A gambler, rogue, and adventurer, Lando is always on the frontier, scanning his sensors for easy credits and looking for action in galaxies near and far. Lando Calrissian and the Mindharp of Sharu Lando Calrissian was born with a well-developed taste for the good life. So when he hears that ancient alien treasure is buried on the planets of the Rafa System, he hops aboard the Millennium Falcon and brushes up his rusty astrogation. He never stops to think that someone might be conning him, the connoisseur of cons. Lando Calrissian and the Flamewind of Oseon A solar system with little more than luxury hotels catering to the underemployed filthy rich, the Oseon is every gambler’s dream come true. And so it is for Lando Calrissian, until he breaks the gambler’s cardinal rule: never beat an enforcer at a high-stakes game of chance. Soon Lando and his feckless five-armed robot companion are being stalked by two enemies—one they know but cannot see and one they see but do not recognize . . . until it’s too late. Lando Calrissian and the StarCave of ThonBoka For a year, Lando Calrissian and his robot companion have roamed space in the Millennium Falcon, seeking or creating opportunities to turn an easy, but not too dishonest, credit. But now their partnership seems doomed—for Lando’s uncharacteristic impulse to help a race of persecuted aliens has suddenly made them vulnerable to several sets of their own enemies . . . not least of whom is the evil Rokur Gepta, the Sorcerer of Tund! For the price of one, you get three Lando Calrissian novels: LANDO CALRISSSIAN AND THE MINDHARP OF SHARU, LANDO CLARISSIAN AND THE FLAMEWIND OF OSEON, and LANDO CALRISSIAN AND THE STARCAVE OF THONBOKA. You know him as a gambler, rogue, and con-artist; Lando's always on the frontier scanning his sensors for easy credits and looking for action in galaxies near and far. L. Neil Smith was the two-time winner of the Prometheus Award for Best Libertarian Fiction for his novels Pallas and The Probability Broach . 1 Gold-braided flight cap carefully adjusted to a rakish angle, a freshly suave and debonair Captain Lando Calrissian bounded down the boarding ramp of the ultralightspeed freighter Millennium Falcon—and cracked his forehead painfully on the hatchcoaming. “Ouch! By the Eternal!” Staggered, he glanced discreetly around, making sure no one had seen him, and sighed. Now what the deuce was it Ground Control had wanted him to look at? They’d put it rather ungenteelly . . . “What’s that garbage on your thrust-intermix cowling, Em Falcon, over?” Well, it had been something they could say without insulting references to the amateurish way he’d skidded, setting her down on the Teguta Lusat tarmac. Atmospheric entry hadn’t been anything to brag about, either. Gambler he may have been, scoundrel perhaps, and what he preferred thinking of as “con artiste.” But ship-handler he was definitely not. He frowned, reminded of that rental pilot droid he’d wasted a substantial deposit on, back in the Oseon. Let ’em try to collect the rest of that bill! Stepping—gingerly this time—around the hydraulic ramp lifter, he backed away from under the smallish cargo vessel (which invariably reminded him of a bloated horseshoe magnet), shading his eyes with one hand. Intermix cowling . . . intermix cowling . . . now where in the name of Chaos would you find— “Yeek!” The noise had come from Lando, not the hideous leathery excrescence that had attached itself to his ship. It merely flapped and fluttered grotesquely, glaring down at him with malevolent yellow eyes as it scrabbled feebly at the hull, unaccustomed to the gravity of Rafa IV. Two hideous leathery excrescences! Four! Lando pelted back up the ramp, slamming the Emergency Close lever and continuing to the cockpit. The right-hand seat was temporarily missing, in its place bolted the glittering and useless Class Five pilot droid, its monitor lights blinking idiotically. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the robot smirked, despite the daylight pouring through the vision screens from outside, “and welcome aboard the pleasure yacht Arleen, now in interstellar transit from Antipose IX to—” The young gambler snarled with frustration, slapped the pilot’s off switch, and threw himself into the left acceleration couch, just as one of the disgusting alien parasites began suckering its way across the windscreen, fang corrosives clouding the transparency. “Ground Control? I say, Ground Control! What the devil are these things?” A long, empty pause. Then Lando remembered: “Oh, yes . . . over!” “They’re mynocks, you simpering groundlubber! You’re supposed to shake them off in orbit! Now you’ve violated planetary quarantine, and you’ll have to take care of it yourself: nobody’s gonna dirty his—” With a growl of his own, Lando punched the squelch button. If they weren’t going to help him, he could do without their advice. Mynocks . . . ah, yes: tough, omnivorous creatures, cap