Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [105]
The Wookiee was carrying a portable readout. Han shoved the medipack aside and fit the data plaque into the reader. His copilot leaned over his shoulder and together they puzzled over what they saw.
“Date-time coordinates, planetary index numbers,” Han muttered. “Ships’ registry codes and rental agents’ IDs. Most of them for a planet called Ammuud.” Chewbacca rumbled his own mystification.
Han again cursed Zlarb. Removing the plaque, he inserted the message tape into the readout’s other aperture. On the screen appeared the face of a young, black-haired man. The tight closeup told Han nothing about the man’s surroundings, whereabouts, or even the clothing he wore.
The face in the portable readout began speaking. “The measures you suggested are being taken against the Mor Glayyd on Ammuud. When delivery of your current consignment is made, payment will take place on Bonadan. Be at table 131, main passenger lounge, Bonadan Spaceport Southeast II at these coordinates.” Standard date-time coordinates appeared on the screen for a moment, then it cleared.
Han tossed the reader into the air with a burst of laughter. “If we pour it on, we can still get there in time. Let’s get the canopy patched; we can tidy up and see to Bollux and Max while we’re in jump.”
He kissed the reader and the Wookiee brayed, muzzle wrinkling, tongue curling, fangs showing. It was time to see about payments due.
III
HAN Solo was obliged to raise his voice to deliver the punch line. A gargantuan ore barge was settling in with such a booming of brute engines that, even though it was grounding halfway across the vast spaceport, it set up tiny wavelets in drinks in the passenger terminal’s main lounge.
The main lounge of Bonadan Spaceport Southeast II was colossal and, besides the unceasing rumble of arriving and departing ships, was filled with the conversation of thousands of human and nonhuman customers that overtaxed its sound-muting system. The lounge’s transparent dome revealed a sky teeming with ships of every description, their comings and goings orchestrated by the most advanced control system available. Planetary and solar system shuttles, passenger liners, the enormous barges carrying food and raw materials, Authority Security Police fleet ships, and bulk freighters bearing away Bonadan’s manufactured goods—all combined to make this one of the busiest ports in the Corporate Sector.
Although it encompassed tens of thousands of star systems, the Corporate Sector Authority was no more than an isolated cluster among the uncountable suns known to humankind. But there wasn’t one native, intelligent life form to be found in this entire part of space; a number of theories existed to explain why. The Authority had been chartered to exploit the incalculable wealth here. There were those who used words like “despoil” and “pillage” for what the Authority did. It maintained absolute control over its provinces and employees, and guarded its prerogatives jealously.
Leaning closer to Chewbacca, Han chuckled. “So the prospector says—get this, Chewie—the prospector says, “Well, how do you think my pack-beast got knock-kneed?”
He had timed the delivery just right. Chewbacca had raised a two-liter mug of Ebla beer to his lips and a spasm of laughter caught him right in the middle of a long draught. He choked, snorted, and woofed mightily into his mug. White beer-spume exploded outward. Though they registered displeasure, patrons at nearby tables, inspecting the Wookiee and noting his size and the fierce, fanged visage, refrained from complaining. Han chortled, as he scratched a shoulder made itchy by the somatigenerative effects of the synth-flesh.
Chewbacca uttered a guttural accusation. The pilot raised his eyebrows. “Of course I timed the