Star Wars_ The Adventures of Lando Calrissia - L. Neil Smith [156]
“Well,” he said casually, “I’ve almost sold my quota here on the Reliable. You swabbies have any suggestions where I might find greener pastures?”
His connections, compliments of the Respectable’s sector chief, had about run dry, and he needed not only the name of the next ship closer to the mouth of the ThonBoka, but of someone aboard in a position to do him some good. As bets were placed and extra cards were passed around; Lando asked for one, giving up the Commander. He received an Ace of Coins just as the Nine in his hand transformed itself into an Eight—another pestiferous twenty-three!
All right, then: “Sabacc!” The gambler said for the first time that afternoon. You lose some, you win some; you gotta take the good with the bad. He raked in a few millicredits and promptly engineered a loss again. It was simpler to do when he had control of the cards.
“You might try the Courteous,” the younger of the two cooks suggested, pushing his white hat back from his sweaty forehead. He smelled of onions and had a missing tooth. “Those boys been on the line longer’n anybody here. I got a cousin-in-law over there who says—OW!”
“Oh he does, does he?” observed Lando, watching the older cook kick the younger under the table. “Accident-prone or just sensitive to pain?”
“You gotta keep your flapping lip buttoned, Merle,” the older cook said, “There’s sucha thing as security.”
“Aww, Clive, Lando’s all right. Usta be a rating hisself, didn’t you, Lando? He just wants to sell stuff over on the Courteous, like he done here, ain’t that right, Lando? an’ seein’ as it’s the closest ship in, he might be able to get a look at what the fuss is—OW!”
The older cook looked apologetic. “No offense, Mr. Calrissian.”
Lando grinned as he watched the younger cook rub a tender shin. “None taken.”
It was a cheerful tune the young gambler was whistling as he shinnied down the ladder into the airlock of the Millennium Falcon. “Honey, I’m home!”
“Are you referring to me, Master?” Vuffi Raa asked, maneuvering his tentacles over the hatchway coaming. He took Lando’s helmet, helped his master raise the circular overhead hatch and screw it into place.
“Did you take care of that little job I asked you about?” the gambler inquired. They passed along the corridor to the cockpit. Lando stopped to inspect his quad-guns. The fleet security force’s seals were still in place; the weapons were theoretically inoperable. Vuffi Raa had cheated around them the first hour they’d been installed.
“Why yes, Master, I have. Can you tell me now why you wanted such an odd thing done?” Strapping himself into place, the robot received clearance from the Respectable and detached the Falcon from her belly.
Lando glanced suspiciously around the cabin. “You tell me: can I let you in on it without informing the boys in gray up there?”
The little droid sounded a bit scandalized. “Master, I removed a total of twenty-three listening devices from this vessel, put there by at least three separate agencies in the last seventy-one hours. We’re completely clean. What I’d like to know is why you wanted—”
“Simple. I want you to raise the Courteous, confirm we’re on our way, and set a course for her. Then I want you to be ready to punch everything we’ve got into the drives, and everything else into the aft shield-generators, as soon as we pass by her and light out for the ThonBoka. Got that?” He reached under the control panel, extracted a cigar of a quality much higher than the ones he had been selling. Vuffi Raa lit it for him with a tentacle tip.
“Aye, aye, Master. But that device you had me construct while you were aboard the Respectable: