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“Good evening,” he snorted enthusiastically.

Both humans flinched in surprise and stared at him.

“What did he say?” Quivering, the woman whispered without taking her eyes off Gartogg. “Ah Kwan, did you understand him?”

“Sorry, Quella,” said Ah Kwan. “I can’t tell what language that was.”

“Good evening,” Gartogg snorted, more loudly.

Both humans drew back.

“What do you want?” Ah Kwan rested one hand on the handle of a long knife at his belt. “What did you say?”

“Good evening!” Gartogg roared in frustration, raising his clawed fists.

The man and woman whirled and ran up the hall; in a moment, they vanished around a corner.

Gartogg sighed. No one liked him. Alone, he trudged up the corridor. It was always the same.

Earlier that day, as Gartogg had plodded alone through the shadowed, empty corridors of the palace, he kept the peace by his very presence. After all, nearly everyone he met, even the other Gamorrean guards, hurried away when they saw him coming.

Gartogg heard a couple of loud footsteps, as though someone had tripped, echoing in the corridor leading down to the servants’ quarters. He hurried to investigate, still longing for some special accomplishment he could show his fellows, a contribution that Ortugg would respect. Maybe then Ortugg would let him go the next time Jabba journeyed out on the sail barge.

As fast as his thick, muscular legs could move, Gartogg thumped down the corridor and turned a corner, hefting his ax optimistically. He saw Porcellus, the human chef, kneeling over someone on the floor. The chef was a very thin, jittery man with receding, dark blond hair; as usual, he wore his white chef’s uniform, perpetually smeared with all sorts of ingredients with interesting aromas.

Gartogg liked Porcellus. The chef always had plenty of food lying around the kitchen. All the Gamorrean guards went snorting and snuffling around there for snacks. Last week, Gartogg had found four of his fellow Gamorreans fighting in the kitchen over who could lick out the bowl from a dessert. Delighted to join in the fun, Gartogg had almost chopped off Porcellus’s head with his ax by accident, but the chef didn’t seem to hold it against him. He was a good fellow.

Now Porcellus knelt over Ak-Buz, the commander of Jabba’s sail barge. Ak-Buz, a Weequay, lay motionless, sprawled on his back with his arms outstretched and his eyes staring vacantly.

This was Gartogg’s chance to think out the situation on his own. He studied the scene. In his opinion, Ak-Buz did not look well.

“Hey!” Gartogg snorted. “What’s happened here?”

Porcellus leaped to his feet, quivering. “What?”

Gartogg walked up to Ak-Buz and frowned down at him. “He’s dead?”

“He isn’t dead,” Porcellus said quickly, his face shiny with sweat. “He’s asleep. He’s resting. He said he was tired and he was going back to take a nap. He must have … he must have fallen asleep right here in the hall.”

Gartogg studied Ak-Buz’s unmoving face. Those staring eyes did not move. Gartogg snuffled thoughtfully. “Looks dead.”

“Have you ever seen a Weequay sleep?”

“Uh … no.”

“Well, there you are.” Porcellus crouched and lifted Ak-Buz, tugging one of the commander’s arms around his shoulders. “Now I’m going to get him to his quarters—er—before he wakes up.”

Gartogg nodded. That would be good; Weequays shouldn’t sleep in the hallway. Someone could trip over him. “Want help?”

“Thank you,” the chef said, smiling. “I’m fine.”

Gartogg sighed. For a moment, he thought he had found something important, like a corpse, but he was mistaken. Now he had been left alone again, with nothing much to do.

Snorting in disappointment, he had plodded back upstairs.

Late that evening, Gartogg was wearily climbing the stairs up to the guest quarters when he heard a single set of footsteps behind him. Hoping something horrible might happen so he could catch the guilty party, he stepped around a corner and waited in the shadows. A moment later, a silhouette thrown against the far wall sauntered