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 waste-land 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
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?"
"P'tan! P'tan! Hahahahaha!" The little creature convulsed with insane
merriment, rolling around on the floor as Melvosh Bloor watched, aghast.
"Oh 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?"
"In 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.
"How . . . 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 another of those forceful shoves, making the Kalkal trip
over his own boots and fall on his face. Chittering and squealing with
glee, the little creature scampered over Melvosh Bloor's prone body.
There was a scrabbling sound and a faint amber light flared on at the
far end of the room.
Melvosh Bloor picked himself up cautiously. "Shall I-- Shall I close
the door?"
"Close the door! Close the door!" his guide commanded imperiously. He
was seated on a block of rough-hewn sandstone about the height of a
table.
The amber light came from a small, crystal-shielded niche in the wall
nearby. The only other object to break the cubic monotony of the room
was a second slab of rock approximately the dimensions of Melvosh
Bloor's bed back in the university cloister.
Melvosh Bloor hurried to comply, then took a seat on the sandstone slab.
He covered h
is face with his hands and let the full weight of misery bow
his shoulders even more. "I suppose I'm to blame for not having done
sufficient research before undertaking this mission," he said. "As, no
doubt, Professor P'tan will be the first to tell me once we return to
the university.
Insufferable old gorm-worm. Oh, I can just hear him now, spouting off
the same way he always does when he speaks to the junior faculty."
Melvosh Bloor struck a stiff pose and, in a voice blubbery with
pomposity, intoned, "Melvosh Bloor, do you call that teaching? You
merely drum facts into your poor pupils' rocky heads and give them
passing grades if they spew the same swill right back in your lap!
Small wonder, when it's the same swill you swallowed whole from your
professors."
"The Kalkal snorted. "Then he has to go brag about how he doesn't rely
on secondhand knowledge when he teaches; he goes out and does research
in the field; If I hear him say 'Publish or perish' one more time, I
shall--"
"Research in the field?" the creature broke in, cocking its head. Then
it made a rude noise with one or more parts of its rubbery body.
"My sentiments exactly," Melvosh Bloor agreed.
"Oh, I do wish we had more honest folk like you at the university.
Have you ever had any academic experience, Darian Gli?"
The creature repeated the rude noise, louder this time, and with a few
extra flourishes.
"Ah," said Melvosh Bloor dryly. "I see you have."
"Professor P'tan?" the creature prompted.
Melvosh Bloor was not used to enjoying the company of such a good
listener. "You wish me to . . . go on?" he inquired timidly.
"Go on, go on!" the creature responded with an expansive gesture.
Melvosh Bloor found himself liking this quaint being more by the minute.
"My good fellow, your, ah, rather substantive evaluation of Professor
P'tan's character leads me to believe you have encountered him, even
though he swore he'd have nothing to do with you.
Which--correct me if I'm wrong--strikes me as stupid."
"Stupid."
"Ah! Then we're in agreement. When I was first plotting--I mean
considering this expedition, my fellow academics Ra Yasht and Skarten
told me I couldn't go wrong with you by my side. Perhaps you remember
them? You helped them research that fascinating monograph on Torture
Observed: An Interview with Jabba's Cook."
The creature made a retching sound, though whether this was a literary
or culinary critique remained unspecified.
"You're certainly entitled to your own opinion, but that monograph was
the making of their reputations at the university. Instant tenure.
Professor P'tan was infuriated--they hadn't suffered enough yet, by his
standards-but the board overruled him. Right then I sent in my own
request for leave to do a project so challenging, so sweeping in its
scope, that even were Professor P'tan to bully the board into siding
with him, the sheer audacity of my work would compel them to renege and
end by favoring me. I would delve into one of the greatest and
least-known sociopolitical mysteries of the galaxy. I would lift the
veil between polite society and the darkest, slimiest, most hideously
profitable phenomenon of our time. I would interview Jabba the Hutt!"
Melvosh Bloor's eyes shone as he recalled the grandeur of his scheme.
"Interview the Hutt?" Thick chuckles, like laughter emerging from a
pudding, bubbled up from Melvosh Bloor's guide.
"Uh . . . quite. Sit down nicely with him, like civilized beings,
and--"
"Nicely? Nicely! With him?"
