Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [211]
Townspeople appeared and clustered around him, just as they had greeted the Falcon’s passengers. But something in this stranger’s blue, unblinking eyes, something penetrating and without mercy, made them wary. He soon obtained from them the story of the Falcon’s arrival and removal by the mining-camp ship. They showed him the spot where the spaceboat had been destroyed by the lighter. Even scavengers had avoided the bits of wreckage, fearing radiation residues.
The stranger told the townspeople to disperse, and seeing the look in his eyes, they obeyed. He carefully removed his jacket and hung it inside his ship. Around his waist an intricately tooled black gunbelt held a blaster high on his right hip.
He brought certain sensitive instruments from his ship, some on a carrying harness, others attached to a long probe, and still others set in a very sophisticated remote-globe. Loosening his scarf, he made a patient examination of the area, working in a careful pattern.
An hour later he returned the equipment to his ship and rubbed the dust from his gleaming shoes with a rag. He was satisfied that no one had died when J’uoch’s spaceboat had been destroyed. He reknotted his scarf while he considered the situation.
Eventually, Gallandro drew on his jacket and locked up his ship, then made his way into the city. He soon heard rumors of bizarre goings-on down at the lake and battles among the natives. He couldn’t verify much about the outside humans involved, though; the only close-range witnesses, the shore gang of the sauropteroid Kasarax, had gone into hiding. Still, he was willing to credit the story. It was in keeping with Han Solo’s wildly unpredictable luck.
No, Gallandro corrected himself. “Luck” was what Solo would have called it. He, Gallandro, had long ago rejected mysticism and superstition. It made it that much more frustrating to see how events seemed to conspire to impel Solo along.
Gallandro intended to prove that Solo was no more than he appeared to be, a small-time smuggler of no great consequence. That the gunman had doubtless given the matter far more thought than Solo himself was a source of ironic amusement to him. Using the vast resources of his employer, the Corporate Sector Authority, he had tracked Solo and the Wookiee this far and would, with only a little more patience, complete the hunt.
XI
“THERE’S something wrong,” Han said, peering intently through his blaster’s scope in the morning light. “I’m not sure, but—Here, you look, Badure.”
“It just looks like a landing field to me,” Hasti commented.
“Just because it’s big and flat and has ships parked on it?” Han asked sarcastically. “Don’t jump to any conclusions; after all, we may’ve stumbled onto the only used-aircraft lot in these mountains.”
A stiff breeze at their backs blew down the narrow valley toward the field. It had been snowing heavily in the region; at the far edge of the flat area below, a snowfield sloped sharply downward toward the lowlands.
“It’s not on any map I ever saw,” declared Badure, squinting through the scope.
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Han replied. “The Tion Hegemony’s survey-updating program is running something like a hundred and eighty years behind schedule and getting worse. And these mountains are full of turbulence and storm activity. A survey-flyover ship could’ve missed that place altogether. Even an Alpha Team or a full Beta Mission might not have caught it.”
Thinking it over, Han rubbed his jaw, feeling his growth of beard. He, like the others, was drawn and haggard from the march and had lost a good deal of weight. The knife cut across his chin was healing well enough in the absence of a medi-pack.
“Badure’s right,” Hasti said, holding the survey-map reader up close to her face. “There’s nothing on her