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kicking meal the rancor had devoured was a mere Twrlek dancing girl, which the rancor savored, consuming her in three delicate bites rather than the customary one large gulp.
    Malakili tried to relax, hoping that perhaps his plan would come off smoothly after all. But, as he was wheeling the meat-laden cart of the rancor’s lunch to the cell gate, pallid-faced Gonar stepped out of the shadows with an idiotic, devilish grin.
    “I know about you, Malakili!” Gonar said in a hushed, hoarse whisper.
    “I know about you and the Lady Valarian.”
    Malakili stopped the cart and turned slowly, trying to keep from showing his shock—but he had never been good at hiding his emotions.
    “And just what do you know about me and Valarian?” he asked.
    “I know you’re spying for her. You were traced going into Mos Eisley, into the Lucky Despot. I know you saw her in her private chambers. I don’t know what your game is, but I know that Jabba won’t like it.”
    Malakili couldn’t hide. His eyes flitted from side to side.
    Inside the cage the rancor sensed his keeper’s alarm and let out a low growl. “What do you want?”
    Malakili said.
    Gonar heaved a relieved sigh, as if pleased that he wasn’t going to have to argue any more. He swiped a greasy strand of hair out of his eyes.
    “I want to take care of the rancor,” he said. “I’ve been around him as much as you have. He should be my pet.”
    Gonar flicked his eyes toward the cage. “Either you flee now and leave me to take care of the monster,” he said, “or I’ll report you to Jabba, and he will kill you, and I will still claim the rancor as my reward.
    Either way, I get what I want. The exact manner is up to you.”
    “You don’t leave me much choice? Malakili said, whimpering.
    “No,” Gonar said, drawing himself up, puffed with his own triumph.
    “No, I don’t leave you much choice.”
    Malakili grabbed a heavy femur from the rancor’s lunch pile.
    Without pause, he swung the blood-wet bone with all the strength behind his bulging muscles.
    He brought the knobbed club smack against Gonar’s forehead. His skull crushed like a soap bubble. The young red-haired man slumped to the floor. His last sound was merely a squeak of surprise.
    Inside its cage the rancor stirred and made a rumbling, hungry noise.
    This had not been as difficult as killing the Tusken Raider out in the canyon, Malakili thought, but it seemed more satisfying somehow.
    More of a personal triumph.
    He picked up Gonar’s limp body. It seemed to have acquired a dozen more joints from the way his arms and legs and spine flopped in all directions.
    Just as Malakili was hauling the body onto the cart, he heard thumping footsteps and a clank of armor as one of Jabba’s plodding, not-too-bright Gamorrean guards came around the corner carrying another dead body on his shoulder. He blinked his porcine eyes and curled his lower lip to push protruding fangs out. The guard shoved his helmet down against the horns on his head and squinted at the scene with Malakili and the fresh body.
    “What this?” the guard asked, using one of the few Basic phrases it knew.
    Malakili stared at him, holding the body of a man he had just murdered.
    The bloodied club still lay on top of the pile. He couldn’t possibly make up a good explanation. “I’m feeding the rancor. What does it look like I’m doing?”
    The Gamorrean stared at the dead body along with the butchered remains from the kitchen. He grunted and nodded again. “Need help?”
    “No,” Malakili said. “No, I’m doing just fine.” He looked meaningfully into the dimness of the rancor’s cage and at the Gamorrean’s burden.
    “You want to unload him, too?”
    “No! Evidence of crime!”
    The Gamorrean waddled off humming to itself, unchallenged by life and delighted to be doing his tedious job to the best of his ability.
    That day the rancor enjoyed its’ lunch even more than usual.
    The pickup from Lady Valarian was scheduled for