Star Wars: The Adventures of Lando Calrissia (15 page)

“Which are too microscopic to mention.”

“—which are too microscopic to mention, as thou sayest, Lord. Yet, wouldst thou mind very much not making such vile, blasphemous, and mercenary utterances in the mortal presence of thy humble servant? It causeth unease.”

“Oh it doth, doth it?”

Lando glanced back over his shoulder. He was pretty sure that at least half of the old man’s “unease” derived from the imposing presence of the
Millennium Falcon
about fifty meters away across a clear expanse of sand, her full batteries trained in a protective circle to prevent a reenactment of the earlier ambush. In an inner pocket of his parka, her captain carried a transponder that kept the
Falcon
’s guns from sweeping within a couple of degrees of whoever wore it. This was a necessary precaution because Vuffi Raa was not at Battle Stations, inside.

He was programmed against it.

Somewhere back along the line, Lando had ceased resenting the little robot’s programmed pacifism, and simply begun planning around it. In the righthand outside slash pocket of his parka, he carried a second device with which he could trigger every weapon aboard his ship. Vuffi Raa could handle opening the boarding ramp as Lando ran for it, if anything went wrong. It wasn’t against his built-in ethics to
save
a life. In fact, the droid had proved himself quite useful in that department already.

But to the problem at hand.

“Okay, old theologue, we’ll change the subject: How did you know we had survived this morning, and why did you wait for us here, when you knew how sore I’d be about last night?”

Lando wanted to move back from the fire. About a thousand meters would do nicely. The cooking reptile, presently hovering somewhere between second-degree blistering and third-degree charring, smelled exactly like … like … well, he’d smelled more appetizing things attached to starship hulls while he was melting them off with live steam. Nonetheless, even the idea of the fire was warming; he hadn’t felt really comfortable
since he’d landed on that stupid clot of sand, not even aboard ship.

The elderly Singer opened his mouth. “Lord—”

“MASTER, HUMAN FORMS ARE MOVING BEHIND THOSE DUNES OVER THERE.”

Mohs
jumped
at least a meter. The little droid’s voice had come amplified through the ship’s external loudhailers.

“Thanks, old cogwheel.” Lando answered in a normal tone.
Millennium Falcon
had excellent hearing, and so did Vuffi Raa. He chuckled as the antique shaman regained his dignity.

“THEY APPEAR TO BE CARRYING THOSE CROSSBOW THINGS, MASTER.”

“Mohs,” the gambler said evenly, “I’m going to give you just thirty seconds to send your people away, and if they’re not gone by then, you’re going to swap places with that poor uncomfortable creature you’re cooking. I ought to turn you in to the ISPCA—or at least the Epicures Club.”

The Singer slowly cranked himself into a standing position, rattled off a few discordant stanzas—probably the Song of Strategic Withdrawal, Lando thought—then he sat again, turned the lizard on its stick, and addressed Lando.

“I have told them to depart, Lord. They came only for your protection. Now, if thy servant may have a few moments in which to fortify himself and attend to bodily needs, then we shall go to a place I know … where the Key may be used.”

He seized the lizard by its head, pulled backward in a peeling motion, and tore it off the stick.

“Good heavens,” Lando cried, gulping to control his upper gastrointestinal tract, “are you going to eat that thing?”

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing at the base of the pyramid. Even tilted backward as the wall before them was, it seemed to loom over them like some fantastic, infinitely high cliff, threatening to topple and bury them at any instant.

Vuffi Raa, having locked the spaceship up securely, joined them. The Toka Singer cast around, seeming to look for something recognizable on what appeared to be a featureless magenta wall. Finally, he stopped and pointed.

“
There
,” he said with finality, “about a meter downward, Lord.” He folded his arms.

Lando rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Well, don’t look at me. I’m the Key Bearer.
You’re
the peon. You want a shovel, or will you perform this ceremony by hand?”

The old Toka was aghast. “
Me
, Lord? I am Singer of the—”

“One moment, gentlebeings,” the robot said. “I can have it done before the two of you are finished arguing about it.”

