“Collect our money!” Han yells, pointing to the wagering tokens he has left on the fan-tan table. “I’ll get the Droid.” He speaks too late; Chewbacca has already bounded away. Han can barely see the tiny Droid, which weaves and bobs through the crowded casino as though it runs a maze. The Wookiee looks more like a crop processor cutting a swath through an agrifield. “Okay, I’ll get the money,” Han says, simultaneously watching Chewie’s head and stuffing wagering tokens into his pockets.
By the time Han can follow, his co-pilot is thirty steps ahead, but the smuggler catches up easily. The Wookiee, forced to dodge surprised casino patrons and watch the fleeing Droid at the same time, has not moved rapidly. With the advantage of the wide path Chewbacca has created, Han covers two meters for every one of the Wookiee’s. As he runs, Han automatically reaches to his hip for his blaster pistol. Nothing hangs there – casinos on Ord Mantell, even sleazy ones, do not allow weapons past their door. After plowing a few steps at Chewbacca’s side, the Corellian understands why his mysterious challenger sent a half-sized Droid to deliver the message. It dodges through the crowd almost without hindrance. In fact most patrons do not even notice its passage, save for a faint, knee-high whir. Han and Chewie, despite their urgent demands to clear a path, meet a wall of bewildered and angry gamblers.
The Droid turns down a narrow corridor between two crowded rows of crac-loo tables. The gamblers stand wedged appendage to appendage, each creature’s attention fixed on its table. Han groans; he and Chewbacca will never force their way through that crowd. He catches a glimpse of a silver body darting between a pair of scaly legs.
Chewbacca growls.
“Me, too,” says Han. “What can we do?”
Twenty meters ahead something gives a shrill whistle. A heavy body falls to the floor. The crowd ripple as astonished beings watch the Droid pass. This narrower corridor is too crowded for even the Droid to sneak through unnoticed. The ripple suddenly focuses its attention beneath the right-hand row of tables.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Han comments. He leaps onto the surface of the nearest crack-loo table and grins. A clear path stretches ahead of him all the way to the doors. He runs, every three steps leaping from one table to another. The distance between him and the telling ripple in the crowd slowly shrinks. Han remains oblivious to the angry shouts of startled patrons and the incomprehensible, mechanical curses of surprised croupier Droids. Several times, he stumbles on wagering tokens or stomps an unwatched tentacle and almost falls.
The normal casino murmur rises to an outraged roar. Han pauses long enough to glance behind him. Not to be outdone, Chewbacca leaps from table to table along the left-hand row of crack-loo tables. The Wookiee’s great weight topples each table as he passes. The creatures nearby fight claw and fang over spilled wagering tokens.
Reaching the end of the row at last, Han leaps off the table. Two uniformed security guards, their blasters drawn, stand in front of him. “Which way did the ashcan go?” Han demands.
The expression on the security guards’ faces changes from determination to bewilderment. The smuggler’s commanding tone has given them doubts about just who they should grab. Their puzzled eyes search the immediate area as if they have missed an obvious threat.
“Great,” Han snorts. “Just great. Now what am I supposed to do?”
Chewbacca arrives at the end of his row and points beneath the table behind Han. The Droid has cut a thirty-centimeter hole in a floor vent beneath the table.
“Where’s that lead?” Han demands of the crowd of spectators that has gathered.
“The planetary environmental control facility,” responds the first guard.
Han snatches the man’s blaster. “I’ll see that you get this back,” he says. Leaning under the crack-loo table, he fires one shot at the grate. Amid shrieks and rustlings the crowd bustles backwards. When the smoke clears, Han sees a gap easily large enough for a man to fit through.
“What are you doing?” the bewildered guard demands. “Who are you guys?” His voice now carries a suspicious edge.
Han does not reply. Instead he quickly slides under the table and lowers himself through the grate. A long chute of cool metal runs down into an inky blackness. Low-pitched thrums rumble up the chute. With a deep breath, Han drops.
Darkness quickly envelops him. As he descends, the chute grows steeper and he gains speed. A thin later of dry dust acts as a lubricant when Han presses his hands against the chute walls. He can generate little friction.
The rumbling grows louder. Some sort of machinery – very large machinery – creates the sound. All at once, the chute’s bottom wall disappears and Han drops away.
For the thousandth time, the Corellian curses himself for acting before thinking. For all he knows the chute leads to a geothermal pit. In that case, he will drop into a pool of scalding liquid – if he is lucky, it will be boiling water. Or the chute might lead to an immense fusion reactor. If so, he’ll never know it – he will vaporize before striking anything.
Instead, he crashes onto a disarrayed pile of plasteel crates which were once a stack. He has no way of determining how far he has fallen, but it is far enough to bruise him and not far enough to kill him. With some satisfaction, he notes that he still holds the guard’s blaster. Han lies still in the absolute darkness, listening to the distant roar of heavy machinery rumble up an unseen corridor on his right. He feels uncertain as to what he should do next.
The roar of a frightened Wookiee gives him a hint. “Chewie, don’t come down here!” he calls. The roar grows louder. “Chewbacca, that’s not a suggestion!”
Han scrambles, but he moves too slowly. What seems like a thousand kilos of fur lands square on his back. The impact knocks Han to the floor. The blaster flies out of his hand and clatters away into the darkness. Motionless the smuggler tries to force air back into his lungs.
Chewbacca grates a comment.
“I’m glad I could be there for you, pal,” Han gasps. “Now, if you don’t mind…”
A huge furry hand on his chest stops the pilot’s clattering attempts to rise.
“Rrrunngh.”
“I don’t hear -“
Chewie’s hand lifts to cover his mouth.
If Han listens for the Droid, Click Here
If Han searches for the Droid, Click Here