Star Wars_ The Han Solo Trilogy 01_ The Paradise Snare - A. C. Crispin [11]
Han could still hear the droid’s voice in his mind. Eight-Gee-Enn had had something wrong with its speakers, and its “voice” had alternated between sounding deep and unctuous, to shrill, mechanical squeakiness. But no matter how the droid sounded, they’d all paid attention to what Eight-Gee-Enn said …
“Now, dear children, have you all got your territory assignments?” The copper-colored droid swiveled its head a little rustily on its pipe-stem neck, regarding the eight children from Trader’s Luck as they stood ranged before it.
All of the children, including five-year-old Han, affirmed that they did, indeed, have their territories. “Very well, then, dear children,” the droid continued in its deep, then squeaky tones, “let me now give you your job assignments. Padra”—the droid looked down at a small boy only a year or so older than Han—“today we’re going to give you your first chance to show us how helpful you can be to these poor citizens who are burdened with credit vouchers, jewelry, and expensive private comlinks.” The droid’s eyes glittered eerily. They were different colors—one had burned out long ago, and Shrike had replaced it with a lens scavenged from a junked droid, giving F8GN one red “eye” and one green.
“Are you willing to help out these poor, benighted citizens, Padra?” Eight-Gee-Enn asked, cocking its metal head inquiringly, its voice dripping artificial camaraderie.
“Sure am!” the boy cried. He gave Han and the other small children a triumphant glance. “No more baby begging for me!” he whispered excitedly.
Han, who was barely beginning to learn the skills necessary to pick pockets swiftly and undetectably, felt a stir of envy. Picking pockets was easy, once you learned how to do it well. It was far easier to meet Eight-Gee-Enn’s quota for a day’s “work” picking pockets than it was by begging. Begging required accosting at least three marks, roughly, in order to gain one donation.
But pickpocketing … now, that was the best way to earn big money! If you chose the right mark, you could gain enough in one grab to give Eight-Gee-Enn your quota before noon, and then you were free to play. Han wondered whether Eight-Gee-Enn would give him some practice time if he hurried and begged his quota for the day before the others finished.
It was fun to practice with the spindly reddish droid, because Eight-Gee-Enn looked so funny in clothes! The droid would put on street clothes typical to the planet they were on, and then either stand still or stroll past his student. Han had learned to relieve the droid of the concealed chrono, credit vouchers, and even some kinds of jewelry without Eight-Gee-Enn detecting his fingers in the process.
But he couldn’t do it one hundred percent of the time. Han scowled a little as he trudged away. Eight-Gee-Enn demanded perfection from its little band, especially from the pickpockets. The droid wouldn’t let him start picking pockets until it was sure that Han could do so perfectly, every time.
Absently, he picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it into his hands, then smeared his already sweating face. What planet was this, anyway? He couldn’t recall hearing its name. The native people were greenish-skinned, with small, swively ears and huge dark purple eyes. Han had only learned a few words in their language, but he was a quick study, and he knew that by the time Trader’s Luck moved on, he’d be able to understand it well, and speak it—at least the gutter argot—passably.
Wherever this was, it was hot. Hot and humid. Han glanced up at the pale, greenish-blue sky, in which blazed a pale orange sun. The prospect of spending several hours on his appointed street, whining, begging, and cajoling passersby for alms wasn’t an attractive one. I hate begging, Han thought sourly. When I get a little older, I’m going to make them let me