Muuurgh was lying curled up on one of the large pallets his species used as beds. Han walked over to the Togorian and sat down beside him. “How’s the head?”

“My head still hurts,” Muuurgh said. “The medical droid says I must stay here tonight. But I told him no, I could not do that, because Vykk might need me.”

“No, I’m fine,” Han assured the big felinoid. “I’m going to visit the Sullustan, eat dinner, do a few sims, and engage in a little target practice. Then I’m gonna turn in early. It’s been a long day.”

“Did Vykk tell Teroenza about the pirates?”

“Yeah, I did. He’s gonna want to talk to you when you’re up to it. And … good news. Teroenza’s giving me my blaster back.”

“Good,” Muuurgh said. “Vykk needs to protect himself from pirates.”

“That’s what I pointed out, pal.” Han stood up. “Listen, I’m going next door, talk to the other pilot. I’ll check back on you tomorrow morning, okay?”

Muuurgh stretched luxuriously, then curled up on his pallet, looking almost like a huge black, furry circle. “Okay, Vykk.”

Han walked down the corridor until he found the medical droid, then he asked to be guided to the Sullustan pilot’s room.

Once he reached it, Han signaled the door chime and, a moment later, heard a voice say in Sullustan, “Enter.”

Han opened the door, only to be met by a wall of forced air that covered the doorway like a curtain. Han had to step through the doorway, into cool, refreshing air. The door sealed shut behind him with a hiss. Canned air, Han realized. They’ve got the Sullustan on a recirculating air system, so he’s not breathing Ylesian air. Wonder why?

Jalus Nebl was sitting before an entertainment vid-unit, where a galactic news documentary was in progress. Han walked over and offered his hand to the big-eyed, droopy-jowled being. “Hi, I’m Vykk Draygo, the new pilot. Pleased to meet you.”

He spoke in Basic, hoping the alien understood it. The jowly alien nodded at Han and said, in his own rapid-fire shrill language, “Do you understand the tongue of my people, or shall we require a translator to converse?”

“I understand it,” Han said in extremely halting Sullustan, “but speak it only bad. Understand Basic you okay?”

“Yes,” the Sullustan said. “I understand Basic quite well.”

“Good,” Han said, reverting back to his own tongue. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Please, do so,” the pilot answered. “I have been wishing to speak with you for some time, but I have been quite ill and, as you can see, confined to these few rooms where the air is specially filtered for me.”

Han sat down on a low bench and looked closely at the alien. He couldn’t see any outward damage. “That’s too bad, pal. What happened? Overwork?”

The Sullustan’s small, wet mouth pursed unhappily. “Too many missions, yes. Too many storms, I flew through. Too many almost crashes, my friend. One day I awoke, and my hands”—the Sullustan held out his small, delicate hands with their narrow oval claw-nails—“my hands would not stop trembling. I could no longer handle the controls of my ship.” The alien’s already mournful expression grew even sadder. Han almost expected to see tears well up in those big, already wet eyes.

Han looked at the alien’s hands and saw that they were, indeed, shaking uncontrollably. He felt a mixture of dismay and pity. Poor guy! That’d be awful! “That’s a bum deal, pal,” he said. “Was it just, y’know, your nerve being shot, or what?”

“Pressure, yes,” the Sullustan agreed. “Too many missions, little rest, over and over. Too many storms. But also … too much hauling of glitterstim. Medical droid says I have bad reaction to it. Makes Jalus Nebl very sick indeed.”

Han shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “You mean you’re allergic to glitterstim?”

“Yes. Discovered this as soon as I began hauling it, and tried to stay away from it, but it is in the very air of this world. Even locked in those vials, tiny traces escape to the air. When Jalus Nebl breathes it in, over days, weeks, more than a planet year … causes bad effects. Muscle tremors. Slowed reflexes. Stomach is upset, breathing grows hard …”

“So that’s why they’ve got you confined to the infirmary, with these filters running,” Han said. “Trying to get it out of your system.”

“Correct. I want to fly again, friend and fellow pilot Draygo. You are one of few who can understand this, correct?”

