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

former owner of the Spaceman’s Rest, Captain Calrissian, that was before I worked here. When the place changed hands, he tried to get a clause put in the agreement, never to allow—”
    “What do you mean ‘tried,’ you miserable junk heap? A contract is a contract! People got a right to make any contract they want!”
    Apparently undecided whether to shoot the young gambler or the bartender, Jandler was waving his gun around in a mannerthat tied knots in Lando’s stomach. If it came to a choice, Lando hoped he’d choose the bartender as less messy—the bigot did seem to have some aesthetic sensitivities. The robot stood its ground.
    “Not when there’s a system-wide ordinance against discrimination, sir, and especially not when you lost the place in a table game to a being who doesn’t believe in discrimination.”
    The man swiveled on the machine—Lando thought about jumping him just then, but it remained a thought—and brought the weapon down hard on its plexisteel dome-top with a sickening crunch!
    “That for your ordinance!” he hollered, “and
that—
OWCH
!”
    “You should never kick a droid, sir,” Vuffi Raa advised sympathetically as the man hopped around on one foot, cursing. Somehow Jandler found the concentration to peer menacingly at the starfish-shaped robot.
    “Quite right,” Lando offered, diverting Jandler’s attention even further. “He might have another droid.
Sic ’im, Vuffi Raa
!”
    Jandler whirled on Vuffi Raa again. The five-tentacled ’bot stared at his master in bewilderment, but the distraction worked. The stranger took an ugly step toward Vuffi Raa, on his guard against the totally harmless little droid, and the bartender, despite its severely dented cranium, walloped the fellow on the back of the neck with a chair Lando toed over toward it.
    Jandler went down like a sack of mynock guano.
    A cheer rose from the dozen or so patrons in the room. They began gathering about Lando’s table—somewhat unjustly ignoring the injured and heroic ’tender—lining up to shake the gambler’s hand and pat him on the back.
    “I’m gratified,” Lando observed with a highly necessary shout—he hadn’t so much as risen from his chair during the excitement and was taking a far worse beating now from his new admirers—“I’m gratified to see that not all robots are programmed categorically against violence.” More specifically to the crowd he said, “Thanks, it was nothing, honestly, thank you very much.”
    “He’s only programmed against
starting
it, sir,” the bartender answered. “I’ll just haul this fellow out in the street now, if you don’t mind. By way of restitution for the disturbance, will you have a drink on the house?”
    “I’d rather have it on the table in front of me. And bring one for my friend, here. Mohs?”
    Lando jumped up. Mohs was gone.
    So was the Key.
    Turning quickly, Lando glimpsed the raveled tail of a gray-rag garment whisking through the door-drape at the back of the room. He was through the little crowd and across the room with a speed that startled even the robots.
    He grabbed—
    And received a collection of knobbly knuckles in the teeth!
    Spitting blood, Lando seized the wrist attached to the knuckles, bit down hard in the meaty edge of the palm. Mohs let out a yelp and brained his erstwhile Lord left-handed with the Key. Releasing the old man’s arm, a dazed, surprised, and angry Lando went for the throat with both hands, catching Mohs’ knee, instead, right between the legs.
    Lando groaned and sank down to his knees, fighting the urge to vomit.
    This, however, put him in a position of advantage. As the elderly native—Lando couldn’t make himself stop thinking of the savage in this manner—came in for another shot with the Sharu Key, Lando grabbed the nearest naked, dirty ankle that came to hand. Mohs went down on his back, with Lando on top, the old man biting and scratching.
    By this time, Vuffi Raa had made it to his