IX IXIT was early in the morning of Ammuud’s short day when spaceport employees and automata alike stopped work as sirens announced a defense alert. Reinforced domes folded back to reveal emplacements around the port and in the snowy mountains above. For a quiet little spaceport, Ammuud had an impressive array of weaponry.
A boat came out of the sky, catching the light. Its pilot hit the braking thruster, and the ear-splitting sound of its passage caught up with it. Turbolasers, missile tubes, and multibar-reled cannons traced its descent, eager to fire should the boat show the slightest sign of hostile action. The defense command was already aware that a brief ship-to-ship action had been fought above Ammuud, and they were inclined to take no chances. Interceptors were kept clear, since it was a lone craft, and the entire sky was a potential free-fire area.
But the boat set down obediently and precisely at one side of the field by port control, at a spot designated. Ground vehicles mounted with portable artillery closed in around the little vessel while the larger emplacements went back to standby. The spaceport automata, cargo-handlers, automovers, and the like, their simple circuitry satisfied that there was no reason to discontinue work, returned to their tasks, with one exception. No one even noticed the labor ’droid who, still carrying a shipping crate, started off across the field.
As he cracked the boat’s hatch, Han turned to check on his companion. “Fiolla, you’ve got great judgment in hired help, that’s all I can say.”
“Solo, he passed an in-depth security investigation,” she insisted, rather more loudly. “What was I supposed to do, have him brain-probed?”
Han stopped as he was about to swing down to the landing field. “Not a bad idea. Anyway, this tells us a lot. When you gained access to the slavers’ computer pocket on Bonadan, it wasn’t just because of miskeying. Magg’s terminal probably had some sort of special-access equipment built into it; looks like he’s the slavers’ roving accountant, too, and maybe their security man as well.
“He sent you out on that scooter so you could be quietly taken out of the way. I’ll bet he gimmicked up that fancy scanner-proof gun of yours, too.”
Fiolla was fast on the recovery, he had to give her that. She had already accepted what she had seen and revised her ideas accordingly. “That doesn’t make any of this my fault,” she pointed out logically.
Han didn’t answer, being busy staring into the barrels and emission apertures of a variety of lethal weapons, doing his best to look friendly and unthreatening. He showed empty hands.
A man in unmatched tunic and trousers stepped up, disruptor in hand. His uniform wasn’t regulation but he wore a starburst insignia on an armband. Han already knew from inquiries that Ammuud was run by a loose and often competitive coalition of seven major clans under Authority subcontract. From the disparity of uniforms and attire it appeared that all seven clans supplied men to the port security force.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the leader snapped. “Who are you? What happened up there?” On that last he gestured toward the sky over Ammuud with his pistol barrel.
Han dropped down from the open hatch and casually but conspicuously raised his hands while donning his sunniest smile. “We were passengers on the liner Lady of Mindor. She was attacked and boarded by pirates; we two escaped, but I don’t know what happened after we left.”
“According to screens, the pirate has cut loose from that liner and run; we haven’t got a paint on it anymore. Let me see your identification, please.” The man hadn’t lowered his sidearm.
“We didn’t have time to pack our bags,” Han told him. “We jumped the first lifeboat we came to and got clear.”
“And just in time,” added Fiolla, poised at the hatch. “Please help me down, darling?”
Several of the port police automatically closed in to assist. Fiolla looked very good, even with her gown ripped and dust from the utility core on her. She also added a convincing note to Han’s story. He interceded before anyone else could help and, hands at her waist, lowered her to the field.
The officer in charge began rubbing his forehead. “It looks as if I’ll have to take you to the Reesbon stronghold for further questioning.”
But one of his men objected. “Why to the Reesbon’s? Why not to our clan stronghold, the Glayyd’s? There are more of us here than you.”
Han recalled that Reesbon and Glayyd were two of the six controlling clans here on Ammuud. And the Mor Glayyd, patriarch of his clan, was the man Han and Fiolla were here to see. A quick look around indicated to him that the Falcon didn’t seem to be on the field. Han resisted the impulse to inquire about his ship, not wanting to implicate Chewbacca in what was going on if he could avoid it.
