Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [70]
The odor was so strong that Wuher was momentarily stunned. Even as he reached down, pulled up a bottle of water, clicked off the top, he was in a fog.
That smell … Something about that smell …
Pheromones, surely. But unique pheromones, unlike any other that Wuher had sniffed. The bartender had a big nose, with highly trained and sensitive olfactory capabilities. This was one of the reasons he was such a good bioalchemist. Something about this Greedo—
The Rodian snatched the bottle away, contemptuously dumped a handful of credit chips on the counter, and marched away into a dark corner booth. Even though he’d had this kind of treatment before, it still stung Wuher. He felt like a pile of womp rat guano, and the fact that he could do absolutely nothing to avenge his slighted feelings made it all the worse. This, mixed with that smell. He could smell that smell to the corns on the soles of his feet. It touched him to the very core of his being, and he was not entirely sure why.
For the next moments, he was in a kind of reverie as he went about his work, serving. He worked up some nice drinks for the band, whose music had actually helped make working in this dump bearable. He served an Aqualish and the Tonnika sisters. He whipped up a gaseous delight for the blues-loving Devaronian. All the while in a sensory smog of anger and confusion.
He barely noticed the new arrivals until his assistant tugged on his tunic.
“Wuher. We’ve got a positive on the droid detector.”
Alarm swept away the mental images as Wuher turned away and looked down at the little Nartian creature, two of his four arms still busy washing glasses.
“Thank you, Nackhar.”
Wuher turned his attention to the entranceway, to where an old man and a young towheaded fellow were making their way into the light-speckled smoky darkness of the tavern, followed by a sparkling, mincing protocol droid and a rolling R2 model.
“Hey!” called Wuher in his best gruff voice. “We don’t serve their kind in here.”
There was some confusion.
He had to make his position clear. “Your droids. We don’t want them here.”
The droids left.
He got particular satisfaction from booting the droids out. It was one of the only exercises of power that Wuher truly felt comfortable with—it was a clear and free area in which he was sure he would offend no one else. Nonetheless, even as he watched the droids leave, something bothered him. The memory of that lone droid, stranded in that alley, pleading for assistance. Somehow, the pang of that memory merged with the strong scent of Greedo’s pheromones to create a jarring unease and yet odd excitement in the bartender.
A young man in desert duds shook him and asked for some water. It took a couple of shakes to get a reaction out of Wuher, but finally the drink was served and Wuher went about his business, serving yet another squeaky ranat.
He was so immersed in his own particular funk that it took him a while to realize that an altercation was building. Wuher looked over to see that Dr. Evazan seemed to be having a confrontation with the young man. The older man stepped in and spoke. The next thing Wuher knew, there was a blinding flash.
Alarmed, he cried out. “No blasters! No blasters!”
A light sword swashed through the air. A chop, a flop—and the gun arm of Evazan’s Aqualish companion separated from his body.
The old man and young man stepped away and after a moment of silence, the band struck up again.
“Nackhar,” said Wuher to his assistant. “Please clean that up. I have work to do.”
Even though the doctor had stood up for him, Wuher felt no kinship. The man was an ugly, bent, and demented creature. Nonetheless, there was no reason to litter the floor with blood and groans of the doctor’s associate for an overlong time.
The Nartian scurried away.
Wuher went back to work.
A day’s shuck, a day’s buck.