Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [18]
“Where’s the old man?” Han asked, seeing the room was empty. Jessa slid into the conform-lounger behind the desk. She clenched her hands on the lounger’s thick, luxurious arms until her fingers made deep indentations.
“He’s not here, Solo. Doc’s gone.”
“How informative; I’d never have guessed it just from seeing the room’s empty. Look, Jess, I have no time for games, no matter how much you’d like to play. I want—”
“I know what you want!” Her face was bitter; it took him by surprise. “No one comes to us unless we know what they want from us. But my father’s not here. He’s disappeared, and nothing I’ve tried has turned up a hint. Believe me, Solo, I’ve tried it all.”
Han eased down into a seat across the desk from her. Jessa explained, “Doc went off on one of his buying trips—you know, shopping for stuff that would fit the market, or for some customer’s special order. He made three stops and never arrived at the fourth. Just like that. He, three crewmen, and a star yacht just dropped out of sight.”
Han thought for a moment about the old man with work-hardened hands, a quick, crusty grin, and a halo of frizzy white hair. Han had liked him, but if Doc was gone, that was that. Few people who vanished under circumstances like that ever showed up again. Luck of the draw. Han had always traveled light, with emotional baggage the first thing he jettisoned, and grief was far too heavy to lug around among the stars.
So that only left thinking, Goodbye, Doc, and dealing with Jessa, the old man’s only surviving kin. But when his brief distraction broke, he saw that she’d studied the entire play of his thoughts on his face. “You got through that eulogy pretty fast, didn’t you, Solo?” she asked softly. “Nobody gets too far under that precious skin of yours, isn’t that so?”
That pricked him. “If it was me who’d checked out, would Doc have gone on a crying jag, Jess? Would you? I’m sorry, but life goes on, and if you lose sight of that, sweetheart, you’re asking to be dealt out.”
Her mouth opened to reply, but she thought better of it and changed tack. Her voice became as sharp as a vibro-blade. “Very well. Let’s do business. I know what you’re looking for, the sensor suite, the dish, the Waiver. I can take care of all of it. We got our hands on a sensor suite, powerful, compact, a military package built for long-range scoutships. It found its way to us from a supply depot; got misrouted by a happy coincidence I arranged. I can handle the Waiver, too. That only leaves”—she gazed at him coldly—“the question of price.”
Han wasn’t crazy about the way she’d said it. “The money’s got to be right, Jess. I’ve only got—”
She cut him off again. “Who said money? I know just how much you have, high roller, and where you got it, and how much you gave Ploovo. Don’t you think we hear everything sooner or late? Would I assume an imbecile who’s been gunrunning would be flush?” She leaned back, interlacing her fingers.
He was confused. He’d planned to arrange long terms with Doc, but doubted if he could with Jessa. If she knew he couldn’t meet a decent price, why was she talking to him? “Are you going to explain, Jess, or am I supposed to do my famous mind-reading act?”
“Give your jaws a rest, Solo, and pay attention. I’m offering you a deal, a handwash.”
He was suspicious, knowing there’d be no generosity from her. But what were his alternatives? He needed his ship repaired, and the rest of it, or he might as well go somewhere out on the galactic rim and bid on a contract to haul garbage.