Han thought of how he’d feel if he couldn’t fly anymore—if he’d been so overworked and poisoned by spice exposure that his hands shook all the time—and he nodded. “Hey, pal,” he said sincerely, “I’m really sorry. I hope you’ll be better soon.” He lowered his voice, and switched to trader’s argot. “Understand you trader-talk, friend?”

The Sullustan nodded. “Not speak,” he replied, equally softly, “but understand fine.”

Han glanced up at the ceiling. Were the Ylesians or their security monitoring this room? No way to be sure. But he hadn’t met too many droids who could translate trader’s argot, because it was a bastardized mix of a dozen or more tongues and several dialects, with no fixed syntax. He waved up the volume on the newscast higher … higher, then mouthed, barely making any sound, “Friend-pilot, when hands grow steady, then if me you, not say farewell, just fly off bad spice world, quick quick. Understand?”

The Sullustan nodded.

Han lowered the volume slightly, then went on, as if nothing had happened, “I got attacked by pirates the other day.”

The Sullustan leaned forward. “What happened?”

“They shot up my ship, damaged the hyperdrive engines, but I managed to get one of them with a missile,” Han said, gesturing “boom” with his hands. “Had to put into Alderaan for repairs. Ever been there?”

“Nice world,” the Sullustan commented dryly. “Too nice, for some things.”

“Tell me about it,” Han said with feeling. “Anyway, when I came back here, Teroenza had a hundred questions about what kinds of ships the pirates were in, why they didn’t fire warning shots or try to commandeer the Dream, stuff like that. I got the distinct impression that there was more to this attack than just a random pirate raid. For one thing, they were waiting for me at the rendezvous point. How’d they find out those coordinates?”

“Ah,” said Jalus Nebl. “There may indeed be much behind this attack, Pilot.”

“Please … call me Vykk. Us pilots gotta stick together.”

“You call me Nebl, then. My nest-name.”

“Thanks. So what do you think is going on?”

“I believe that the t’landa Til are worried that these ‘pirate’ vessels may instead be from Nal Hutta. Hutt-dispatched ships, masquerading as pirates.”

Han whistled softly. “By all the Minions of Xendor … that takes the cake. The Hutts are fighting against each other?”

“Is not hard to believe if you have ever spent time among Hutts,” Nebl said dryly. “Hutt alliances are made and broken on the spin of a credit-coin. Hutt loyalty melts away in the face of loss of profit or power, you know?”

“I’m beginning to see a pattern, here,” Han said, shifting uneasily on the hard bench, thinking of how close he’d come to being cosmic dust. “There are factions of Hutts on Nal Hutta?”

“Oh, yes. One family or clan will gain power and wealth, only to fall when another family plots their demise. It is no wonder that Hutts are the most distrustful of sentients—being a food-taster for a Hutt is most likely a job of short duration, Vykk. It is very difficult to poison a Hutt, but that does not stop assassins from trying it—and, occasionally, succeeding. And the clans are not above using missiles, assassins, or ground troops to accomplish their goals.”

“But the Hutts are the ones who are really running this place,” Han pointed out.

“Ah! You saw Zavval, then?”

“If that’s the bloated sonofagun who rides around on that repulsor sled, I sure did. Haven’t had the honor yet of meeting him face-to-face.”

“Pray you never do, Vykk. Zavval, like most Hutts, is not easy to please. The priests can be hard masters to satisfy, but compared to the Hutts, their masters, they are nothing.”

“So, what’s going on with this world? You’ve got Hutts running this world, who’re clashing with other clans of Hutts on Nal Hutta—why?” Han thought for a moment, then answered his own question. “Oh. Of course. For the spice.”

“Naturally. The Hutts and the t’landa Til, their caretakers, profit in two ways from Ylesia. First, there is the processed spice. But the Ylesian Hutts must buy their spice from other Hutt families who provide the raw materials. Have you ever heard of Jiliac or of Jabba?”

“Jabba?” Han frowned. “Jabba the Hutt? I think I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he supposed to be the guy who pretty much controls Nar Shaadaa, the smugglers’ moon that orbits Nal Hutta?”

“That’s right. He divides his time between his home on Nal Hutta and a spice transshipping operation he runs through a back-of-beyond planet called Tatooine.”

“Tatooine? Never heard of it.”

