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bar.
    Small Symm’s establishment was notable not so much for its food and drink, but rather for the reputation it enjoyed as being one of the few places in Drallar where a being could go at night, get comfortably drunk, and still be assured of retaining the same amount of body fluid that he had commenced the evening with. Small Symm himself was well aware of the business this favorable standing attracted to his place and so labored mightily to maintain it. He did not know it, but if his business had been a country on Terra several odd centuries ago, it would have been called Switzerland.
    As Small Symm stood well over two meters tall and weighed in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty kilos, few felt inclined to dispute his neutrality. Those who had yearnings to contented themselves with imbibing elsewhere and commenting on the inordinate size of the barkeep’s ears.
    There were no drinking laws on Moth. Only sober ones, as the saying went. As far as the judges were concerned one could proceed directly from the mother’s breast to a bottle of Old Yeast-Bubble’s best mash brew liquor. The end result of this oft-commented upon degenerate policy was a thriving local industry and a surprisingly small number of alcoholics.
    However, there had been a few who had commented at times on Flinx’s comparative youth and thereby questioned his right to imbibe fermented spirits. One particular person, a traveling sinspinner from Puritan, had been especially obnoxious in this respect. Small Symm had lumbered over and politely advised the fellow to mind his own business. Holding fast to the tenets of his faith (and being a bit tipsy himself), the man had told Symm in no uncertain terms what he could do with his suggestions. The next thing he knew, his right arm had been neatly broken in two places. As gently as possible. The outworlder had gone straight to the police and the police had objected . . . after all, an outworlder, respected . . . but not too vigorously. Especially after Symm had picked up their paddycraft and jammed it immovably into a sewer opening. After that Flinx and Symm both found themselves little troubled by minions of either God or Cop.
    The giant was pleased to see him. Not the least of the things they had in common was the fact that both were technically orphans.
    “A dry hearth, young master! And how does the world find you tonight?”
    Flinx took the seat at the end of the bar. “It finds me well enough, enormous one. Well enough so that I will have a bottle of your very finest Burrberry beer, and a cauldron of pretzels for my friend.”
    He rubbed the snake under the jaw and Pip’s eyes slitted in appreciation. There were times when he would swear he could hear the thing purr. But since no one else could, he never made it a point of discussion.
    Symm’s eyebrows went up slightly. Burrberry was expensive, and potent. He was far more concerned about the youth’s ability to handle the former, however. The red ale was imported all the way from Crnkk, a thranx planet, and packed quite a kick for even a full-grown human. But he fetched it, and the pretzels for the minidrag.
    When he returned, the snake did not wait for an invitation, but dived immediately into the bowl and began wallowing around in the salty twists, its tongue darting and flicking with machinelike rapidity at the big halite crystals. Like many things in Drallar, even the pretzels disdained subtlety. Flinx reflected again that for an undeniably carnivorous animal, his pet was notoriously fond of grain products. The minidrag’s culinary adaptability had been one reason why it had been able to thrive so well in the city. There had been times when meat had been scarce, and vermin as well, and he and Mother Mastiff had watched in wonderment as the reptile happily downed large portions of salted bread or
pime,
the cheap cornlike growths that infested many of Moth’s softwoods.
    Flinx hefted the delicately formed bottle and poured the