But the problem of the moment involved being carted off to some clan stronghold. He wasn’t sure yet what he would say to the Glayyd leader, but he knew he had no desire to be sequestered in the family home of the Reesbons.
“Actually, I’m here because I have business to conduct with the Mor Glayyd,” he commented. That drew a scowl from the officer but, to Han’s surprise, also evoked a suspicious look from the Glayyd men and women.
The first Glayyd clansman spoke again. “There, you see? Do you deny that this is something that can be investigated by the Mor Glayyd just as honestly as by the Mor Reesbon?”
The officer and his kinsmen were in the great minority; he saw he could win neither by rank nor force. Han had the impression the port police forces were shot through with dissension. The officer’s lips compressed as he conceded the point stiffly. “I will summon a ground car; we’ll have to keep all the weapons vehicles here at the port.”
Just then a slow metallic voice behind Han drawled, “Sir, hadn’t I best come with you? Or would you rather I remained here with the boat?”
Han did his best to keep his jaw from dropping. Bollux stood in the lifeboat’s hatch, to all intents awaiting orders after an eventful descent and landing.
“I thought you two were alone?” said one of the port police with a hint of accusation.
Fiolla was faster on the uptake than Han. “There’s just us and our personal ’droid,” she explained. “Do the Ammuud clans count machinery among the clan populace?”
Han was still staring at Bollux; he couldn’t have been more surprised if the ’droid had danced his way out of a party-pastry. Then he got his brain into gear. “No, you might as well come with us,” he told the ’droid.
Bollux obediently lowered himself from the hatch. The officer was back, having spoken over the comlink in one of the weapons carriers. “A car has been dispatched from the central pool and will be here very shortly,” he told them. Turning to the Glayyd man who had given him the argument, he smiled bleakly. “I trust the Mor Glayyd will report on this matter to the other clans quickly. After all, he has other … pressing matters that may call him away soon.”
The Glayyd people shifted and glowered, fingering their weapons as if the Reesbon officer had made an extreme provocation. The officer returned to his vehicle and, with the rest of the Reesbon people, departed.
The Glayyd man wanted to know more about Han’s business with his clan leader. “No, he’s not expecting me,” Han answered honestly. “But it’s a matter of extreme urgency, as important to him as to me.”
To forestall more inquiries Fiolla leaned heavily on Han’s arm, eyelids fluttering. Putting a hand to her brow, she did such a convincing imitation of being close to collapse that further questions went unasked.
“She’s been through a lot,” Han explained. “Maybe we could sit down while we’re waiting for the car.”
“Forgive me,” muttered the Glayyd man. “Please make yourselves comfortable in the troop compartment of that carrier. I shall inform the Mor Glayyd of your arrival.”
“Uh, tell him I’m sorry if we’re taking him from something.” Han was thinking of what the Reesbon officer had said. “What have we interrupted?”
The Glayyd man’s eyes flicked over Han again. “The Mor Glayyd is to fight a death-duel,” he said, and departed to send his message.
Seated with Bollux in the troop compartment, Fiolla and Han pressed the ’droid for information. He gave them a brief summary of events following their parting on Bonadan.
“What’d you do when the escape pod grounded?” Han wanted to know.
“I’m afraid Spray’s timing wasn’t all that good, sir,” Bollux answered. “I landed some distance from the city, but at least that kept me from being painted by their sensor screens or destroyed on the way down; defenses are very good here. I walked the rest of the way to the spaceport and simply made myself inconspicuous, awaiting your appearance. I must admit I’d been concentrating on incoming ships at their small passenger terminal; I hadn’t expected you to arrive in this fashion. Also, I’ve managed to learn a good deal about the current situation here.”
“Wait; jet back,” instructed Han. “What’d you mean, made yourself inconspicuous? Where’ve you been?”
