Read Online Star Wars: The Adventures of Lando Calrissia by L. Neil Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: L. Neil Smith
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They had no villages, no tribes, not even any real nuclear families.
Every now and again, at unpredictable intervals, the Tokasimply collected in small bunches to bay at the moon like wild canines. Rafa IV didn’t
have
a moon, but, Lando thought, it was the principle that counted.
All right, the young gambler reasoned, one place he’d noticed the reliable presence of Toka—even before he’d known who and what they were—was in saloons, usually swamping the floors and polishing spitoons, the kind of occupation reserved in other systems for lower-classification droids. Here, the innkeepers could afford to entertain their prejudices and those of their clientele against the mechanical minority; Toka semislaves were handier and far cheaper.
Lando looked around. He’d selected a table in the approximate center of the room, halfway toward the back, and halfway between the bar that ran down the left side of the place, and the booth-lined wall opposite. Ordinarily, he’d prefer a position where he could see everything that went on and not have to turn his back to the door, perhaps something toward the rear.
Now the important thing was to
be
seen.
The Poly Pyramid was a working-being’s establishment. On the walls, lurid paintings alternated with sporting scenes from a dozen systems. On a less cosmopolitan planet, racy shots of unclad females would predominate, but, in places where one being’s nude was another’s nightmare, sensuality had given way before such items as incompetently taxidermized galactic fauna, which were nailed to the walls or suspended on wires from the ceiling: fur-bearing trout from Paulking XIV, for example, and a jackelope from Douglas III.
As bars go, it was brightly lit and noisy, especially considering the small number of patrons so early in the afternoon. On both sides of the traditional louvered doors the inner, full-length doors were propped open with a pair of giant laser drill-bits, souvenirs of the deep-bore mining of Rafa III, whose vacationing practitioners habituated the place.
In the back, the ubiquitous native was emptying ashtrays over a waste can.
The bartender, a scrawny specimen of indeterminate middle age, approached Lando, wringing his knobbly hands in a dark green apron. What little hair he still possessed was restricted to the back and sides of his otherwise highly reflective pate, and cut short. He had a nose friends might have called substantial, others spectacular. Tattooed permanently beneath it, a mild sneer, punctuated by a small mole on his chin.
“Spacers’ bars’re all downtown about three blocks, Mac,”he said in a peculiar drawl. “This here’s a hardrock miners’ joint.”
Lando raised an eyebrow.
“Aint sayin’ y’can’t drink here. Just likely y’won’t want to—once the off-shift R and R crew starts t’fillin’ the place up.”
It seemed a long speech for the wiry little man. He stood there, balanced on the balls of his feet, relaxed but ready, looking down at Lando from under half-closed eyelids, a foul-smelling cigar butt dangling from his mouth. A large, dangerous-looking lumpiness was apparent beneath one side of his apron bib.
Lando nodded slightly. “Thanks for the advice; I’m meeting somebody here. Have you a pot of coffeine to hand?” Until he’d sat down, he’d almost forgotten the night’s sleep he’d lost. Now it was catching up to him.
“Some of m’best friends drink it,” the barkeep replied. “One mug comin’ up.”
He began to walk away, then paused and turned back to Lando. “Remember what I said, Mac. Splints an’ bandages’ll cost ya extra.”
Lando nodded again, extracted one of the governor’s cigars from a breast pocket, and settled back. Then, casually, he pulled the Key from an inside pocket. An optometrist’s nightmare, it wouldn’t hold still visually, even locked firmly in his hands. First it seemed to have three branches, then two, depending on your viewpoint. If you didn’t shift the
Every now and again, at unpredictable intervals, the Tokasimply collected in small bunches to bay at the moon like wild canines. Rafa IV didn’t
have
a moon, but, Lando thought, it was the principle that counted.
All right, the young gambler reasoned, one place he’d noticed the reliable presence of Toka—even before he’d known who and what they were—was in saloons, usually swamping the floors and polishing spitoons, the kind of occupation reserved in other systems for lower-classification droids. Here, the innkeepers could afford to entertain their prejudices and those of their clientele against the mechanical minority; Toka semislaves were handier and far cheaper.
Lando looked around. He’d selected a table in the approximate center of the room, halfway toward the back, and halfway between the bar that ran down the left side of the place, and the booth-lined wall opposite. Ordinarily, he’d prefer a position where he could see everything that went on and not have to turn his back to the door, perhaps something toward the rear.
Now the important thing was to
be
seen.
The Poly Pyramid was a working-being’s establishment. On the walls, lurid paintings alternated with sporting scenes from a dozen systems. On a less cosmopolitan planet, racy shots of unclad females would predominate, but, in places where one being’s nude was another’s nightmare, sensuality had given way before such items as incompetently taxidermized galactic fauna, which were nailed to the walls or suspended on wires from the ceiling: fur-bearing trout from Paulking XIV, for example, and a jackelope from Douglas III.
As bars go, it was brightly lit and noisy, especially considering the small number of patrons so early in the afternoon. On both sides of the traditional louvered doors the inner, full-length doors were propped open with a pair of giant laser drill-bits, souvenirs of the deep-bore mining of Rafa III, whose vacationing practitioners habituated the place.
In the back, the ubiquitous native was emptying ashtrays over a waste can.
The bartender, a scrawny specimen of indeterminate middle age, approached Lando, wringing his knobbly hands in a dark green apron. What little hair he still possessed was restricted to the back and sides of his otherwise highly reflective pate, and cut short. He had a nose friends might have called substantial, others spectacular. Tattooed permanently beneath it, a mild sneer, punctuated by a small mole on his chin.
“Spacers’ bars’re all downtown about three blocks, Mac,”he said in a peculiar drawl. “This here’s a hardrock miners’ joint.”
Lando raised an eyebrow.
“Aint sayin’ y’can’t drink here. Just likely y’won’t want to—once the off-shift R and R crew starts t’fillin’ the place up.”
It seemed a long speech for the wiry little man. He stood there, balanced on the balls of his feet, relaxed but ready, looking down at Lando from under half-closed eyelids, a foul-smelling cigar butt dangling from his mouth. A large, dangerous-looking lumpiness was apparent beneath one side of his apron bib.
Lando nodded slightly. “Thanks for the advice; I’m meeting somebody here. Have you a pot of coffeine to hand?” Until he’d sat down, he’d almost forgotten the night’s sleep he’d lost. Now it was catching up to him.
“Some of m’best friends drink it,” the barkeep replied. “One mug comin’ up.”
He began to walk away, then paused and turned back to Lando. “Remember what I said, Mac. Splints an’ bandages’ll cost ya extra.”
Lando nodded again, extracted one of the governor’s cigars from a breast pocket, and settled back. Then, casually, he pulled the Key from an inside pocket. An optometrist’s nightmare, it wouldn’t hold still visually, even locked firmly in his hands. First it seemed to have three branches, then two, depending on your viewpoint. If you didn’t shift the
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