V VCHEWBACCA, still some distance from the Millennium Falcon, smelled a strange odor and knew something was wrong. Black nostrils flaring in a futile effort to identify the aroma, he approached the starship as quietly as he could. Despite his great size and weight, the Wookiee, a veteran hunter, moved with total stealth.
After leaving the lounge, Chewbacca had made only a cursory check of the Falcon, eyeballing her to make sure no one on any of the grounds crews had attempted to move the freighter or block her in. Then he had begun a round of inquiries at the portmaster’s headquarters and guild hiring halls. But the Falcon’s first mate had turned up nothing of use.
His errand had caused him to miss both the abortive attempt to break into the ship and Han’s subsequent appearance and departure. But now he had discovered still another threat to the starship. Silently easing up to the foot of the ramp, he saw an unfamiliar form hunched over and working busily at the freighter’s main hatch lock. Next to the figure was an open tool bag containing a fusioncutter, some probes, a drill, and other instruments of illegal entry. The intruder’s ears were covered with some sort of headphones.
Chewbacca ascended the ramp like a wraith, reached out, seized a broad handful of the nape of the intruder’s neck, and lifted. The headphones shook loose and from the creature’s neck dangled the thing to which they were attached, apparently a listening device for the opening of locks.
“Eee-ee!” The figure writhed and wriggled with such sinuosity that the Wookiee lost his hold. But as the would-be burglar sought to dodge past him, Chewbacca’s long arms scooped out to either side, blocking the way. Trapped, the intruder shrank back against the Falcon’s main hatch, panting and trembling.
The being was small, perhaps a head shorter than Han Solo when standing erect rather than cowering. He had the sleek, glossy pelt of an aquatic mammal, colored a deep gleaming black. He was a biped with short, strong-looking fingers and toes; between those fingers and toes were webs of pinkish-gray skin. He had a thick, tapering tail and pointed ears that stood close to his skull, moving independently, aiming this way and that, first at the Wookiee, then away. His long, moist snout snuffled and quivered nervously. From this whiskered snout protruded a set of long buckteeth. It was plain from his squinting eyes that his vision wasn’t very acute.
The being seemed to gain a good deal of information by his ears; Chewbacca assumed it was only because he had been wearing the headphones that he’d failed to notice the Wookiee’s approach.
The intruder collected himself and drew himself up to his full height (which wasn’t very imposing against Chewbacca’s), nose quivering and tail vibrating in righteous indignation. Unfortunately his voice, when it came, was something of a quavering squeak with a slight lisp, reducing the effect. Still, it held conviction.
“What’s the idea of assaulting me, you big overstuffed oaf of a Wookiee? How dare you? I’ll have you know I’m a licensed collections agent. This vessel appears on the Red List!” He snagged a card out of his open bag and presented it with the formal flourish of a webbed hand.
It was a document of identification and authorization for one Spray, of the planet Tynna, to act in the interests and on the behalf of Interstellar Collections Limited, pursuant to the collection of debts, garnishing and repossession proceedings and any and all activities connected thereunto. On it was a flat two-dee depicting the little collections agent.
Chewbacca, satisfied that the document was real, looked up with a snarl of displeasure directed at all skip-tracers in general and at Spray in particular. Like Han, he sincerely detested them.
Jumping out on a debt seldom meant trouble with law enforcement agencies; it was such a common practice among members of the fringe society of independent spacers that every lawman in the galaxy could have spent every waking moment looking for, apprehending, and prosecuting them to the exclusion of all other activity. Thus the Espos, Imperial forces, and other legal authorities tended to ignore the problem, leaving the collection of debts and/or repossession of spacecraft to agency skip-tracers like Spray who roamed the galaxy with the voluminous and infamous Red List.
Spray appeared not to notice the Wookiee’s snarl. Having identified himself, he reverted to being a company man. The Tynnan dug out, from somewhere, an incredibly thick little notebook, squinting into it, his moist nose nearly touching the page.
He mumbled to himself as he read. “Ah, here, yes,” he said finally. “Would you by any chance be Captain, um, Solo?”
Chewbacca barked an irritated negative and jerked a thumb back at the spaceport, indicating Han’s present location as well as he could. Then he moved Spray rudely out of his way and bent to see what had been done to the lock. When he noticed the same damage Han had seen earlier he let out a horrible howl and turned back on the skip-tracer with mayhem in mind.