“Why, doing what ’droids are supposed to do, Captain Solo,” Bollux answered both of Han’s questions at once. “I simply entered the port through the labor-automata checkpoint and began doing whatever work there was to be done. Everyone always presumes that a ’droid is owner-imprinted and task-programmed. After all, why else would a ’droid be working? No one ever questioned me, even the labor-gang bosses. And since I wasn’t really assigned to anyone, no one ever noticed when I drifted from one job to another. Being a labor ’droid is very good protective coloration, Captain.”
Fiolla was interested. “But that involved deceiving humans. Didn’t it go against your fundamental programming?”
Han could have sworn Bollux sounded modest. “My actions involved a very high order of probability of contributing to your and the captain’s well-being or even, if I may say so, of preventing your coming to harm. That, it goes without saying, overcame any counterprogramming forbidding deception of a human. And so, when I saw your boat land, I simply carried a shipping crate across the field until I was behind your craft and then entered it through the rear hatch. As I said—”
“Nobody noticed a ’droid,” Han anticipated him. “When we’re out of here I’ll take care of that, if you like; we’ll repaint you in flashy colors, how’s that? Now what about this duel?”
“From what I’ve been able to learn listening to humans and talking to the few intelligent automata at the port, sir, there’s an extremely rigid code of honor in force among the clans. The Mor Glayyd, leader of the most powerful clan, has been mortally insulted by an outsider, an extremely proficient gunman. The other clans won’t intervene because they’d be happy to see the Mor Glayyd die. And, according to the code, no Glayyd family member is permitted to intervene either. If the Mor Glayyd fails to fight or his challenger is killed or injured before the contest, he’ll lose all face and much of his popular support, and violate his oath as clan protector.”
“We’ve got to get to him before this stupid duel,” Fiolla exclaimed to Han. “We can’t afford to have him killed!”
“I’m sure he feels the same way,” Han assured her dryly. Just then a car slid up, a wide, soft-tired ground vehicle gleaming a hard, enamel black.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Han told the Glayyd clansman. “My ’droid here will stay with the lifeboat. After all, it’s not my property and I guess I’ll be responsible for its safe return.”
There was no objection. Bollux reentered the boat and Han and Fiolla made themselves comfortable in the car’s deeply upholstered interior. Glayyd clanspeople caught handholds and mounted the car’s running boards.
The car was warm and comfortable, with enough room for a dozen passengers. A driver, backed by a guidance computer, sat on the other side of a thick transparisteel partition. The ride took them through the main part of the city. It was a rather ramshackle affair, its buildings being more often of wood or stone than of fusion-formed material or shaped formex. Street drainage was provided by open gutters that were frequently choked with refuse and pools of crimson-scummed water.
The people they passed showed a wide range of activity. There were trappers, starshipwrights, forestry service police, maintenance trouble-shooters, freight haulers, and street vendors. Among them jostled the young men of the clans and their carefully chaperoned kinswomen.
For all its faults and imperfections, Han preferred an open, brawling, and vital place like Ammuud to the depressing functionality of a Bonadan or the groomed sterility of one of the Authority’s capitol worlds. This place might never be awash in profit or influential in galactic affairs, but it looked like an interesting place to live.
Fiolla frowned as they rolled past a row of slums. “It’s an insult to have one of those eyesores in the Corporate Sector Authority.”
“There’re a lot worse things in the Authority,” Han replied.
“Keep your lectures about what’s wrong with the Authority,” she shot back. “I’m better informed about that than you are. The difference between us is that I’m going to do something about it. And my first move is to get on the Board of Directors.”
Han made a silencing motion, indicating the driver and the riders who clung to the car. Fiolla made a hmmph! at him, crossed her arms and stared angrily out her window.
The Glayyd stronghold looked like just that, a pile of huge blocks of fusion-formed material boasting detectors and weapons emplacements galore. The stronghold was set up against the rearing mountains at the edge of the city, and Han presumed that the peaks hid deep, all but impregnable shelters.
The car slid through an open gate at the foot of the stronghold and came to a stop in a cavernous garage guarded by young men, the Glayyd clan’s footsoldiers. They didn’t seem particularly wary and Han took it for granted that the car had been thoroughly checked out prior to admittance.
