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sinister sound of that imaginary malady, didn’t even think to question. They left at once. The two weary partners grabbed the first robo-hack they saw, and sped off toward their ship.
    “Things are getting tough for the independent businessman,” Han Solo lamented.
    Chapter III.
    Several minutes later, the robo-hack deposited Han and Chewbacca around the corner from their docking bay, Number 45. They’d decided it would be wise to scout the landscape to determine whether the forces of law, order, and corporate dividends had gotten there first. Peering cautiously around the corner, they saw a lone portmaster’s deputy dutifully locking an impoundment-fastener on their bay’s blast doors. Han pulled his first mate back into concealment for a conference. “No time to wait until the coast is clear, Chewie; they’ll be sorting things out back at the Free-Flight any time now. Besides, that geek is about to lock up the bay, and Espo patrols would get kind of curious if they saw us burning our way through the blast doors.”
    He peeked out again. The deputy had nearly finished making connections between alarms and the blast-door solenoids. No doubt the bay’s other door was fastened as well. Han looked around and noticed an Authority liquor and drugs outlet to his rear. He took his partner’s elbow.
    “Here’s the plan…”
    A minute later, the portmaster’s deputy had wrestled the massive lock halves into place and finished securing the impoundment-fastener. The blast doors slid shut with a shrinking of diamond-shaped opening that disappeared with a clang. The deputy pulled a molecularly coded key from its slot in the fastener, and the device was activated. Now if it were disturbed or damaged, it would instantly inform Espo monitors.
    The deputy tucked the key into his belt pouch and prepared to report his errand completed. Just then a Wookiee, a big, leering brute, came wandering past in a drunken stagger, with a sloshing ten-liter crock of some vile-smelling brew cradled in his thick, hairy arm. Just as the Wookiee drew even with the deputy, a man coming from the other direction failed to avoid the shambling creature’s dipsomaniacal lurches. There was a rapid, complicated three-way collision, resulting in the Wookiee’s stumbling into, and spilling his liquor all over, the luckless deputy.
    The instant pandemonium included accusation and counteraccusation, all in raised voices. The Wookiee gobbled horribly at both men, shaking knotted fists and gesturing to the spilled crock. The portmaster’s deputy was brushing uselessly at his soaked tunic. The other participant in the accident did his best to be of help. “Oh, say, that’s really a shame,” Han tsk ed with a sad, solicitous tone. “Hey, that stuff’s really in there, huh,” he said as he tried to wring some of the brew out of the tunic fabric. The deputy and the Wookiee were swapping inprecations and contradictory claims about whose fault the accident had been. The occasional passerby kept right on moving, not wishing to become involved.
    “Fella, you better get that tunic washed right away,” Han advised, “or that smell’ll never come out.”
    The deputy, with a last threat of legal action against the Wookiee, stalked off. His pace quickened as he realized with apprehension that a supervisor might happen by at any time and catch sight—or even worse, a whiff—of him. He hurried on, leaving the other two to argue liabilities and culpabilities.
    The argument stopped as soon as the deputy was gone. Han held up the key he’d lifted from the deputy’s belt pouch during the confusion. He handed it to Chewbacca. “Go warm up the ship, but don’t call for clearance. The portmaster’s most likely got us posted for grounding. If there’s a patrol ship, it’d be on our necks in no time.” He estimated that eight minutes had passed since they’d fled the Free-Flight ; their luck couldn’t hold much longer.
    Chewbacca ran a hasty preflight while