Free Tales From Jabbas Palace (Kevin Anderson) by Unknown Page A

Melvosh Bloor’s personal safety. But that was a low, common thought, unworthy of Beshka University’s premier up-and-coming (albeit untenured) professor of Investigative Politico-Sociology.
    Melvosh Bloor pushed it far from his mind as he continued to scan the shadows.
    “Er… hello?” he ventured. A glimmer of hope as to the unseen speaker’s identity struck him.
    “Darian Gli, is that you? You’re—you’re late, you know.” He tried not to make it sound like an accusation.
    Wishful thinking made him certain that the voice he’d just heard coming out of the shadows belonged to his precontracted, pig-in-a-poke guide to Jabba’s palace and he didn’t want to alienate him. “And—and you were supposed to meet me farther back down this tunnel. Unless I was mistaken in our agreement.
    Which I probably was. All my fault. No hard feelings. I apologize.”
    Somewhere water was dripping, an eerie sound made even eerier by the fact that Jabba’s palace lay in the midst of the Dune Sea, a fierce, unforgiving wasteland where it was cheaper to let blood drip away than water. A faint breeze passed over Melvosh Bloor’s face as lightly as a dancing girl’s veil. His breath sighed from his wide, flat nostrils as he waited for some response to his words.
    A thunderous sound that was half bellow and half shriek shook the wall he clung to. Melvosh Bloor leaped forward, a pathetic cry of startlement involuntarily escaping his lips. Unfortunately for the academic, he landed squarely on the puddle of goo and his booted feet shot straight out from under him. He landed with a nauseating squosh.
    The orphaned eyeballs seemed to regard him with the dumb resentment of an overworked beast of burden.
    The same maniacal laughter heard earlier resounded over Melvosh Bloor’s head once more. This time, however, a small, rubbery shape detached itself from its hiding place and dropped right into the dazed academic’s lap. A wizened face twisted into a mindlessly malevolent grin shoved itself nose to nose with the professor.
    Melvosh Bloor was badly shaken by this ugly little apparition, but he had been trapped (and forced to make small talk) with uglier things at faculty teas. “Uh salutations.” He raised his right hand in greeting, having forgotten it still clutched the Jawa’s parting gift.
    The creature in his lap gave a yodel of distress and scampered a short distance away. It stood there dancing from foot to taloned foot, chattering angrily.
    “I—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?”
    “A 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.
    “Oh 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.
    “An 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.”
    “Proceed?” The creature shook his head rapidly in the negative, making his tasseled ears bob and shake wildly.
    “Eh?” Melvosh Bloor’s momentary brush with relief at having encountered his promised in-palace guide winked