Star Wars_ The Adventures of Lando Calrissia - L. Neil Smith [47]
But to the problem at hand.
“Okay, old theologue, we’ll change the subject: How did you know we had survived this morning, and why did you wait for us here, when you knew how sore I’d be about last night?”
Lando wanted to move back from the fire. About a thousand meters would do nicely. The cooking reptile, presently hovering somewhere between second-degree blistering and third-degree charring, smelled exactly like … like … well, he’d smelled more appetizing things attached to starship hulls while he was melting them off with live steam. Nonetheless, even the idea of the fire was warming; he hadn’t felt really comfortable since he’d landed on that stupid clot of sand, not even aboard ship.
The elderly Singer opened his mouth. “Lord—”
“MASTER, HUMAN FORMS ARE MOVING BEHIND THOSE DUNES OVER THERE.”
Mohs jumped at least a meter. The little droid’s voice had come amplified through the ship’s external loudhailers.
“Thanks, old cogwheel.” Lando answered in a normal tone. Millennium Falcon had excellent hearing, and so did Vuffi Raa. He chuckled as the antique shaman regained his dignity.
“THEY APPEAR TO BE CARRYING THOSE CROSSBOW THINGS, MASTER.”
“Mohs,” the gambler said evenly, “I’m going to give you just thirty seconds to send your people away, and if they’re not gone by then, you’re going to swap places with that poor uncomfortable creature you’re cooking. I ought to turn you in to the ISPCA—or at least the Epicures Club.”
The Singer slowly cranked himself into a standing position, rattled off a few discordant stanzas—probably the Song of Strategic Withdrawal, Lando thought—then he sat again, turned the lizard on its stick, and addressed Lando.
“I have told them to depart, Lord. They came only for your protection. Now, if thy servant may have a few moments in which to fortify himself and attend to bodily needs, then we shall go to a place I know … where the Key may be used.”
He seized the lizard by its head, pulled backward in a peeling motion, and tore it off the stick.
“Good heavens,” Lando cried, gulping to control his upper gastrointestinal tract, “are you going to eat that thing?”
Fifteen minutes later, they were standing at the base of the pyramid. Even tilted backward as the wall before them was, it seemed to loom over them like some fantastic, infinitely high cliff, threatening to topple and bury them at any instant.
Vuffi Raa, having locked the spaceship up securely, joined them. The Toka Singer cast around, seeming to look for something recognizable on what appeared to be a featureless magenta wall. Finally, he stopped and pointed.
“There,” he said with finality, “about a meter downward, Lord.” He folded his arms.
Lando rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Well, don’t look at me. I’m the Key Bearer. You’re the peon. You want a shovel, or will you perform this ceremony by hand?”
The old Toka was aghast. “Me, Lord? I am Singer of the—”
“One moment, gentlebeings,” the robot said. “I can have it done before the two of you are finished arguing about it.”
With that, his tentacles became a blur of motion. He resembled a shiny circular saw blade with a glowing red center. Sand poured upward in a wake behind him like an absurd dry fountain, and he was, as he had promised, soon finished.
“Escargot and Entropy!” Lando swore, struck by what he saw where Vuffi Raa had dug. Mohs was startled into silence, fell to his knees and began chanting in a low, whimpery tone.
It shouldn’t have been possible. Draw a line around your hand and rout out the material within the outline to a depth of approximately a centimeter. It can be done, and easily.
Now try it with the blade of an eggbeater. The human hand is, in its simplest representation, a two-dimensional form. Something requiring three dimensions can’t be represented in the same way, not including its essential element—its three-dimensionality. Not unless that object is a Sharu