Nebl shuddered. “Trust me, you don’t want to go there. It’s a dump.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. So this Jabba and Jiliac get the raw spice and ship it here for processing, right?”

“Yes. But lately, I believe, they may be trying to increase their profit by sending out ships to masquerade as pirates, and having them hijack the Ylesian spice ships. That way, Jabba and Jiliac get the processed spice for nothing—something that would please them greatly.”

Han pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Talk about biting the hand that feeds you …”

“Indeed. Yet I have no difficulty believing them capable of doing it.”

Han ran a hand through his hair and sighed. It had been a very long day. “Yeah, from what I’ve heard, a Hutt would sell his own grandmother—assuming they have such things—for a credit’s profit.”

“So you must be very, very cautious, young Vykk. Tell Teroenza you need increased shielding.”

“I have.”

“Good. Greater firepower would not be amiss, either.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Han fixed the Sullustan with a steady gaze. “Nebl, since we’re talkin’ frankly here, tell me something. There ain’t nothin’ to this religion thing the priests are pushing at these pilgrims, is there?”

“I do not believe so, Vykk. But I do not understand exactly what the Exultation is. I am not a believer, so I have never felt it, but judging by the way the pilgrims react, it has a more intoxicating effect than any dose of spice.”

“Yeah, it packs a wallop, all right,” Han agreed. “What I’m figuring is that this whole setup on Ylesia is just one big scam to get their lousy spice processed cheap.”

“That is not their only motive, Vykk. Do you remember that I said there were two ways that the priests and the Hutts profit from these colonies?”

“Yeah,” Han said. “So go on, what’s the second way?”

“Slaves,” Nebl said bluntly. “Trained, compliant slaves. The Ylesians export the pilgrims from the spice factories when they consider them fully trained, all will to resist removed. They are taken to other worlds and sold. Their places in the factories are taken by fresh shipments of pilgrims.”

“And the slaves are too cowed and brainwashed to complain or tell the truth about Ylesia and what’s waiting for the pilgrims here?” Han asked.

“Certainly. And even if they did talk, who listens to a slave? And if the slave gets too noisy …” Nebl made a sudden, unmistakable hand across throat gesture. “Silencing a slave is easy.”

Han was thinking about 921. She said she’d been on Ylesia nearly a year …

“How long do they keep ’em before they ship the slaves out? And where do they send them?”

“A year is standard. They send many of the strong ones to Kessel, to work in the spice mines. Nobody ever gets off Kessel alive, you know. And the pretty ones … they are the lucky few. They go for dancing girls or boys, or to the barracks pleasure-houses. An undignified life, perhaps, but far easier than slaving and dying in the mines.”

Nebl was watching Han intently out of his wet, luminous eyes. “Why do you ask? Is there a particular slave that matters to you?”

“Well … kinda,” Han admitted. “She works in the glitterstim factory, down on the deepest level. She’s been here close to a year.”

“If you care for her, you should get her out of there, Vykk,” the Sullustan said. “The death rates for the glitterstim workers are very high. The spice cuts them, and then the fungi get into their bloodstreams, and …” He made a tossing-away gesture with his fingers. “Get her out of there. Being shipped off-world as a slave is her only hope.”

“Off-world?” Han fought back a stab of fear at the thought that he might never see Pilgrim 921 again. “What, I’m supposed to hope that she gets shipped out to some barracks pleasure-house, to be a plaything for bored Imperial troops?”

“Better that than a miserable death from slow blood-poisoning.”

Han was thinking fast, and he didn’t like what he was thinking. “Listen, Nebl, I’m glad we got to talk. I’ll come back and visit again sometime. Right now … there’s something I’ve gotta do.”

The alien nodded kindly. “I quite understand, Vykk.”

   Once outside, Han realized that the short Ylesian day was definitely waning. The pilgrims would be at evening devotions. If he hurried, he might be able to catch up with 921 and have a few words with her. He had to figure out some way to get her out of that factory and yet keep her here on Ylesia.

Despite the wet heat and the fine drizzle that was falling, Han began to jog through the jungle, up the familiar path. His breath burned in his chest after the first five minutes or so, but he refused to slow down. He just had to see 921’s face, reassure himself she was still here, on Ylesia.