But the Tynnan, back on familiar territory, was indignant rather than intimidated. He snuffled. “I most certainly am not responsible for that damage! Do you mistake me for a bungler and a thug? A brainless primitive unconversant with modern technology? I am a trained collections agent, my dear Wookiee, equipped with the latest tools of my profession; I avoid doing any unnecessary damage to repossessed property. I have no idea who was tampering with the hatch lock before me, but you may depend upon it that it wasn’t me! I simply deactivated the surveillance system and was about to neutralize the lock—without damaging it, if I may say so—when you so violently accosted me. Now that you’re here, however, the need no longer exists.”
Spray was burrowing his bucktoothed proboscis into the notebook again and lisping mumbles to himself, insinuating himself between the Wookiee and the Falcon’s main hatch. Chewbacca found himself somewhat off stride; his wrath and threats were sometimes greeted by fear, sometimes by hostility, and occasionally with combat, but never had the towering first mate met anyone quite so preoccupied that he actually paid him no attention.
“Ah, here we are,” Spray went on, having riffled back to the correct page. “Your captain has failed to settle on an outstanding debt of some two thousand five hundred Credits Standard owed to Vinda and D’rag, Starshipwrights and Aerospace Engineers Incorporated, of Oslumpex V. Your Captain Solo has ignored seven—no, eight dunning notices.”
He glared myopically at the Wookiee. “Eight, sir. Vinda and D’rag have therefore presumed default on your captain’s part and referred the matter to my employers. Now, if you’ll be good enough to open the hatch, I can continue the repossession process. Of course, you’re free to remove all personal effects and non—”
Chewbacca had been making deep, reverberating noises in his throat up to now, which someone more familiar with him would have taken as a danger signal. His annoyance burst forth in a roar that drove Spray back a step with its sheer physical impact, ruffling the little skip-tracer’s nose fur and bending back his whiskers.
But he stood waiting patiently, eyes squeezed shut against the vocal gale, as Chewbacca railed horrible Wookiee oaths at him. The Tynnan flinched every now and then as the crescendo rose, his ears swinging back protectively, but he held his ground resolutely. The Falcon’s first mate periodically punctuated his ranting by slamming his enormous fist against the ship’s hull, evoking deep percussives from her armor.
But when he finally ran down, Spray began again in the mildest of tones. “Now then, as I was saying: I have a document here entitling me to take possession of—”
Chewbacca snatched up the papers proffered by Spray. It was a thick legal instrument of several pages; the Wookiee crushed it into a tightly compressed wad in his powerful hands and stuck it into his fanged mouth. Sneering hideously at the skip-tracer, he chomped on the document a few times, shredding it handily, then swallowed it.
But it did little to alleviate his frustration over how to deal with Spray. This was the first time in memory that Chewbacca had ever had such difficulty with a creature whom he outweighed three to one. He was beginning to feel embarrassed; the scene had already attracted the attention of several local idlers and a number of passing automata. The idea of simply demolishing the Tynnan was now out of the question.
“That will do you precisely no good whatsoever, my dear Wookiee,” Spray hastened to assure him. “I have many duplicates. Now, unless your captain is prepared to make immediate and total defrayal of the entire sum of his debt, I’m afraid I must demand that you open that hatch, or permit me to do so.”
Chewbacca surrendered at last, growling and motioning Spray to follow him back down the ramp. He would take the skip-tracer to talk to his partner; he could see no alternative short of losing the ship or committing premeditated murder in a public place.
But Spray was shaking his head briskly, his whiskers quivering. “I’m afraid it just won’t do, my good fellow. It’s too late to begin negotiating; immediate payment or immediate repossession are your only choices.”
In the course of a long life Chewbacca had learned that there come times when the most bellicose roar is insufficient. He clamped one vast paw on either of Spray’s shoulders and effortlessly hoisted the skip-tracer up close, until their gazes were level. Suspended furry muzzle to bucktoothed muzzle with Chewbacca, his webbed feet dangling somewhere above the Wookiee’s knees, the Tynnan watched as the Millennium Falcon’s first mate wordlessly peeled his lips back from ferocious rows of teeth.
