by Brian Daley
As Skybarge neared the reviewing stand, the crowd parted before her, clapping their hands and feet in high approbation. The ship waggled her tail in midair, extended her third and last landing wheel, and rolled cleanly for the reviewing stand. By that time Grigmin was so distracted that he didn’t notice the cargo ship heading directly for his precious triple-deuce fighter.
Too late! Slam! He could only dodge out of the way as Skybarge rolled by. Han threw a wicked grin at him from the cockpit.
Skybarge’s high, heavy-duty landing gear permitted her to pass directly over the low, sleek fighter. With consummate skill, Han flipped open her cargo-bay doors and suddenly an avalanche of enriched fertilizer dumped directly into the fighter through the open cockpit canopy.
The Saheelindeeli began applauding madly. Skybarge’s overhead cockpit hatch popped open, and Han’s happy face appeared. He inclined his head graciously to acknowledge the ovation as Grigmin was being elbowed farther and farther away by the press of the crowd.
From the reviewing stand the matriarch’s voice wheezed through the crackling public address system. “First prize! Trophy to Skybarge for best exhibit, Fertility of the Soil, Challenge of the Sky.” She waved the tall loving cup as her advisers whistled and stomped their feet in glee.
II
THE Millennium Falcon rested on Brigia’s single spaceport landing field. She looked very much like the battered, much-repaired, and worn-out stock freighter she was, but there were incongruities. The irregular docking tackle, oversized thruster ports, heavy-weapons turrets, and late-model sensor-suite dish betrayed something about her real line of work.
“That’s the last of the tapes,” Han announced. He checked the offloading on his hand-held readout screen as Bollux, the labor ’droid, stumped past, guiding a repulsorlift hand truck. The automaton’s green finish looked eerie in the glow of the irradiators with which the ship was now rigged. Brigia was flagged in all the standard directories, thus requiring phase-one decontam procedures. The ship’s environmental systems circulated broad-spectrum anticontamination aerosols along with air. Han’s and Chewbacca’s immunization treatments would protect them against local maladies, but they were nonetheless eager to be away.
Han watched Bollux head for the steam-powered freight truck parked near the ship. The glare of the landing field’s illumigrids showed him the Brigian workers, all volunteers from the budding college, arranging crates, packing canisters and carry-cases that the Falcon had delivered. They conversed animatedly among themselves, thrilled with the new broadcasting equipment and especially with the library of tapes.
Han turned to Hissal, who had accompanied him on the flight and who was to be the college’s first president. “The only thing left to get outboard is your duplicator.”
“Ah, yes, the duplicator, our most-awaited-item,” commented Hissal, “and the most expensive. It will print and collate material at speeds our own presses cannot match and synthesize any paper or other material from the raw constituents it contains. This, from a device that fits into a few crates. Amazing!”
Han made a noncommittal sound. Bollux was returning, and Han called down the curve of the passageway, “Chewie! Secure the main hold and crack open the number two; I want to get that duplicator off and raise ship.” From aft echoed the Wookiee’s answering growl.
“Captain, there’s one more thing,” Hissal went on, drawing a pouch from beneath his lateral folds. Han’s right hand dropped immediately to his blaster. Hissal, sensing his breach of decorum, held up a thin hand in denial.
“Be of tranquil mind. I know that among your kind it is customary to offer a gratuity for a task well done.” Hissal plucked a curl of bills out of his pouch and extended it to the pilot.
Han examined the bills. They had a strange texture, more like textile than like paper. “What is this stuff?”
“A new innovation,” admitted Hissal. “Several Progressions ago the New Regime replaced bartering and local coinages with a planet-wide monetary system.”
Han slapped the sheaf of minutely inscribed bills against the palm of his flying glove. “Which gives them a hammer-lock on trade, of course. Well, thanks anyway, but this stuff isn’t worth much off-planet.”
Hissal’s elongated face grew even longer. “Unfortunately, only the New Regime may hold off-world currency; thus, all equipment and materials for our school had to come by donation. The first thing the New Regime did when it accumulated enough credits was bring in a developmental consulting firm. Aside from the currency system, the firm’s main accomplishment was to profit from a major purchase of military equipment, which included that warship you saw.”