What if she’d been shipped off-world? He’d never find her … never! Han felt panic nibble at the edge of his mind and cursed himself in every language he knew. What has gotten into you, Solo? You’ve got to get hold of yourself! Things are going good for you here on Ylesia. At the end of the year, you’ll have a stack of credits waiting in an account on Coruscant. Now is no time to lose your head over some crazy religious fanatic. Get over it!

But his body and heart would not listen to his mind. Han’s strides came longer and faster until he was running full tilt. He rounded a turn near the Plain of Flowers, and nearly ran headlong into the first of the pilgrims on their way back from evening devotions. They were staggering or shambling along, that drugged, ecstatic look in their glazed eyes.

Han began elbowing his way through the throng, feeling like a fish swimming upstream. He squinted at faces in the gathering darkness, peered beneath caps, searching, searching …

Where was she?

Increasingly worried, Han began grabbing pilgrims’ arms and demanding to know if anyone had seen Pilgrim 921. Most ignored him or stared stupidly, slack-jawed, but finally an old Corellian woman jerked her thumb behind her. Han turned to find 921 some distance behind the others. Relief flooded through him. He hurried up to her, still panting, sweaty, and disheveled from his run.

“Hi,” he wheezed, hoping the greeting didn’t sound as lame to her as it did to him.

She looked up at him in the twilight. “Hi,” she said uncertainly. “You’ve been gone for a while.”

“Off-world,” Han said, taking her arm and falling into step with her. “Had some cargo to transport.”

“Oh.”

“So, how’s it been going?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. “The Exultation was wonderful tonight.”

“Yeah,” he agreed grimly. “I’m sure it was.”

“How was your voyage, Vykk?” she asked after a minute or so of silence. Han was pleased by her question; it was the first time she’d betrayed any curiosity about him and his life.

“It turned out okay,” he said, picking his way down the muddy path, trying not to get his boots any worse than they already were. He was splashed to the knees with all that running. “Pirates shot at me, though.”

“Oh, no!” She looked distressed. “Pirates! You could have been hurt!”

He smiled at her and shifted his grip so they were walking hand in hand. “How nice to know you care,” he said with a touch of his old cockiness. For a moment he thought she might pull away, but she let him hold her hand.

By the time they’d reached the dorm, it was dark. Han walked her over to their same spot, halfway between the light and the darkness. He took off her infrared goggles. “What are you doing?” she asked nervously.

“I want to see you,” Han said. “You know those goggles hide your eyes.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, then kissed the back of it. “I missed you while I was away,” he murmured.

“You did?” He couldn’t tell whether the thought pleased or distressed her. Maybe both.

“Yeah. I thought about you,” he continued softly. It occurred to him that this was the first time he’d ever been this honest about his feelings with a girl. For once in his life he wasn’t putting on an act. “I didn’t want to,” he added honestly, “but I did. You do care, don’t you? Just a little?”

“I … I …” she stammered. “I don’t know …” She tried to pull her hand away, but Han wouldn’t let it go. He began to kiss her fingers, her scarred, lacerated fingers. The touch of her skin against his mouth intoxicated him as much as the Alderaanian ale. He rained soft, tender little kisses over her knuckles, her fingertips.

“Stop that …” she whispered. “Please …”

“Why?” he asked, turning her hand over, so he could kiss her wrist. Han gloried in the jump of her pulse against his mouth. He pressed his lips against her palm, feeling the ridges of scars old and new. “Don’t you like it?”

“Yes … no … I don’t know!” she burst out, sounding on the verge of tears. She yanked her hand back, and this time Han let it go, but stepped forward to catch her sleeve.

“Please …” he said, holding her with his eyes as much as with his hand. “Please … don’t go. Can’t you tell that I care about you? I worry about you, I think about you … I care about you.” He swallowed, and it hurt. “A lot.”

She caught her breath, and it sounded like a sob. “I don’t want you to care,” she said, her voice ragged. “Because I’m not supposed to care …”

“You won’t even tell me your name,” Han finished, and he couldn’t hide the touch of bitterness in his voice.

She stood poised for flight, like a bird, her eyes wide and tormented. “I care about you, too,” she whispered, finally. Her voice trembled. “But I shouldn’t. I’m only supposed to care about the One, and the All! You want me to break my vows, Vykk! How can I give up everything I believe in?”

