| abstract | - 9:57 ..... 9:58 ... 9:59 ... *buzzzz-zzzz!* 10:00 am. Once again Paul stands in the hallway awaiting the door to open up and allow him entry. His feelings are mixed at best ... part of him eager to look through the book, and the other part wary and suspicious of the tome's current owner. He leans one hand against the wall, his features blank, his stance relaxed. On the other wide of the door comes silence. Utter, entire, complete silence. He'll wait two minutes ... no more. Glancing down at his chrono, Paul watches the second pass by until 4, 3, 2, 1 ....
* buzzzz-zzzzz-zzzzzz-zzzzzzz-zzzzzz-zzzzz!* One minute passed and one finger left on the door call a tad longer than politeness calls for. He shifts his weight to the other foot, his gaze still resting on the determination of his chrono. "Yes, yes, I come, I come!" The voice behind the closed door is hurried, female, accented; definitely the same from the night before, though broadly lacking the verbal laziness earlier demonstrated. When the door is opened, a harried blonde is revealed on the other side, hair still damp, clothing in place: another caftan, this one in a blue as dazzling as her remarkable irises. A high flush is in her cheeks; she has clearly been rushed. "I am most apologetic. Come inside, please. Come." Lazily shifting his weight, Paul drops his arm from the wall, the last glance at his chrono revealing only eight seconds were left. He shifts past her, ignoring her disheveled state. Funny ... he would have pegged her as a morning person. He would have been right; she has been busy. The dining room, visible from the open elegance of the living room, is festooned with food, the scents of a dozen dishes and a particularly rare type of tea from Endor wafting into the living room like the sensory curling of a finger to invite one closer. "I thought perhaps you might be hungry," she comments, trailing after him. "Morning is when I eat most of my sustenance for the day." Glancing over the bountiful feast, Paul turns back to take in the color of her caftan and the long length of her touseled tresses. "Smells delicious ... thank you." His pace slows, one hand extending before him to indicate that the hostess should sit first. Breakfast is a meal that Paul only indulges in when he has company. Generally a dark cup of coffee is sufficient to get him motivated at the start of each day. Ylsa glides forward and places herself at the end of the table, flicking her napkin out of its decorative fold before laying it across her lap. The first chafing dish she opens contains speckled eggs, the yellow and deep green yolks dotted with spices that are remniscent of Tatooine, and the amount she ladles on her plate is generous. "Would you pour the Kisri tea for us...?" Finding the cups and the silver tea setting, Paul pours out two cups, adding a touch of honey to his own and placing it to one side. Glancing over to Ylsa, he raises her cup with an inquiring gaze. He has to admit, even if he'd prefer not to, that his appetite at least is much intrigued. "Plain, thank you...its strength is something I need in the morning." She smiles, so much more relaxed than the night before, so much less the primadona leading her guest through a series of what felt to be orchestrated vignettes. "Would you care for cold bruallki?" Placing the cup over by her setting, Paul opens up the container before him to reveal Yavinese batter toast, and spears himself one. He reaches for the eggs that Ylsa was helping herself to, murmuring, "Yes, thank you." He also indulges in a large serving before returning the cover to keep the rest warm. Reaching for a pitcher of nylka juice, he pours himself and glass and then one for Ylsa as well. Ylsa's lips curve into an easy smile. In the light her makeup is less pronounced, an a porcelain glow shows through a light dusting of powder, and her lips show themselves to be a soft pink without evening lipstick. "So I trust you slept well? I did not, but it is my hope you did." "Very well, thank you," Paul replies, passing over the glass. And indeed he did. One thing this Corellian is rather good at is compartmentalizing emotions after experiencing them. Last night's experience was boxed up, taped up, marked, "Do Not Open" and cataloged. And since last night was not one plagued by his off again on again insomnia, Paul slept well and deeply. Ylsa's fingers pluck the glass from Paul's fingers and carries the vessel to her lips for a taste. "I am expecting you are interested in seeing the tome after breakfast, yes? And did you care for chilled yellowfruit salad? It is by the grains, there..." Grains. Makes Paul think of Jessalyn. While his hands reach over, studiously rejecting them, he takes up the salad with a small reminiscent smile. "Sounds reasonable," he returns equally, determined to let the unpleasantness of the previous night remain boxed away. It is by no means forgotten, the Corellian wary beneath his relaxed veneer. Ylsa eats with the appetite of a healthy woman and the delicate grace of a queen; no pretenses exists to mask a hearty appetite, though her femininity demands a certain mincing to the process. Dropping the conversation for now, she concentrates on consuming the