Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [96]
Het Nkik looked around but could not locate Jek’s sandcrawler.
After finishing setup procedures, he took his turn to look at the other wares. In the bustling melee, he smelled the stinging sweet scents of hundreds of Jawas keyed up with excitement. He felt the baking suns’ heat on his brown cloak, he heard the cacophony of squeaking voices, the rumble of sandcrawler engines. Electronic motors ratcheted and choked, missing beats until Jawa mechanics effected quick fixes in hopes that none of the potential customers would notice. He wandered among the huckster tables, his excitement soured by the fact that Jek’s sandcrawler was not there.
Het Nkik saw his clan leader, old Wimateeka, discussing something in hushed tones with the clan leader from an outlying Jawa fortress near the human settlement of Bestine. Het Nkik could smell the concern, the fear, the indecision. Wimateeka was so alarmed he didn’t even try to mask his odors.
Het Nkik sensed bad news. Wimateeka was whispering, for fear of sending the rest of the Jawas in a panicked flight. With a feeling of dread, Het Nkik drove back his impulse to run back to the security of the sandcrawler and pushed forward to interrupt Wimateeka. “What is it, clan leader?” he asked. “Do you have news of the last sandcrawler?”
Wimateeka looked at him in surprise, and the other clan leader chittered in annoyance. Normal protocol among Jawas held that younger members did not approach their clan leaders directly, but went through a labyrinth of family connections, passing a message up through higher and higher relations until finally it reached its target; answers came back down through a similarly circuitous route. But Het Nkik had a reputation for sidestepping the rules.
“Clan leader Eet Ptaa was telling me of a Tusken attack on his clan’s fortress,” Wimateeka said. “The Sand People broke in and attacked before the Jawas managed to flee. Our brethren will never return to their ancestral home. They lost all possessions except what they could throw into the sandcrawler.”
Het Nkik was appalled. “If the Jawas were inside their fortress, did they not fight? Why did they just flee?”
“Jawas do not fight,” Wimateeka said. “We are too weak.”
“Because they don’t try,” Het Nkik said, feeling his temper rise. His body scent carried his anger to both clan leaders.
“We would have been slaughtered!” Eet Ptaa insisted.
“Jawas are too small,” Wimateeka said. “Sand People are too warlike.” The old clan leader turned to the other, dismissing Het Nkik. “This young one has a reputation for speaking without thinking. We can only hope his wisdom will grow with age.”
Het Nkik swallowed his outrage and pushed for an answer to the question that concerned him most. “What about my clan brother Jek Nkik? Where is the last sandcrawler?”
Wimateeka shook his head so that his hood jerked from side to side. “We have lost all contact with them. They sent no explanation of their delay. We are concerned. Perhaps the Sand People attacked them, too.”
Het Nkik scowled. “We can’t simply run and hide all the time, especially now that the Imperials are growing more aggressive. We could all work together. Many small ones can make one large force. Now that the Jawas have gathered for the swap meet, clan leader, will you discuss my ideas with them?”
Wimateeka and Eet Ptaa tittered with nervous laughter. Wimateeka said, “Now you’re sounding like one particular human moisture farmer I know! He wants Jawas and humans and Sand People to work together and draw maps separating our territories.”
“Is that such a bad idea?” Het Nkik asked.
Wimateeka shrugged. “It is not the Jawa way.”
Het Nkik felt as if he were talking to a droid with its power pack removed. Nothing would ever change until the Jawas saw how things might be different—until someone set an example.
He walked along between the tables, kicking up occasional billows of dust. The smell of