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“All right, old-timers,” the guard announced churlishly, “you’re free to go.”

Han, Roa, and Fasgo exchanged mystified glances. “I thought we couldn’t post bail until the arraignment?” Roa said.

“You’re not being arraigned,” the guard said. “You must have some friends in high places.”

Roa looked at Han. “I think you’ve been made, ‘Roaky Laamu.’ The Trandoshan certainly had no trouble recognizing you.”

Han saw the sense of it. The word was out, and someone had contacted Leia.

The cell door slid aside, and the three of them filed out. Han stopped at the Trandoshans’ cell, careful to remain just out of their clawed reach. “We’ll have to do this again real soon,” he said, smiling.

“Count on it, Solo,” Bossk rasped.

The guard led them out of the confinement zone, returned their belongings, and pointed them to the exit. “Turn up here again and, friends or no, you’ll be sorry,” the man warned.

“Charming fellow,” Roa muttered.

Han agreed. “Probably works for Vessel Registration on his days off.”

No sooner had they stepped into the passageway than a surprisingly well-mannered Aqualish approached them. “Roa, Fasgo, Roaky Laamu,” the alien began in somewhat garbled Basic, courtesy of his inward-turning tusks. “My employer requests the pleasure of your company.”

“Boss B,” Roa reminded Han quietly. “The information broker.”

Fasgo gulped.

“Did we ask around?” Han asked theatrically. “I don’t recall us asking around.”

The Aqualish—a Quara—showed the palms of fingered hands. “Come now, gentlemen. Surely you can spare a few moments for the person who arranged for your release.”

The sprung trio traded surprised glances. “Well, in that case,” Han said, “lead on.”

A repulsor limousine conveyed them ninety degrees around the Wheel, at times maneuvering through knots of stranded and despondent refugees. The swank hatchway to Boss B’s lair was flanked by pug-nosed and prognathous Gamorrean sentinels, and the plush anteroom was filled with an assortment of toadies, sycophants, and camp followers. Stroking their long head-tails, two Twi’lek women in mesh bodysuits sprawled seductively in conform loungers. Elsewhere, a Rodian, a Kubaz, a Whiphid, and two Weequays were engaged in a desultory game of laro, while a bored Bith ran musical scales on a slender horn.

The Aqualish showed Han and the others to overstuffed armchairs in the main room and offered them drinks. Han remained standing.

“Save the Gizers for the Bet’s Off,” a disembodied baritone voice suggested. “Have a tumbler of Whyren’s Reserve instead.”

“Now, that I won’t turn down,” Fasgo said, beaming.

“Make it two,” Roa told the Aqualish.

“Three,” Han said hesitantly, trying to discern the source of the resonant voice. One entire wall of the room was devoted to flatscreen displays, showing frequently shifting views of different sectors of the Wheel. On one monitor, Han recognized the immigration station where his blaster had been drained.

“Sit, please,” the voice rumbled.

Han consented to the request when the amber-colored Corellian whiskey arrived. “Cheers,” he said, setting his travel pack on the floor and lifting his glass in the air to their unrevealed host.

“More of the same,” Roa said, joining Han in the toast.

“Your reputation precedes you, gentlemen,” the voice said.

Fasgo ran the back of his hand over his mouth. “If you mean the damage to the Bet’s Off, the Trandoshans were responsible for most of it—”

“You can blame me for that,” Boss B interrupted. “I put them up to it.”

“You? Why?” Han demanded.

“How else could I have ensured that you would accept my hospitality, except by arranging for you to be released from incarceration?”

“I don’t get it,” Han said.

Boss B laughed. “I am personally informed when individuals of honorable or disreputable distinction arrive on the Jubilee Wheel. Such was the case with you, Roa. But imagine my surprise when, after a bit of machine-assisted scrutiny, I discovered your traveling partner to be none other than Han Solo.”

On hearing the name, the Bith ceased his noodling and the Twi’lek women and the