Han had noticed the ship, a pocket-cruiser of the outmoded Marauder class surrounded by worklights and armed guards.
“Her main control stacks blew on her shakedown cruise,” Hissal explained. “Naturally, there are no Brigian techs capable of repairing her, and so she remains inert until the Regime can muster enough credits to import techs and parts. That money could have brought us commercial technology, or medical advancements.”
Han nodded. “First thing most of these boondock worlds do—no offense, Hissal—is pick up some toys to build their image. Then their neighbors run out and do the same.”
“We are a poor planet,” the Brigian told him solemnly, “and have more important priorities.”
Han declined further comment on that subject. Bollux had returned and was waiting for Han’s next order, when suddenly there was a distant screeching of steam sirens.
Han walked down to the ramp’s hinged foot. Closing in from all sides were rows of lumbering metal power wagons, petro-engines chugging, sirens ripping the night, high wheels making the landing field tremble. Arc-spotlights swung to converge on the Millennium Falcon and the freight truck.
Han shouldered past Hissal and dashed to the ramp head. “Chewie! We’ve got problems; get into the cockpit and charge up the main guns!” He rejoined Hissal halfway down the ramp.
The college volunteers stood surprised and unmoving on the bed of their truck, unsure of what to do. In moments the cordon of power wagons had been drawn tightly. Doors flew open and squads of figures came leaping from the vehicles. They were obviously government troops, carrying old-fashioned solid-projectile firearms. But something about their uniforms seemed odd. The troops wore human-style military regalia ill-suited to the gawkish Brigian anatomy. Han surmised that remnants and leftovers had been foisted off on the unsuspecting New Regime as part of their overall military purchase.
The soldiers marched in badly fitting battle harness, far-too-loose helmets perched precariously on their heads, filigreed epaulets sagging forlornly from their narrow shoulders, embroidered dispatch cases flopping against their skinny posteriors. Their legs and feet were too narrow for combat boots, so the warriors of Brigia wore natty pink spats with glittering buttons over bare feet. Among what Han assumed to be their officer corps were an abundance of medals and citations, one or two ceremonial swords, and several drooping cummerbunds. A number of troopers with no detectable talent were blowing bugles.
In moments, the soldiers had taken the shocked college volunteers captive at bayonet point. Other units advanced on the starship.
Han had already grasped Hissal’s thin arm and was dragging him up the ramp. “But, this is an atrocity! We have done nothing wrong!”
Han released him and plunged through the main hatch. “You want to debate that with a bullet? Make up your mind; I’m sealing up.”
Hissal hurried up the ramp. The main hatch rolled down just as the troops reached the ramp’s foot; Han heard a salvo of bullets ricocheting off it.
In the cockpit, Chewbacca had already activated defensive shields and had begun warming up the engines. Hissal, trailing Han, was still protesting. Han couldn’t take the time to reply; he was completely absorbed in readying the ship for takeoff.
The volunteers were being dragged, pushed, and thrown into confinement in the waiting wagons. The few who protested were su
mmarily struck down and towed off by their slender, strangely boned ankles. Han noticed that the Brigians’ war-bannered personnel carriers were, in fact, garbage trucks of an outdated model.
Chewbacca made a grating sound through clenched teeth. “I’m mad about our money, too,” Han replied. “How do we get the other half if we can’t get a delivery receipt?”
The troops were taking up firing positions in ranks around the starship. “They couldn’t have waited another ten minutes?” Han muttered. A Brigian stepped out in front of the firing lines. Because of the glare of the spotlights, Han had to shield his eyes with his hand to see that the Brigian held a loudhailer in one hand and an official-looking scroll in the other.
Han donned his headset and flipped on an external audio pickup in time to hear “—no harm will come to you, good friends from space! The peace-loving New Regime requires only that you surrender the fugitive now onboard your vessel. The Brigian government will trouble you no further.”
