III

HAN stepped into the sunlight of Rudrig’s brief afternoon with the balance of his pay safe in his pocket. Around him the spires, domes, towers, and other buildings that housed this part of the university stood in harmony with the lacy flowers, thick-boled trees, and purple lawns.

The university made use, in one fashion or another, of the entire planet. Its vast campuses and housing, recreation, and field training sectors were scattered over the globe. Students from all over the Tion Hegemony were compelled to come here or else leave the Tion entirely if they wanted advanced education of top quality. Centralization wasn’t the best method of offering schooling, Han supposed, but was symptomatic of the languid, inept Hegemony.

He idly studied passers-by for a moment, noting many species flocking between classes, holding conversations, or playing assorted sports and various instruments. Stepping gingerly across a broad boulevard between rolling service automata, quiet mass-transit vehicles, and small ground-effect cargo transporters, he ascended a low access platform and boarded a local passenger beltway. It zipped him along between huge lecture halls and auditoriums, theaters, administrative buildings, a clinic, and a variety of classroom configurations.

Reading the glowing route markers and recalling the coordinates he had memorized from a holo-map, he stepped off the beltway again at that sector’s spa, an annex of its sprawling recreation center. He had just started for the spa when he heard a voice. “Hey there, Slick!”

Han hadn’t gone by that nickname in many years. Still, as he turned he kept his right hand high and near his left lapel. Though the carrying of weapons was prohibited on this quiet world, having one, Han’s pragmatic philosophy ran, was a risk he was willing to take. His blaster was suspended slantwise, grip lowermost, under his left armpit and was concealed by his vest.

“Badure!” His right hand moved away from his blaster and closed in a grip on that of the old man who had called him. He used Badure’s own nickname, “Trooper! What are you doing here?”

The other was a big man with a full head of hair going white, a sly squint, and a belly that had come to overlap his belt in recent years. He stood half a head taller than Han, and his grip made the younger man wince.

“Looking for you, son,” Badure responded in the gravelly voice Han recalled so well. “You’re showing up good, Han, real good. It must be a Wookiee’s age since I’ve seen you. Which reminds me, how is Chewie? I was trying to find you two, and they said at the spaceport that the Wook rented a groundcoach and left word for it to be dropped off here.”

Badure—Trooper—was a friend of long standing, and he seemed to have come on hard times. Han tried not to take notice of his faded, patched laborer’s tunic and trousers or the scuffed and torn work boots. Still, Badure had held on to his old flight jacket, covered with its unit insignia and theater patches, and his jaunty, sweat-stained beret with its fighter-wing flash. “But how’d you know we were here?”

Badure laughed, his belly rolling. “I keep track of landings and departures, Slick. But in this case I knew you were coming.”

Much as he liked this old man, Han was suspicious. “Maybe you’d better tell me more, Badure.”

He looked pleased with himself. “How do you think those university types got your name, son? Not that it doesn’t get around as is; I heard about that stunt at the Saheelindeeli airshow—and some rumors from out in the Corporate Sector, and something about water smuggled down the Rampa Rapids. I was here tracking down a few things on my own and heard someone was asking about capable skippers and fast ships. I passed your name along. But before we go into that, shouldn’t you be saying hello to my business partner here?”

Han had been so preoccupied that he had ignored the person standing beside Badure. Chiding himself silently for this unusual lapse in caution, he looked her over.

The girl was short and slender, not long into womanhood, with a pale face and disorderly red hair that hung limply. Her brows and lashes were so light that they scarcely showed. She wore a drab, baggy brown outfit of pullover and pants, and her shoes appeared to be a size too large. Her hands had seen hard work. Han had met many men and women just like her, each bearing the stamp of the factory drone or mining-camp worker, lowest-echelon tech or other toiler.

She in turn studied him with no approval whatsoever. “This is Hasti,” Badure said. “She already knows your name.” Indicating the flow of beings moving around them to and from the busy spa, he gestured that they continue toward the entrance.

Han acceded, moving slowly, but a sideways slide of the older man’s eyes confirmed something. “What do I watch for?” he inquired simply.

Badure laughed and said, more to himself than to Han or Hasti, “Same old Han Solo, a one-man sensor suite.”

Han’s thoughts were on Badure. The man had been his friend many years before and his partner on various enterprises a number of times since. Once, in an uncomfortable situation stemming from an abortive Kessel spice run, Badure had saved both Han’s and Chewbacca’s lives. That he should have sought them out here could mean only one thing.

