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“Approved,” Zavval said. “Should be arriving any day.”

“Good.”

Teroenza continued, in Basic, “Zavval, I would like you to meet our brave pilot, Vykk Draygo, who saved our shipment of glitterstim.”

The huge Hutt chuckled, a “heh, heh, heh” sound that was so deep and resonant that Han could feel it as well as hear it. “Greetings, Pilot Draygo. You have our lasting gratitude.”

“Thank you, sir …”

Teroenza waved an undersized arm. “The correct form of address is ‘Your Excellency,’ Pilot Draygo.”

“Okay, then. Thank you, Your Excellency. I’m honored to be able to serve you.”

The Hutt chuckled again, and said to Teroenza in Huttese, “A most polite and perceptive young man—for a human. Have you arranged for a bonus? We want to keep him happy.”

“Yes, I have, Your Excellency,” Teroenza replied.

Han, of course, did not let on that he’d understood any of the exchanges in Huttese.

“Good, good,” Zavval said.

Han stood watching as the alien turned his repulsorlift sled and glided away. Teroenza and Veratil began slogging their way out of the mud with grunts of effort. The High Priest addressed Han in Basic. “His Excellency is pleased with your performance, Pilot. Has the factory foreman informed you as to when the next shipment will be ready for transport?”

Han, too, was squishing his way toward the bank. “He said at the end of the week, sir. In the meantime, there are two shipments of pilgrims due in at the space station, one tomorrow, one the day after.”

“Good. We don’t want to be shorthanded in the factories.”

Once back on the bank, Han scooped up his clothes, then turned east and gestured in the direction of the ocean, a kilometer away. “I think I’ll walk over and rinse off,” he said, “before I get dressed.”

“Ah, yes,” said Veratil, “we use the mud as a cleansing agent, but it does not cling to our skins the way it appears to cling to yours. Once dry, all we need to do is shake”—he gave a pronounced shudder, and dust rose in clouds—“and it all flakes away, as you can see.”

“Yes, I see that,” Han said. “But I’ll have to use water to rinse.”

“Be careful not to go too far into the ocean, Pilot Draygo,” Teroenza cautioned. “Some of the denizens of the Ylesian oceans are quite large, and very hungry.”

“Yessir,” Han said.

Holding his clothes and boots away from his red, mud-covered body, Han began picking his way barefoot toward the ocean. He couldn’t see it yet, because of a ridge of sand dunes, but he could smell the warm, brackish water.

When he reached it a short time later, he cautiously ventured out, knee-deep, and then squatted down to let the pounding surf sluice over him. Again and again the waves washed over the Corellian, rinsing away all trace of the red muck.

Then Han went over to the sandy shore, found a smooth patch, and stretched out to dry. He felt the dim Ylesian sun beating down on him, drying him, leaving his hair salt-stiffened and tousled. But anything’s better than that mud, he thought drowsily.

He was almost asleep when Han jerked awake, remembering something he’d forgotten. He got to his feet, walked over to his clothes, then fumbled with his belt pouch. Looking carefully around before he did so, he withdrew the tiny audio-log recording device he’d “borrowed” from the Ylesian Dream and, seeing that it was still running, turned it off with a decisive snap.

Satisfied that he’d successfully recorded the entire exchange between himself and the Ylesian priests, Han walked back to his spot, lay down on the warm sand, and took a well-deserved nap.

Han flew many missions for the Ylesians during the next three months. Several times he was able, with Muuurgh’s complicity, to make small “side runs” to hone his piloting skills and to allow Muuurgh to practice with the weaponry. Han successfully landed vessels on airless moons, on ice moons, even on a small asteroid, barely bigger than his ship. He learned to dock with a space station, matching airlocks perfectly on the first try.

As a result