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“Agreed.”

Each took a blank piece of paper and a stylus, marked his secret ballot, and folded it in half.

“We will read them together.” They unfolded the papers and counted the votes. “There are two votes for Weequay for president, and two votes for Weequay for secretary-treasurer.”

“It is done,” said the other. “I am now president. You, secretary, must record these proceedings for future review.”

The Weequay secretary put a small electronic recording device on the table between them.

“Good. Now I ask, will we tell Jabba of this most recent murder?”

The secretary shook his head. “No, we can’t. Not until we find the killer.”

More time passed in silence. “We must ask the god,” said the Weequay president.

“Ask the god,” the other agreed. Neither was happy about the decision.

The Weequays worshiped a variety of gods, most of whom represented natural forces and creatures on their homeworld. One of their chief gods was Quay—Weequay means “follower of Quay”—the god of the moon. Many Weequays kept in close personal contact with this god through a device which they also called a quay. This was a white sphere made of high-impact plastic about twenty centimeters in diameter. The quay could recognize speech and reply to simple questions. To the Weequays, the object looked like the moon of their home planet, and they believed a bit of their lunar god inhabited each quay. They never quite understood that the quays were manufactured cheaply by more imaginative species and there was nothing at all supernatural about them.

The Weequay president reverently removed the glistening quay from its leather sack. “Hear us, O Great God Quay,” he said. “We come to you for guidance. Will you grant us, your true believers, a hearing?”

A few seconds passed. Then a tiny mechanical voice said, “It is decidedly so.”

The Weequays nodded to each other. Sometimes the Great God Quay was not in the mood to be interrogated, and he could stay recalcitrant for hours, even days at a time. With several of the Hutt’s servants dead—now including the barge captain, Ak-Buz—the Weequays knew they needed immediate help.

“We, your true believers, praise you, O Great God Quay, and thank you. Will you reveal to us the identity of the foul murderer of Barge Captain Ak-Buz?”

The Weequays held their breaths. They heard the whirring of the ventilation system in the barracks, but nothing else. Then the mechanical voice piped, “As I see it, yes.”

The god was in a cooperative mood today!

“Is the killer in this room?” asked President Weequay. The secretary snarled fiercely at him. “It is the necessary first question,” explained the president.

“Concentrate and ask again,” said the white quay.

The president closed his eyes tightly and said, “Is the killer in this room?”

“Better not tell you now,” said the god-ball.

“You see!” cried the president. “It is you!” The Weequay reached across the table and clutched his fellow’s tunic.

“No! I swear!” said the secretary, terror-stricken. “The Great God Quay did not identify me! Ask him a third time!”

The president released the Weequay reluctantly, then looked down between them at the sphere of prophecy. “We beseech you, O Great God Quay! Is the killer in this room?”

The answer came quickly. “Very doubtful.”

Both Weequays relaxed. “I am relieved,” said the president. “I did not wish to abandon you to the vengeance of Jabba.”

“We still don’t know who the murderer is,” said the secretary. “We must learn if there will be more victims.”

The president nodded slowly. He had begun to realize that their future well-being depended on investigating these crimes and presenting their suspicious employer with a neatly tied-up solution. The Hutt had no patience at all with incompetence, and guards who couldn’t guard would soon find themselves on absolutely the wrong end of something’s food chain.

“Will more of Jabba’s entourage be killed?” asked the president.

A low-pitched grinding noise came from the quay on the table. The two Weequays looked at each other, then