Dengar remained silent. That’s a good question, he thought to himself. One that he’d been working on during the whole long ride from the Dune Sea into Mos Eisley. A dangerous question as well, since he was now sneaking around
behind
the back of one of the
deadliest individuals in the galaxy. If Boba Fett were to find out that he was being two-timed-which was what contacting Kuat of Kuat amounted to-then Dengar’s life wasn’t worth the smallest coin in the pouch inside his jacket. Still, mused Dengar, I’ve got to look out for myself. If not for his own sake, then for that of Manaroo as well; he was still betrothed to her. His decision to send her away, to keep her at a safe distance from this unsavory business into which he had fallen, was something that still produced mixed feelings in his heart. Dengar missed her terribly, as though a living part of himself had been excised without the benefit of anesthesia, a wound that could never heal. But I had to do it, Dengar told himself again. Getting involved with the fate of Boba Fett in any way was too dangerous-and the life expectancy of those who had put their trust in him was on the short side. Fett’s offer of a partnership between the two of them still worried Dengar. Now that Boba Fett had just about recovered completely from his time in the Sarlacc’s gut-and had gotten nearly all of his old strength and skills back-how long would he have any use for another bounty hunter cutting in on his action? He’s always been a lone operator-the suspicion that that hadn’t changed for Boba Fett was sharp and nettlesome in Dengar’s mind. Fett could be playing him for a fool, the way he had done to others; a lot of those had survived only long enough to regret trusting a barve like that, and then they’d been the merchandise that Boba Fett dealt in. Or ashes, or even less.
None of those were fates that Dengar wanted for himself. So it’s all a matter, he told himself again, of who sells out the other first. And as a purchaser, somebody as rich and powerful as Kuat of Kuat had some definite advantages. Not only in terms of the price that could be paid, but also in the protection he could give. It had only been a fluke that the bombing raid hadn’t reduced Boba Fett to dust and disconnected atoms; the next effort that Kuat made would be even more severe. I could get the credits, though Dengar, and there would be nothing that Boba Fett could do about it. Because he’d be dead.
The shining bead eyes of the Q’nithian seemed to have read
his thoughts. “It’s a dangerous game
you’re playing,” the Q’nithian remarked.
“I know that.” Dengar slowly nodded his head. “But it’s the only one I’ve got.”
There were a few more details to settle, and he and the Q’nithian took care of them. Dengar knew that Boba Fett was planning on getting off Tatooine; that would make it difficult, if not impossible, for Kuat of Kuat to get back in touch with the sender of the message about Fett’s still being alive. So the Q’nithian would also act as the contact point; that meant he would also get a cut of
whatever
payment Kuat made for the
necessary information of Boba Fett’s whereabouts.
“So when will you be sending off the messenger pod?” Dengar worked at securing the fastenings of his gear. Even from inside the windowless cantina, he knew that night had settled in on the Dune Sea. It would be a long cold journey on the exposed saddle of the swoop to get back to where he had left Boba Fett and the girl Neelah. “The sooner you send it, the better.”
“Don’t worry,” soothed the Q’nithian. He folded his bifurcate talons on top of each other,
with
the magnifying lens laid flat on the table. “It will be on its way to Kuat, both the planet and the man himself, within a matter of hours.”
“Great.” Dengar slid out from the booth. “I’ll be checking to make sure that it gets there.”
He stopped inside the same arched doorway by which he had entered the cantina. The place was packed now; it had taken some effort to squeeze his way among the various off-planet anatomies that frequented this dive. At the side of the cantina’s central area, the jizz-wailer band had set up on the little stage they always used; their clattering, wailing racket had already added another layer of noise above the mingled conversations. Nobody ever actually listened to the music, but it provided a useful acoustic cover for the various business dealings that the cantina’s patrons wished to keep private.
Dengar moved up the short flight of steps that led to the street level outside. From the doorway’s arch, he could see across the heads of the crowd, all the way back to the booth where he had left the Q’nithian. Even if he hadn’t been in shadow, the Q’nithian’s weak eyesight would have ruled out his being spotted as he watched and waited. Several minutes passed, and he didn’t see the Q’nithian get up from the booth, and none of the other creatures in the cantina joined him there, either. Dengar figured that was a good sign; if the Q’nithian was going to sell him out, stab him in the back by passing on the information about Boba Fett to some other interested party in the cantina, the creature would have done so immediately. That way, some bunch of thugs could have jumped him before he’d had a chance to get out of Mos Eisley,