One of the clan guards escorted them to a small lift chute and stood aside as they entered, setting their destination for them. They rose quickly, and because the chute wasn’t equipped with autocompensation gear, Han’s ears popped.
When the doors swished open they found themselves looking out into a room far airier and more open than expected. Apparently some of those heavy blocks and slabs could be moved aside.
The room was furnished sparely but well. Robo-vassals and fine, if dated, conform-lounge furniture showed that the occupants enjoyed their luxuries. Waiting for the two was a woman some years younger than Fiolla.
She was dressed in a thickly embroidered gown trimmed in silvery thread and wore a shawl made of some wispy blue material. Her red-brown hair was held back by a single blue ribbon. She bore on her left cheek the discoloration of a recent injury; Han thought it the mark of a slap. She had a look of hope, and of misgiving.
“Won’t you come in, please, and sit down? I’m afraid they neglected to forward your names to me.”
They introduced themselves and found places in the comfortable furniture. Han wanted very much to hear her ask if he wanted something to drink, but she was so distracted that she ignored the subject altogether.
“I am Ido, sister to the Mor Glayyd,” she said quickly. “Our patrolman didn’t specify your business but I decided to see you, hoping it concerned this … current distress.”
“Meaning the death duel?” Fiolla asked straightforwardly.
The young woman nodded. “Not us,” Han said quickly, to keep the matter clear. Fiolla gave him a caustic look.
“Then I don’t think my brother will have time to speak to you,” Ido went on. “The duel has been twice postponed, though we hadn’t expected that, but no further delay will be allowed.”
Han was about to argue but Fiolla, more the diplomat than he, changed the course of conversation for the moment, asking what had prompted the challenge. Ido’s fingertips went to the mark on her face.
“This is the cause,” she said. “I fear this little mark is my brother’s death sentence. An offworlder appeared here several days ago and contrived to be introduced to me at a reception. We took a turn through the roof garden at his invitation. He became enraged at something I said, or so it seemed. He struck me. My brother had no choice but to make challenge. Since then we’ve learned that this fellow is a famous gunman who has killed many opponents. The whole thing seems a plot to kill my brother, but it’s too late to avoid the duel.”
“What’s his name, the offworlder?” Han asked, interested now.
“Gallandro, he is called,” she replied. Han didn’t recognize the name but, oddly enough, he saw from Fiolla’s face that she had. She keeps track of some strange information, he thought.
“I’d hoped you might have come to prevent the duel or intervene,” Ido said. “None of the other clans will, since they envy us and would like to see us in misfortune. And by the Code, no one else in our clan or its service can take my brother’s part. But another outsider may, for the sake of either our interests or his own. That is to say, if it’s a matter that directly concerns him.”
Han was thinking that if he were the Mor Glayyd he’d be shopping around for a fast starship with the family jewelry in his pocket. His musings were interrupted by Fiolla’s voice. “Ido, please let us talk to your brother; there may be something we can do.”
After Ido, overjoyed, had rushed away, Han, ignoring the possibility of listening devices, exploded. “What’s wrong with you? What can you do to help him?”
She stared back blithely. “I? Why, nothing. But you can take his place and save him.”
“Me?” he howled, coming to his feet so quickly that he nearly bowled over a robo-vassal. The mechanical skittered back with an electronic screech.
“I don’t even know what the fight’s about,” Han continued at high volume. “I’m here looking for someone who owes me ten thousand. I never heard of either of these people. Which reminds me, it looked like you knew about the gunfighter, what’s his name—”
“Gallandro, a name I’ve heard before. If it’s the same man, he’s the territorial manager’s most trusted operative; I’ve only heard his name once before. Odumin, the territorial manager, must be involved in all this; these must be the ‘measures’ Magg informed Zlarb about. If Gallandro kills the Mor Glayyd, it’ll end your tracing of Zlarb’s bosses and your chance to collect. But if you intercede for the Mor Glayyd, we might still get what we want.”
“What about minor details,” Han asked sarcastically, “such as if Gallandro kills me, for example?”
