Star Wars_ Fate of the Jedi 07_ Conviction - Aaron Allston [26]
Viewports on both types of buildings were small patches of transparisteel, usually scratched by sand until they better served as diffusers rather than admitters of light. Ben quickly realized that the homes of the wealthier residents of town were characterized by transparisteel panels that were regularly replaced or polished, and thus more transparent than those in the less wealthy homes.
And everything, at least indoors, had a faint, not-too-offensive chemical smell. It was sweetish, a little cloying. Ben didn’t recognize it or know what it was until he unpacked his duffel and, at his father’s suggestion, sprayed down his clothes and the bag interior with the droch repellent he’d been provided at Koval Station. That was the smell—every plastoid surface, whether it be chamber walls, carpet, or furnishings, was coated or imbued with something to keep the drochs at bay.
His father led the three of them out of the Admirable Admiral, the hostel where they’d taken two adjoining rooms, and through the streets of this wind tunnel masquerading as a town.
Again, Ben raised his voice to a shout in order to be heard. “Looking for something, Dad? Why not use the town directory?”
“What we’re looking for isn’t in the directory. I know—I looked.”
That got Vestara’s attention. “What is it?”
“Theran Listeners.”
Ben shook his head. “I thought they were the planet’s healers. Why don’t they advertise? It’s not like they’re the Black Sun.”
“Computers and data grids are newfangled. Not to their liking.” Luke spotted something that must have looked promising to him. He headed in that direction. Ben and Vestara followed.
It was, to all outward appearances, an Oldtimers’ hovel, larger than most, but with light shining out through every hazy viewport. It was, unlike many such buildings, set back from the street, with a few aging landspeeders and speeder bikes parked outside, rocking in the wind.
The front door was a vault-like durasteel portal, a very old-fashioned design that swung out on metal hinges, and Ben belatedly recognized it as an ancient air lock door, doubtless transported from some crashed ship or ancient installation to this place. As the three neared it, a short man in hide garments and coat, fur lining showing at the wrists above his gloves, finished pulling the door open and stepped inside. He looked back, caught sight of Ben and his companions, did a double take, and then pulled the door shut just as the three reached it. The cycle light, scratched transparisteel inset at eye height, switched from green to red.
Ben stared at the formidable portal. “Friendly.”
Luke gestured at Ben’s clothing, which, though modest and stylistically ubiquitous in the spaceways, was clearly dissimilar to that worn by the man who had preceded them. “We’re obviously not locals.”
Vestara quirked a smile. “Are they going to gang up on us and beat us up because we’re strangers? Or because we have a vocabulary of more than twelve words?”
“Now, now.” The cycle light switched from red to green, and Luke pulled the door open.
Just inside was a small chamber—gray permacrete floor and ceiling, comparatively undamaged stucco walls. But the door opposite was the counterpart of the one by which they’d entered. Its cycle light showed red; as soon as Luke pulled his door shut against the howling wind, it went to green.
They stepped through into the main room of a pub. The floor and walls were covered in what looked like dark green vines tightly pressed into an irregular wall but, on closer inspection, proved to be absolutely flat, the appearance of roughness and depth an illusion. There were several long wooden tables and even more small round ones, but only about a dozen men and women sat among them. They were all hardy-looking customers, a bit below average Galactic Alliance human height standards, brown-haired and brown-eyed,