Read Online Star Wars: The Adventures of Lando Calrissia by L. Neil Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: L. Neil Smith
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angle you were watching it from, it would oblige by shifting it for you. Lando averted his eyes.
He sat like that for forty-five minutes without any seeming reaction from anyone. Having long since finished his coffeine and tired of the cigar, at last he rose, left a small tip on the table, nodded amiably at the gnarled little bartender, and stepped outside on the boardwalk.
“Master?”
“Don’t call me Master! Let’s find another bar.”
• VI •
T HE NEXT PLACE sported a small bronze plaque beside the door that stated: “F ACILITIES ARE NOT PROVIDED FOR MECHANOSAPIENTS .”
It meant “No droids allowed.”
And it wasn’t even true, not in its original rendering. Vuffi Raa had a sort of waiting room to park himself in, nicely furnished, quiet, with recharging receptacles. Only bigotry of the very nicest, highest-class sort was practiced there. Lando left the robot with a couple others of its kind watching a domestic stereo serial.
Inside, three Toka swampers were distributing dirty water evenly all over the floor. That they and their employers probably thought they were washing only demonstrated that pretensions and sanitation don’t necessarily go together.
It was not quite dark, so the real drinking crowd hadn’t arrived there yet, either. It didn’t matter; Lando wasn’t interested in them.
Nearly an hour went by this time, Lando sipping a hot stimulant and toying discreetly with the Key. The thing was as evasive to the tactile senses as it was visually, he discovered, closing his eyes and examining it by touch. “Perverse” might be a better word, and even more nauseating, somehow. He opened his eyes with something resembling relief.
On several occasions, he could have sworn that one or another of the natives was staring at him intently when he wasn’t looking in their direction.
Which was also precisely what he’d expected. He began to allow himself a feeble hope.
Another hour, and two more saloons, brought him back to the Spaceman’s Rest, the first such establishment he’d visitedin Teguta Lusat, the day before. It seemed like a thousand years ago. The double-moustached alien proprietor was nowhere to be seen so early in the evening, but the droid behind the bar seemed to have had his memory banks attended to. He recognized Lando with a cordial mechanical nod.
By then, the gambler was thoroughly coffeined out. He leaned against the bar, ordered a real drink, then took it back to a table and sat, unobtrusively displaying the weird, eye-straining Key as before, for everyone to see.
One thing
was
different about the place: its multispecies clientele and robot bartender encouraged Lando not to leave Vuffi Raa outside in the street. After all, the little fellow was an item of valuable property (to somebody, someday, Lando hoped), and probably wouldn’t like being stolen, either.
That small mechanical worthy presently bellied—figuratively speaking—up to the bar, cutting up electronic touches while the ’tender polished glasses. Lando had always wondered what robots talked about among themselves, but never enough to eavesdrop.
Despite the tolerant atmosphere of the Spaceman’s Rest, the usual Toka flunky was there, an elderly wretch distributing synthetic plastic sawdust on the floor from a bucket. Lando grew hopeful as the shavings around his table deepened to two or three times the thickness of those covering the rest of the barroom floor.
The Toka kept circling, reluctant yet fascinated, rather like an insect around a bright light. He stared at the Key, tossed a worried glance toward the bar, then turned back to the Key again, drawn irresistibly. If he was concerned about the bartender’s reaction, he needn’t have bothered; the droid didn’t even seem to notice, wrapped up as he was in his work and in conversation with Vuffi Raa. Maybe native productivity wasn’t his department.
On an odd impulse to see what would happen, Lando tucked the Key back into his
He sat like that for forty-five minutes without any seeming reaction from anyone. Having long since finished his coffeine and tired of the cigar, at last he rose, left a small tip on the table, nodded amiably at the gnarled little bartender, and stepped outside on the boardwalk.
“Master?”
“Don’t call me Master! Let’s find another bar.”
• VI •
T HE NEXT PLACE sported a small bronze plaque beside the door that stated: “F ACILITIES ARE NOT PROVIDED FOR MECHANOSAPIENTS .”
It meant “No droids allowed.”
And it wasn’t even true, not in its original rendering. Vuffi Raa had a sort of waiting room to park himself in, nicely furnished, quiet, with recharging receptacles. Only bigotry of the very nicest, highest-class sort was practiced there. Lando left the robot with a couple others of its kind watching a domestic stereo serial.
Inside, three Toka swampers were distributing dirty water evenly all over the floor. That they and their employers probably thought they were washing only demonstrated that pretensions and sanitation don’t necessarily go together.
It was not quite dark, so the real drinking crowd hadn’t arrived there yet, either. It didn’t matter; Lando wasn’t interested in them.
Nearly an hour went by this time, Lando sipping a hot stimulant and toying discreetly with the Key. The thing was as evasive to the tactile senses as it was visually, he discovered, closing his eyes and examining it by touch. “Perverse” might be a better word, and even more nauseating, somehow. He opened his eyes with something resembling relief.
On several occasions, he could have sworn that one or another of the natives was staring at him intently when he wasn’t looking in their direction.
Which was also precisely what he’d expected. He began to allow himself a feeble hope.
Another hour, and two more saloons, brought him back to the Spaceman’s Rest, the first such establishment he’d visitedin Teguta Lusat, the day before. It seemed like a thousand years ago. The double-moustached alien proprietor was nowhere to be seen so early in the evening, but the droid behind the bar seemed to have had his memory banks attended to. He recognized Lando with a cordial mechanical nod.
By then, the gambler was thoroughly coffeined out. He leaned against the bar, ordered a real drink, then took it back to a table and sat, unobtrusively displaying the weird, eye-straining Key as before, for everyone to see.
One thing
was
different about the place: its multispecies clientele and robot bartender encouraged Lando not to leave Vuffi Raa outside in the street. After all, the little fellow was an item of valuable property (to somebody, someday, Lando hoped), and probably wouldn’t like being stolen, either.
That small mechanical worthy presently bellied—figuratively speaking—up to the bar, cutting up electronic touches while the ’tender polished glasses. Lando had always wondered what robots talked about among themselves, but never enough to eavesdrop.
Despite the tolerant atmosphere of the Spaceman’s Rest, the usual Toka flunky was there, an elderly wretch distributing synthetic plastic sawdust on the floor from a bucket. Lando grew hopeful as the shavings around his table deepened to two or three times the thickness of those covering the rest of the barroom floor.
The Toka kept circling, reluctant yet fascinated, rather like an insect around a bright light. He stared at the Key, tossed a worried glance toward the bar, then turned back to the Key again, drawn irresistibly. If he was concerned about the bartender’s reaction, he needn’t have bothered; the droid didn’t even seem to notice, wrapped up as he was in his work and in conversation with Vuffi Raa. Maybe native productivity wasn’t his department.
On an odd impulse to see what would happen, Lando tucked the Key back into his
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