Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [27]
“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 his 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