"Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina (Kevin Anderson)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Kevin J)

typical Tatooine scorcher, and Jabba's temp exchanger needed
repair.
I cinched down my Fizzz. My Fizzz. "What?" I had a shot "lip,"
as humans call it. I was in no mood for foolishness.
"Time for a friendly hand of sabacc?"
"I don't gamble, Figrin."
Figrin brushed the sheen off his head with one knobby hand.
"You're thermal, Doikk."
And you're compulsive. "All musicians are thermal."
"You're thermal for a musician. Who ever heard of a bander that
didn't gamble?"
I'm the band's inside outsider, the straight man. I've carried
that sweet little Fizzz through six systems. I peg it when it
cracks and lube it when the keys click. I carve my own reeds. I
wasn't betting it on any sabacc match. Not even to placate Fiery
Figrin Da'n, a bandleader who criticizes every missed note, owns
everybody (else)'s instruments, and isn't shy about giving orders.
"I don't gamble, Figrin. You know th-"
A smoky silhouette rolled in through the main arch. "Figrin," I
mouthed, "turn around. Slowly."
The droid's wasp waist, huge shoulders, and squared-off head
had scalded my memory shortly after Jabba gave us our exclusive
contract: his vintage E522 Assassin. Eefive-tootoo had saved my
neck when one of Jabba's human sail-barge tenders accused me of
munching out of Jabba's private snack tank of live freckled toads.
Luckily for me, Eefive-tootoo gave me an alibi. I'd vowed never
again to have more to do with humans than necessary.
But Jabba'd been hot to feed someone to the rancor. Justice
would've suggested throwing in my human accuser, but Jabba and
Justice are not on speaking terms. They dropped Eefive, liberally
smeared with meat juice, through the rancor's trapdoor in front of
Jabba's throne. By the time Jabba's huge, slavering mutant spat
him out, he was beyond repair.
Or so I'd thought. Was he back for revenge?
He wore no restraining bolt. Rolling around a
blaster-scarred column, he headed toward us. Frantically I
looked around. Nobody showed signs of waking up to rescue us.
The droid raised his upper limbs. Both ended at elbow joints.
Somebody'd disengaged his business parts -but that didn't leave
him helpless. Assassin droids carry backup.
"Figrin Da'n?" he asked in a brassy green treble.
"What would you do . . . if you found him?" Figrin sidled
closer to me, trying to sound colorless. I've never carried a
blaster. I wished I had one then, for all the good it would've
done.
"Message delivery," honked the droid. "Do not fear. My
assassination programming has been erased, and as you can see, my
weapons are gone. My new employer saved me from deconstruction by
using me this way."
"He doesn't remember us," Figrin whispered in Bithian. "His