Star Wars_ Millennium Falcon - James Luceno [74]
She was Molpol's star, and unfortunately she knew that.
Her demands knew no bounds, and she insisted on bringing meticulous attention to everything she did. Never an eyelash out of place; never a piece of clothing that didn't fit perfectly; never a misstep. If she executed one of her routines less than perfectly, she would be angry for days. And if you were a member of the crew, you definitely didn't want to be the one responsible for spoiling the lighting or the music. Sari wouldn't scream at you, but her cold silence could be deafening.
None of that, however, stopped me from falling in love with her.
I was a mere pilot and she had little time for me, but I managed to bridge that gap. Since everyone involved with Molpol did double duty of some sort, I decided to join the clown squad—if for no other reason than to be able to exchange a few words with Sari between acts. Fifteen other clowns and I would have just emerged from a land-speeder meant for four, or I would have just worn myself out doing pratfalls, and there she'd be, waiting in the wings to go on, and I'd wish her luck or compliment her on her choice of costume. I don't think she was physically attracted to me in the slightest, but she loved that I could make the audience laugh and leave everyone in the best possible mood to appreciate her performance.
Normally the performers traveled together from world to world in an old passenger vessel, aboard which privacy was difficult to come by, gossip was rampant, and arguments were a constant. The Falcon was reserved for transporting the owner and the ringmaster, their occasional guests, and whatever cash proceeds emerged from the performances. Still, Sari would frequently ask me how I could stand to travel in “that junk heap of a ship.” At such moments I would try to sing the Falcon's praises, but my best efforts fell on deaf ears. Finally, however, I summoned the nerve to ask if she would consider trading her somewhat cramped quarters aboard the passenger ship for the relative luxury of a private cabin aboard the Falcon. The schedule called for us to perform on two backrocket planets in the Anoat Sector, for both of which Dax Doogun and the ringmaster would be traveling on a ship owned by the governor of the star system. Even I couldn't have dreamed up a more perfect situation: no hyperspace travel—as a means of conserving fuel and lowering expenses—simply three long days and nights of realspace transit from the third planet in the system to the seventh. I was careful to make the invitation sound casual, but I was certain she knew what I was up to, and that I knew she knew. Her response was that her decision would depend on the outcome of a thorough inspection tour of the ship she would undertake without prior warning. She made it sound like a joke, but I grasped that she was deadly serious.
I spent days cleaning and detailing the ship inside and out. I vacuumed the holds and the ring corridor, polished the cockpit instrument panel, and had the copilot's chair reupholstered. I was so obsessed with making the ship as spotless as possible, I wouldn't even entrust Molpol's labor droids with the task. The Falcon had two cabins, but I focused on the larger of the pair—the one normally reserved for Dax Doogun—laundering the linens, installing new illuminators, scrubbing the 'fresher, and recalibrating the sonic shower. I covered the tables that flanked the largest bunk