“I thought you were the Han Solo who said he could get more in this life with a blaster than with an open expense account. So this is your department. Besides, Gallandro will almost certainly withdraw when he finds out he’ll have no chance of killing the Mor Glayyd anyway. And who’d dare face the great Han Solo?”
“Nobody wants to and nobody’s going to!”
“Solo, Solo; you’ve eliminated Zlarb, seen Magg with the slavers, and heard what I’ve learned. Do you think they’ll ever stop coming after you? Your one chance is to save the Mor Glayyd and get that information from him so that I can prosecute everyone connected with the slavery ring. And let’s not forget the ten thousand they owe you.”
“Let’s not ever. What about it?”
“If you can’t get it out of them, maybe I can get you some sort of compensation. Reward to a citizen for a job well done, commendation from the Board of Directors, that sort of thing.”
“I want ten thousand, not a credit less,” Han stipulated. Fiolla was right about one thing: unchecked, the slavers would undoubtedly keep coming after him. “And no ceremonial dinners. I’ll leave through the back door, thanks.”
“Whatever. But none of that’s likely if you let Gallandro kill the Mor Glayyd.”
At that moment the door swished open, and Ido returned, her hand through her brother’s elbow. Han was surprised to see how young the Mor Glayyd was; he’d assumed that Ido was a kid sister. But the Mor Glayyd was even younger. He wore a fine outfit stiff with braid and decorations of one kind and another, and a gunbelt that somehow didn’t look right on him. He was slightly shorter than his sister, slim and rather pale. His hair, the same color as hers, was caught behind him in a tail.
Ido made introductions, but while she referred to her brother by his title, she called him by a more familiar name.
“Ewwen, Captain Solo wishes to intervene for you. Oh, please, please agree!”
The Mor Glayyd was unsure. “For what reason?”
Han massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Fiolla offered no hints, confident that he could come up with some plausible reply.
“I have, uh, business with you, a deal you might be interested in. It’ll take some explaining—”
At that moment the comlink signaled for attention. The Mor Glayyd excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He must have activated a muting device as well; none of the others heard any part of the conversation. When he turned back, his face had become emotionless.
“It seems we lack time for your explanation, Captain Solo,” he said. “The outworlder Gallandro and his second have appeared at the gate and will await me in the armory.”
Steeling himself with Think of cash!, Han said, “Why don’t I meet him for you?” When he saw he was going to get an argument out of this proud boy, he rushed on. “Remember your sister and your duty to your clan. Forget the point of honor; this is real life.”
“Ewwen, please do,” Ido implored her brother. “I beg it as a boonfavor to me.”
The Mor Glayyd looked from one to another, almost spoke, held himself. “I couldn’t yield this obligation to any member of my clan,” he finally said to Han. “But my death would leave my sister and my kinsmen at the mercy of the other clans. Very well, I shall put myself in your debt. Let us repair to the armory.”
The private lift chute carried them down quickly. The armory was a series of cold, echoing, vaulted rooms crammed with racks of energy guns, projectile firearms, and muscle-powered weapons along with work benches and tools with which to service them. Their footsteps resounded on stone as they made their way to a shooting range.
At the far end of the range and along the walls holotargets hung in the air, waiting to unfreeze into attack-evasion sequences. But it wasn’t holotargets that were scheduled to be shot. At the nearer end of the range waited five people.
Han was fairly sure he could identify them—worlds with such an archaic and formal dueling code demanded about the same roster. The woman with the weary look on her face and the professional medipack slung from one shoulder would be the surgeon. In a gunfight at close quarters, Han doubted that her duties would extend beyond pronouncing the loser dead.
The older man in Glayyd household livery would be the Mor Glayyd’s second; he had a lean, scarred face and was probably an instructor in arms or some such to his clan leader. Another man, in what Han had come to recognize as Reesbon colors, would be the other second. There was a white-haired elderly man standing aside and trying to conceal his nervousness; he could only be the match’s judge.
