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He took the card without further protest. “What kind of rocks would you like?” He gestured behind him at the curved floor-to-ceiling storage bins. “We have everything from pure silicates to rare nonferrous metals.”

“Frozen water will suffice.”

She listened to the two bands that filled the Redrum with wall-to-wall noise. Each comprising multiple species, they seemed to be competing with each other to see who could play not the best music, but the loudest. The Amani was back in less than a minute. She took a sip of the liquid that gurgled in the tall glass and smiled lazily.

“Good. Now—you spoke of cash.” Reaching down to the pouch riding at her waist, she unsealed the top length and let him have a good look before she resealed the pouch. What was visible within caused the Amani’s small eyes to grow almost as large as her own.

“You should not bring so many Imperial credits into a place like this,” he admonished her. “A mere humanoid such as yourself could get seriously hurt.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she replied. “Now—for liquid refreshment, I pay credit. For food, I pay credit. For information—I pay cash.”

The Amani was too short to lean over the bar. Instead, he pushed himself up on his long, dragging arms until his face was level with her own. “What is it you wish to know? What data do you seek?”

“I’m looking for someone. His name is Jax Pavan, though he may be known around here by another name.” She held up a holobase. It immediately expanded to provide a three-dimensional, rotating portrait of the man in question. “He’s a Jedi, though not much of one.”

The Amani’s thick lips curled downward into a rubbery frown. “The Jedi are all slain. Slain by minions of the Empire.” He stared at her a little harder. “Are you a minion of the Empire?”

“I work for myself. Actually, I’m employed directly by Lord Vader.”

The bartender hesitated, stared, then broke out laughing. “A hard case with a sense of humor. That’s rare. Well, it’s no matter of mine who you work for.”

“Glad you appreciate the absurdity of it.” She pocketed the holobase, and the image disappeared. “Maybe he’s not a Jedi. Maybe I was given wrong information. Personally, I don’t care if he’s the Grand Master or a local scrap recycler. I just need to find him.”

“I wish I could help you, hard-case. I have an excellent memory.”

“I know. That’s why your kind are often employed as trackers.” She smiled enticingly. “I appeal to your mercenary nature.”

“I can’t give you information I don’t have. I’d slime myself if it would jog the memory you seek, but there’s just nothing there.” Raising a huge three-fingered hand, he pointed toward the next room, the Green Dystopia. If anything, the music reverberating from within it was even louder than in the Crimson Redrum. “You might try talking to my colleague Calathi, in there.”

The things one does for money, freedom, and a Dark Lord of the Sith, she told herself as she slid off the stool.

Starting toward the next room, she found her way blocked by three patrons. Her first impression was that they had been engaged for some time in a contest to see who could become the most drunk while continuing to remain upright and marginally functional. Her second impression was that it was a three-way tie.

Not as far as the inebriated trio was concerned, however. Obviously hammered enough to cheerfully contemplate miscegenation, they surrounded her. The Zabrak was the most aggressive. A lupine Shistavanen hung back at one angle, while a large, stocky Utai blocked the other direction.

Sing sipped her drink and calmly continued toward the green room. The Zabrak shifted to intercept her. He was tall, muscular, and “soused to his horns,” as the saying had it. He smiled down at her, revealing impressive canines. “Haven’t seen you in here before, little snowflake.”

“Haven’t been in here before. If you’ll excuse me …”

Reaching out, he put a powerful hand on her left shoulder. She glanced at it, turned slightly, and he let it slide off. “I wouldn’t do that again.”

“Why?” The grin grew wider. “Don’t you