Hearing her admit that she had feelings for him made Han’s heart turn over. “Tell me your name,” he pleaded. “Please …”

She stared at him, eyes bright with tears, then she whispered, “It’s Bria. Bria Tharen.”

Then, without another word, she picked up the skirts of her robe and ran away, through the door, into the dorm.

Han stood in the darkness and felt a slow, wide grin spread across his face. All his exhaustion fell away, and his feet felt as though he were wearing repulsorlift boots. He walked away from the dorm, still smiling, and barely noticed when the skies opened up and it began to pour.

She does care … he thought, slogging through the ubiquitous mud. Bria … that’s nice. Sounds like music or something. Bria …

   The next day, after long hours of thinking and planning during a mostly sleepless night, Han went in search of Teroenza. He found the High Priest and Veratil relaxing in the mudflats that lay about a kilometer inland from the shallow Ylesian ocean. Both priests lounged at their ease, immersed in warm red mud up to their massive flanks. Occasionally one or the other would roll over and thrash a bit, to cover an area that had dried out.

The two Gamorreans on guard duty looked positively envious of their masters. Han, on the other hand, came close enough to the mud wallow to catch a whiff, and grimaced. Ugh! Smells like something died last week!

The Corellian stood balancing precariously on the bank and waved to get Teroenza’s attention. “Uh, sir? I’d like a word with you, if possible.”

The High Priest was in a good mood, relaxed from the mud. He waved an undersized arm. “Our heroic pilot! Please, join us!”

Climb into that muck? On purpose? Han thought, repressing a grimace. But he understood that the t’landa Til were offering him a great honor. He sighed.

When Teroenza beckoned to him again, Han grinned and waved back genially. He unfastened his gunbelt, letting his newly reclaimed blaster in its holster slip to the ground. After yanking off his boots, he unsealed his pilot’s coverall and stepped out of it, leaving him clad only in his shorts. Carefully, he placed his belt-pouch atop the pile, with the open end facing the mudhole.

Then, with a grimace that he tried to turn into a smile, the Corellian stepped off the bank. Red mud oozed up his legs, and for a second Han nearly panicked, picturing himself sinking completely out of sight. But there was solid ground beneath the mud. Waving and smiling at the two t’landa Til, Han grimly waded out until he was slithering in mud up to his thighs.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” Veratil asked, generously catching up a huge blob of mud and slathering Han’s back. “Nothing in this galaxy beats a good mud bath!”

Han nodded vigorously. “Yeah! Great!”

“I suggest you go for a roll,” Teroenza boomed. “That always refreshes me after the stresses of everyday life. Try it!”

“Sure!” Han agreed, smiling through clenched teeth. “A good roll sounds like just the thing!” Gingerly, he lowered himself into the mud, and with a great slosh and splat! he rolled completely over in the slimy, oozing stuff. It didn’t help his mood to notice that there were long white worms inhabiting the mud. Han assumed they weren’t carnivorous, or the priests wouldn’t be having such a wonderful time.

Bria, honey, I hope you appreciate this … he thought as he completed his roll and sat back up, coated now from the neck down. “Wonderful!” he said loudly. “So … squishy!”

“So, Pilot Draygo … why did you wish to speak with me?” Teroenza asked as the High Priest languidly settled deeper into the wallow.

“Well, I think I may have solved your problem, sir. The problem of how to take care of your collection, that is.”

Teroenza’s massive head swiveled on his almost nonexistent neck. “Really? How?”

“I’ve made friends with one of the pilgrims, a young woman from my homeworld. Before she came here to be a pilgrim, she was studying to be a museum curator, and she knows a lot about caring for rare things. Antiquities, collectibles, stuff like that. I’ll bet she could properly catalog and care for the stuff in your collection.”

Teroenza listened intently, then the High Priest sat back on his haunches, mud squishing up around him. “I had no idea any of our pilgrims had such training. Perhaps I will interview this one. What is her designation?”

“She’s Pilgrim 921, sir.”

“And where does she work?”

“In the glitterstim factory, sir.”

“How long has she been here on Ylesia?”

“Almost a year, sir.”

