Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [192]
Remembering to walk on his right, as a Dellaltian woman would, Hasti followed the steward. The vaults’ corridors, musty with age, displayed mosaics of colored crystal so complicated that Hasti couldn’t interpret them. Many of the pieces were cracked, and whole stretches were missing; they arched high overhead into shadow. Here, their footsteps resounded hollowly.
At last they came to a wall, not the end of the corridor but a partition of crudely cut stone that had plainly been mortared into place after the original construction. Set in the wall was a door that looked as if it had been scavenged from some later, less substantial building. Next to it was an audio pickup. The steward pointed to it.
“If the lady will speak into the voice-coder, we can proceed to the lockbox repository.”
When Hasti’s sister had told her and Badure about depositing the log-recorder disk she had told them the box-rental code and retrieval combination, but had mentioned no voice-coder. Hasti felt the pulse in her forehead and the thumping in her rib cage quicken.
The steward was waiting. Leaning to the audio pickup she said, as if in mystic invocation, “Lanni Troujow.”
* * *
“My last offer,” Badure threatened for the fourth time, resorting to hyperbole common on Dellalt, “is ten credits a day, guaranteed three-day minimum.”
The landlord shrieked and tore hairs out of his beard, beat his chest with his free hand, and vowed to his ancestors that he would join them before letting plundering offworlders steal the food from his children’s mouths. Skynx took it all in, amazed by the carefully measured affrontery of the hagglers.
Han listened with one ear, worried that Hasti might not have been able to get away from the landing area undetected. There was a tug at his shoulder; it was Bollux. “I noticed this altercation, sir. Shall I continue to outload our cargo?”
That meant Hasti was away. Badure heard and understood. “Get everything back onboard until this son of contaminated genes, this landlord, bargains reasonably.”
“Unthinkable!” screamed the landlord. “You have already made use of my precious building and diverted me from my other pursuits. A settlement must be made; I hereby hold your cargo against the arrival of the Fact-Finders.” He and Badure swapped deadly oaths.
The landlord called the old man a horrible name. Skynx, quivering in excitement, immersed himself in the spirit of the thing, antennae trembling. “Devourer of eggs!”
Everyone stopped, glancing at the diminutive Ruurian, who swallowed, appalled at his rash outburst. The landlord departed, along with much of the crowd, hurling back epithets and leaving his cousins to guard the outbuilding. From somewhere, the cousins had produced bolt-operated slug rifles with hexagonal barrels and long, lens-type scopes.
Back onboard the Falcon, Badure threw himself into a chair. “That landlord! What a freighter bum he’d have made!”
Han grabbed Bollux. “What happened?”
“The men guarding the building entrance kept looking through the door after me as I deposited the cargo. It was some time before they became bored and gave all their attention over to Badure’s performance and Skynx’s appearance. Hasti was no longer in her crate, and the inner door was unbarred. At Blue Max’s suggestion I resecured the door.”
“Tell Maxie he’s a good boy,” Badure said. “I like you two; you’ve got a touch of larceny in you.”
Bollux’s chest plastron swung open, the halves coming apart like cabinet doors. Blue Max’s photoreceptor lit up. “Thanks, Badure,” he said, sounding smug. Han told himself. I should keep an eye on that computer or he’ll end up wearing juvie-gang colors and packing a vibro-shiv.
Just at that moment, Skynx appeared with Chewbacca, who had just left the cockpit. The Wookiee was holding the metallic flask of vacuum-distilled jet juice the partners kept under the control console for special occasions. “Skynx,” Badure said, “I think it’s time to strike up the