Free Star Wars: Tales from Jabba's Palace by Kevin J. Anderson Page B

stood there dancing from foot to taloned foot, chattering angrily.
    â€œI—I’m sorry,” Melvosh Bloor stammered, fumbling the weapon away. “I assure you, I have no intentions of shooting you. That would be a fine greeting,heh, heh.” He forced a sheepish smile in hopes that the creature had a sense of humor. “Heh?”
    â€œA
fine
greeting!” There was not a trace of humor in the creature’s reply, merely resentment. He folded his flabby arms across his chest and glowered at the unhappy academic.
    â€œOh dear, I
do
apologize most sincerely. You must think I’m an awfully big muckhead.” Melvosh Bloor got to his feet unsteadily, then took a dainty step away from the remains of who-or-whatever’s final rest he had so messily disturbed.
    â€œAn awful … 
biiiiiig
 … muckhead,” the creature echoed, each word ripe with disdain. His grasp on Melvosh Bloor’s highly refined accent seemed to grow firmer with each word. In fact, his posture now appeared to mimic Melvosh Bloor’s own slightly stooped and timorous stance. If the academic did not know better, he would almost think this creature was making fun of him. That had
not
been in the contract.
    Melvosh Bloor holstered his sidearm and, in the name of accomplishing his mission, decided to overlook the insult. “There,” he said. “That’s better. Now we may proceed.”
    â€œProceed?” The creature shook his head rapidly in the negative, making his tasseled ears bob and shake wildly.
    â€œEh?” Melvosh Bloor’s momentary brush with relief at having encountered his promised in-palace guide winked away like a candleflame in a sandstorm. “Do you mean it’s too dangerous to go on? Or—or has there been a change in the situation since last we communicated?” He lowered his voice and in a hoarse, terrified whisper begged, “Don’t tell me that Professor P’tan has actually turned up
alive
?”
    â€œP’tan! P’tan! Hahahahaha!” The little creature convulsed with insane merriment, rolling around on the floor as Melvosh Bloor watched, aghast.
    â€œOh my,” he murmured. “Professor P’tan is alive after all. Oh dear, dear me, this ruins
everything.
”
    The creature stopped its mad tumblings and pricked up one ear. “Everything?” it inquired.
    Melvosh Bloor heaved a tremendous sigh. “Is there somewhere we can talk? Somewhere safe? Somewhere”—another sigh—“I can sit down?”
    For an instant, the unthinkable happened: the creature’s face-splitting grin got even wider than ear to ear, physical possibility or not. Then it leaped forward and seized Melvosh Bloor by the hand, yanking and tugging violently (and painfully) as it urged him to follow it down one of the narrower passageways. Stumbling from weariness and bewilderment, the Kalkal allowed himself to be led away into the maze of corridors.
    At length they stopped before a dully gleaming metal door. “In there?” the academic asked doubtfully. “Is it—? Are you sure we shall be secure in there?”
    â€œIn there.” His guide spoke decisively and gave him a hard shove. “In there!”
    Still possessed by an uncertain, creepy feeling (hadn’t that charming-for-a-Whiphid Lady Valarian assured him that his in-palace contact, Darian Gli, was a Markul? This creature did not look anything like a Markul. But Melvosh Bloor was an Investigative Politico-Sociologist, not an Eidetic Xenologist, so he figured he
could
be wrong), the academic did as he was told. He laid hands on the massive door and was mildly surprised when it swung back easily on its hinges.
    â€œHow … primitive,” he remarked as he peered into the darkened chamber beyond. The spill from the dim illuminations in the corridor was enough for him to see by. He hesitated on the threshold until his guide gave him