Tales from Mos Eisley Cantina: Star Wars Legends [Paperback]

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  • Category: Books (Fiction)
  • Author:  Anderson, Kevin
  • Author:  Anderson, Kevin
  • ISBN-10:  0553564684
  • ISBN-10:  0553564684
  • ISBN-13:  9780553564686
  • ISBN-13:  9780553564686
  • Publisher:  Random House Worlds
  • Publisher:  Random House Worlds
  • Pages:  400
  • Pages:  400
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Pub Date:  01-Apr-1995
  • Pub Date:  01-Apr-1995
  • SKU:  0553564684-11-SPLV
  • SKU:  0553564684-11-SPLV
  • Item ID: 100590110
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Sixteen stories from the most infamous cantina in the universe...by some of today's leading writers of science fiction.

In a far corner of the universe, on the small desert planet of Tatooine, there is a dark, nic-i-tain-filled cantina where you can down your favorite intoxicant while listening to the best jazz riffs in the universe.  But beware your fellow denizens of this pangalactic watering hole, for they are cutthroats and cutpurses, assassins and troopers, humans and aliens, gangsters and thieves....

Featuring original stories by:

Kevin J. Anderson * Doug Beason * M. Shayne Bell * David Bischoff * A.C.
Crispin * Kenneth C. Flint * Barbara Hambly * Rebecca Moesta * Daniel Keys
Moran * Jerry Oltion * Judith & Garfield Reeves-Stevens * Jennifer Roberson
* Kathy Tyers * Tom Veitch & Martha Veitch * Dave Wolverton * Timothy
ZahnKevin J. Andersonhas written many bestsellers and has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Bram Stoker Award, and the SFXReader’s Choice Award. He also holds the Guinness World Record for largest single-author signing.We Don’t Do Weddings:
The Band’s Tale
 
by Kathy Tyers
 
Jabba the Hutt’s cavernous, smoky Presence Room stank of spilled intoxicants and sweaty body armor. Guards and henchmen, dancers and bounty hunters, humans and Jawas and Weequays and Arcona lay where they’d toppled, crumpled under arches or piled in semiprivate cubicles or sprawled in the open. The inner portcullis yawned open.
 
Just another all-nighter at Jabba’s palace.
 
That portcullis bothers me—what if we want to leave in a hurry?—but it keeps out the worst of the riffraff.
 
Let me rephrase that. The worst of the riffraff, Jabba himself, paid us well. Crime lord, connoisseur, critic; his hairless, blotchy tail twitched in rhythm when we played. Not our rhythm. His.
 

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