In the face of such obviously open ridicule, the academic went on the
defensive. "I fail to see the humor," he said stiffly. "I realize that
the--the Bloated One as he is so colorfully called, has a certain
reputation, but still--" Melvosh Bloor pursed his lips as well as any
Kalkal could manage. "When you were originally contacted about this,
you said you could arrange it. You represented yourself as one very
close to Jabba." "Close to Jabba." The creature's chuckles burst into
full-fledged cackles once more, but he bobbed his head.
"Then you can take me to him? Not merely as far as his, ah, majordomo
or secretary or whoever it is weeds out the riffraff, but all the way to
Jabba himself?"
"Take? Can take, ha!" Now the creature's head was nodding so
exuberantly his ear-tassels looked ready to fly off any moment. "All
the way!" He grabbed his long, flexible feet and rolled back and forth
on his flabby bottom.."To Jabba, to Jabba, to Jabba."
"The way Professor P'tan's guide took him?"
Melvosh Bloor replied coldly. In this small chamber it was possible to
believe oneself safe, possible to forget for a time that one was
burrowed deep into the stronghold of the galaxy's most ruthless
crimelord. In such an environment of self-deceit, the academic reverted
to his classroom manner, a style that combined frigid disdain for
underlings, shameless toadying to superiors, and backstabbing ad-lib, as
the opportunity presented itself.
"He got wind of my plans, P'tan did," Melvosh Bloor went on. "He came
barging in while I was petitioning the board for leave and financing. He
said that it was ludicrous to entrust a study of such magnitude to a
junior faculty member--never mind that it was my ideal He claimed I'd
get the data all bollixed, or be taken in by the HutCs, ah, propensities
for elasticizing the facts."
"Lies, lies, lies," the repulsive little creature opined.
"Like a Gran!"
"Well, I suppose I agree with you there," Melvosh Bloor allowed, giving
his guide a condescending smile. "But I won't tell Jabba you said that
about him if you won't tell him I agreed with you."
"Ohhh, I won't tell Jabba. Hahahahaha."
"Er, good." Really, the creature's unseemly attacks of hilarity were
becoming most distressing to the academic's timid nature.
"Jabba's ethics aside, Professor P'tan went on to insist that he
undertake my proposed study. Which he did. Perhaps the board felt that
one miserable thief'was best qualified to interview another."
"Miserable thief? Jabba the Hutt? Jabba, miserable thief, lies like a
Gran?" The guide's tasseled ears pricked up.
"Do excuse my language. Heat of the moment. Although, um, I believe
that last bit lies like a Gran--you said that . . . didn't you?"
"Didn't." The lipless mouth snapped shut.
"But you did! I admit, I saidJabba lies, but you were the one who---" A
glance at that hard little face made Melvosh Bloor realize he was
engaged in a losing battle over a minor point. He sighed wearily.
"Very well, have it your way, if you insist: I said Jabba lies like a
Gran. Now may I continue?"
A taloned paw executed a parody of a fine lady's gesture when dismissing
an unwanted servant.
"So P'tan came here." The Kalkal's wide mouth was exceptionally well
suited to a grim expression. "And was never heard from again. We all
hoped--assumed he was dead, but the board likes to be sure. That way
they hav
e a solid reason for cutting off his wife's benefits.
That is why they sent me, to determine conclusively whether Professor
P'tan still lived. Ridiculous, of course; he had to be dead.
I resolved to turn this trip into the expedition it should have been in
the first place--my expedition to interview Jabba the Hutt.
Now you tell me Professor P'tan is still alive." The academic's teeth
ground together.
"Still alive." The creature leered. "Sarlacc eat one meal 1oooooong
time, hahahahaha!"
"The Sarlacc!" Melvosh Bloor was horrorstruck.
While he was no expert on life beyond the university walls, he had heard
enough shivery tales of the Sarlacc and its protracted digestive habits
while he was awaiting his Jawa guide in Mos Eisley to more than
compensate for that lacuna in his education. "You mean Professor P'tan
fell into the--the--?"
"Splat,; his guide provided smugly. "Splat, ow, shrieeeeeeek!"
he added as an afterthought.
"Not so loud, not so loud!" Melvosh Bloor hissed, making desperate
hushing motions with his hands.
"Huh! Coward. Think I stupid?" The creature put on an air of the
highest dudgeon. "Like fool guide fool P'tan hire? Fools for Sarlacc