星球大战第七章(3)
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The docking-bay entrance to the small saucer-shaped spacecraft was completely ringed by half a dozen men and aliens, of which the former were by half the most grotesque. A great mobile tub of muscle and suet topped by a shaggy scarred skull surveyed the semicircle of armed assassins with satisfaction. Moving forward from the center of the crescent, he shouted toward the ship. "Come on out, Solo! We’ve got you surrounded." "If so, you’re facing the wrong way," came a calm voice. Jabba the Hut jumped—in itself a remarkable sight. His lackeys likewise whirled—to see Han Solo and Chewbacca standing behind them. "You see, I’ve been waiting for you, Jabba." "I expected you would be," the Hut admitted, at once pleased and alarmed by the fact that neither Solo nor the big Wookie appeared to be armed. "I’m not the type to run," Solo said. "Run? Run from what?" Jabba countered. The absence of visible weapons bothered Jabba more than he cared to admit to himself. There was something peculiar here, and it would be better to make no hasty moves until he discovered what was amiss. "Han, my boy, there are times when you disappoint me. I merely wish to know why you haven’t paid me… as you should have long ago. And why did you have to fry poor Greedo like that? After all you and I have been through together." Solo grinned tightly. "Shove it, Jabba. There isn’t enough sentiment in your body to warm an orphaned bacterium. As for Greedo, you sent him to kill me." "Why, Han," Jabba protested in surprise, "why would I do that? You’re the best smuggler in the business. You’re too valuable to fry. Greedo was only relaying my natural concern at your delays. He wasn’t going to kill you." "I think he thought he was. Next time don’t send one of those hired twerps. If you’ve got something to say, come see me yourself." Jabba shook his head and his jowls shook—lazy, fleshy echoes of his mock sorrow. "Han, Han—if only you understand…I just can’t make an exception. |