With that, his tentacles became a blur of motion. He resembled a shiny circular saw blade with a glowing red center. Sand poured upward in a wake behind him like an absurd dry fountain, and he was, as he had promised, soon finished.

“Escargot and Entropy!” Lando swore, struck by what he saw where Vuffi Raa had dug. Mohs was startled into silence, fell to his knees and began chanting in a low, whimpery tone.

It shouldn’t have been possible. Draw a line around your hand and rout out the material within the outline to a depth of approximately a centimeter. It can be done, and easily.

Now try it with the blade of an eggbeater. The human hand is, in its simplest representation, a two-dimensional form. Something requiring three dimensions can’t be represented in the same way, not including its essential element—its three-dimensionality. Not unless that object is a Sharu artifact, and the people doing the bas relief are the Sharu themselves.

In some ways, it was rather as if the wall were transparent—which it was not—and the molded impression of the Key were buried yet visible inside it. But that wasn’t truly the case. In another way, it was like seeing the Key itself, inside out, glued to the side of the pyramid—except that the “image” (or whatever it was) neither protruded from the surface nor was inset into it. The whole thing looked just as preposterous, just as impossible, as the Key itself, only more so.

And it hurt the eyes in just the same way.

Lando stepped back, blinked, and shook his head to uncross his eyes.

“All right, Mohs, suppose you tell us exactly what you know—what your Songs have to say, if anything—about what we’re seeing and what happens if we use the Key in it.”

The old man hummed a little to himself, at first as if to get the right pitch, then as if he knew the data only by rote and had to find the right place before he could start properly.

“This is the Great Lock, Lord. For generations uncounted, no Toka—no, nor any interloping stranger from the stars—has entered into the least of the many sacred shrines They left behind.”

“Marvelous. We already knew that.”

“Ah, yes, Lord, but now it is as it has been told: we shall enter,
without entering
. We shall walk the hallowed halls and
yet they shall not echo to our feet. We shall travel to their farthest corners without going anywhere. We shall dream, therein, without sleeping, and know without learning. And, in due course and in Their time, we shall discover the Harp of the Mind; setting free the Harp, we shall set free the—”

“All right, all right. Politics again. Let me think this over a minute.” He kicked experimentally against the bottom edge of the pyramid where it showed above the ground. There was no sound, no sensation of impact. It was like kicking at water or fine dust. “Vuffi Raa?”

“Yes, Master?”

“Don’t call me master. What do
you
think about all this interloping business?” He took the Key from his pocket, turned it over in his hand, and thrust it back in his pocket.

“I think I’m long overdue for a lube job, Master, and would just as soon go home and—”

“I thought your lubricated areas were permanently sealed.”

Was that a sheepish look in the droid’s single eye? “Yes, Master, although I
did
get rather badly punctured and lost a good deal of … oh, I
can’t
see any alternative to using the Key as Mohs suggests, Master. Much as I would like to.”

Lando laughed. “I don’t much like this enter-without-entering, sleep-without-dreaming stuff myself, truth to tell. Look here, Mohs, what else have you got for us—in plain language.”

For the first time, the old man appeared to be uncomfortable on Rafa V. He had goosebumps all over him, and was shivering with the cold—or something else.

“That is all that is known to the Toka, O Lord. It is all that the Song hath to tell. Thy humble and obedient servant confesseth, in his unworthy manner, that, were I thee, I would consider departing this place without using the Key. All those numberless generations, waiting, waiting … Why me, Lord? Why in my time?”

“Congratulations, Mohs, you’ve just joined the ranks of some great historical figures. That’s what
they
wanted to know, and usually in about the same miserable, desperate tone of voice.”

Again, Lando extracted the Key, looked it over grimly. “Well, there’s no time like the present. Keep your eye open, Vuffi Raa. Mohs, what do your Songs say about using this thing?” He suppressed a shudder.

The old man gave a highly articulate shrug.

“That’s what I like,” Lando said, “help when I really need it. Here goes nothing!”

Which is precisely what happened. Lando pressed the Key against the lock in a position and at an angle that seemed most likely. It was a little like putting a ship in a bottle—at least it seemed that way at first. Then, in a manner that defied the eye and turned the stomach, the Key was in the Lock.

