both he and Luke had darted clear of the rampaging Wookie, pulled out their

pistols, and were blasting away at him. Their reaction was excellent, their

enthusiasm undeniable, and their aim execrable. Not a single shot came close to the

dodging Wookie. Instead, they blasted automatic cameras, energy-rate controls, and

the three dumbfounded guards.

At this point it occurred to the officer in charge that the abominable aim of the

two soldiers was a bit too selectively efficient. He was preparing to jab the general

alarm when a burst from Luke's pistol caught him in the midsection and he fell

without a word to the gray deck.

Solo rushed to the open comlink speaker, which was screeching anxious

questions about what was going on. Apparently there were audio as well as visual

links between this detention station and elsewhere.

Ignoring the barrage of alternate threats and queries, he checked the readout set

in the panel nearby. "We've got to find out which cell this Princess of yours is in.

There must a dozen levels and—Here it is. Cell 2187. Go on—Chewie and I'll

hold them here."

Luke nodded once and was racing down the narrow walkway.

After gesturing for the Wookie to take up a position where he could cover the

elevators, Solo took a deep breath and responded to the unceasing calls from the

comlink.

"Everything's under control," he said into the pickup, sounding reasonably

official. "Situation normal."

"It didn't sound like that," a voice snapped back in a no-nonsense tone. "What

happened?"

"Uh, well, one of the guards experienced a weapon malfunction," Solo

stammered, his temporary officialese lapsing into nervousness. "No problem now—

we're all fine, thanks. How about you?"

"We're sending a squad up," the voice announced suddenly.

Han could almost smell the suspicion at the other end. What to say? He

spoke more eloquently with the business end of a pistol.

"Negative—negative. We have an energy leak—very dangerous."

"Weapon malfunction, energy leak…Who is this? What's your operating—?"

Pointing his pistol at the panels, Solo blew the instrumentation to silent scraps.

"It was a dumb conversation anyway," he murmured. Turning, he shouted down the

corridor. "Hurry it up. Luke! We're going to have company."

Luke heard, but he was absorbed in running from one cell to the next and

studying the numbers glowing above each doorway. The cell 2187, it appeared, did

not exist. But it did, and he found it just as he was about to give up and try the next

level down.

For a long moment he examined the featureless convex metal wall. Turning his

pistol to maximum and hoping it wouldn't melt in his hand before it broke through, he

opened fire on the door. When the weapon became too hot to hold, he tossed it from

hand to hand. As he did so the smoke had time to clear, and he saw with some

surprise that the door had been blown away.

Peering through the smoke with an uncomprehending look on her face was the

young woman whose portrait Artoo Detoo had projected in a garage on Tatooine

several centuries ago, or it seemed.

She was even more beautiful than her image, Luke decided, staring dazedly at

her. "You're even—more beautiful—than I—"

Her look of confusion and uncertainty was replaced by first puzzlement and then

impatience. "Aren't you a littler short for a storm trooper?" she finally commented.

"What? Oh—the uniform." He removed the helmet, regaining a little

composure at the same time. "I've come to rescue you. I'm Luke Skywalker."

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