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“I don’t know,” said the president. “The Great God Quay is having some trouble communicating.”

“W—”

“Whiphid?” asked the secretary.

“Without a doubt,” said the plastic ball at last.

“Ah,” said the president. “The mystery is solved. The Whiphid planted the bomb on board.”

The five Weequays nodded, satisfied at last to know the truth. They stood in Jabba’s privacy lounge, shifting their force pikes from one hand to the other. The president held the now-silent quay.

“Of course,” said the secretary slowly, “there is a bomb. And we will also be on board when it detonates. We still must search for it.”

“Search for it!” cried one of the others.

“Yes,” said the president. “You four search the barge. I will consult the Great God Quay.”

Four of the Weequays began a frantic hunt for the hidden explosive. They threw open cabinets, upset furniture, damaged the bulkheads looking for secret panels and compartments. Meanwhile, the president sat at a table with the prophecy sphere and said, “Is the bomb under the purple cushion?”

“Very doubtful.”

“Is the bomb under the gold cushion?”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Is the bomb hidden in the pile of silks?” The president realized that he wasn’t making very good progress, but he didn’t know what else to do. He was a good, honest, forthright Weequay, but he had Weequay limitations, after all.

An hour later, the Hutt’s guests and servants began to arrive, to prepare the sail barge for the day’s excursion. Some of them gave the Weequays suspicious glances, but as the Weequays served as security guards on the barge, they were allowed to continue their search unhindered.

“Try to blend in,” the president whispered to his fellows. They were still tearing the barge apart from stern to bow, but now they tried to seem casual and unworried. The truth was that as the minutes passed, it became ever more likely that the bomb would go off and blow them all into constituent atoms. Even the Weequays understood that.

The order was given to cast off, and there had not yet been any evidence of the hidden threat. The party guests were enjoying themselves, eating the Hutt’s food and drinking the Hutt’s liquor, and generally making the search even more difficult. The Weequay president found himself staring into the malevolent three eyes of Ree-Yees, the Gran. The president turned back to the quay and asked, “Is the bomb in the control cockpit?”

Maddeningly, the white ball said, “Reply hazy. Try again.”

The Weequay wanted to throw the device against the wall in frustration, but it would have attracted unwanted attention, and the Great God Quay would probably have exacted some horrible punishment as well. The president watched a gold-colored protocol droid in conversation with an R2 model that was serving drinks.

“Mr. President,” a low voice murmured.

The Weequay turned. His four fellows stood nearby. One held something covered with a square of green satin.

“The … item?” whispered the president.

The other four Weequays nodded. The president lifted a corner of the satin material and saw a thermal detonator. “We must disarm it. Secretly. Silently.”

The band tootled its horrible music. The guests milled about, unaware of the danger in their midst. Meanwhile, the five Weequays formed a tight huddle and worked feverishly to dismantle the detonator. The proper tools were available on the sail barge, of course, but the problem was that two of the Weequays disagreed on the disarming technique.

“Pull that circuit patch now,” said the secretary.

“You’ll kill us all,” said the president. “Break the green and yellow connections. Then pull the circuit patch.”

“There is no green connection,” insisted the secretary. “There’s a yellow one and a gray one.”

“The problem is with your eyes,” said the president.

“Hurry!” said one of the others.

“It is my responsibility,” said the president. He took the detonator and the tools. He broke first the green connector, then the yellow connector, and then yanked out the circuit patch.

The Weequays said nothing. They hadn’t