This might not be a bad thing. Tories had spent the past thirty years on Cartao, dispensing wisdom, mediating disputes, and handling the occasional pirate or overeager crime lord. Some of the locals had come to respect him, others had chosen to hate him, while most had never been more than vaguely aware that Prackla Sector even had a resident Jedi guardian.

But never in those thirty years had he run into a case of hero-worship like Corf Binalie's.

In his earlier days, it would have been highly gratifying, not to mention flattering, to be held in such high esteem. From the perspective of his years, though, he could see the danger lurking beneath that kind of unthinking adulation. Even at twelve Corf should be able to recognize a person's weaknesses as well as his strengths; should be learning how to accept people as they were, not creating a lens of perfection through which to gaze at them.

Instead, the boy insisted on regarding him as the Ultimate Jedi: tall and strong, wise and kind, and never, ever wrong.

This particular incident wasn't going to do much to change that perception, either. The shuttle passed low over their heads, leaving no doubt that it was indeed making for the private landing pad beside the Binalie mansion.

And as it did so, Tories got a clear look at the company name on the shuttle's side.

"Come on," he said, taking Corf's arm and turning him toward the house.

"We're going back?" Corf asked, frowning. "I thought you were going to help me track this siviviv vine back to its root."

"We can do that later," Tories told him. "Right now, I think we ought to go see what these people want with your father."

"Okay," Corf said, clearly not understanding but willing to accept Tories' word for it. "You're the boss."

"I'm not the boss," Tories reminded him as they headed down the hill toward the distant house and the shuttle settling onto the pad. "I'm just the Jedi."

"Yeah," Corf said off-handedly. "Same thing."

Tories sighed to himself. Hopefully, the boy would grow out of it on his own.

One of Doriana's more simple amusements these days was to I count off the minutes between the time a droid or servant I disappeared into his master's inner sanctum with Doriana's credentials and the time Doriana himself was ushered in. In the case of Lord Pilester Binalie, that interval was less than a minute. Either Binalie was unusually respectful of Coruscant authority, or else he was too worried about this unexpected visitor to play power games.

"Master Doriana," Binalie said, rising from the massive chair behind the even more massive desk as the protocol droid escorted Doriana into the office.

"It's a great honor to receive a representative from Supreme Chancellor Palpatine himself."

"A pleasure to meet you, as well, Lord Binalie," Doriana said in turn as he walked across the room. "I appreciate you giving me some of your time."

"My pleasure," Binalie said, waving Doriana to a chair facing the desk and sitting back down himself. "I wish you'd given me notice of your visit. I could have sent a shuttle to meet you, or else directed you to Triv Spaceport where you could have come over by landspeeder."

"There were reasons for coming into Cartao where I did," Doriana told him, watching the other's face closely. "As there were for choosing the particular transport I did."

A muscle in Binalie's cheek twitched. So he'd spotted the name on Kerseage's shuttle, too. "Yes; Emil Kerseage," he said. "I'm familiar with his case, Master Doriana, and I assure you the Trade Council is working to rectify it."

He waved a hand self-consciously. "It's certainly nothing Palpatine needs to involve himself with."

"Supreme Chancellor Palpatine is the champion of the common citi zen,"

Doriana reminded him.

"Of course," Binalie said hastily, the first hints of perspiration beginning to sheen his face. "It's just that-" He broke off.

"Yes?" Doriana prompted.

The cheek muscle twitched again. "Let me be honest with you," Binalie said. "Cartao is trying to keep a low profile in this war against the Separatists. We don't have nearly enough military power to send troops or ships halfway across the galaxy on expeditionary missions. So far we've mostly escaped official notice; but if Chancellor Palpatine begins taking an interest in some minor bureaucratic dispute, that official notice is likely to be drawn our direction."

He tapped the desk in front of him with his forefinger. "And not just from the officials on Coruscant," he added pointedly. 'The Separatists have so far ignored us, too."

"I understand your concerns," Doriana said. "But you have to understand in turn that no one has the luxury of deciding how a war is going to affect them. Nor is anyone permitted to choose how he can best serve in that conflict."

Binalie's eyes were very steady on Doriana's. "You're not here about Kerseage at all, are you?" he said quietly.

Doriana shook his head. "It was, and is, a useful cover story.

But no, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine sent me on far more important business."

Binalie's stony face went even stonier. "Spaarti Creations."

"Exactly," Doriana said. 'The Supreme Chancellor is intrigued by the reports he's heard about this factory whose production lines can be changed practically overnight. If the technique can be duplicated, it would mean a great deal for the Republic's war effort."

"It can't be," Binalie said flatly. "It's the Cranscoc and their fluidtooling system that make it possible, and as far as we know the Cartao colony is the only place Cranscoc live."

"Thousands of them, I presume?"

Binalie hesitated the barest fraction of a second, as if wondering whether he could get away with a lie. "About fifty thousand, yes," he conceded, apparently deciding not to risk it.

"But they breed very slowly, and only a small fraction of each generation has the talent that allows them to serve as twillers.

Those are the ones who actually manipulate the fluid retooling that make Spaarti possible."

"I see," Doriana said, as if he hadn't already thoroughly researched the whole operation. "Still, the Supreme Chancellor will want me to be absolutely certain. Would it be possible for me to inspect the facilities themselves?

Quietly and privately, of course."

Binalie knew a politely phrased order when he heard it. "Of course," he said, getting to his feet. "I have a private way into the plant."

They were halfway down the corridor leading back toward the landing pad when a boy's voice split the mansion's elegant silence. "Hey! Dad!"

The two men stopped and turned. Hurrying toward them was a young boy about twelve years old-Lord Binalie's son Corf, Doriana ten tatively identified him. Behind the boy, walking with a longer stride and a more measured pace, was the final player in the day's scheduled drama: Jedi Knight Jafer Tories.

"Corf," Binalie said, sounding surprised and a little uncomfortable. "I thought you were on weed control this morning."

"We saw the shuttle," Corf explained as he trotted up to his father's side, giving Doriana a quick once-over as he arrived.

"Are you going to the plant?"

"For a few minutes, yes," Binalie said.

"Can I come along?"

Binalie shook his head. "Not this time."

The boy blinked. Clearly, that wasn't the answer he'd been expecting.

"Why not?"

"Business," his father said firmly. "Only Master Doriana and I are going.

"

"But..."

"No arguments," Binalie said sternly, shifting his attention away from Corf as the Jedi reached the group. "I'd like you to meet Jafer Tories, our local Jedi guardian. This is Kinman Doriana, special advisor to Supreme Chancellor Palpatine."

The skin at the corners of the old Jedi's eyes crinkled slightly at Palpatine's name. Small wonder-the Supreme Chancellor and the Jedi Council had been increasingly at odds with each other over the past few months. "Master Tories," Doriana said, nodding.