Free Star Wars: The Adventures of Lando Calrissia by L. Neil Smith

pocket.
    Abruptly, the Toka dropped his pail with a crash and bolted out through the back of the room, leaving a fabric door-drape swinging behind him and a few gaping mouths among the sparse scattering of customers. Ordinarily nothing would induce the lethargic and prematurely senile natives to do
anything
in a hurry.
    Lando held his breath: could his lucky break have come so soon?
    He signaled the ’tender for another drink. Vuffi Raa obliged by bringing it over to the gambler.
    “I still think we’d make better progress in the library, Master.” He set the glass on the dark polished wood of the tabletop. Lando was having a
talmog
that evening, one part spiced ethanol to one part Lyme’s rose juice, popular in a unique sunless, centerless system many hundreds of light-years away. It burned. Lando hated the things, which made them another drink he could nurse and re-ice all night if he had to.
    “Listen, little friend, let me do the detecting. For your information, I think I’ve got a bite already.”
    “A bite, Master?” The robot reached a free tentacle to the floor, scooped up a pinch of sawdust, and held it closely to his large red eye. “I would have thought the place to be cleaner kept than that. Perhaps the Board of Sanitation—”
    “Vuffi Raa, how would you like to be reprocessed into sardine cans?”
    For the second time that afternoon, there was mirth in the robot’s eye. “
Master—
”
    “Don’t call me—” Lando stopped. The sawdust-spreader who had observed the gambler so closely was holding back the hanging for a veritable grandfather-of-grandfathers among the grandfatherly natives—a wizened, shriveled super-ancient nearly doubled over with the burden of his long life.
    The bartender had stopped his glass cleaning, stood silent as he watched the geriatric native hobble toward the gambler. The old man’s straight white hair hung in matted tangles to his shoulders.
    “Lord,” the ancient Toka wheezed almost inaudibly, bowing until his forehead touched the tabletop. “It is as it was told. Thou art the Bearer and the Emissary. That which thou concealest is indeed the Fabled Key lost long ago.”
    The other Toka was suddenly nowhere to be seen. Somehow the spell was broken. The barkeep gave a metal-jointed shrug, resumed his work.
    “I, er …”
    Now that Lando had made his contact, he realized he didn’t quite know what to do with it. The ancient glanced at Vuffi Raa. Lando gave the little droid a scowl, which failed to rid him of the machine at what could be a delicate point in the proceedings. Vuffi Raa remained standing by the table, all attention focused on the old Toka.
    “Lord,” the worthy repeated. “I am Mohs, High Singer ofthe Toka. Knowest thou what thou holdest on thy person?” The elderly character straightened—as much as he was ever going to again in this life—and Lando noticed a tattoo on his forehead, a crude line drawing of the Key itself.
    “An unaccountably odd artifact,” he answered, unconsciously patting the irregular lumpiness of it in his inside jacket pocket. “Some kind of three-dimensional practical joke. But, please—sit down. Would you like something to drink?”
    The ancient glanced around, a furtive expression tucked deeply into the wrinkles in his face. The tattoo puckered on his forehead.
    “Such is not permitted, Lord. I—”
    “Master,” the droid interrupted again.
    “Shut up, Vuffi Raa! Well, old fellow,” he said turning to Mohs, “wilt—
will
you at least tell me something more about the Key?” He took it out, held it in his hand.
    Mohs had to wheeze a little while before he could get the words out. “Thou wishest to test thy servant, then? So mote it be, Lord. Thy wish is my command.”
    The Toka launched into a long, whining gargle in a language that was vaguely familiar to Lando. Perhaps it was an obscure dialect from some system he’d visited.
    The effect on the dozen or so other patrons wasn’t exactly salutory: they