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The Bothan heaved a much-put-upon sigh. He moved back into Narra’s cargo compartment and tapped an intricate rhythm against one of the bulkheads. A plate popped open along a weld line, swinging out as a lateral door … giving him access into the same scanner-shielded smuggling compartment Piggy had once used as a vehicle. With one last injured expression directed back toward the cockpit, he swung up into the compartment and pulled the access closed behind him.

“Falynn,” Kell continued, “weld it shut. Make it airtight.”

Falynn smiled but didn’t move from her seat.

Wedge suppressed a smile. It was better for the government of Storinal not to know there was a Bothan on board; ever since the participation of an Alliance-friendly cell of Bothan code-slicers in the acquisition of the plans for the second Death Star, the Imps held all inhabitants or descendants of Bothawui under even more suspicion than other nonhumans. Grinder would serve best by staying an unknown, a wild card for them to draw when needed. Runt, too, was acting as a wild card, charged with the very uncomfortable duty of parking his X-wing on one of Storinal’s distant moons and waiting for an emergency signal. He could be there for three days, eating preserved food, breathing recycled air, and having only a plastic tube-and-bladder rig for a ’fresher, but he was determined to remain of use to the other Wraiths.

“Transmitting passenger manifest,” Kell said. “By the way, not one of you has paid for his ticket.”

“Take it up with a judge,” Phanan said. “You’re in an awfully good mood for a man putting his head in a noose.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re in the next noose over. All right, we’re cleared for approach. Anybody forget his papers?”

Everyone checked pockets or bags for the requisite identification cards, all forged by Grinder with data provided by New Republic Intelligence. Wedge saw Janson, ridiculous in his red carnival costume and long white beard, grow increasingly panicky as he checked pocket after pocket. “Something wrong, Wes?”

“It’s here somewhere,” the lieutenant said.

“Check your boot,” Falynn said.

“Check under your seat cushion,” Phanan said.

“Check your other boot, too,” Wedge said. “Falynn really meant both boots, but she doesn’t realize you wouldn’t necessarily understand that.”

Janson straightened up from his searching long enough to shoot his commander a betrayed look. “Why isn’t Hobbie here to take this abuse?” A moment later he straightened again, wearing an abashed expression. “It was in my other boot.”

“Yub, yub, Lieutenant.”

“Thirty seconds to atmospheric entry,” Kell said. “Strap in, people.”

Five minutes later they were gliding over those beautiful green vistas on a government-dictated course toward the spaceport of the entertainment-complex city of Revos. Grinder’s innocuous consultation of the city computer’s records indicated that ship’s crews enjoying rest and recreation there included the crew of Hawkbat.

Narra’s scanners indicated that a fighter was pacing them, trailing them by a kilometer and a half and one klick higher in altitude. This would have been unfriendly attention on some worlds, but Donos said that many worlds with law enforcement agencies designed to maintain the tourism industry would employ such tactics as a matter of course; it didn’t mean anything.

“Pretty,” Face said. He stared at the gleaming view of Revos appearing before them. The city seemed to be made all of tall, curving towers built of creamy pastel marble in a variety of colors.

The spaceport, built outside the city walls, came into view a minute later. It did not share the idyllic architecture of the city; it was a duracrete circle two or more kilometers in diameter, with landing circles and wartlike ferrocrete bunkers, gaily painted but somehow no less ugly for it, scattered across its surface. The Wraiths counted several small cargo ships, shuttles of various types, light atmospheric craft, and even a few TIE fighters among the vessels clustered around the various bunkers.

Kell landed