marvellous cuisine laid before them and in enjoying what she eats rather than rushing through the meal. Finishing up his meal, Paul indulges in a touch more of whatever pleased him, which appears to be most of the dishes, before settling back in his seat. He finishes off the meal with his tea, wiping at his face with his napkin contentedly. He presses the plate aside for now, waiting at her leisure to resume conversation ... and business. A few minutes pass; the last morsel she selects for herself is a final slice of toast, topped with berry preserves. As she nibbles at it, she regards Paul consideringly and eventually smiles. "You are patient. If you wish, it is in the next room, my study, within a wooden box on my desk. Waiting for your attention and perusal." Pressing back his seat, Paul murmurs, "Science is a slow business," before rising up. "My compliments to the chef," he comments, whether that be herself or someone else as he suspects. His napkin is deposited next to his plate and a beat up satchel is lifted and slung over his frame to rest on one shoulder. Taking a piece of toast and a refill of tea with him, Paul saunters to the indicated study. Visible through the doorway, he carefully places down the consumeables, taking over her desk. The box is opened and the tome is inspected for a moment before Paul reaches into his satchel to remove a pair of soft white gloves, slipping them on before picking up the massive book and setting it gentle on the desk's surface. Ylsa remains within the dining room, lingering over her last cup of tea and slice of toasted batter bread. One leg crosses over the other, head quirks to the side; she is attuned to the goings-on in the next room but, out of respect for Paul's intellectual curiosity, she permits him time alone with the treasure. Now engrossed in his inspection, it's not likely that Paul would notice Ylsa should have chosen to enter her study. It's perhaps the one true indication of his deep love of his abandoned study ... the fact that it is one of the few things that can completely obsess and distract him from the world. He handleds the pages carefully, frowning at something that clearly doesn't please him. Removing a thin pen like object, he "draws" a line across the cover and every so often as he turns a page. Each time he does so, he waits a moment before examining the device. His eyes scan over the words, the meanings of which elude him ... for the moment. The excitement ... the possibilities ... the incredible odds at what this might mean ... the Corellian unconciously gnaws on his bottom lip, his fingers tracing along a line. Hazel eyes are intense, and as he turns the page there is a soft indrawn breath. He holds there, drawing with the device without even looking, his gaze affixed to the image beautifully illustrated upon the page. "It is magnificent, is it not?" says Ylsa from Paul's side and just behind his elbow, a position she had taken to determine his interest in the book and establish its validity. Supporting documentation indicated it was a rare find worth much, of course, but Ylsa was interested in establishing historical worth as well. Her voice is lowered as if the two were in a library or a museum, and she echoes the hushed awe that he is emitting while losing himself in his examination: she too is an aficianado of the ancient and rare. He doesn't start at her voice, his gaze still held by the image before him. It is a beautifully painted picture done in gold leaf. The image is simple - a beautiful woman, nude from the waist up save for a jeweled necklace and an elaborate headdress. She is standing on one foot, a long skirt adorning her from the waist down. The other raised before her on an angle, peeking out from the folds, knee bent, toes pointed. Her arms are held out to her sides, bent upwards with palms open, thumbs tucked. Her head is slightly cocked to one side, her features gently rounded, her smile beautific. Sun rays radiate from behind her, looking rather like arms as well. It doesn't have the look of something painted as an aristic expression, but something painted as a physical record of something real. Ylsa smiles faintly, indulgently, and keeps her peace, letting him commune with his science rather than subjecting him to further interruptions. It takes a moment for her words to sink in, let alone her presence. Paul turns to glance over his shoulder at her. At some point he pulled out an antique pair of gold wire glasses, which now rest against the bridge of his nose. He blinks a touch owlishly at Ylsa, his first instinct to agree with her observation, but the Corellian in him bites his tongue first. Instead he turns back to his study, carefully turning the page and noting, "It seems to be genuine ... how long have you had it?" Ylsa reaches up with surprising delicacy to adjust the glasses behind one ear. "A few months, but you were a difficult man to locate. Its worth is clearly elevated to you beyond what others would consider." She pauses, then comments kindly, "You like it, yes?" "No, I'm like this all the time," he murmurs distractedly, readjusting his glasses after she does so. Turning a few more pages he runs the device down the edge, which despite it's pen like