“I won’t waste your time, kid,” Badure said. “There are some that would like to see my hide hung out to dry. I need a ship with punch, and gait to spare, and a skipper I can trust.”

Han realized that Badure wasn’t going to be first to mention the life-debt the two partners owed him. “You want us to put our necks in the slot for you, is that it? Trooper, saving someone’s life doesn’t give you the right to risk it again. We’re finally ahead of the game; do we owe it all out again this soon?”

Badure countered in neutral tones. “You’re answering for the Wook, too, Han?”

“Chewie’ll see it my way.” If I have to reason with him with a wrench!

Hasti joined the conversation for the first time. “Now are you satisfied, Badure?” she asked bitterly.

The old man hushed her gently. To Han he went on, “I’m not asking you two to work for nothing. There’d be a cut—”

“The thing is, we’re flush. Uh, in fact, we can cut some loose to see you through for a while.”

He felt he had gone too far and thought for a moment that Badure was going to swing at him. The old man had made and spent a number of fortunes and had always been open-handed to his friends; but the offer of charity to himself had the ring of an insult. Favoring Han with a venomous look, Hasti put a hand on Badure’s arm. “We’re wasting time; our luggage is still at the district hostelry.”

“Clear skies, Han,” Badure said in a quiet voice, “and to the Wook as well.”

Han gazed after the two long after they had disappeared on a passenger beltway.

Determined to put the incident out of his mind, he entered the spa. It offered specific creature comforts to a huge variety of human, humanoid, and nonhumanoid species. There were zero-gee massagers, ozone chambers, effluvial rinses, and many other options for humans; mud tanks for visiting Draflago; dermal autostrippers to service a Lisst’n or Pui-Ui; gill-flushes for any of a number of piscine or amphibian life forms; and as many other ablutive and restorative amenities as could be packed into the huge complex.

Inquiring at the central information area, Han discovered that Chewbacca was still enjoying the pleasures of a full-service grooming. Han himself had meant to take a leisurely cycle of soaking, sauna, massage, and pore cleansing, followed by a visit to the tonsorial center. But his encounter with Badure and Hasti left him feeling in need of a more active and distracting program.

He undressed in a private booth, storing gun and other valuables in a lockbox and feeding his pleated dress shirt, clothes, and boots to an autovalet. Then he dropped several coins into the slot of an omniron and stepped inside, keying it for maximum treatment.

In fifteen-second cycles icy water sprayed at him, sonics vibrated his skin and flesh, waves of heat lashed and nearly seared him, needle-streams of biodetergents lathered him, walls of swirling foam broke and surged through the cubicle, air nozzles hosed their blasts, and emollients were rubbed on him by vigorous autoapplicators.

He withstood the brunt of these processes and took on more cycles, finding he couldn’t shake the image of Badure. Telling himself he had done the shrewd thing did no more to improve his state of mind than did the elaborate bubble bath he was taking, he concluded. So he terminated the omniron’s program short of its allotted time, recovered his cleaned clothing and shined boots from the autovalet, donned his blaster, and resettled his vest. Then he set off to find his partner.

Chewbacca was in the portion of the spa reserved for its more hirsute clientele. Following the light-strip directory system helpfully placed along the floors, Han found his friend’s treatment room. Checking the room’s monitoring screen, he saw the Wookiee floating in a zero-gee field, arms and legs splayed. He was near the end of his session; every individual hair had been given a light mutual-repulsion charge to separate it while dirt, particulate matter, and old oils were removed. Now new oils and conditioners were being gently applied. Chewbacca wore a toothy grin, luxuriating in the treatment as he floated like a tremendous stuffed toy, his billowing pelt making him seem twice his normal girth.

Turning from the screen, Han noticed two very appealing young human females who were also waiting. One, a tall blond in an expensive jumpsuit, spoke into the ear of her companion, a shorter girl with ringlets of brown hair. The second girl wore a sportier outfit of shorts and singlet; she eyed Han speculatively. “Are you here to meet Captain Chewbacca, sir?”

Mystified, Han repeated, “Captain …”

“Chewbacca. We saw him walking across campus and we had to stop him and talk. We’re both taking courses in nonhuman ethnology, and we couldn’t pass up the chance. We’ve studied the Wookiee language tapes a little, so we understood a bit. Captain Chewbacca told us his copilot would be coming by to meet him. He invited us to go with you on a groundcoach ride.”

