Star Wars_ The Approaching Storm - Alan Dean Foster [130]
“I am in full agreement with you there,” Fargane huffed.
Ranjiyn eyed the senior delegate respectfully. “I concede that a decision should be made. Ansion’s future waits on those of us gathered here.”
A conflicted Tolut tried to stall. “Can’t we give these well-meaning visitors a little more time?”
“Who says they are well meaning?” Kandah snapped. “Shall we let them define themselves? They serve other masters. The Jedi Council, the Republic Senate, perhaps others. They do as they are told. If they have been told to leave without speaking to us, I would not be surprised. It would be characteristic of the kind of long-winded political maneuvering so typical of the Senate.” Her voice rose angrily. “I don’t like being treated in this manner!”
“By the end of the week, then.” Ranjiyn was insistent. “I say that if we have not heard anything from them by then, we should take the vote.”
“Well!” muttered Volune aloud. “A decision at last. While I tend to agree with Fargane that too much time has been wasted on this matter already, I will accede to that timetable.” He looked over at the senior delegate, human eyes meeting those of the slightly shorter Ansionian. “Fargane?”
The representative made a gurgling noise in his throat. “More time wasted. Haja, very well. But no longer,” he concluded warningly. “Tolut?”
The Armalat turned from where he had been staring out the window. “These Jedi are good people, I believe. But who knows what they have been told to do, or what has happened to them? They presume too much.” The heavy head gestured affirmatively. “The end of the week. It is agreed.”
It was so decided. No more delays, no more excuses. Jedi or no Jedi, treaty or no treaty, they each of them had responsibilities to their individual constituencies, whose citizens had been clamoring for a final decision on the matter of secession. Concerned communications had come as well from offworld, from the Malarians and the Keitumites, whose own futures were so closely and formally tied to that of their Ansionian allies.
Ogomoor was delighted. The end of the week was farther away than his master would have liked, but neither was it next solstice. Soergg and whoever he was working for would be much pleased.
The majordomo was much pleased with himself.
Ogomoor had just delivered a minor bit of good financial news to his bossban and was on his way out of the lounging chamber and back to his office when Soergg erupted behind him.
“It’s not possible!” the Hutt bellowed into the commdroid, whose job it was to hover close to the massive, lumpy head during business hours.
Adroit fellow that he was, Ogomoor was able to divine several things simultaneously from his master’s exclamation. First, when someone declares loudly and violently that something is not possible, it is probably an accomplished fact. Second, things that are supposed to be not possible that become reality almost always imply negative consequences. And third, there was no point in hurrying from the room because in all probability he would immediately receive an order to return.
All this flashed through the majordomo’s mind in an instant; just long enough for him to mentally prepare himself. Soergg continued listening to whoever was on the other end of the transmission. The Hutt’s huge eyes bulged and veins throbbed on his neck region and head. He must be upset indeed, Ogomoor knew, for those blood-carrying tubes to force themselves to the surface through so much intervening fat.
He listened patiently if uneasily. Patently, his bossban was not receiving good news. As bad news traveled rapidly down the chain of command through the Hutt’s many enterprises, it was his destiny to be among the first to share in it. Occasionally, Soergg would interject a comment or two into the largely one-sided conversation. As the Hutt continued to listen, these rapidly grew both stronger and more profane in tone.
When at last the transmission ended, the enraged