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“Hey, any more chatter back there and I’ll take off some digits myself,” the sergeant warned.

“How would you like to bury yourself under four feet of mud for about an hour?” the Princess snapped.

“I wouldn’t,” admitted the sergeant calmly. “How would you like your pretty tongue burnt out with a low-power blaster?”

Leia subsided. They were in enough trouble. She’d gain nothing by provoking them more. She concentrated her stare on the middle of the sergeant’s back, trying to drive him insane. The sergeant showed no hint of being affected. Probably solid bone under the helmet, she mused.

They turned a last corner and entered a large chamber. After the spartan gray stone inside and out, the sybaritic furnishings here came as a shock. Real and artificial fur was used lavishly. Many of the creature comforts Luke would have associated with a far more developed world than Mimban were present. They were not flaunted, however, which indicated that the inhabitant of this chamber regarded them as his natural accouterments.

Across the chamber a single man sat behind an unimposing, functional desk. “Bring them over, sergeant.” His bored voice was broken and gravelly. Luke thought he must have suffered some damage to his vocal cords.

At a gesture from the sergeant, the seven prisoners—including one with a limp and a crudely bandaged leg—were herded across the room to stand close by the desk.

The most impressive thing about Grammel, Luke thought, was the reaction to him by the miners. All of their bluster and swagger had disappeared. They stood staring at the floor, the walls, each other—anywhere but at the man behind the desk. Feet shuffled uneasily.

Without seeming to stare, Luke tried to see the personage who inspired such respectful subservience from hardened men like the five miners. Grammel had his head buried in his hands as he studied some paper. Finally he rubbed his eyes, folded his hands and leaned his elbows on the desk as he surveyed them.

Grammel added no color to his surroundings. His face was egg-shell pale, and the image of the Imperial officer was tarnished further when he stood to reveal a modest paunch curving gently from beneath his sternum like a frozen waterfall of suet, to crash and tumble somewhere below the waistline in a jumble of uniform.

The silver and gray uniform itself was spotless and neat, however, as if in an attempt to camouflage the belly beneath. Above the tight, high collar the neck jumped out to a square jaw bordered by a drooping mustache. The line of that facial hair matched well the dour expression the Captain-Supervisor wore—habitually, Luke guessed. Tiny, penetrating eyes peered out from beneath brows like a granite ridge, over-topped by uneasy black and gray hair.

This was a face that rarely laughed, Luke decided, and then for the wrong reasons.

Grammel began examining each of the uneasy group in turn. Luke borrowed a hint from the miners and tried to concentrate solely on a stain on the furred floor.

“So these are the disturbers, who break the peace to fight with killing weapons,” he observed disapprovingly. Once more that voice grated on Luke’s ears, like a piece of rusty machinery long overdue for lubrication. Full of grimy squeaks and groans, it suited Grammel perfectly.

Stepping forward smartly, the sergeant reported, “Yes, Captain-Supervisor. Permission to take the two wounded to the infirmary.”

“Granted,” said Grammel. He did not quite smile, but his permanent frown faded enough for his lips to straighten slightly. “For a time, they will be better off than those who remain here.”

Under guard, the handless miner and the one with the limp were taken from the room. Grammel resumed his examination of the remaining people. When he reached Luke and the Princess, his mouth twitched as if someone had jabbed him with a pin.

“You two I don’t recognize. Who are you?” He came around from behind the desk, stood nose to nose with Luke. “You, boy! What are you?”

“Just a contract miner, Captain-Supervisor,” Luke stammered, trying to sound appropriately