Star Wars_ The Adventures of Lando Calrissia - L. Neil Smith [81]
There was, very possibly, nothing else quite so impressively beautiful in the known universe as the Flamewind of Oseon.
Lando did a rapid calculation: yes, if his luck ran well for long enough, he and Vuffi Raa would be there at the right time. Perhaps that had been intended by Lob Doluff as an incentive of sorts. How nice: a kind of bonus they could both—
KABLOMMMMM!
The Millennium Falcon pitched end over end with sudden violence.
Through the ports, stars whirled crazily about them in a meaningless pattern. Alarms went off, filling the cabin with an ear-splitting wail. Smoke began seeping into the room as random bits and pieces—Lando’s cards, his cigars, an old pair of socks—clung in odd, unpredictable places, responding to the primitive artificial gravity imposed on the ship by its wild head-over-heels spin.
“Vuffi Raa!”
Grasping the nearest bolted-down furniture, Lando shouted at the intercom. “What in the name of the Eternal was that?”
There was no response.
Pulling himself hand over hand against the nonsensically vectored drag, Lando made slow, unsteady progress to the bridge. Klaxons beat upon his head, their noise a tangible thing. The final turn of corridor was like crawling up a vertical sewer pipe, each rung of the emergency ladder coming with greater difficulty as he climbed above the ship’s new center of gravity.
Once in the cockpit, he climbed exhaustedly into his seat and strapped himself in, trying without much success to catch his breath.
Rendered virtually invisible by their speed, Vuffi Raa’s tentacles were flying over the controls. It must be some emergency, thought Lando, if even the multitalented robot was too busy now to talk. To the continued tune of shrilling alarms, Lando began assisting him, newly acquired knowledge coming sure and true to his fingertips. First, they stabilized the ship’s insane changes of attitude. Up became up once again, down, down.
Next, they located the source of the explosion. It was in the bottommost level of the Falcon, seemingly just under the belly skin. They triggered cannisters of firefoam, then jettisoned the resultant mess into open space. Temperature indicators relaxed, a few red lights winked to green. The alarms shut off; a deafening silence reigned.
Finally, Vuffi Raa laid the proper course back in, and they were on their way to the Oseon once again, although at something less than normal interstellar cruising speed.
“How bad is the damage?” Lando was already unstrapping himself. He wiped a shaking hand over his dampened forehead.
Vuffi Raa looked over the control panel, several sections of which were still ablaze with red and yellow lights. “It would appear, Master, to be superficial. The difficulty began when I shifted into faster-than-light drive. We shall have to inspect it close up, however. I don’t trust the remote sensors.”
“Very well,” the gambler answered, “let’s get below. I’ll put on a pressure suit and—”
“Master, it is standard procedure in such instances for one crew member to remain at the controls, while the other—”
“All right, then,” Lando said, a trifle irritated, “you stay here. I’ll suit up and—”
“Master, I can operate perfectly well in a hard vacuum without a suit. Explosive decompression doesn’t bother me. And I know how to weld. Do you?”
The little droid, of course, showed no expression, but Lando felt as if there were a pair of human arms somewhere inside its shiny chassis, folded across an imaginary chest, beneath an unbearably smug grimace.
“Have it your own way, then! I’ll still suit up. It seems a sensible safety precaution, just in case you open the wrong door somewhere. Keep me informed, will you—and don’t call me Master!”
Vuffi Raa unstrapped himself from the copilot’s seat, rose, and strode to the back of the control area. “I’ll do better than keep you informed, Master. Observe that monitor nearest your left elbow.”
Swiveling his neck,