Han keyed his headset mike over to external-speaker mode. “What about our pay?” He avoided looking at Hissal, but kept one hand close to his side arm.
“Agreements can be reached, honored offworlder,” the Brigian below answered. “Allow me to come onboard and parley.”
Han keyed his mike again. “Pull the soldiers back and turn those spotlights off. Meet me at the ramp, no weapons, no stunts!”
The Brigian passed his loudhailer to a subordinate and motioned with the scroll. The ranks fell back and the spotlights flickered out; the martial garbage trucks withdrew. “Keep an eye on things,” Han instructed his first mate. “If anyone moves wrong, let me know.”
Hissal was outraged. “Is it your plan to treat with these hoodlums? Legally speaking, they haven’t got a receptacle to skloob in, I assure you. The courts—”
“—don’t concern us now,” Han interrupted, motioning him aside. “Go find a seat in the forward compartment and don’t worry; we won’t hand you over to them.”
With great dignity Hissal corrected him. “My concern is for my friends.”
Bollux, the labor ’droid, was waiting in the passageway, the crated duplicator components loaded on his handtruck. In his measured drawl the automaton asked, “What are your instructions, Captain?”
Han sighed. “I don’t know. Why is it I never get the easy jobs? Go up forward, Bollux. If I need you, I’ll holler.” The machine’s heavy feet clattered on the deckplates. Chewbacca yeowled that the area was clear.
Han pulled his blaster. The main hatch rolled up, and at the ramp’s foot waited the Brigian. He was taller than Hissal, broadly built for his species, his color a little darker than average. He wore a chrome-studded battle harness, rhinestone shoulderboards with dangling brushes at the ends, several colorful aiguillettes, a salad of decorations, and impressive, red-sequined spats. A plume bobbed from his tilting helmet.
Han beckoned warily. The creature marched up the ramp, the scroll tucked under one arm. Han stopped him at the head of the ramp. “Shuck the harness and the tin lid and toss them back down.”
The creature complied. “Welcome to our fair planet, fellow biped,” he said with an-effort at heartiness. “I am Inspector Keek, Chief of the Internal Security Police of the very progress-minded New Regime of Brigia.” He cast his harness and helmet away with a racket of clanking metal.
“I figured you weren’t the Boosters’ Club,” Han said wryly, making the inspector raise long, skinny arms high. He cautiously poked at the security chief’s lateral folds to make sure he had no hidden weapons there. Keek wriggled. This close, Han could read Keek’s medals. Either these, too, had been obtained secondhand, he thought, or the inspector was also spelling champ of the planet Oor VII.
“All right, into the forward compartment there. Best behavior now; I’ve had all the games I’m going to play today.”
Entering the forward compartment, Keek gazed without comment at Hissal, who was seated in an acceleration chair near the holo-gameboard. The inspector found his own seat by the tech station. Bollux had seated himself on the curved acceleration couch behind the gameboard.
Han rested one hip on the gleaming gameboard. “Now, what’s the hitch? I’ve got my clearances. The Imperials aren’t going to be too happy about you local enforcers trying to hijack an authorized shipment.”
Keek spoke with forced jocularity, “Ah, you scaredy-norg human. Nothing’s wrong! The benevolent Inner Council held an emergency session when word of this transaction reached them and placed all teaching materials and off-world literature on the restricted list.” He waved the beribboned scroll. “I have here the Edict, which I am to present to you.”
“And just who’s the flaming Inner Council? Listen, slim, no little slowpoke world alters Imperial trade agreements.” That he himself had often broken Imperial laws—shattered them to fragments would be more accurate—was something he chose not to mention.
“We are merely here, my troops and I,” Keek replied evenly, “to take temporary custody of the cargo in question, until a Tion representative and an Imperial adjudicator can be summoned. The arrests were strictly an internal matter.”
And the Tion representative and the Imperial adjudicator would undoubtedly come with price tags attached, Han reflected. “So who pays me?”
Keek attempted to smile; he looked preposterous. “Our supply of Imperial currency is depleted just now, due to repairs to our spacefleet. But our Treasury’s note, or our planetary currency—”
“No play money!” Han exploded. “I want my cargo back. And besides, one run-down gunboat is no spacefleet.”
