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I found Barada there, as usual, head buried in the engine compartment of one of his pet vehicles, as usual. He always seemed to be working on one craft or another of Jabba’s big repulsorpool. I think it helped him forget what a trap his life was.

The poor Klatooinan was indentured to the Hutt forever, I guessed. He was too valuable to Jabba. The Bloated One was never letting this poor sucker buy his way out. But the guy was still dead loyal to his boss, and dead honest, too. And he was one of the few there I really liked.

“How’s it going, chief?” I saluted, slapping him on the back. “Got a machine for me?”

He waved around without pulling his head from the craft’s guts. “Take any skiff you want.”

There were a number of the little utility vehicles parked around us. But they weren’t good enough.

“I need something faster. I’m in a hurry, pal.”

He pulled his head out this time and turned toward me. His face was set in a scowl, but it was always that way. The personality behind it was very earnest and mostly good-natured.

“For you, Mon, okay. Take that XP-38A there.” He pointed out a low, sleek-bodied landspeeder. “It’s as hot as I have. But, watch it! Steering’s real loose.”

Its steering was as advertised, but so was its speed. I’d made up my lost time when I sailed into Mos Eisley spaceport and pulled up in front of the Lucky Despot hotel.

I climbed out and looked around, taking in the place. Sure, the sprawling spaceport was pretty much a dump for the refuse of the galaxy, but I still liked getting in there once in a while. I’d come from a planet of all open space and light. The closed-in feel of Jabba’s pile got to me pretty fast. I took any chance to stretch my legs, such as they were.

I walked toward the hotel. The old place wasn’t really a building. It had been converted from a beat-up cargo hauler by some investors with more credits than brains. It had never been successful and was open now only as a front for Lady Valarian’s operations.

Now that Whiphid dame was one gutsy customer, trying at big odds to carve out a piece of Jabba’s pie right under his … uh … chins. It seemed to me she might just do it too.

I went up the steep outside ramp to the top level where the hotel lounge and casino were. Those too-pretty, too-smooth humanoid twins Sturn and Anton were at the front desk and waved gaily at me as I passed through the lobby. They made my skin crawl—and that’s a lot of skin.

Beyond them, on the left, was the hotel’s lounge. I turned in there, hoping for a quick drink before my meet.

It had a shabby look, like the whole place did. The rich fittings and fancy furniture had long since worn to third-hand junk, and the lady hadn’t spent one thin credit on restoring things.

There were a few score assorted beings drinking there. I gave them a casual glanceover as I headed for the bar. The only one of note was that weasel-faced Prefect Talmont, the Empire’s local stooge. Ineffectual by breeding. Slimy by birth. Untrustworthy by nature. He sat drinking at a table with some of his officers, taking a rare moment for a laugh.

But he sucked that up sharp to stare at me when I came in.

I made the bar next to a pair of humanoid-type boys. They were big, beefy, and riding pretty low on the forehead. Manual workers, I guessed, but not from Tatooine. A little too clean for that. And no local smell.

The bulb-headed Bith tending bar approached.

“Good seeing you, Mon,” he greeted. “Here to see the lady?”

I nodded. “Let her know I’m here, will ya? But first, give me an ale. Usual brand.”

“Better put it in a bucket, barkeep, for a mouth like that,” said one of the humanoids, and they both guffawed.

“Yeah,” said the other. And to me, “Hey, face-guy, how d’ya even get a drink to your mouth with those arms?”

I ignored them both. Waiting for my drink, I gazed across the bar’s top at my reflection in the dirty mirror behind. I suppose that to these oddly built humanoid types I did seem mostly a long face set on two stubby trunks of legs. And maybe my thick arms didn’t seem capable