Star Wars_ The Adventures of Lando Calrissia - L. Neil Smith [153]
“Locking on, Master,” came the doubly electronic voice from the cockpit.
“All right, Vuffi Raa, don’t wait up for me.”
Lando gave the wheel above his head a full turn, another half turn, and cringed, as he always did, when it popped heavily out of its threads. He swung it to one side, reached down for his case, and made his clumsy way up the metal rungs of the ladder, through the Falcon’s hull, and into the receiving area aboard the Respectable.
To discover he was staring straight into the muzzles of half a dozen high-powered blasters.
Gulping—and happy that it was concealed by his helmet—Lando keyed his suit radio as he swung the heavy bag onto the deck of the cruiser, lifted himself up, and straightened.
“Good afternoon, gentlebeings. Lando Calrissian, interstellar trader at your service. What can I do you for?” He laughed heartily at his lame joke.
He’d climbed into a hangar bay. Lando thought it a little stupid that they hadn’t been invited inside, freighter and all—the Navy certainly had the room for it. The ceiling was invisible far above, drowned out by the harsh lights glaring down onto the deck. The chamber was at least two hundred meters from its broad, curving, and presently tightly shut doors to the complicated-looking rear wall where half a hundred windows lit in various colors showed control and maintenance areas behind a pressure bulkhead.
The squad of security guards didn’t relax a millimeter. Their leader, identifiable by the insignia on his battle armor, crackled forward, slapped the weapon he was carrying across his chest.
“Quiet, civilian! You are ordered to report, under arrest, to the sector security chief. Your baggage will be taken for inspection and decontamination!”
“Decontamination?” Lando feigned dismay. “You want to decontaminate a dozen cartons of fine Dilnlexan cigars, Oseoni cigarettes, Trammistan chocolates—”
“Cigars?” the head goon asked in a rather different tone of voice than before. He looked right and left, slapped a pair of switches on his arm panel, grabbed Lando’s arm, and similarly rendered the gambler’s suit radio inoperative. He touched his opaque-visored helmet to Lando’s bubble.
“Cigars, you say? Do you know how long the Ship’s Exchange has been out of cigars? We’ve been on picket at this Core-forsaken nebula since—ahem!” The man seemed to regain control of himself momentarily. “Report, with this escort, to the sector chief. I’ll take custody of your sample case and make certain that its contents are undamaged.”
“Although they may be somewhat depleted when I get them back?” Lando grinned and winked through two layers of plastic at the invisible face next to his. “Just keep in mind, Sergeant, that there’s a lot more where this came from if we establish an amenable relationship, all right?”
The sergeant snapped to attention after switching on both radios again.
“Message received and understood, trader! I trust you’ll enjoy your stay aboard the Respectable.”
“Oh,” Lando said, “I’m sure I will. Shall we be moving along?”
* * *
The sector chief was a grizzled, overweight warrant officer with hash marks on his uniform sleeves which threatened to dribble off his cuffs and onto the metal deckplates of his office. He scratched a crew-cut head and then shifted his hand to rub a bulbous, well-veined nose.
“Well, I ain’t never heard of nothing like this before—a civilian merchant plyin’ his wares to vessels on blockade duty. And friend, if I ain’t heard of it before, you’ve got a problem, cause This Man’s Navy operates on precedent.”
Lando, having been examined, searched, scrutinized, peered at and into by human eyes and hands and the sensory ends of countless pieces of nastily suspicious equipment, leaned back in the chair across from the warrant officer’s desk and nodded pleasantly. He was glad he’d selected his plainest, least colorful shipsuit to wear beneath his pressure outfit, which