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How the dickens was he going to stand up? He didn’t dare approach one of the deadly trees close enough to lean against. He rolled over on his side, pulled his knees up, rolled up onto them.

It felt as though someone had clamped his feet in a vise and was tightening it. He told himself that at least he was alive enough to feel pain. Somehow that didn’t cheer him much. He told himself that at least he had his mind back, could think, wasn’t going to be a drooling vegetable.

He clambered to his feet, forced himself to walk around.

So this was a genuine life-orchard. It had bloody well nearly been a death orchard, he thought. Wouldn’t Mohs be surprised, come morning, to find his victim gone, and along with him—

The Key!

He felt beneath his cummerbund. Even though both gloves and coat, he couldn’t mistake the lumpy weirdness of the artifact. Well, that was going to upset the old man. Lando chuckled to himself.

The thought came to him that perhaps he was being watched. Well, let them watch! The stingbeam didn’t have an orifice like a blaster, its muzzle was a pole-piece, more like a thick, stubby, rounded antenna than anything else. He was alive, intelligent, on his feet—he was going back to the Falcon for a hot cup of—

Vuffi Raa!

It had been one monster of a day! He’d nearly been killed, certainly been hijacked, and lost his best friend. No, he wasn’t ashamed to say it: the little droid had been a better, more loyal friend to him than any he’d ever had before. He was going to miss the little guy.

Now, which way was the Falcon? Simple: just follow the tracks, which, with the double portion of moonlight and the dry, still atmosphere, were still plainly visible in the sand.

He took a step.

LANDO CALRISSIAN!

Before he realized it, the glove was off his right hand, the stingbeam pointed aloft. Overhead, a repulsor-vehicle hovered, bright with running lights, a searchbeam shining down on him and illuminating the entire grove.

It settled to the ground.

“Drop your weapon,” a familiar voice said over the loudhailer, “and put your hands over your head!” Lando didn’t move.

Nor did he move when four constabulary troopers, their armor glinting in the moonlight, jogged up beside him, took his gun away, and held their own weapons leveled at his chest.

Captain Jandler—if that was his name—had rendered his own visor transparent, this time. He strutted over from the hovercar.

“Well, Captain Calrissian, we meet again. As soon as we’ve taken care of you, we’ll recover your vessel and get that cargo back to its rightful owners. If you thought you were in trouble before … By the way, you have something else we want. Where is it?”

“Where is what?” said Lando between gritted teeth.

“The Sharu artifact. The Key the governor gave you. Where is it?”

“Come and get it, thug!”

“All right, men, we’re going to do it the hard way. Search him. Strip that clothing off and search him!”

• XII •

THUNDER BOOMED OVERHEAD!

Bathed in a glorious dawn that hadn’t yet reached the ground beneath it, the Millennium Falcon roared down upon a constabulary detachment frozen with confusion and surprise, and stood hovering a dozen meters over their heads.

Lando seized Guard-Captain Jandler’s weapon muzzle, swung it aside, and kicked the hapless policeman. Jandler sank with a moan to his knees, eyes crossed beneath his helmet visor, and, with a preoccupied gurgle, collapsed onto his face. Lando resisted the urge to kick him again, someplace more breakable.

Two things happened at the same time: one of the other police officers leveled his blaster at the gambler, a finger whitening inside his gauntlet on the trigger. Roiled dirt and fire spurted up into a wall ahead of him as a turret on the Falcon spat energy down at him. He dropped his gun and raised his hands unbidden, as did two of his comrades. They were out of the game.

The fourth wasn’t giving up so easily. He seized the opportunity to dash for the repulsor-cruiser where a heavy beamer was mounted on the transom. Before