“Then again,” the collections agent resumed hastily, “perhaps we could work out some sort of agreement and spare my employers the expense and inconvenience of public auction. Point well taken, sir. Where might I find your captain?”
Chewbacca carefully set Spray back down on his feet and, gesturing to the lock surveillance system, growled harshly. Taking his meaning clearly, Spray dug some tools from his bag and quickly reactivated the device.
Blue Max’s chirp instantly sounded over the intercom. “Who’s there? Why was this instrument deactivated? Reply at once or I’ll notify port security!”
Chewbacca barked once at the comlink. “Oh, First Mate Chewbacca, sir,” Max replied happily. “I thought the ship was being burglarized again. There was already one attempt earlier. Captain Solo’s gone off to investigate. He dispatched Bollux to the Landing Zone with word, and said he’d meet you there. Are you coming aboard, sir?”
The Wookiee barked irritably as he marched Spray down the ramp. The Tynnan had to trot to match Chewbacca’s long strides.
Blue Max called after them. “But what are my instructions?”
As the Wookiee dragged him off, the skip-tracer shrilly called back, “In the name of Interstellar Collections Limited, make sure no harm comes to the vessel!”
“What’s your name, anyway?” the woman asked as they passed through the entrance to the Landing Zone. It was a well-known spot among spacers, prominent on the avenue of bars, rub-shops, gambling dens, and pawnbrokers’ establishments outside the spaceport’s main crew gate. “Mine’s Fiolla,” she encouraged.
Han hadn’t had much chance to talk to her on the ride back, at the end of which they had abandoned the swoop and the vibroblade several blocks away, in the middle of the teeming Alien Quarter. It was a good bet that the swoop already had a new coat of paint or was dismantled.
But he saw no reason to cudgel his brain for a cover; the slavers already knew his name, and anyone else who wanted to badly enough could find out.
“Han Solo,” he said. She gave no sign of recognizing it.
Bollux, having failed to find Chewbacca in the spaceport’s wide confines, had had no more luck at the Landing Zone. But by soliciting the bartender’s permission with particular fervor, he had been allowed to wait by the entrance.
Now he approached Han who, sighting the ’droid, sighed. “I don’t feel like talking standing up. Come and have a seat, Bollux.”
The Landing Zone and all its furnishings were built from pieces and fittings from the spaceport salvage yards. Han led the way to a small table made from an obsolete charts-computer from an old survey ship.
When Bollux and Fiolla had taken seats he turned to her. “Bollux, general labor ’droid, at your service.”
Han interrupted Fiolla’s courteous reply. “Never mind that,” he snapped. “Bollux, where’s Chewie?”
“I was unable to locate him, Captain. I came here assuming this to be the place where you’d eventually contact him.”
The waiter came by, a many-tentacled Sljee with a broad tray firmly fastened to the top of its low, slab-shaped body. There was a hole in the middle of the tray and through it the Sljee’s olfactory antennae waved like some strange centerpiece.
“What’re you folks having?” it asked them hurriedly, the second afternoon rush just having begun. Then it noticed Bollux. “Sorry, but it’s against house policy to allow ’droids at the tables. You two gentlemen will have to leave him outside.”
“Who’s a gentleman?” Fiolla demanded sharply.
“Beg pardon,” apologized the Sljee. “I’ve only been working here since this morning. It’s my first time away from home and I’ve never dealt with aliens before. Non-Sljee, I mean. The smells are so confusing. Frightfully sorry.”
“The ’droid stays,” Han stated flatly. “Now go bring us two Flameouts, or I’ll tell the manager you insulted this lady. I’m a very close friend of his.”
“At once, sir. Coming right up.” The Sljee pirouetted on its many short podia and sailed off in the direction of the service bar.
“So we know I’m not Zlarb,” Han resumed to Fiolla. “Who are you not?”
She chuckled. “I’m not a slaver, but you know my real name, or at least part of it. Im Hart-and-Parn Gorra-Fiolla of Lorrd, Assistant Auditor-General, Corporate Sector Authority.”
An Authority exec, Han groaned to himself. Why don’t I just go down to the Espo prison, pick a comfortable cell, and get it over with? Instead he pursued the conversation. “Slavers must have interesting audits, fascinating expense vouchers.”
