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“You’re a labor droid, aren’t you—a, a BLX?”

“A BLX?” the droid said peevishly. “Though we both happen to be products of Serv-O-Droid, Incorporated, I’m a BFL. Baffle, to you, good sir.”

“Baffle?” Han’s eyebrows arched in skeptical surprise, then his eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Who are you kidding? You’re telling me you’ve never spent time in the Corporate Sector?”

“Thank the maker, no. Why, save for being activated at the Fondor shipyards, I’ve never even been outside the Core—to the best of my memory, that is.”

Han refused to buy it. With Droma looking on, he circled Baffle, taking in the set of the droid’s vocabulator grille and its stiff way of moving. “You were never the property of a tech named Doc Vandangante?”

Baffle shook his head. “The name is new to me.”

Without warning, Han rapped his fist against the droid’s chest plastron, eliciting a hollow sound. “You sure you never carried another droid in there? Cubical thing, no bigger than this”—Han spread his hands a few centimeters apart—“but smart as a whip.”

“Another droid? Certainly not! What do you take me for?”

Han stroked his beard, shook his head, then snorted a laugh. “You coulda fooled me.”

Baffle bowed slightly. “I’m flattered that I remind you of someone, sir—I think.”

“Now what’s this about a central database?”

The droid directed them to a computer terminal, at which several folks were queued. Han and Droma planted themselves at the end of the line, behind a Duros couple, and waited while everyone had a go at getting the machine to cooperate. Han handled the input when they finally reached the head of the line.

“Refugees are grouped by species,” he said, frowning. “But the Ryn aren’t even listed.”

“Try ‘other,’ ” Baffle suggested.

Droma smirked. “The droid’s right. Allow me to do the honors.”

Han moved away from the keyboard but kept his eyes on the display screen.

“Here we are,” Droma said. “Just where we usually show up—between Rybet and Saadul. And my clanmates are here!” He turned excitedly to Han. “Well, five of them at any rate.”

“Your sister with them?”

Droma read over the list again, then shook his head. “Leia was correct, I’m afraid. Sapha must have been left behind on Gyndine.”

Han made his lips a thin line. “We’ll find her next. Where are the others?”

“Facility 17—along with thirty-two other Ryn.”

“Oh, I know that camp well, sirs,” Baffle said. “Several of my peers and counterparts have had occasion to work there.”

Han swung to the droid. “What’s the quickest way to get there?”

“In my cab.”

“You’re a driver?”

Baffle pointed out the terminal window to a battered SoroSuub landspeeder. “Just there, sir—the one lacking a proper windscreen and in need of paint.”

Han glanced from the landspeeder to the dented and spot-welded droid. “Looks like you and your vehicle get your work done at the same mechanic’s shop. Will that thing make it to Facility 17?”

“No problem at all, sir. The camp is actually within walking distance—for those with sufficient time, that is.”

The three of them headed out to the cab. Baffle clambered into the open-air operator’s perch and got the aft-mounted repulsorlift generator and outboard turbines running. When Han and Droma were cinched into the molded seats below the perch, the droid set off down a well-maintained road that coursed between immaculately cultivated fields. Through gaps in the topiary shrubs that lined the road, Han could see droids of endless variety—though far fewer than he was accustomed to seeing on similar agricultural worlds.

“Why aren’t you out there with the others?” he shouted to Baffle.

“Oh, I’m too old for that sort of work, sir.”

“Salliche sidelined you, huh?”

“Basically, yes. Ever since Salliche Ag offered to accept refugees, Ruan has become a rather chaotic environment, so I was reassigned to function as the driver of this reliable if somewhat woebegone vehicle.”

“Seemed to be a lot more people coming than going,” Han said.

“That’s very observant of you, sir. In fact, many refugees have become so enamored of Ruan, they have remained onworld to work for Salliche