were about, as befitted the contemplative nature of the structure’s owner.
    He’d passed several open doors without incident when a voice from within one office slowed him.
    “You look anxious, my son. And tired.” Flinx hesitated. “May I be of any assistance?”
    Flinx glanced back the way he’d come. The corridor was still deserted. Suspecting the outcome, he strained internally. Nothing. The emotional nova that had been Coerlis might as well never have existed. For the moment, his empathic palette remained precariously blank.
    The man standing just inside the portal was much shorter than Flinx, and older. Disdaining a depilatory, he revealed a skull bare save for an elfish fringe of white curls. These continued around his face to form a pair of thick muttonchop whiskers. His self-pressing aquamarine uniform was spotless.
    A glance at Pip showed her eyes shut. Flinx considered. He’d been running for quite a while and needed to stop and rest. This seemed as likely a place as any. The jovial, stocky padre was regarding him with friendly curiosity, and regardless of what he decided, some sort of response was clearly in order.
    “I’m running from a confrontation. I try to avoid fights when I can.”
    The kindly visage beamed back at him. “Fighting is a good thing to avoid. Won’t you come and sit a moment? You look like you could use a rest.”
    “Thank you. I think I will.”
    The padre’s office was awash in the usual ecclesiastical paraphernalia. There were the twin monitors on his desk, assorted homey holos and flatscale representations on the walls, a box of spherical drive files on the floor in one corner, and a back wall vid of boreal forest dominated by an energetic, flowing stream that smelled of humus and damp morning. It was designed to relax and reassure, and Flinx allowed himself to fall under its cleverly constructed spell. Even more satisfying was the comfortable, old-fashioned chair to which the padre directed him.
    He glanced back at the gaping doorway.
    “Privacy?” inquired the padre. When Flinx nodded gratefully, his host murmured into a vorec designed to resemble a tulip. Immediately a real door, much more reassuring than the usual flimsy privacy curtain, closed off the office from the hall.
    In return for this largesse of surcease, Flinx knew he was expected to talk, or at least to make casual conversation. No more than that. A proper padre would put no pressure on him to pray or do anything else. One of the attractions of the United Church was that it was a very low-key organization. It offered help and asked nothing in return except that supplicants act rationally. Not necessarily sensibly, but rationally.
    “I am Father Bateleur, my son.” He nodded in the direction of Flinx’s occupied shoulder. “An interesting pet. Is it dangerous?”
    “Watchful.”
    “Those who wander beyond the sanctuary usually have a reason for doing so.” The older man smiled expectantly.
    “There were some men chasing me.” He caressed the back of Pip’s triangular head, and one pleated wing unfurled partway, quivering with pleasure. “One of them wanted to buy her.”
    “Her?” Bateleur smiled. “How do you sex such a dangerous animal?”
    “In my case, by dumb luck. She had babies. Anyway, I told this man I wouldn’t sell. I couldn’t. She’s been with me most of my adult life.”
    “No offense, my son, but you don’t look old enough to me to have had much of an adult life yet.”
    “I’ve had to grow up fast. I’ve lived sooner than most people.”
    “Not faster?” The padre pursed his lips. “Interesting way of putting it.” He folded his hands on his lap. “These men who wanted to buy your pet: they were very insistent.”
    “The disagreement escalated beyond discussion of price. A couple of them got hurt. Pip would have killed them if I hadn’t restrained her.”
    “I see.” The padre glanced