“Doubtless, but I’ve never read one. I’m an auditor-at-large, sort of a roving assignment conducting random checks of Authority operations. I was working here with my assistant when I found out that there’s a slavery ring operating inside the Authority. Some top execs are implicated, and a number of Espo officials. I think it might go as high as the territorial manager for this entire part of the Authority, Odumin, and that’s a shock in itself. Although I’ve never met him, I’ve heard that Odumin’s always shunned the limelight, but he’s always been a decent administrator, a regular humanitarian as managers go. Anyway, I’m conducting my own investigation. When I’ve developed all the information, I’m going to dump it right in the lap of the Board of Directors.” She smiled brightly. “Then I’m going to nail myself the juiciest promotion and raise you ever saw. You’re looking at Fiolla of Lorrd, heroine of the spaceways. Now how about you?”
He spread his hands. “I fly for hire. I rendezvoused with Zlarb without knowing he wanted me to move slaves. We disagreed and he got shot. And I don’t care who’s doing what to whom; I’ve got ten thousand in cash coming and I want it. Zlarb had a tape message to meet someone here for payment so I kept his appointment. How did you end up there in the lounge?”
“It was part of the information I came across. Did Zlarb tell you anything else?”
“Zlarb made the Final Jump shortly after being burned with a disruptor, but he had a record of ship registrations and leasing permits. Almost all of them were funneled through an agency on Ammuud.”
She was listening distractedly, but he went on. “Do you mind telling me how come I’m in your confidence all of a sudden? Not that it doesn’t stir me deeply, of course.”
“Simple; this thing’s even bigger than I’d thought. I need some additional help and I can’t go to the Espos. You seem to know what you’re doing in an unsubtle sort of way. And you definitely aren’t a member of the slavery ring unless murder is a standard business pay-down.”
“You’d be surprised. But don’t get any ideas; I’m not the helpful type. How’d you end up out there today, by the way?”
“My assistant, Magg, got his hands on a message that the management was holding for Zlarb back there at the lounge. When I decided you weren’t going to tell me much I sent you off to chase yourself and—”
Han leaned forward with a certain look on his face that caused Bollux to fear for Fiolla’s safety. “And Magg followed me to put my lights out, right?”
She looked honestly shocked. “Are you saying someone attacked you?”
“Somebody did everything except zeroize my rotors.”
She drew a deep breath. “I gave you the number of an Authority pool hangar. The ship there was the one Magg and I arrived in. I knew it was on down time, waiting for parts, and there’d be no one around. But listen—Magg trailed your hairy friend when he left the lounge and that’s how we found out which ship was yours. When we couldn’t get aboard for a search, I went off to keep Zlarb’s appointment myself because the instructions said one person and one scooter. I sent Magg to see what he could find out about you.”
Han was so busy trying to unravel what she had said that he forgot to be angry at her mention of the attempted break-in. He was impressed with her resourcefulness, antagonized a bit by her self-assurance, and surprised by her naïveté.
The Sljee waiter had returned. Two tentacles whisked two tall glasses off its back-tray while two more placed absorb-mats before Han and Fiolla. “There we are,” the Sljee said cheerfully. “Will that be pay as you go, or shall I put it on a tab?” it asked hopefully. It had already been stiffed twice that day by unscrupulous customers who had taken advantage of its difficulty in differentiating among individual non-Sljee.
“Run the tab,” said Han immediately. The Sljee retreated in disappointment, trying its best to memorize Han’s odor without much confidence.
The Flameouts were perfect, burning their tongues and freezing their throats, making them gasp a bit. “Don’t you think it was stupid to ride out there alone?” Han asked.
“I had a gun,” she argued. “A special, one that doesn’t register on scanners. Lots of execs carry them. How did I know the worthless thing would let me down?”
“Where’s your assistant now?”
“After Magg checks on you he’ll go to our hotel and get ready to leave. It occurred to me that we might have to get off-planet in short order.”
“Very possible,” allowed Han. A sudden thought struck him and he became hostile again. “I owe Magg for damaging my ship, don’t I?”
“I ordered him to try to break in, to see if there was any information onboard; I thought you might just be playing very, very dumb. If you want to get even, you can take me on another swoop ride sometime. By the way, what kind of security system is that you’ve got? Magg was sure he could open up a freighter without breaking stride, but that lock of yours stopped him cold. He said he’d need a tool shop to get in.”
