"Michael Stackpole "The Bacta War"" - читать интересную книгу автора

be the kind of thing we want. Can't hurt to be here. Besides, Gavin recommended
it as our rendezvous."
"Right. That's because he's never been in here before and didn't want to come in
alone." Corran allowed disgust to pour through his words, but he mitigated it
with a smile. "If I'd been asked to raid a place like this, my plan would have
begun with the phrase, 'After the strafing runs are com-pleted
Shock rode freely on Mirax's face, but was exaggerated enough that Corran
figured she was really only mildly horri-fied at his suggestion. "This might not
be the most savory bunch of characters ever gathered together in the galaxy, but
they're not that bad. My father used to bring me in here all the time when I was
a kid. Some of these hard cases may be crusty on the outside, but they were very
kind to me. Wuher, the bartender over there, used to synth up a sweet fizzy
drink for me, and more than one of these guys would bring me little trinkets
from the worlds they'd visited."
Corran shook his head. "I'd have loved to see those Im-migrations forms.
'Purpose of the visit to our world?' 'Mur-der, mayhem, glitterstim smuggling,
and purchase of a gift suitable for a small Corellian girl.' "
Mirax giggled. "Yeah, I imagine there are a couple like that in databanks
somewhere."
The sound of her laughter managed to cut through the dulled buzz of conversation
in the cantina. Corran sat up in his chair as he noticed two individuals turn
from the bar and look in their direction. One was a Rodian and the other was a
Devaronian, yet they both shared a lean, hungry look that made Corran feel
antsy. They started toward the table, and Corran took it as significant that
they abandoned full drinks at the bar, primarily because that left their hands
empty.
The Devaronian nodded curtly. "You are sitting at our table."
Seated with his back to the alcove's wall, Corran had
protected himself against ambush from behind, but it also allowed the two
ruffians full view of the blaster he wore. No way I can draw it and shoot them
before they get me. It seemed obvious to him that the simple way out of the
situa-tion was to graciously offer them the table and buy a round for them. "We
were unaware of the situation here . . ."
"And we couldn't care less." Mirax jutted her chin for-ward and poked her left
index finger into the Rodian's mid-dle. "If a pair of gravel-maggots like you
are sandsick enough to think we're moving just because you mistake us for
Jund-land dew-pickers, you better get used to careers as Sarlacc bait."
Corran's jaw dropped. "Mirax?"
The Devaronian thumbed his own breastbone. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
"Do you have any idea how little we care?" Mirax jerked her head to the left.
"Tell it to the Jawas so they get your name right when they bag your body."
The Rodian began buzz-squawking, but the loud thwap of a street club being
pounded on the bar stopped him.
The human bartender pointed a ringer toward the alcove. "Hey!"
His horns gleaming in the half-light, the Devaronian waved his protest off. "We
know, 'No blasters.' "
Wuher's face scrunched up in a sour expression. "Not that, sand-for-brains. Do
you know who you're talking to? That's Mirax, Mirax Terrik."
The Devaronian's grayish skin lightened appreciably, and the Rodian paled to a
new-shoot green. "Terrik? As in Booster Terrik?"