Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [131]
“Uh-oh,” blurted Blue Max, who was following the contest from his habitual place in Bollux’s open thorax. The ’droid sat on a pressure keg among the other clutter to one side of the compartment, amid plastic pallets, hoisting toggles and a rebuilt fuel enricher that Han hadn’t gotten around to installing yet. The computer probe’s photoreceptor swiveled to track on Spray as the Tynnan returned to the board and made his next move without hesitation.
Spray’s lone combatant had been a decoy. Now one of his supporting monsters slithered across the board and, after a brief battle, threw Chewbacca’s defenses wide open.
“It’s the Eighth Ilthmar gambit; he drew you out with that loner. He’s got you,” Blue Max observed helpfully.
Chewbacca was filling his lungs for a vituperative outpouring and levering himself up to the board again when the navi-computer clamored for attention. The starship’s first mate forgot his ire and scrambled up from the acceleration couch, but not before he cleared the board of his humiliating defeat. He hastened off to prepare for the reversion to normal space.
“And just look at this; some of these systems are fluidic!” Spray squeaked after him, whiskers aquiver, waving a tech readout screen. “What is this, a starship or a distillery?”
The Wookiee paid him no heed. “Good game, Spray,” attested Max, who was himself a fair player.
“He held me for three extra moves,” admitted the skip-tracer. “I wish things were going as well with this technical survey. Everything’s so modified that I can’t trace the basic specifications.”
“Maybe we can help,” Max piped brightly.
“Max is conversant with ship’s systems,” Bollux said. “He might be able to dig out the information you require.”
“Just what I need! Please, step over to the tech station!” Spray was behind the ’droid, webbed feet scrabbling on the deckplates, pushing him to a seat at the station. As Bollux sat heavily into the acceleration chair, Max extended an adaptor, the one Chewbacca had repaired after the encounter with the slavers.
“I’m in,” Max announced as technical readouts began marching across scopes and screens at high speed. “What d’you want to know, Spray?”
“All data on recent jumps; you can patch into the navi-computer. I want to see how the ship’s been operating.”
“You mean accuracy factors and power levels?” Max asked in his childish voice.
“I mean hyperspace jumps, date-time coordinates, all relevant information. It’ll give me the simplest evaluation of how the ship performs and what she’s worth.”
There was a momentary hesitation. “It’s no use,” Max told Spray. “Captain Solo’s got all that stuff protected. He and Chewbacca are the only ones with access.”
Exasperated, Spray pursued. “Can’t you find a window to it? I thought you were a computer probe.”
Max achieved a wounded tone. “I am. But I can’t do something like this without the Captain’s permission. Besides, if I make a mistake, the safeguards will wipe everything clean.”
As the Tynnan sat and stewed, Bollux drawled, “As I understand it, a general examination would begin with things like power systems, maintenance records, and so forth. Would you like Blue Max to run a thorough check of current status?”
Spray seemed distracted. “Eh? Oh, yes, yes, that would be fine.” Then he sat, bucktoothed chin poised on a stubby paw, stroking his whiskers in concentration.
“Whoops,” chirped Max, “what d’you suppose that is? Whatever it is wasn’t there when we did the preflight warmup.”
The skip-tracer suddenly became attentive. “What are you—oh, that power drop? Hm, that’s a minor conduit on the outer hull, isn’t it? Now what could be draining power there?”
“Nothing in design schematics or mod-specs,” Max assured him. “I think we should tell Chewbacca.”
Spray, never