Teroenza turned to Veratil, and the two priests began talking in their own language.

I gotta learn their lingo for myself, Han thought. He’d found a language program to teach elementary Huttese, and been studying that for the past month. But he’d been unable to locate any translation guides or programs for learning the t’landa Til language. He strained his ears, hoping to be able to decipher what the priests were saying, but t’landa Til was apparently sufficiently different from Huttese to make it impossible for him to understand anything.

Turning back to Han, Veratil said, “This Pilgrim 921 … would you say she’s attractive, as your species measures attractiveness? For example, do you find her appealing as a potential sexual partner?”

Deep in the mud, Han crossed his fingers. “921? Oh, nossir, she’s … well, to be frank, sir, she’s so ugly that if I had a pet with a face that homely, I’d make it walk backward.”

When they heard Han’s words, both priests guffawed and slapped their arms across their chests, which was apparently their species’ way of paying tribute to a witty turn of phrase.

“Very good, Pilot Draygo,” Teroenza boomed. “You are indeed a sharp fellow, and I shall investigate this young woman.” He sloshed around a bit, letting the mud slop up around his huge flanks. “Ahhhhhhh …” he sighed with pleasure.

“So, Veratil.” Han squirmed around in the mud until he was facing the Sacredot. “I’ve got something I’m curious about. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all,” the younger priest said.

“How do you guys do that thing you do with the pilgrims each night at the devotion? What they call the Exultation? It sure packs a wallop, whatever it is.”

“The Exultation?” Veratil chuckled, a low, booming sound. “That moment of rapture the pilgrims regard as a Divine Gift?”

“Right,” Han said. “I’ve never been able to experience it,” he admitted. Because I’ve fought it as hard as I can, he added silently. Because the last thing I want is some critter as ugly as you giving me jolts in my pleasure neurons …

“That is because you are a strong-minded individual, Pilot Draygo,” Veratil said. “Our pilgrims come to us because they are not strong-minded, they are weak, and looking for guidance. And their diets are designed to make them even more … malleable.”

Teroenza spoke up, “The Exultation is a refinement of a ability we males of the t’landa Til use to attract the females of our species during mating season. We create a frequency resonance within the recipient’s brain that stimulates the pleasure centers. The humming vibration is produced by air flowing over the cilia in our neck pouches when we inflate them. Our females find it irresistible.”

“We males also have a low-grade empathic projection ability,” Veratil said. “By concentrating on feeling good, we can project those feelings at the crowd of pilgrims. Both effects, taken together, produce the Exultation.”

“Neat trick!” Han said admiringly. “Is it difficult?”

“Not at all,” Teroenza said. “What we find difficult is having to lead the pilgrims in those endless services and prayers. At times, I’ve been so bored that I nearly fell asleep, waiting for my turn to lead the devotions.”

“Last year, one of the Sacredots did fall asleep,” Veratil said, booming with his species’s version of laughter. “Palazidar fell right over. The pilgrims were most upset.”

Both priests enjoyed the memory. Han laughed, too, but inside he was simmering with anger, thinking of the pilgrims staggering down the path, religious faith and devotion shining in their eyes. This place makes any of Garris Shrike’s scams look like nothing, he thought disgustedly. Someone should shut these greedy vermin down …

For a moment he wished he could be the one to do it. Then Han reminded himself that sticking one’s neck out for others was a good way to get one’s head and shoulders permanently separated. So why are you doing all this for Bria? his treacherous mind asked sarcastically.

Because, his heart answered, Bria’s safety has become as important to me as my own. I can’t help it, it’s just the way things are …

Now that he’d accomplished what he’d come here to do, Han began to think about how to gracefully (metaphorically speaking) extract himself from the mud and the company of the priests.

He was rescued by the arrival of a Hutt, who came gliding over the mudflat on his repulsorlift sled. A small squad of guards trotted vigorously alongside, panting in the humid heat as they struggled to keep up.

“Zavval!” Teroenza hailed his Hutt overlord, standing respectfully. Feeling like a fool, Han did likewise.

