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“That will be Beldorion.”

“What do we do?” asked a man on Leia’s repulsor sled, looking nervously around at the cold cliffs sparkling in the new light, the world paused, it seemed, on the brink of chaos.

Bé shook back his tangled braids. “We can do no other than we are instructed,” said the Listener. “We meet them, and die.”

If the horrors of watching the dying corpses of Cybloc XII being looted had been bad—the squabbles between looters, the remote-operated droids patrolling like whirring insects, the sight of those few expiring survivors being relieved of jewelry and credit cylinders by thieves—the darkness that followed was infinitely worse. The dome lights were gone. The dim auxiliary circuits were going. In the medical offices where, with a droid’s infinite patience, See-Threepio was broadcasting his distress call in alternating bands of Basic and various of his six million language repertoire, the light had gone utterly, and only a few buildings were lit in the next square, leaking stray glims to show him the street below the windows, where nothing at all now moved. The body of the dead looter lay where it had been left, naked of its e-suit, which others had taken along with the computer equipment that he’d been dragging. It was little more than a black shape to Threepio’s visual receptors, though it registered on his infrared for some time. The smells of alien bacteria and decay organisms choked the air.

“It isn’t any use,” he said in time. Artoo-Detoo, sitting inert as a heating unit in the corner, illuminated a single red light, inquiring.

“The entire base computer core has been gutted. Even should someone attempt a landing, we wouldn’t know it.”

Artoo wibbled a reply.

“Oh, very well. But it will do us no good. I expect we’ll sit here until our power cells run down, and chaos and destruction will encompass the Republic.” At another time Threepio would have spoken out of a personal conviction of impending doom. Now he realized he was saying no more than the truth.

“We did our best.”

The astromech bleeped and settled back to his resting position. It was inconceivable that either of them would do other than his best.

Threepio returned to the jury-rigged microphone. “Distress on Cybloc XII. Distress on Cybloc XII. Please send an evacuation team. Please send an evacuation team.

“Ee-tsuü Cybloc XII. Ee-tsuü Cybloc XII. N’geeswâ el-tipic’uü ava’acuationma-teemâ negpo, insky.

“Dzgor groom Cybloc XII. Dzgor groom Cybloc XII. Hch’ca shmim’ch vrörkshkipfuth gna gna kabro n’grabiaschkth moah.” He dug down into the bottom-most registers of his voder circuits. The Yeb language had few technical terms, and it was necessary to patch together a linguistic equivalent from: “Several conglomerates are urged strongly but respectfully to coordinate activities to prevent the drowning of another conglomerate that is not a threat to any of them, nor will be in the immediate or distant future to them or to their children.” He did the best he could.

Bith was easier. “Six-five. Twelve-seven-eight. Two-nine-seven.” In many ways, Threepio was very fond of the Bith.

“Distress on Cybloc XII. Dis—Artoo, look! It’s an incoming vessel!” He pointed to the dark transparisteel, through which the transpariflex panels of the dome could be seen. Against the livid gloom of the sky the red track of descending retros had appeared. “Can you get any sort of reading on the computer?”

Artoo, who had tried already a dozen times, simply twitted a negative. Threepio was already toddling toward the turbolift. “They’ll be coming into the port bays. By the time we reach there they should be just about landed. Oh, thank goodness.”

Artoo simply lowered himself down onto his third wheel, and rolled after his golden counterpart, without comment. If he had reservations about the nature of the rescuers, as deduced from the make and serial numbers of their vessels, he kept them to himself.

It wasn’t that Threepio hadn’t considered the possibility of smugglers, looters,