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Everything was blue outside. Lando felt a tear creep down his cheek and, for the first time, in a long, long time, thought about a dog he’d had once. It had been run over by a hovercraft.

Bassi Vobah felt green inside.

As a matter of fact, she felt green outside, as well. The leaf-colored radiation then battering at the Falcon’s viewports seemed to penetrate to her very marrow, turning it and the blood it produced green, too.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense, and that alarmed her far worse than the light or radiation. She was a person of certain bounds, of linearity, of rationality, of rules. She was a person—an upholder, a maintainer—of law and order.

Now see what had become of her. The penetrating green light let her do exactly that. She could see her own heart beating, deep green muscle fibers pumping bright green blood to medium green tissues and organs—all of which she could watch functioning—and returning, gray-green, to be reoxygenated in her spongy green lungs.

With transparent green oxygen.

Vuffi Raa examined his tentacles one by one. Reflecting bright yellow light from the cockpit canopy, they gleamed back at him as if made of gold. He had been silver-colored all his life. Now he was a golden droid, glittering at every joint. He rather liked it.

A beeping on the control panel indicated another set of instruments gone mad. Irritably, he shut them off, then returned to a pleased and fascinated contemplation of his highly polished self. Perhaps when it was over, he’d have himself gold plated. Tastefully, mind you, nothing ostentatious. How would gold and the red of his eye look together? Rather nice, he thought.

A yellow light began blinking on the console. It clashed with the yellow streaming in the windows, so he flicked a tentacle down and squashed it. There was a pop!, a fizzle, and—blast it all, he had soot on his tentacle tip! He searched around for something to clean it with, found a tissue beneath the panel, and began tidying up. Must be perfectly clean, unless I want the plating to peel on me, and that would be atrocious!

Absently, he reached down to turn off another half-dozen switches, and suddenly became aware of a sallow pinkish starfish of a being sitting right on the dash in front of him. Vermin! How in the name of—

“Vuffi Raa! What are you doing, old cybernaut?”

“What did you call me, you—”

“Vuffi Raa, listen to me! You’ve busted up the intercom, and you were starting to turn off the life-support monitors. Get hold of yourself, droid! What’s the matter?”

With considerable effort, Vuffi Raa forced himself back into something resembling a normal frame of reference. “My word, I’m sorry, Master, I must be taking radiation damage! I don’t know what to do about it, though; it’s so hard to think. Would you like me better if I had myself gold plated, or would it be too garish?”

Lando stared in blank amazement at his friend. “Can you turn yourself off temporarily? If you removed your tentacles, I could put you in the safe—the one under the panel where I keep my cigars. Would that work?”

“… Er, what? You want me to what, you organic slug, you blind, groping grub, you sniveling, hydrocarbonated—yawp!”

Lando snatched the robot from the pilot’s chair and, tentacles trailing, crammed his pentagonal body into the safe.

“I hope you appreciate what I’m doing, old geiger counter. I’ve ruined my entire supply of cigars—crushed them to a … Vuffi Raa, are you all right?”

The robot responded groggily. “I think so, Master. Did I really call you all those things?” The heavy genuine steel antique safe—left by a previous owner of the Falcon—surrounded him on all sides but one and seemed fairly effective at shielding him from the radiation. Lando swung the door as far shut as the robot’s tentacles would allow, and chuckled.

“I believe that’s the most gumption you’ve shown since I met you. I rather liked it—but don’t make a habit of it. And don’t call me master!”

“Master, I’m still feeling the effects of the radiation. Can you get by without me for a while? I’m going to disconnect my manipulators,