This was the Corellian’s first close-up encounter with a Hutt, and he tried not to stare at the creature’s huge, recumbent form, the enormous, pouchy eyes amid the leathery tan skin, and the green slime that oozed from the corners of the being’s mouth. Ugh … they’re even uglier than Teroenza and his crew, Han thought. He reminded himself that Hutts had been civilized for probably longer than his own species—but he still couldn’t quite eliminate the revulsion their appearance caused.

Or maybe it was just the knowledge that it was the Hutts who’d dreamed up the idea of running a religion on Ylesia as a cheap way to enslave innocent sapients that repulsed him.

The Hutt leaned toward Teroenza and said in Huttese, “I’ve received a message from home. Jabba and Jiliac deny everything, and we have no proof. The clan council has refused to …” Han couldn’t catch the word, “so we have no other way to …” and he finished with a phrase that Han couldn’t translate.

“Regrettable,” replied Teroenza in Huttese. “What about my requisition for more troops, armament, and shielding for our ships, Your Excellency?”

“Approved,” Zavval said. “Should be arriving any day.”

“Good.”

Teroenza continued, in Basic, “Zavval, I would like you to meet our brave pilot, Vykk Draygo, who saved our shipment of glitterstim.”

The huge Hutt chuckled, a “heh, heh, heh” sound that was so deep and resonant that Han could feel it as well as hear it. “Greetings, Pilot Draygo. You have our lasting gratitude.”

“Thank you, sir …”

Teroenza waved an undersized arm. “The correct form of address is ‘Your Excellency,’ Pilot Draygo.”

“Okay, then. Thank you, Your Excellency. I’m honored to be able to serve you.”

The Hutt chuckled again, and said to Teroenza in Huttese, “A most polite and perceptive young man—for a human. Have you arranged for a bonus? We want to keep him happy.”

“Yes, I have, Your Excellency,” Teroenza replied.

Han, of course, did not let on that he’d understood any of the exchanges in Huttese.

“Good, good,” Zavval said.

Han stood watching as the alien turned his repulsorlift sled and glided away. Teroenza and Veratil began slogging their way out of the mud with grunts of effort. The High Priest addressed Han in Basic. “His Excellency is pleased with your performance, Pilot. Has the factory foreman informed you as to when the next shipment will be ready for transport?”

Han, too, was squishing his way toward the bank. “He said at the end of the week, sir. In the meantime, there are two shipments of pilgrims due in at the space station, one tomorrow, one the day after.”

“Good. We don’t want to be shorthanded in the factories.”

Once back on the bank, Han scooped up his clothes, then turned east and gestured in the direction of the ocean, a kilometer away. “I think I’ll walk over and rinse off,” he said, “before I get dressed.”

“Ah, yes,” said Veratil, “we use the mud as a cleansing agent, but it does not cling to our skins the way it appears to cling to yours. Once dry, all we need to do is shake”—he gave a pronounced shudder, and dust rose in clouds—“and it all flakes away, as you can see.”

“Yes, I see that,” Han said. “But I’ll have to use water to rinse.”

“Be careful not to go too far into the ocean, Pilot Draygo,” Teroenza cautioned. “Some of the denizens of the Ylesian oceans are quite large, and very hungry.”

“Yessir,” Han said.

Holding his clothes and boots away from his red, mud-covered body, Han began picking his way barefoot toward the ocean. He couldn’t see it yet, because of a ridge of sand dunes, but he could smell the warm, brackish water.

When he reached it a short time later, he cautiously ventured out, knee-deep, and then squatted down to let the pounding surf sluice over him. Again and again the waves washed over the Corellian, rinsing away all trace of the red muck.

Then Han went over to the sandy shore, found a smooth patch, and stretched out to dry. He felt the dim Ylesian sun beating down on him, drying him, leaving his hair salt-stiffened and tousled. But anything’s better than that mud, he thought drowsily.

He was almost asleep when Han jerked awake, remembering something he’d forgotten. He got to his feet, walked over to his clothes, then fumbled with his belt pouch. Looking carefully around before he did so, he withdrew the tiny audio-log recording device he’d “borrowed” from the Ylesian Dream and, seeing that it was still running, turned it off with a decisive snap.

Satisfied that he’d successfully recorded the entire exchange between himself and the Ylesian priests, Han walked back to his spot, lay down on the warm sand, and took a well-deserved nap.