Star Wars_ The Adventures of Lando Calrissia - L. Neil Smith [121]
The underside of 5792 was an impressive miniature spaceport, cluttered parking grounds to an enormous motley fleet of spacecraft, almost as if it were a hobbyist’s collection, rather than a working landing field. The port was ringed, at the asteroid’s edge, with heavy armament; Lando began taking the security picket’s boasts more seriously. These folks believed in firepower and had the hardware to back up their belief.
Vuffi Raa settled the Falcon in a berth designated for him with a pulsing beacon. As the freighter’s landing legs came into gentle contact with the surface, and the robot began slapping power-down switches, Lando slapped his safety-belt release.
“I’m going to finish suiting up. You understand what you’re supposed to do?”
He pulled on a lightweight space glove, gave his stingbeam another check. It shouldn’t look too obvious. No point making things easy for the opposition.
“Yes, Master, I’m to conceal myself in the main control-cable conduit between here and the engine area. I’ll tap into the lines there and keep the Falcon ticking over for an instant getaway.”
The little droid paused as if reluctant to continue. “I’m to stay here, no matter what, and blast off for deep space if you’re not back within eight hours. Why do you ask me to repeat these things like a child? You know I have a perfect memory.”
“Yeah? Well, I’d feel a lot better about that if you remembered not to call me master. Besides, you’ve been known to improvise.”
The robot considered this gravely. “You could be right, Master. I certainly won’t depart as you’ve instructed me to. Not without looking for you first.”
Though inwardly pleased at the response, Lando scowled. “To hell with you then,” he snarled. “I’ve logged your manumission into the Falcon’s memories, just in case I don’t get back. You’ll be a free machine, my little friend, like it or not, with a fully operational commercial starship of your very own.”
He was halfway through the rear door of the cabin when he turned and spoke again. “By the way, I’ve also made you my legal heir. I wish you better luck with this space-going collection of debris than I’ve had.”
The droid said nothing, but his eye dimmed very slightly in a manner that indicated he’d been touched emotionally. Then: “Good luck to you, too, Master. I’ll be waiting …” But Lando was already gone.
He followed his master off the tiny bridge.
In the passageway, the robot loosened a ceiling panel, hoisted himself up inside, and drew the panel into place beneath himself. Within a few seconds, he was a part of the Millennium Falcon. A very expensive, highly unconventional, and sullenly (for the moment, anyway) independent one.
Carrying his helmet under one arm, the parcel of lesai under the other, Lando reached a certain point in the ship’s main corridor where, transferring both burdens clumsily to one hand, he stooped down and rapped, not very gently, on the floor.
A section of roughly-sawn decking parted upward and an angry and uncomfortable-looking Bassi Vobah raised her helmeted head.
“I’ll take my money now,” Lando said. His own helmet began to slip from between his gloved fingers. He gave it an irritated hitch. He doubted he’d really need the thing anyway, but he was a man who took precautions. He was taking one now.
“You can whistle for it, low-life!” Bassi Vobah’s spacesuit served a different and more certain purpose. It was a common quarantine practice to flood a visiting ship with poison gas. Hard on insects, germs, and furry creeping things of a million species, it also discouraged smuggling of certain types and illegal immigration where such phenomena were regarded as a problem by the authorities. “I don’t keep bargains with criminals!”
“Then why do you work for politicians?” He thrust a determined hand out. “Give me my money, or I’ll suddenly and to my innocent amazement discover a pair of stowaways. Just in time for Bohhuah Mutdah’s security goons to take