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Muuurgh nodded. “Ah, yessss … Muuurgh understand very well what Pilot wants.”

Han felt his face grow hot, and was glad that the Togorian wouldn’t recognize that giveaway as a sign of embarrassment.

“Y’know, Muuurgh, old pal,” he said, deliberately changing the subject, “you speak pretty good Basic for someone who’s been speaking it for less than a year. But there’s one part of speech you ain’t mastered yet, and that’s the pronoun. Never thought I’d find myself playing schoolteacher, but, here goes …”

The two walked on down the path together, as Han laboriously covered the grammatical rules governing the use of pronouns …

Once in the refectory, Han and Muuurgh roamed the huge dining area. Han glanced from face to face, wondering if he’d manage to recognize her without the goggles, in normal light. Her hair had been covered by the cap, so he didn’t even know if it was dark or light.

He walked faster, realizing the meal was nearly over, and he still hadn’t found 921. Maybe she wasn’t here. Maybe she ate during another shift, the way he heard some of the pilgrims did. But he’d thought most of the humanoids ate during this shift—

There she is. That’s her! Han wasn’t even sure how he knew … but he was as positive as if she’d had a sign around her neck that read PILGRIM 921.

Seen in normal light, he could tell that she was tall, and slender—too slender, really. Her cheekbones stood out prominently, and her eyes seemed even larger than they were in her thin, excessively pale, face.

But too thin or not, she was, quite simply, lovely. Not classically beautiful. Her jaw was a little too wide and squarish, her nose a bit too long, for classic beauty. But lovely … oh, yes …

921 had big blue-green eyes, long, dark lashes, and pore-less white skin. Several locks of short, curly hair had escaped from beneath her pilgrim’s cap, and Han saw that it was reddish-gold—the color of a Corellian sunset on a clear day.

The refectory hall was usually pretty quiet. The pilgrims didn’t talk much, tired as they were from a long day’s work in the factories, and the approaching Exultation. But they usually ate in groups.

921 was all alone.

Han saw that she was poking at her dinner, and after one look at the unappetizing mess of gruellike porridge, limp greens, and flatbread on her plate, he didn’t blame her. The food smelled bad—almost spoiled. Han’s nose wrinkled as he pulled out the seat opposite her and sat down. He was dimly aware of Muuurgh, leaning against the wall, watching him.

921—I’ve GOT to get her to tell me her real name!—looked up, and her turquoise eyes widened as she recognized him. Han was inordinately pleased about that and grinned at her. “Hello. Found you again, see?”

She stared at him, eyes wide, then she looked down at her plate. Han leaned toward her. “So, what’s for dinner? Doesn’t look great, I gotta admit. But you’ve got to do more than just push it around your plate, you know.”

She shook her head. “Please … go away.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you. You’re not of the One.”

“Sure I am,” Han said. “I’m just a little bit more of an individual One, I guess you’d say.”

921’s mouth quirked, very slightly. Han found himself wishing he could make her really smile. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Pilot Draygo,” she said softly. “I’m afraid that’s obvious.”

“Well, proselytize to me, then,” Han said. “I’ve got an open mind. Maybe you can convert me.” He smiled, happy that he’d found her, and that she was, at least, talking to him.

921 shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re much too much of an unbeliever, Pilot,” she said.

Han reached out across the table and took her hand, the one she’d injured. “It’s ‘Vykk,’ ” he told her, having to fight a crazy impulse to tell her his real name. But he managed to resist. “So, how is your hand? Any ill effects from the other day?”

When he’d first touched her, she’d stiffened, as though to pull away, then when he inquired about the cut, she relaxed.