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He tucked Han’s sidearm into his belt. “Now let’s get aboard. Keep both hands at your sides and don’t try to warn the Wookiee.”

He turned for a moment and motioned to unseen companions, then indicated the Falcon with the palmgun. From a distance, Han thought, it probably looked like a polite you-first gesture.

As they walked Han tried to sort through the situation, his mind roiling. These people knew exactly what they were doing; the whole job had been a setup. Zlarb’s frank willingness to use his weapon was proof that he and his accomplices were playing for very high stakes. The question of being cheated of payment or even of having his vessel hijacked suddenly bothered Han less than the thought of not surviving the encounter.

The bulk of the Millennium Falcon became more distinct as they approached her. “No bright stunts now, Solo,” Zlarb warned. “Don’t even twitch your nose at the Wookiee or you’ll die for it.”

Han had to admit that Zlarb thought in advance, but he hadn’t covered everything. Han and Chewbacca had a signal system for pickups and dropoffs, whereby Han didn’t need to communicate that something was wrong; all he had to do was approach the ship and fail to give the subtle all’s-well.

Over the moan of the gale they heard the whine of servomotors. The quad-guns in the Falcon’s belly turret traversed, elevated, and came to bear on them.

But Zlarb had already stepped behind Han, pulling the captured gun from his belt and holding its muzzle up close to Han’s temple. They could see Chewbacca now, his hairy face pressed close to the canopy, gazing down apprehensively. The Wookiee’s left arm was stretched behind him, down near the console. Han knew his friend’s fingers would be only millimeters from the fire controls. He wanted to yell Get out! Raise ship! But Zlarb anticipated that. “Not a word to him, Solo! Not a sound, or you’re canceled.” Han didn’t doubt him a bit.

Zlarb had the Wookiee’s attention and was motioning him to come down out of the ship, indicating with the blaster’s muzzle just what would happen to Han if Chewbacca failed to obey. Han, familiar with his shaggy first mate’s expressions, read indecision then resignation, on his face. Then the Wookiee disappeared from the cockpit.

Han muttered something, and Zlarb poked him with the blaster. “Save it; it’s lucky for you he paid attention. Just play along and both of you will come through this alive.”

Two of Zlarb’s underlings had come up and stopped near their boss. One was a human, a squat, tough looking ugly who could have come from any of 100,000 worlds. The other was a humanoid, a giant, burly creature nearly Chewbacca’s size, with tiny eyes beneath jutting, boney brows. The humanoid’s skin was a glossy brown, like some exotic, polished wood, and vestigial horns curled at his forehead. He seemed to feel the need for neither thermosuit nor facebowl.

But it was what the other man, the squat one, had brought that surprised Han most. He had a control leash fastened to his wrist; at the end of the leash was a nashtah, one of the storied hunting beasts of Dra III. The nashtah’s six powerful legs, each armed with long, curving, diamond-hard claws, shifted restlessly on the ice. It strained at its leash, tongue arcing, its steamy breath rasping between triple rows of jagged white teeth, its long barbed tail lashing. Its muscles, tensing and untensing, sent ripples along its green, sleek hide.

What in the name of the profit-motive system can they be doing with a nashtah? Han asked himself. The creatures were bloodthirsty, tireless and impossible to shake once they scented their prey, and were among the most vicious of all attack animals. That seemed to indicate poaching of some kind, but why would a gang of poachers go to all this trouble? Han disliked moving pelts or hides and, given a choice, would not have carried them. But that surely didn’t call for this kind of extreme action on Zlarb’s part; there were plenty of smugglers who would have taken the job.