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Lando shook his head again; it was getting to be a habit. “But look here, Inspector, I—”

“Call me Bernie. You wouldn’t happen t’have a cigar on you?”

The gambler visualized the big chest of cigars in his safe aboard the Falcon. “Even if I did, they’d be from Rafa IV, a place just lousy with heavy metals. Probably kill you. What about the leather, then? I have a hold full of beautifully furtanned hides, and—”

The wizened customs officer interrupted Lando again, this time with an upraised hand. He pointed toward the prairie that surrounded them. Lando knew that virtually the entire globe was plains just like the scenery he saw now. He also knew that city-sized tornados swept, unimpeded, around the planet’s circumference—that is, they had until gigantic weather-control satellites had been installed. Their potent, tornado-destroying energy-weaponry also made it impossible to smuggle on or off the planet—or to get away with unpaid bills.

“Whaddya see out there, Mac? A zillion acres of grain crop, that’s what. We can’t eat it, but the native bovines can, an’ we can eat them. Lookie here! when’s the last time you saw a genuine leather awning? You got it—over on that building right there. We got leather comin’ out our ears. There’s a sixty-five percent import duty on hides, seventy-five percent on fishin’ poles an’ other recreational goodies, a hundred an’ five on poisonous substances like that jelly you’re pushin’.”

Lando groaned. First the expensive battle with the pirates, now this—plus he was out his landing fees, permits, and refueling costs.

“But say, you’re Cap’n Calrissian, ain’tya, from the Millennium Falcon? Gotta message for you somewhere here.” He fumbled in his overall pockets until he pulled out a chip with a keyboard displayed on its face, punched numbers and letters into it.

“Right! From the Oseon, it says. That’s quite a ways away, ain’t it? You want it now?”

“Oh, very well,” Lando answered despondently. He didn’t really care. All he really wanted was a nice quiet place to lie down for a century or two.

“Okay, that’ll be thirteen-fifty, Mac.”

Lando blinked. So it wasn’t a paid message. Odd, and thirteen and a half credits seemed a little cheap for interstellar communication, but … He pulled a few bills out of his pocket.

“You don’t unnerstand, Mac. There’s an import fee on interstellar messages here. We figure a fella oughta be content with what’s on just one planet, an’ not go sashayin’ off … Anyway, that’ll be thirteen hundred an’ fifty credits.”

“Forget it, then,” said Lando in disgust. “It’s probably just an—”

The little man grinned up at him. “There’s a two-thousand-credit penalty for not pickin’ up interstellar messages. Ain’t neat t’leave ’em lyin’ around.”

In the comparative quiet and sanity of what passed for a lounge aboard the Millennium Falcon, Lando inserted the coded chip into a playback machine. An overstuffed, cheerful face materialized above the instrument.

“To Captain Lando Calrissian of the Millennium Falcon: greetings and salutations! I am Lob Doluff, Administrator Senior of the Oseon System. You haven’t heard of me, I’ll wager, but, my dear boy, I have heard of you!”

The recording continued: “Your reputation as a player of sabacc is perhaps wider spread and more salubrious than you know. My associates and I, a small group of fanciers of the game, would like to invite you here at your convenience, to play with us. If you are interested, please name the time and stakes. Every courtesy will be extended to you during your stay with us. My very warmest and anticipatory regards to you. Lob Doluff, signing off.”

A grin began to spread itself across Lando’s face. In that context, he could cut his losses. All he needed was a small stake when he got to the Oseon. He thumbed a communicator switch.

“Vuffi Raa?”

The robot was below, out on the concrete, supervising the last of the fueling operation. “Yes, Master?” came his voice.

“Don’t call me Master.” He’d sell the fishing rods to somebody—there wouldn’t be a scheduled import duty if there wasn