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“Heard about that,” the man said. He still hadn’t moved his blaster. But he hadn’t moved his finger near the trigger, either. “Been happening a lot lately.”

“Smugglers disappearing?”

“Not coming back.” The man shrugged. “Guess they make their killing and get out of the business.”

“I thought there was no out of this business,” Han said.

The man tossed his hair over his shoulder. “Ah, people get out. They retire, they leave. It’s normal. Smugglers just like to be romantic. And they hate to think about getting old. It’s just not as much fun as it was when they were young. And now that there’s some money flowing, well, who can blame them.”

“You don’t look that old,” Han said.

“I’m not retiring, either.”

“Then what are you doing here? I’ve never seen guards on Skip 5 before.” Of course, he’d never been on Skip 5 before, but the man didn’t have to know that.

“Never said I was a guard.” The man slid off the desk. “Just thought maybe your ship was too close to mine. Wanted to see what you were about before I loaded up.”

“Which ship is yours?” Han asked.

“The one you parked beneath.”

Han glanced over his shoulder. He had parked beside the only bulk freighter on the landing pad. The freighter dwarfed the other ships, with its square armored build. The Falcon had slipped right under the freighter’s rear hold. “How’d you get that thing into the Run?”

“I didn’t,” the man said. His tone didn’t invite any more questions. Han didn’t need to ask any. Jarril was right; the Run was a different place these days. In the past, no smuggler would have stolen another’s vessel. Now, it seemed, that was something to brag about.

Han was happier than ever that he had left Chewie on the Falcon.

“So,” he said. “You going to let me through here or not?”

The man shrugged. “I never tried to stop you.”

“You did a good imitation of it,” Han growled, and slipped into the corridor. He was getting rusty. He was so used to Coruscant that he had never once questioned the man’s role as guard. Smugglers didn’t use guards, unless they were their own. He had to clear his mind, get back into the old habits, the old ways. The new ways might get him killed on the Run.

The corridor wound down in near darkness. The coolant cover also blocked the radiant light of the sunstone. Even so, the air was dry here, unpleasantly so. He missed the sound of dripping water, and he almost missed the stench of Skip 1.

Almost.

His boots scraped along the cover. His hand slipped on his blaster, the sweat on his palms making it difficult to hold anything. Gradually his eyes adjusted. Various-sized footprints messed the sand on the sloping corridor.

Below, he heard the sound of large equipment, and the titter of voices, speaking a language he hadn’t heard in a long time. Then the stench drifted up to him, grease, oils, cleaning solvent, and something foul, like a gondar pit.

Jawas.

But it couldn’t be. Jawas remained on Tatooine. The only time he knew of Jawas leaving were the ones Luke had encountered on the Eye of Palpatine, and those hadn’t left by choice.

Maybe these hadn’t either.

Han kept his back to the corridor wall, and moved slowly down the slope. Bright light illuminated the far wall, and heat rose, making the stench worse.

Down here, the covers were off the sunstone.

He swallowed, licking his lips to keep them moist. He promised himself one quick look, and then he would return to the Falcon. His grip tightened on his blaster. Jawas were not his favorite creatures, even in the best of times.

The sunstone blinded him as he rounded the corner. The heat enveloped him like a lover. He remained in one place until his eyes had a chance to react to the light. Then he crept forward, careful to remain as quiet as he could.

The corridor opened into a large cavern. Its ceiling was several stories high—high enough for the sunstone to mimic the sun—and all the walls from the second story down were coolant-covered. The effect somehow made this cavern, in the center