Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [106]
Throughout his story and most of the long Bonadan morning Han had kept an eye on table 131. It was still vacant and the little red light over its robo-bartender indicated that it was still reserved. The closest overhead chrono showed that the time for Zlarb’s rendezvous with his employer was long past.
The lounge was nearly filled, which tended to be true of this place at any hour of the day or night, what with the number of passengers and crew members passing through the port in addition to resident personnel. It was a light, airy, and open place constructed in levels of meandering terraces where plants from hundreds of Authority worlds had been nurtured. Though every table had a clear view of the constant traffic above, foliage tended to screen one terrace from the next. The two partners had selected a table from which they could observe table 131 through a lush curtain of D’ian orchid vine freckled with sweet-smelling moss and still remain inconspicuous.
It had been their uncomplicated plan to observe who came to meet Zlarb at the table, follow them out and accost them, collecting their ten thousand by dint of whatever threats or intimidation seemed appropriate. But something was plainly wrong; no one had come.
Han began feeling uneasy despite his joking; neither he nor Chewbacca was armed. Bonadan was a highly industrialized, densely inhabited planet, one of the Authority’s foremost factory worlds. With masses of humanity and other life forms packed together in such number, the Security Police—“Espos,” as they were called in slang-talk—were at great pains to keep lethal weapons out of the hands and other manipulatory appendages of the populace. Weapons detectors and search-scan monitors were to be found almost everywhere on the planet, including thoroughfares, places of business, stores, and public transportation. And, most particularly, surveillance was maintained at each of Bonadan’s ten sprawling spaceports, the largest of which was Southeast II.
Carrying a firearm—either blaster or Wookiee bowcaster—would be grounds for immediate arrest, something the two could hardly afford. If their true identities and past activities ever came to light, the Corporate Sector Authority’s only regret would be that it could only execute them one time apiece. The one positive aspect of this situation, the way Han saw it, was that Zlarb’s contact would in all probability be unarmed as well.
Or, would have been. It was beginning to look like their wait had been for nothing.
Chewbacca punched a series of buttons on the robo-bartender and fed it some cash, very nearly their last. A panel slid back and a new round of drinks waited. The Wookiee took up a new mug enthusiastically, and for Han there was another half-bottle of a strong local wine. Chewbacca drank deeply and with obvious bliss, eyes closed, lowering the mug at last to wipe the white ring of suds out of his facial hair with the back of one paw. He closed his eyes again and smacked his lips loudly.
Han approached his bottle with less ardor. Not that he didn’t like the wine; it was the intrusive nature of this over-civilized planet, as reflected in the design of the bottle, that he abhorred. He pressed hard on the cap’s seal with his thumb and the cap popped off. Once off, it was almost impossible to re-affix. Then came the part Han really loathed; breach of the cap triggered the release of a small energy charge. Light-emitting diodes, manufactured into the bottle, began a garish show. Figures and lettering marched around the bottle extolling the virtues of its contents. The LEDs scintillated, giving what were intended to be winning statements about the wine’s contents, bouquet, and the high standards of personal hygiene embraced by the bottler’s employees and automata. Consumer information appeared, too, though in far smaller letters and less blinding hues.
Han,