Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [127]
“But they don’t mind leaving people stranded on some rock,” fumed Han, who had been known to calculate a hyperspace jump with one hand while dodging the law with a hold full of Kessel spice with the other.
“Stop complaining. There’s nothing we can do about it,” Fiolla reasoned. “There’s another ship that can get us to Ammuud, see? Departure 332.”
He checked the holo listings. “Are you crazy? That’s an M-class ship, probably a tour. Look at that, they’re going to stop at two, no, three other planets. And they’re not exactly going to be burning up hyperspace either.”
“It’s the quickest way to Ammuud,” Fiolla said sensibly. “Or would you rather go back and try to make peace with the people who were chasing us all over Bonadan? Or wait for them to trace us here?”
Han was painfully aware that Chewbacca and the Millennium Falcon would be waiting on Ammuud. “Uh, I don’t suppose you have enough cash to charter a ship of our own without using a voucher?”
She smiled at him sweetly. “Why, yes, growing right here off my petty-cash vine; I was saving up the harvest until I had enough to buy my own fleet. Try to be rational, will you, Solo?”
“All right, lay off. At least it won’t cost us more than a few Standard timeparts.”
On the way to the reservations deck they passed travelers from dozens of worlds. There were wobbly-fleshed Courataines in their exoskeletal travel suits, breathing the thinnest of atmospheres through their respirators; octopedal Wodes, heavy-stepping and unused to less than two Standard gravities; beautifully plumed Jastaals trilling their phrases to one another as they half-glided along, wings partially extended; and human beings in all their variety.
A hand dropped onto Han’s shoulder. He started, pivoting with a blurringly fast motion that freed him of the hand, put distance between himself and the other, and brought his right hand down to where his blaster would ordinarily have been.
“Easy, Han; old reflexes die hard, I see,” laughed the man who had stopped him. Braced to confront Zlarb’s business associates or a flying squad of Espos, Han felt abrupt relief not unmixed with a new worry as he recognized the man.
“Roa! What are you doing here?” Roa had put on weight, too much of it, but it didn’t conceal the open, friendly features of one of the best smugglers and blockade-runners Han had ever known.
Roa smiled, looking as pleasantly paternal and trustworthy as ever. “Passing through, just like everyone else, son, and I thought I recognized you.” Roa was carrying an expensive command case, a compact, self-contained business office. He wore a conservative beige suit with soft white shoes and rainbow girth-sash. “You remember Lwyll, I’m sure.”
The woman introduced by Roa had been standing to one side. Now she came forward. “How’s it been with you, Han?” she asked in that rich voice he recalled so well. Lwyll hadn’t gone as far to flesh as her husband; she was still a striking woman with masses of wavy white-blond hair and an elegant face. Han thought that she certainly didn’t look—how many Standard years older?
Seeing them brought back a surge of memory of the fast, furious time he had spent working for Roa, when he had tired of trying to be just one more honest, unassuming spacer a few credits away from poverty, like uncounted others wandering the stars, having abandoned a planet and a life.
It had been Roa who had taken Han on his first exhilarating, harrowing Kessel Run—very nearly his last. In Roa’s organization Han had risen quickly with a reputation for taking mad chances, daring any odds, running fearsome risks in the pursuit of illegal profit.
But they had parted company a long time ago, and honor among thieves was a more romantic myth than a dependable institution. Han’s immediate reaction on seeing Roa was pleasure,