The last member of the group was easiest of all to identify. Though Han had never seen him before, the sight of him set off internal alarms. He was slightly taller than Han but seemed smaller and more compact. Holding himself easily and gracefully, he wore a somber outfit of gray trousers and high-collared tunic with a short gray jacket over it. A trailing, supple white scarf, knotted at his throat, fell in graceful tails at his shoulder and back.
The man’s graying hair had been cropped quite short, but he had long mustachios hanging at the corners of his mouth, their ends gathered and weighted by tiny golden beads. He was just in the process of removing his jacket. An intricately tooled black gunbelt encircled his waist, holding a blaster high up on his right hip. He didn’t observe the common practice of studding his belt with a marker to indicate each opponent he’d beaten; he didn’t look as if he needed to.
But it was the man’s eyes that had set off most of Han’s alarms, making him absolutely certain of the man’s profession. The eyes were a deep, clear blue, unblinking, unwavering. They examined all the newcomers, remained for a moment on the Mor Glayyd and came to rest on Han, making a chilly estimate of him in a moment. The look the two exchanged left little to be said.
“As challenged party,” the Mor Glayyd’s second was saying, “Gallandro has chosen a face-off draw rather than the measured paceway. Your favorite weapons have been prepared, Mor Glayyd. All weapons have been examined by both seconds.”
Still meeting Gallandro’s eyes, Han took the final step. “I have a call on the Mor Glayyd’s time. It’s my right to intervene for him, I hear.”
There was a murmur among the seconds and judge. The surgeon merely shook her head tiredly. Han went to where the mentioned weapons had been set out and began checking them over. He had passed on a variety of fancy shoulder and forearm rigs and was debating between two gunbelts that resembled his own when he realized Gallandro was standing next to him.
“Why?” asked the gunfighter with a clinical curiosity.
“He doesn’t have to explain,” objected Ido, who was ignored.
“My dispute’s with the Mor Glayyd; I don’t even know you,” said Gallandro.
“But you know I’m faster than the kid,” Han said pleasantly, holding up a short-barreled needlebeamer for examination. Then he met Gallandro’s gaze, which was as placid as a pool’s surface at dawn. All the important information was exchanged then, though neither man’s expression altered and nothing more was said. Han had no doubt the duel would proceed.
Instead, Gallandro turned and intoned: “Mor Glayyd, I find myself compelled to apologize, and tender you my earnest plea for your forgiveness and that of your sister.” He stated his case indifferently, disposing of an unpleasant duty, and made little pretext of sincerity. “I trust that you’ll pardon me and that this entire unfortunate incident will be forgotten.”
For a second it looked as if the Mor Glayyd would refuse the apology; having escaped a sure death, the boy wouldn’t mind seeing Gallandro shot. Han was about to accept for him, not much inclined now toward a fast-draw contest, since it could be avoided.
But Ido spoke first. “We both accept your apology with the proviso that you leave our home and our homeworld as soon as possible.”
Gallandro looked from her to Han, who still held the needlebeamer. Gathering his jacket, the gunman inclined his head to Ido and prepared to go. But he paused to trade one last hard look with Han.
“Another time, perhaps,” Gallandro offered with a brittle smile.
“Whenever you can work yourself up to it.”
Gallandro nearly laughed. Suddenly, he had spun, dropped into a half-crouch, drawn his blaster, and put four bolts dead-center into each of four holotargets along the wall. He had straightened, his sidearm spinning twice around his finger and ending up in his holster, before most of the people in the room had grasped what he’d done.
“Another time, perhaps,” Gallandro repeated quietly. He sketched a shallow bow to the women, the surgeon included, gathered the Reesbon second in by eye, and strode away, his steps carrying back to them loudly.
“It worked,” sighed Fiolla. “But you shouldn’t have traded digs with him, Solo. He seemed sort of—dangerous.”
Han gazed at the four holotargets registering perfect hits, then back at the departing Gallandro. He ignored Fiolla’s vast understatement. Gallandro was far and away the most dangerous gunman Han had ever seen; faster, he was nearly certain, than Han himself.