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And as Ben, Luke, and Vestara entered, their conversation stopped. They turned to look at the three intruders, their faces impassive.

They continued staring, silent, forbidding.

Automatically, reflexively, Ben opened himself to the Force. Alertness to ripples and eddies in the Force would give him an instant’s advance warning if any of these insular locals chose to attack.

But it was not their emotions he felt, not the expected combination of suspicion and perhaps growing resentment or anger.

He felt … surrounded, as if he’d suddenly realized that he was at the exact center of an amphitheater with thousands of spectators in the stands. And the observers’ emotions were cool, analytical, not heated.

It was such a jolt, to feel himself under such immense scrutiny when he thought he was in a room with fewer than twenty people, that his eyes widened. He tried to keep his sudden surprise off his face.

The barkeeper, behind the bar, wiping its surface down with a yellow rag glistening with some sort of oil or polish, was a bald man of middle years, more heavily muscled and thicker in the middle than most of his customers. He made a face as though he’d come to an unhappy decision, and then spoke. “Help you?”

Luke didn’t throw back his hood or take off his goggles. “Looking for healing.”

“You’re not local.”

“Looking for healing.”

Ben rubbed at his goggles. Despite the anti-fogging surface on them, the temperature and humidity difference between the outside and inside were causing them to fog up. Plus, the action might distract observers from his sudden surprise of a moment earlier. He glanced at Vestara and saw that she, too, was looking around as if seeking the source of all those extra, unseen eyes.

The exchange between Luke and the barkeeper had been odd. Curt, primitive. His father didn’t even sound like himself. His voice had taken on the flat, slightly monotonous character of the barkeep’s speech.

The barkeeper just kept polishing.

Luke just stood where he was.

Another Oldtimer, a young woman, her face long and weather-beaten but her eyes lively, finally spoke. “Sel.”

Another, a gray-bearded man, nodded as if that hadn’t occurred to him. “Aye, Sel.”

“Huh.” The barkeeper considered it, then nodded. He looked back at Luke and jerked his thumb toward the wall to Ben’s left. “Two streets down, three streets over to the right. Blue Newcomer dome. Ask for Sel. She’ll set you right … or send you home.”

The second man who’d spoken snickered. “I vote home.”

“Thanks.” Luke turned back toward the door.

As Ben and Vestara turned to follow, Ben felt a light impact against his back. He spun in time to see an insect the size of his thumbnail leap free from his cloak, hit the floor, and scurry away on six articulated legs to the shadowy baseboard.

None of the Oldtimers had apparently moved. The one who had flicked the droch onto Ben’s back was clearly adroit at covering up his schoolroom-style pranks.

The barkeeper smiled. “Looks like you’ve got a pet, newmer.”

Luke pulled the old air lock door open and led them out.

Back in the windy street, Ben gave his father a curious look. “I thought you said things had changed here in thirty years. From what I’ve read about this planet, what we just went through sounds like what would have happened back in the old days.”

Luke shook his head. “Things have changed. They didn’t go after us with scatterblasters and clubs.”

Vestara snorted. “Not yet. But I’m keeping my eyes open.”

“And the Force.” Ben tried not to sound as thunderstruck and naïve as he felt. “Is that what it feels like all the time?”

Luke’s smile became a little more sour. “That’s what it’s like when things are calm.”

* * *

The barkeeper’s directions led them to a small sea-blue dome, its viewports scoured to a frosty opacity. Its fold-down front steps were retracted.

Beside the spot on the foundation where those steps accordioned was a glowing green button with an intercom grille beside it. Both were inset a little, providing some protection