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because that left their hands empty.

The Devaronian nodded curtly. "You are sitting at our table."

Seated with his back to the alcove's wall, Corran had protected himself against ambush from behind, but it also allowed the two ruffians full view of the blaster he wore. No way I can draw it and shoot them before they get me. It seemed obvious to him that the simple way out of the situation was to graciously offer them the table and buy a round for them. "We were unaware of the situation here . . ."

"And we couldn't care less." Mirax jutted her chin forward and poked her left index finger into the Rodian's middle. "If a pair of gravel-maggots like you are sandsick enough to think we're moving just because you mistake us for Jund-land dew-pickers, you better get used to careers as Sarlacc bait."

Corran's jaw dropped. "Mirax?"

The Devaronian thumbed his own breastbone. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Do you have any idea how little we care?" Mirax jerked her head to the left. "Tell it to the Jawas so they get your name right when they bag your body."

The Rodian began buzz-squawking, but the loud thwap of a street club being pounded on the bar stopped him.

The human bartender pointed a ringer toward the alcove. "Hey!"

His horns gleaming in the half-light, the Devaronian waved his protest off. "We know, 'No blasters.' "

Wuher's face scrunched up in a sour expression. "Not that, sand-for-brains. Do you know who you're talking to? That's Mirax, Mirax Terrik."

The Devaronian's grayish skin lightened appreciably, and the Rodian paled to a new-shoot green. "Terrik? As in Booster Terrik?"

Mirax smiled.

The bartender nodded as he pulled their drinks from the bar. "Now you're thinking. She's his daughter. Now's the part where you apologize to her
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