appearance, leaves no mark in it's path. "Whoever stole this was high up on the dig site ... it hasn't even been polyprotected. Very irresponsible." Glancing back up at her and flicking off the glasses with one hand, Paul adds, "And you didn't -find- me ... my coming to Bespin was pure coincidence." Ylsa's shake of her head is dismissive, even a trifle annoyed. "No, find you as in locate a proper buyer. I had three in mind. You are clearly the outstanding of the three." For a minute, perhaps a bit less, she studies Paul's profile, ignoring supposition about the book's origins, then she turns from her desk and waves her hand. "Take it." It's her tone that distracts and puzzles him, hazel eyes lifting from the diminutive device to peer at her. "Excuse me?" Ylsa wraps her arms about herself, now some several feet distant from the desk, back to the Corellian. "Two small words in Basic. Easily understood despite my accent. I said to take it. It is yours." Shaking his head, Paul's gaze shifts to the book and then back again to the insane lady. "You said you were looking for a buyer .... so why would you simply now give it to me?" He turns the chair about, studying the long line of her back, draped by the flow of gold. "You are a most puzzling woman." "My motivations, my reasoning, are not for others to understand." The crisply spoken words die along with the annoyance that accompanied them, and, glancing over her shoulder at the lanky Corellian, she explains, "On rare occasions I am reminded I once had scruples. You clearly are the rightful owner of this tome, the man whose hands will treat it with the respect its creators intended for it. Consider your use of it, and the joy you derive from it, your payment to me. Take it." For a long moment Paul simply watches and waits. Part of him suspects a ploy, an attempt to win him over for some unspoken purpose. Another, a part of him that always looks for the best, can't help but remind him of the sense that underneath it all is a woman who, like she said, "once had scruples" even if she cannot always be so now. He murmurs simply, "Whoever dated this for you was off ... by a few thousand years I believe. I estimate that the tome is approximately 7,480 years old ... give or take with proper testing. And yes ... yes I like it very much." Back still presented to him, she nods singularly, curtly, and returns to the dining room. Frowning fractionally at her odd behavior and mood swing, Paul closes the book carefully, returning it to the box and sealing it before removing his gloves and putting them away along with his carbon dater. Swinging his satchel over his torso, he lays one hand, almost lovingly, against the box, stroking along with the grain before leaving the study ... and the tome. Following her out into the dining room, Paul announces quietly and simply, "I cannot take it." Ylsa is busy with tidying the food from the table, a peculiar sight: an elegantly attired woman scraping egg into a bowl. When Paul appears and makes his soft proclamation, she flicks a millisecond's worth of a glance at him and counters, "Then you relegate it to the criminal world of my employer and the greasy, worthless hands of the men with whom he associates. So be it." The woman is like a maze ...everytime you turn a corner, expecting to find the center, you merely face another long row or worse, a dead-end. "Employer? I was under the impression that you were self employed." Shaking his head, Paul pulls off the satchel, setting it down on a chair before assisting her with the clean up. "I merely meant that I could not simply -take- it without recompense." Large hands move readily to gather up empty plates and platters, stacking them carefully. "I also don't see how this book would end up in anyone's hands but your own. If this "employer" of yours knows you have it, then it would have already been remanded ... and should it mysteriously disappear, that would cast a great deal of suspicion on you." Pausing for a moment, Paul considers her before asking, "Did you think the profits would allow you to leave your current employment?" "Leave the plates and utensils; they are not for a guest to clean." Ylsa sighs, likely realizing her petulance, and rubs her temple. "I am not self-employed. My work is overseen by the provider of this apartment, my ship, my other dwellings; I select the tasks I wish to perform and he receives a percentage from them." Weary, she sounds honest enough, even-toned enough, to be telling the truth. "You have discerned, no doubt, my haste in selling this book; it is because it _is_ my own, but, if my employer discovers it within my possession, he ill take it. That is his right.. As for the profits from the sale of the book..." She shrugs, sinking onto one of the chairs. "I had hoped it would allow me to buy my contract. There. Is that enough for you?" He doesn't heed her instructions, his hands only stilling as she finally sits down. "For a woman of your talents, it seems strange that you would have allowed yourself to sign so possessive a contract, or miss the fine print." Hazel eyes cannot help but narrow in suspicion. "You make this difficult ... my inclination is to believe, but after yesterday I cannot help but wonder what