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If Rokur Gepta feared anything himself, it was men such as this.

“Sir!” the leader of the guardsmen said, “we present Klyn Shanga, Fleet Admiral of the Renatasian Confederation, sir!”

Gepta would accept no title or honorific. Such were for lesser beings. He tolerated being called “sir” because his underlings, of military background, seemed to grow increasingly uncomfortable and uninformative unless they could insert it at least once in every sentence they addressed to him.

Gepta nodded minutely, looking down on the craggy giant. “Admiral, welcome to the planet Tund,” he hissed. “Few have seen it, save my minions, and even fewer have lived to say they’ve seen it.”

Shanga grinned broadly from a face that was one scar overlaid upon another until nothing of the original flesh remained. Yet an ordinary human being would have found the effect somehow pleasing. Klyn Shanga was everybody’s adventurous uncle, the one who’d been everywhere, done everything, and had it done back to him.

He ignored the threat: “That ‘Admiral’ is something in the nature of a joke, Sorcerer. In your terms I’m more of a squadron leader, and it’s not much of a squadron. Core—for that matter, it’s not much of a Confederation, either! But we have our points, as my letters of introduction demonstrated, I’m sure. You know about the Renatasia?”

Gepta nodded once again. Upon receiving the communication in question, he’d consulted references and had a conference with his kennel of government spies. What was to be learned was skimpy; there had been a highly energetic cover-up. Yet the essential facts were clear.

“It was a system and a culture colonized long before the current political status quo was achieved. It developed independently, unknown to the rest of the galaxy, and at a somewhat slower pace technologically. It was discovered, subverted, exploited, and obliterated by certain commercial interests acting in concert with the Navy. You, your squadron, and your Confederation are some of the rare survivors. Are these the fundamental elements of the story, Admiral Shanga?” The sibilance of Gepta’s whisper echoed in the cavern.

Shanga’s turn to nod. “That’s it. About a third of the population lived, reduced further by starvation and disease.” He leaned against a stalagmite, casually swinging his helmet by a strap around his finger. “Get rid of the flunkies and we’ll talk a deal, how about it?”

Gepta savagely repressed a wave of rage and nausea that swept through him at the man’s impudence. Time, he told himself, there would be time to deal with him appropriately later. He gestured and the men, with uncertainty on their faces, brought themselves back to attention, turned in place, and marched back the way they’d come. It took them a long while, so indirect and lengthy was the route. All the while, Shanga leaned against his stony outcrop with a grin across his battered face.

“What have you got against Lando Calrissian, anyway, Gepta?”

The sorcerer’s gaze jerked upward across the chamber to assure that no one else was present to witness the gibe. Then he settled back in his throne and stared coldly at the fighter pilot before him, struggling to maintain an even tone.

“It is sufficient that he has offended me—primarily with his impudence, Klyn Shanga, a fact you would do well to bear in mind. We have agreed upon the history of your woebegone system; tell me, what is your interest in a vagabond gambler. What has he to do with—”

In an instant, Shanga’s façade of relaxation dropped away. He stood rigidly beside the stalagmite, his body trembling with anger. Rather a long time passed before he was able to reply.

“Calrissian doesn’t figure in it. He has a partner—”

“The robot? Surely, Admiral—”

“Robot!” Shanga shot back hotly. “In the Renatasia it wasn’t a robot, but a five-limbed organic sapient! I saw it then—nobody could avoid it! It was treated to parades and banquets, in the media every minute! It was an emissary from a long-lost galactic civilization that … that … that ultimately destroyed us! It was