Han smiled in spite of himself. “Fine with me. I’m Captain Chewbacca’s first mate, Han Solo.”

He had just established that the brunette’s name was Viurre and her blond girlfriend’s Kiili when Chewbacca emerged from the treatment room. The Wookiee, settling his admiral’s hat on his head at a rakish angle, wore a beatific grin; his shaggy coat, now glistening and lustrous, floated lightly on stray air currents.

Han sketched a sarcastic salute. “Captain Chewbacca, sir, I’ve got the whole crew standing by for orders.”

The Wookiee wuffed in confusion, then, remembering his assumed role, rumbled a vague reply that none of them understood. The girls promptly forgot Han and closed in on the Wookiee, complimenting him on his appearance. “I believe you ordered a groundcoach, Skipper?” hinted Han.

His partner awooed confirmation, and they all set off. “What have you found to be the essential differences in the life-experience on Wookiee worlds?” Viurre asked Han earnestly.

“The tables are higher off the floor,” the pilot replied without expression.

When they arrived at the carport, Han goggled and shouted, “Tell me this is the wrong slip!” Kiili and Viurre “oohed” in delight, while Chewbacca beamed fondly at the vehicle he had selected.

It was over eight meters long, wide and low to the ground. The groundcoach’s sides, rear deck, and hood were paneled in dazzling scarlet greel wood that had been lacquered and polished and lacquered over and over until its metallic gleam seemed to go on forever through the fine grain. The coach’s trim, bumpers, door hinges, latches, and handles were of silver alloy. It boasted an outlandish crystal hood ornament-frolicking nymphs in a swirl of gauzy, windblown veil-dresses.

The driver’s seat was open to the weather, but just behind it and a luggage well was an enclosed passenger cab, also paneled in greel wood, complete with elaborate, hanging road lamps, tasseled bunting, and running boards and handrails on either side for footmen. Astern the cab was another luggage well between a pair of ludicrous meter-high tail fins bejeweled with all manner of signaling and warning lights. From the coach’s primary and secondary antenna whips fluttered two pennants, several streamers, and the furry tail of some small, luckless animal.

“Too austere,” Han muttered sarcastically, but he couldn’t resist popping the coach’s hood. A massive, fiendishly complicated engine squatted there. But Chewbacca quickly silenced Han’s denunciations and amazed the two girls by throwing open the cover of the midship luggage well. It contained, due to his thoughtful arrangement, a heroic picnic lunch.

Kiili and Viurre had piled into the driver’s compartment, investigating controls, dials, the sound system, and stowage drawers. Chewbacca was running an adoring palm over a quarter-panel when Han blurted out, “I bumped into Badure today, just as I was coming into the spa.”

Forgetting everything else, Chewbacca barked a question. Han glanced away. “He wanted to hire us, but I told him we didn’t need the work.” Then he felt compelled to add, “Well, we don’t, do we?”

Chewbacca howled furiously. The two girls studiously ignored the argument. “What do we owe Badure?” Han hollered back. “He made a business offer, Chewie.” But he knew better. Wookiees will honor a Life-Debt over anything else; he’ll never walk away from it, Han thought. Chewbacca growled another angry comment.

“What if I don’t want to? Are you going to go after him without me?” Han asked, knowing what the answer would be.

The Wookiee regarded him for a long moment, then uttered a deep Uurrr?

Han opened his mouth, closed it, then finally answered. “No, you won’t have to. Get in the bus.”

Chewbacca yipped, knuckled Han’s shoulder, ambled off around the coach’s stern, and climbed in. Han slid into the driver’s seat and swung his door shut.

“Captain Chewbacca and I have to go track down a pal,” he told Kiili and Viurre brusquely. Then to himself he added, I knew this would happen; I never should have told Chewie. So why did I?

Kiili, twirling blond hair around one finger, smiled. “First Mate Solo, what should we talk to the captain about?”

“Anything. He just likes to listen to people talk.” Han gunned the engine and expertly pulled the powerful coach out of its parking slip. “Tell him how he’s ruining a great afternoon,” Han encouraged her, then smiled. “Or sing some off-color ditties, if you know any.”

Kiili eyed the contented Wookiee uncertainly. “He likes those?”

Han smiled engagingly. “No. I do.”