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The alien—clearly a male—took a moment to catch on, then laughed loudly, a hearty, basso laugh that almost made Han smile.

A head shorter than Han, he was a biped with muscular legs and a slender yet useful-looking tail. Those parts of him left unconcealed by a colorful vest and strategically slit culottes were covered with short, smoke-colored fuzz, save for the backs of his forearms and tail, where the hair was darker in hue, stiff as slender rods, and possibly capable of inflicting damage.

Like the two other males in the group, the one who approached Han had a soft snow-white mustache that drooped past his pointed chin, and a fright wig of matching white hair. His front-facing eyes were large and bright; his nose was a chitinous beak that curved down over a thin-lipped mouth and was perforated like a musical instrument.

Slightly smaller than the males, the two women of the group were about the same size, with shapely curves to their compact bodies and splashes of vibrant color highlighting velvety, taupe coats. They lacked the drooping mustachios, and in place of crests had lustrous slicked-back hair that fell to the shoulders. The tips of their smooth tails looked as if they had been dipped in sky-blue paint. Jewelry of a sort hung in loops from their long necks, accented their small ears and five-fingered hands, and studded their nostrils.

“All right, all right,” their mouthpiece was saying, “you perhaps prefer to have someone clean and detail the ship?”

Han put his hands on his hips and laughed. He was still sniggering when Roa came down the ramp followed by two of the Happy Dagger’s crew—Void and an EV supervisor droid, whose head resembled the curving bill of a large, fruit-eating avian.

“Roa, you want to hire this bunch to sonic the carpets and clean the ’freshers?”

Roa regarded the aliens with keen interest. “That’s what the droids are for,” he told the spokesman.

“Then we watch over the ship. Lots of thieves about.”

“I do appreciate the offer,” Roa said congenially, “but no thanks. Some other time, perhaps.”

The aliens exchanged words in their melodic native language, nodded to Han and Roa, and moved off toward the neighboring ship in the bay, an old Sienar Marauder-class corvette.

“It’s like somebody tossed a manka cat and a woolamander into a blender,” Han said, watching the aliens.

“Ryn,” Roa said, identifying the species. “I used to run into them occasionally on out-of-the-way worlds in the CorpSec—Ession, Ninn, Matra VI. They’re nomads—that is, when they’re not being hunted or enslaved, chased from one place to another, or made the scapegoat for someone else’s crimes or misdemeanors. They’ve a reputation for thievery and confidence games, but I’ve never had a problem with them. They work hard, at just about any trade, from ship salvaging to jewelry making. And I’ll tell you, Han, they perform the most exhilarating music I’ve ever heard—music you can’t help but dance to.”

“I’m sure I could stop myself,” Han said.

“No, not even you could. I’m not talking about jizz or any of the new music. I mean fiery, passionate music.”

Han gave them another look. “Where’s their homeworld?”

Roa shook his head. “No one’s ever been able to tell me.”

Han laughed through his nose. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”

Leaving the droids in charge, they headed for immigration and customs, where long lines of mixed species were undergoing document checks and security scans.

Han showed his documents, which identified him as Roaky Laamu, a freelance laser-welder. He had considered wearing a disguise—synthskin, prosthetics, a beard—but in the end had opted for simply changing his hairstyle and leaving his face undepilated. He had often used the same approach when traveling with Leia and the kids, and it had usually served him well. After all, most circulated images of him depicted a youthful Alliance leader, with bright eyes, sideburns, and a mop of shiny brown hair.

Things didn’t go awry until he reached the scanners.

“Open your pack,” the young agent ordered in response to a prompt from