“I like my privacy,” Han explained simply, avoiding the mention of smuggling.
“Magg said it was like trying to crack the Imperial Currency Reserve.”
“Sounds like an experienced guy.”
“Oh, very versatile, yes. I handpicked him because he had, ah, a range of abilities. I think you two will find one another quite—”
At that moment Chewbacca arrived with Spray. The Wookiee forcefully sat the little Tynnan down with the pressure of a giant paw and took a seat himself, filling it to overflowing.
“I met Fiolla here and almost got killed,” Han told his friend pleasantly. “How was your afternoon?”
Chewbacca studied the woman with his large, lucid blue eyes and she returned the scrutiny. Then the Wookiee motioned to Spray and, in his growling, barking language, explained to Han what had happened as the skip-tracer squinted from one to the other.
“I hate skip-tracers,” announced Han Solo at length.
“In that case I think I’ll just be toddling along …” Spray said, starting to rise. Chewbacca clapped a paw on him and pushed him back down.
Han’s head was spinning with this new development, and he wished he could process information as quickly as Blue Max. Theoretically, Spray could enlist the aid of the Espos in taking possession of the Falcon. Once again Han wondered when his string of rotten luck would break.
Just then the Sljee waiter showed up again, having noticed Chewbacca’s and Spray’s presence. It endeavored to speak in its most hospitable tones, still aware of its previous gaff.
“Yes, sir” purred the Sljee to the Wookiee, “and what can I bring you and your strapping young hatchling here?”
Chewbacca snarled at the Sljee. Spray, already visibly disturbed, exploded. “We’re not even the same species!”
“What’ve I told you about that?” Han asked the Sljee menacingly.
“A thousand pardons,” wailed the Sljee, rotating back and forth through nervous quarter-turns and intertwining its tentacles imploringly.
“What in the world is going on?” Fiolla wanted to know, not having understood anything Chewbacca had said.
Spray held his paws-up, webbed fingers spread, until the others were quiet, including the Sljee. “First of all, we have no need of any refreshments, thank you,” the Tynnan told the waiter. The Sljee retreated gratefully.
“Now,” Spray continued, “the central issue, Captain Solo—please stop shushing me, sir; I will be heard! At issue are two thousand five hundred Credits Standard owed Vinda and D’rag, Starshipwrights. Unless you’re prepared to make payment, I am empowered to attach and take possession of your ship, which, by the way, appears to have had her marking altered in illegal fashion.”
Han narrowed his eyes and glared at Spray. “I am thinking right now,” he said, “of how a certain chisel-beaked runt is going to get his just desserts.”
“It’s a bit public for threats of aggravated assault, isn’t it, Solo?” Fiolla asked.
“You keep out of this! For all I know, you two work together.”
“Bullying will do you no good, Captain,” Spray plowed on insistently in his squeaky voice. “Either remittance arrangements must be made this very moment or I shall be forced to go to the portmaster and the Security Police.”
Han had his mouth open, uncertain whether he would try to lie or simply instruct Chewbacca to render the skip-tracer unconscious. He heard Fiolla say: “I’ll pay for him.”
Han’s mouth stayed open as he turned on her. “Better close it,” Fiolla cautioned, “before your tongue gets sunburned. Look, this problem of mine is a lot more complicated than I’d thought. It will take more investigation before I’m ready to go to the Board of Directors. I need a way to get around fast, and I’m not particularly anxious to go by public transportation. And the last thing I want is to take an Authority pool ship. Solo, you ought to be eager to leave, too, before the Espos start asking about missing rental scooters and several swoop riders smeared out on the landscape. If you’ll chart out to me, I’ll cover your debt. Besides, you want your ten thousand, don’t you? Your best chance of finding it is to stick with me.”
She turned to Spray. “How about it?”
The Tynnan nervously scratched up tufts of fur on his skull, blinking and wriggling his nose back and forth in consternation. “Cash?” he asked at last.
“An Authority Cash Voucher,” Fiolla replied. “Half now, half when we’re done. They’re as good as money in a vault.”
“Interstellar Collections Limited does prefer repayment to repo procedures,” the skip-tracer admitted. “But I’m afraid I couldn’t let you out of my sight until restitution is made.”