sort of game you might be playing." Leaning one hip against the tables edge, Paul asks bluntly, "How much is the contract?" Ylsa answers thinly, "A million credits...and you do not appreciate the circumstances under which I was pressed into the contract. Believe me, my position was not tenable, and Ullo realized it when he put so high a price on sheltering me. The cage is gilded, but a cage it is." His brow knots fractionally, the hip shifting so Paul is half sitting on the table's surface now. "Well, the book would merely make a minor dent in that kind of debt ... and to be honest, is probably richer than my blood. Xenoarcheologist don't tend to actually -make- money. It's one of the drawbacks that drew me out of the business," he white-lies. It's was certainly a considering factor, but not the main reason for his career shift. Folding his arms over his chest, Paul considers a few options for a moment. "So ... what if you were to take a "job" that Ullo didn't know about ... claim some much needed vacation time? And what if said job pulled in enough that you could pay off your contract ... or at least put a major dent in it? Would you be able to hide that kind of income from him ... or would he send over some Gamorean thugs to mess you up?" Ylsa lifts a scrap of bruallki, examining it. "The debt is being paid off, but not as quickly as I would like. It is...disquieting to be a female working for a Hutt. As for the outside income...I have plans on how to pay it, how to hide its source. An inheritance, a cache of family wealth that somehow escaped Imperial notice." Tossing the bit of meat to one side, she continues in a firmer, more confident sort of tone that is more characteristic of her. "It is no matter. Take the book and be gone. Yes? Yes." The Corellian once again pays her suggestion no heed, his weight firmly settled against the table now. "What does he have over you?" is his first question, followed by a thoughtful pause. "And what sort of experience do you have with Imperials, false permits, computer network redtape, and looking official in places where you really don't have permission to be?" Now that the truth has come out, or at least part of the truth is known, Ylsa, with a tired, bittersweet smile, does not hedge her comments. "He has my word of honor, Dr Nighman. When I was seeking refuge, only a very brave man or a very foolish one would have given me protection. The Hutts, I believe, are both. I had nowhere else to go; I gave him my word I would stay until my debt was paid As to the rest..." She runs her fingers through her tangle of curls, shaking them loose from the complex twists that had formed while they dried. "During the onset of Imperial occupation of my planet, I was able to operate within the resistance movement and thereby gained much experience in what you have mentioned: Imperial codes, permits, slicing..." For an instant the lines in her otherwise flawless visage ease as she finishes, "I have no business being in plain sight of the Imperials here on Bespin, yet I travel about as if I am baroness administrator. That, I trust, answers your last question?" Raising a hand to his mouth, Paul brushes the back of his thumb there loosely in consideration. "I have need of someone would can get an Ilyrian Gnat permits and permission to enter Imperial airspace, have safe passage to Athaniss, and be allowed to work, undisturbed at a location over the North Ocean for the period of approximately one week. Cover story flexible, though I was thinking some sort of scientific survey, since my connections will hold more water there." Dropping his hand to one thigh, Paul's hazel eyes rest on Ylsa's face, as if they intended to penetrate her thoughts, ferret out the truth. "The deal I can offer is this ... an equal partnership which would break the take into four divisions. And should the deal go sour, fair recompense for your time and talents." She does not blink an eye; the hand she waves is dismissive. "Permits, permission, bureaucracy. They are child's play, especially with the Empire. Documentation, if well-forged, impresses them in quantity. As to the rest..." Leaning back, arms winding about her narrow frame, she contemplates present obligations, future contigencies, possibilities, eventualities. "If I could convince Ullo of a reason for my absence for a week or so, it would be easily done. I would of course want more information on this expedition...." Her look is meaningful, penetrating, for a few seconds only, then her lids close over her eyes. "But not now. Not this minute. This afternoon, perhaps. Tonight. I have much to think upon, and my head aches." Slipping from the table, Paul retrieves his satchel, sliding it over and about his frame. "Later," he agrees, as there is the little matter of informint the rest of his partners about this newly found solution. The Corellian just hopes that he's not making a mistake. A Hutt would pay highly for this information, as would the Imperials. If this woman is indeed playing him for a sap, there is a good chance he'd not survive the burns this time around. Best to spend some time thinking of a way to insure her loyalty ... a day should do it.
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