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Greedo saw Goa’s eyes go to the rifle and then flick away. Greedo squeezed the trigger.

The weapon whistled and roared and the bounty hunter called Gorm toppled forward with a grunt, a blackened blaster hole in the center of his back.

As Greedo stood up, Goa emitted a maniacal cackling noise and lunged for the rifle. But Greedo swung the barrel at Goa’s head.

“Whoa, kid! Easy there! That’s a hair-trigger yer pinching!”

Dyyz snorted and laughed. “Thanks, kid. You saved our skin. We’re eternally in your debt. Now if you’ll just give my partner back his weapon, we’ll be on our way.”

Greedo clambered carefully over the wall, keeping the blaster rifle trained on Goa. Moving closer to the prone figure of Gorm, he looked into the hole he’d made in the big bounty hunter’s back. Fused wires, exploded electronics. “Is he a droid?” asked Greedo.

“You might say that,” said Goa. “Now about the gun—how about we cut you in on the reward for this inspector? You’ve earned it.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Greedo. “I think I can help you guys make a lot of money.”

5. The Smuggler and the Wookiee

“Spurch Warhog Goa?” Why do they call him Warhog?

Anky Fremp, Greedo’s street friend, sat on the edge of a parking platform, with his short legs dangling over a miles-deep city canyon. Anky was a Sionian Skup, a near-human race with small closely spaced eyes, hair as brittle as glass, and skin the color of dianoga cheese. Anky pitched one bottle after another into the abyss.

The distance from the spaceport’s highest tower to the surface of the Nar Shaddaa moon was so great, they never heard the bottles hit. But sometimes the bottles collided with a cab or freighter repulsing up the shaft, and that was fun.

“What you doin’ that for?” Greedo said with disdain. “That’s the kind of stupid game my kid brother plays. If Corellian Port Control catches ya, we can be conscripted to work on an ore hauler.”

“Yeah … you’re right. I’m gettin’ too old for this stuff. Oh well, there goes the last one.”

A hangar scow emerged into the shaft seven levels down, and Fremp’s missile hit the scow pilot square on his protective helmet. The man looked up, screaming, and shook his fist.

When the scow lifted rapidly toward them, Greedo and Fremp decided they’d been edge-sitting long enough, and began walking fast toward Ninx’s garage—one of their favorite hangouts.

“Okay, so tell me the deal, Greedo. These bounty hunters you met are going to make you rich?”

“Yeah, I told ’em about the Rebels runnin’ guns through Level 88. The Empire pays a big bounty for that kind of information. Dyyz and Warhog said they’d cut me in on the take.”

“Wow. Will ya share it with me?”

Greedo sounded superior. “Yeah … I’ll throw a few credits your way, Fremp. But most of it I’m going to use to buy me my own ship. Ninx has got a cute little Incom corsair he’ll let me have for fourteen thousand. All she needs is new power couplings.”

“That’s nothing. We can steal the couplings!”

“Right. I can steal the power couplings.” Greedo gave his eager friend the Rodian’s version of a condescending look, as they arrived at the secret door to Ninx’s garage. Fremp doesn’t need to think any part of my new ship is going to belong to him.

Shug Ninx’s assistant was an ambidextrous Corellian hyperdrive mechanic named Warb. Warb recognized the two youths on the entry monitor.

“Hey, Anky … Greedo. Got any hot therm pumps for me today?”

“Sorry, Warb. Tomorrow we’ll have something.”

“Okay, see ya tomorrow. Shug ain’t around and I’m busy.”

“I want to show Anky that little Incom corsair I’m going to buy.”

“Hmmm … okay. C’mon in. But if any tools show up missin’ I’m gonna know who to vaporize.”

Warb buzzed them into Ninx’s garage and went back to work helping a smuggler overhaul the lightdrive on a beat-up YT-1300 freighter he’d won in a sabacc game.

The cavernous repair shop was a confusion of dismembered ships and the greasy clutter of a lifetime—parts everywhere, whole assemblies