“Just a second,” Han snapped at Fiolla. “I’m not carting that little bloodsucker along anywhere.”
Spray remained unexpectedly firm. “Captain Solo, her proposal is absolutely the only alternative to having your ship attached.”
“There’s always the famous Disappearing Ship-Tracer Trick,” suggested Han darkly.
“Be civilized,” Fiolla chided. “This won’t take long, Solo. And if you don’t help me, maybe I’ll have to drag your name into my report. But if you take me to check out this shipping agent on Ammuud, the one you mentioned, I’ll forget about you completely.”
Han hoped it would be mutual. He poured down half of what remained of his Flameout. It felt corrosive but didn’t help much otherwise. He looked to his first mate, who was looking back, no help at all, willing to go with whatever decision Han made.
He put his chin on his fist. “Chewie, you take Bollux and paddlefoot, here, back to the ship. I’ll go with our new employer and pick up her assistant. Get liftoff clearance and punch up a jump to Ammuud.”
Fiolla scribbled quickly on a pad of forms and pressed her thumbprint against the authorization square. She presented the voucher to Spray, whereupon Han realized that she was carrying an open expense account and that her position with the Authority must be an important one indeed.
The Wookiee had risen and moved near Spray as a general precaution, with Bollux close behind. But the Tynnan only made a polite parting bow to Fiolla. “Thank you for remaining reasonable about this entire incident,” he said.
He started for the door. Chewbacca growled a farewell to Han, then to Fiolla. She returned it, not getting the vocal sounds right but contorting her face around into a very close approximation of the Wookiee’s, even to getting both corners of her upper lip up high and baring her lower teeth along with the uppers in true Wookiee fashion. Chewbacca was startled, but yipped laughter. Then he went quickly, Bollux at his side, to catch up with the departing Spray.
“You’re a pretty good mimic,” Han commented, remembering her imitation of the four-armed manager in the terminal lounge.
“I told you, I’m from Lorrd,” she reminded him, and he understood. The Lorrdians had, for many generations, been a subject race during the Kanz Disorders. Their masters had forbidden them to speak, sing, or otherwise communicate as they worked at their slave labors. The Lorrdians had evolved a complicated language of extremely subtle hand and facial movements and body signals and become masters of kinesic communication. Although it had been generations since their servitude had been ended by the Jedi Knights and the forces of the Old Republic, the Lorrdians remained among the galaxy’s very best mimes and mimics.
“So that’s how you knew Chewie and I were watching table 131 today?”
“I read you like a pair of message tapes; you tipped it every time someone went near the table.”
And, thought Han, Fiolla’s Lorrdian background gave her an added interest in ending the slavery ring. Still, it was unusual to find a Lorrdian working this far from home, and especially for the Corporate Sector Authority.
About to down the last of his Flameout, Han pointed to the open voucher pad. “There are plenty of times when you can get more with a blaster than with one of those, but if I had one I’d buy myself a nice little planet and retire.”
“Which is why you’ll never have one,” she assured him, rising and following him from the table. “This slavery business is going to be my big break; nothing’s keeping me out of a Board chair.”
The Sljee waiter returned, its olfactory stalks tilting and waving when it took cognizance of the empty table. Then it noticed Han and Fiolla and approached them tentatively, the check extended before it on a metal salver.
“Ah, I believe this is your check, humans,” ventured the Sljee.
“Us?” Han, who was broke, cried indignantly. “We just arrived, and for your information we’ve been waiting to be seated for quite a while now. And you’re trying to stick us with somebody else’s check when we haven’t even had a drink yet? Where’s the manager?”
The Sljee was spinning around and back, tangling its tentacles in total consternation. Its sensory equipment was really quite excellent at fine distinctions and subtle perceptions concerning other Sljee, but it found humanoid species dreadfully anonymous.
“Are you certain?” the Sljee moaned abjectly. “I’m sorry; I, I suppose I had you confused with two others.” It studied the vacant table, wringing its tentacles in distress. “You didn’t happen to see them leave, did you? If I’m stiffed again it will cost me my job.”
Unable to endure any more, Fiolla drew a generous handful of cash from her thigh pouch and tossed it on the salver. “Solo, you’re impossible.”
The Sljee withdrew, showering her with its gratitude. Fiolla headed for the door.
“It’s every life form for himself,” opined Han Solo.