Orphan Star by Alan Dean Foster

Flinx noted that there was one remaining object they had not yet broken into.
    “That’s not my fault,” Bisondenbit complained, glaring with eyes of shattered prism at the three tall humans. “I didn’t promise to deliver any fringe benefits. If you don’t think I’ve earned my fee I’ll go straight to Challis himself.”
    One of the men looked resigned. Taking a double handful of small metal rectangles from one pocket, he handed them to Bisondenbit. The thranx counted them carefully.
    The human who had paid him looked over at the restraining bonds, and Flinx closed his eyes just in time. “That’s a lot of money. I don’t know why Challis is so afraid—this is just a kid. But he thinks it’s worth the fee you demanded. Don’t understand it, though.”
    The man indicated the biggest of the three. “Charlie, here, could break him in two with one hand.” Turning, he tapped the large sealed case. “What’s in this?”
    “I don’t know,” the thranx admitted. “He kept it in his cabin all the time.”
    The third man spoke up. His tone was vaguely contemptuous. “You can all stop worrying about it. I’ve been examining that container with appropriate instrumentation while the rest of you have been occupying yourselves with a harmless wardrobe.” He gave the bag a shove. “There’s no indication it contains anything mechanical or explosive. Readings indicated that it’s full of shaped organics and organic analogs—probably the rest of his clothing.” He sighed. “Might as well check it out. We’re paid to be thorough.” Taking a pair of thick metal clippers from a neat tool case, he snipped through the squat combination lock. That done, the top of the case opened easily. He peered inside, grunted. “Clothes, all right. Looks like another couple of suits and—” He started to remove the first set of clothing—then screamed and, stumbling backward, clawed at the left side of his face, which was suddenly bubbling like hot mud. A narrow, beltlike shape erupted from the open case.
    Bisondenbit chattered something in High Thranx and vanished out the single door. The one called Charlie fell backward across Flinx’s pinioned form, his beamer firing wildly at the ceiling as he dug in awful silence at his, own eyes. The leader of the little group of humans was close on Bisondenbit’s abdomen when something hit him at the back of his neck. Howling, he fell back into the room and started rolling across the floor.
    Less than a minute had passed.
    Something long and smooth slid onto Flinx’s chest.
    “That’s enough, Pip,” he said to his pet. But the minidrag was beyond persuasion. His inspection over, he took to the air again and began darting and striking at the man on the floor. Gaping holes appeared in the supplicant’s clothing and skin wherever the venom struck. Eventually the man stopped rolling.
    The first man who had been struck was already dead, while the second lay moaning against a wall behind Flinx. Pieces of skin hung loosely from his cheek and neck; and a flash of white showed where Pip’s extremely corrosive poison had exposed the bone.
    Meanwhile the minidrag settled gently on Flinx’s stomach, slid upward caressingly. The long tongue darted out again and again to touch lips and chin. “The right hand, Pip,” Flinx instructed, “my right hand.” In the darkness the reptile eyed him questioningly.
    Flinx snapped his fingers in a special way and now the minidrag half crawled, half fluttered over to the hand in question, rested his head in the open palm. A few scratches and then the hand closed gently but firmly. The snake offered no resistance.
    Adjusting his pet with some difficulty, Flinx aligned Pip’s snout with the place where the metal band was locked to the table. His fingers moved, massaging various muscles behind the jaw. A few droplets of poison oozed from the tapered tube which ran through the minidrag’s lower palate.
    There was a sizzling sound.
    Flinx waited until