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He nodded understandingly. “Dancing for Jabba must have been hard, after everything else that had happened.”

“It was,” she said. “But Doallyn … do you know what was hardest about it?” Unconsciously she reached out and laid a hand on his forearm, then realizing what she had done, Yarna hastily withdrew, tucking her hands inside the folds of her robe.

“What?”

“They … laughed at me. All of them. They said that I was …” Her mouth twisted at the word “ugly.” Her indrawn breath felt raw in her throat. “They called me gross, and ridiculous, and … fat. Even Jabba laughed at me. But he did not laugh because he thought I was ugly, he laughed because he knew it hurt me to hear them. He … enjoyed the pain of others. You know.”

Doallyn nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“It hurt,” she said. “I learned not to show it, to lose myself in the dancing, and not let myself hear the laughing … much. But it hurt.” She gave him a glance that flashed defiance. “I am the way I was born to be! Why do beings have to judge each other? Why do they have to stare, and sneer, and say cruel things?”

He shook his head, and his fingers came up to tap the scar that she had nearly forgotten about. “I have no answer for you, Yarna,” he said gravely. “But I understand the questions only too well.”

A ray from the westering suns slid across Doallyn’s eyes, waking him from an exhausted slumber. He blinked, then sat up halfway in the cramped shelter, propping himself on his hands. His companion was still asleep, breathing deeply. The white material of her robe outlined one generous haunch, and he experienced a faint stirring of male interest. How long had it been since he had been with a female … of any species?

Nearly a year, he realized. He was not the sort to indulge in casual liaisons often … and so much of his time was spent alone, in the wilderness. Doubtless the females at Jabba’s court would have been repulsed by his scar. Enough women had drawn back from his face since he’d acquired that scar that he’d grown very cautious about taking off his mask in a woman’s presence. He’d tried hiring women, from time to time, but he’d found that unsatisfactory, too. It was easier to abstain than it was to see revulsion … or, almost worse, indifference in a partner’s eyes.

A heartless, temporary coupling left him feeling even worse than solitude did, Doallyn had discovered. From time to time he’d wished he had a friend, someone to talk to, but the habit of silence was a hard one to break. He’d talked more to Yarna since their escape than he’d spoken to any one person in the past year.

Of course talking with Yarna couldn’t be avoided, but their time together was strictly temporary, the hunter reminded himself. He’d be glad when he could resume his solitary existence.

Doallyn slid backward, out of the little shelter. As he stood up, he automatically checked the amount of hydron-three remaining in the cartridge. Less than a third gone. He wouldn’t need another until midnight or so.

The hunter walked around the side of a dune to answer nature’s call, then spent a few minutes with the navicomputer on the landspeeder, checking their course. Just as he finished, he heard a sound, then saw Yarna walking toward him. He found himself thinking about the story she’d told. From what he knew of Jabba’s fickle tastes, it was amazing that Yarna had lasted a whole year in the Hutt’s “employ.”

As she strode toward him, the cooling breeze blew her robes around so they billowed out, then outlined her body. Doallyn was startled … the Askajian dancer was visibly smaller. He remembered her curt answer that on a nondesert world she would be “thinner.” Her body tissues evidently soaked up liquid like a sponge, then utilized the fluid as it was needed, so she could indeed go a long time without water.

“Will we reach Mos Eisley today?” she asked, coming up beside him.

Doallyn shook his head. “Not this evening, anyway.” He showed her their plotted course on the navicomputer screen. “Once