“Impossible. The cargo is evidence for the trial of certain seditionists, one of whom you’ve been deceived into sheltering. Come, Captain; cooperate, and you’ll be well received here.” Keek winked, with effort. “Come! We’ll pass intoxicating liquids through our bodies and boast of our sporting abilities! Let us be jolly and clumsy, as humans love to be!”
Han, who hated being played for a sucker worse than anything, gritted his teeth. “I told you already, I don’t want any of your homemade cash—”
A sudden thought struck him, and he jumped up. “You want part of my cargo? Keep it! But I’m going to come across to Hissal with what’s left.”
The security chief seemed amused. “You seek to extort me with educational materials? Come, Captain; we’re both worldly chaps.”
Han ignored Keek’s attempt at flattery. Carrying a power prybar, he began breaking packing straps from a crate on the hand truck. “This is a duplicator, just the thing to set up a college press with. But it’s a top-of-the-line model, and it’s versatile. Hissal, I’ll take that tip after all.”
Confused, Hissal handed over the Brigian currency. Han showed them one of the duplicator’s components.
“This is the prototyper; you can program it for what you want or feed it as a sample. Like this.” He inserted a Brigian bill and punched several buttons. The prototyper whirred, lights blinked, and the original bill reappeared together with an identical copy. Han held it up to the light, eyeing the duplicate critically. Keek made choking sounds, comprehending now that the pilot was holding his planet’s entire monetary system hostage.
“Hmm. Not perfect,” Han noted, “but if you supplied the machine with local materials, it would work. And for different serial numbers on each bill you just program that into the machine. That consulting firm must’ve been a cut-rate operation; they didn’t even bother to set up a secure currency.” The New Regime had obviously been the victim of aggressive salesmanship. “Well, Keek, what do you—”
Keek had snapped the end off his scroll’s wooden core and pointed it directly at Han, who didn’t doubt for a second that he was looking down the barrel of a gun.
“Lay your pistol on that table, alien primate,” hissed Keek. “You will now have your automaton take the hand truck and he, you, and the traitor Hissal will precede me down the ramp.”
Han gave Bollux the order as he carefully put his blaster on the gameboa
rd, knowing Keek would shoot him if he tried to warn Chewbacca. But as Keek reached to take possession of the blaster, Han inconspicuously touched the gameboard’s master control.
Miniature holo-monsters leaped into existence, weird creatures of a dozen worlds, spitting and striking, roaring and hopping. Keek jumped back in surprise, firing his scroll-weapon by reflex. A beam of orange energy crashed into the board, and the monsters evaporated into nothingness.
At the same instant Han, with a star-pilot’s reflexes, threw himself onto the security chief, catching hold of the hand holding the scroll-gun. He groped for his blaster with his free hand, but Keek’s shot had knocked it from the gameboard.
The security chief possessed incredible strength. Not stopped by the pilot’s desperate punches, Keek hurled him halfway across the compartment and brought his weapon around. Just then Hissal landed on his shoulders, making Keek stagger against the edge of the acceleration couch. The two Brigians struggled, their arms and legs intertwining like a confusion of snakes.
But Keek was stronger than the smaller Hissal. Bit by bit he brought his weapon around for a shot. Han got back into the fight with a side-on kick that knocked the scroll aside so that the charge meant for Hissal burned a deep hole in one of the safety cushions.
The scroll-gun was apparently spent, and Keek began to club Hissal with it. Han tried to clock him, but Keek knocked the pilot to the deck with stunning force, then turned to grapple with the other Brigian, their feet shuffling and kicking around the downed human. Unable to get around them and recover his blaster, Han tripped Keek. The inspector sank, taking Hissal with him.
Suddenly the scroll, which Keek had dropped, rolled into Han’s palm. As Keek was kneeling over the fallen Hissal, Han swung the scroll, connecting solidly with the security chief’s skull. Keek’s lank body shook with spasms and stiffened. Hissal merely pushed him, and the security chief toppled to the deck.