The sun shone. The wind blew. The sand lay on the ground.

Lando looked at Mohs, who still had some of his shrug left. He used it. The gambler looked at Vuffi Raa. Vuffi Raa looked back at him. The robot and the elderly shaman exchanged glances. They both looked at Lando.

“Well, Mohs, I realize you’ve had breakfast, or whatever you call it, but I could use another bite. This seems to be a bust. What say we repair to the ship and—Vuffi Raa?”

As he had spoken to the old man, he’d turned to look at the robot.

Vuffi Raa had vanished.

“Mohs, did you see that—Mohs?”

The instant Mohs was out of Lando’s field of view,
he
had disappeared, exactly like the droid, without a sound, without a movement.

The sun shone. The wind blew. The sand lay on the ground.

L
ANDO
C
ALRISSIAN WAS
not, ordinarily, a physically demonstrative young man. His livelihood and well-being depended on dexterity and control, the subtle, quick manipulation of delicate objects, the employment of fine and shaded judgment.

He smashed a fist into the pyramid wall.

And reeled with surprise. Where, before, contact with the building had been much like ducking one’s head into a stiff
wind—elusive but unquestionably real—now the experience had taken on the aspect of fantasy.

His hand passed into the wall and disappeared as if the structure were a hologram. He withdrew the hand, looked it over, flexed it. He inspected the wall without touching it: the material itself was featureless, seemingly impervious to time, weather, the puny scratching and chipping of man. Yet there was a fine patina of dust, a film of oil or grease that seemed to coat everything within the planet’s atmosphere. Lando could plainly see a single fine hair, neither his own nor one of Mohs’—perhaps that of some animal that had wandered by or which had been borne on the wind until it stuck here.

He thrust his hand into the solid-looking wall again. Again it disappeared up to the wrist. He stepped forward until he lost sight of his elbow, shuddered, backed away. And, again, his hand, his arm, were intact, unharmed.

Lando Calrissian was nothing if not a cautious individual. Someone else might have plunged through the wall in pursuit of Vuffi Raa and Mohs, for it was clearly where they’d gone. But to what fate? If your best friend zipped from sight into a trapdoor in the floor, would you follow him onto the steel spikes below?

Lando pushed his hand into the wall again, meeting no more resistance than before. It was as if the wall weren’t there—except as far as the eyes were concerned. He closed his own, and felt around. There wasn’t enough breeze outside that he could tell about the wall’s effect on air currents. The temperature felt the same. He was free to wiggle his fingers, clench and unclench his fist. He snapped his fingers, felt the snap—but couldn’t hear it outside the wall.

Thrusting in a second hand, he felt the first. Both felt quite normal. He clapped them, feeling the sensation, missing the usually resultant noise. Odd. He placed his right hand around his left wrist, slid the hand slowly up the arm until it reappeared, much like a hand and arm emerging from water—except that this surface was vertical. He stooped, picked up a handful of sand, reinserted his arms, poured sand from one hand to the other.

He pulled his arms out, threw the sand away …

 … and stepped through the wall.

Sometimes you have to take a gamble.

* * *

He hadn’t thought of that before.

Old man Mohs, ancient and revered High Singer of the Rafa Toka, had been leaning against the pyramid wall when the Key-Bearer inserted the Key. Suddenly, it had been as if the wall weren’t there, and, in the short fall into darkness that resulted, his garment had nearly been lost.

All his long, long life, Mohs had put up with the chilly draft that found its way beneath the simple wraparound. Now, even in the darkness, even in this terrifying, holy place, it had occurred to him that he could take a long free end of the cloth, tuck it up between his legs, and eliminate the draft.

Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Why hadn’t anybody else among his people? He found himself thinking cynically that this little piece of information alone was worth a hundred silly Songs about—no! That’s blasphemy! He cringed, trying to peer into the utter darkness around him, fearful of … of … what?

He thought about that.

He seemed to be doing a
lot
of thinking in the past few minutes.

Finally, he decided—in what may have been the first real decision he’d ever made for himself—to wait until his eyes adjusted. He sat—on some firm, resilient surface—enjoying his new-found warmth.