Star Wars_ The Han Solo Trilogy 01_ The Paradise Snare - A. C. Crispin [38]
“So you decided to take a job as a guard here, while you got enough money to go on searching,” Han said, guessing at the logical end of the story.
“Yessss …”
Han shook his head. “That’s sad, pal. I hope you find her, I really do. It’s tough to lose people that you love.”
The bodyguard nodded.
After lunch, they headed down to the factories and walked around the huge buildings. Han sniffed the air, smelling the odor of the different spices mingling. His nose tingled slightly, and he wondered if just smelling the spice could be intoxicating. He waved at the glitterstim building. “Let’s go inside. I’ve heard about how they process this spice, and I’d like to see it for myself.”
When they walked into the cavernous building, a guard stopped them and conferred with Muuurgh, who explained who Han was. The Rodian guard on duty gave them badges and infrared goggles, then waved them on in.
“Goggles?” Han said in Rodian. He understood the language perfectly, but his pronunciation was a bit laborious. “We have to wear them?”
The guard’s purple eyes sparkled at hearing a human speak his language. “Yes, Pilot Draygo,” he said. “Below the ground floor, there are no visible lights permitted. You take the turbolift down. Each level down represents a one-grade increase in the quality of the spice. The longest and best fibers are processed far below ground, to eliminate any possibility of their being ruined by light.”
“Okay,” Han said, beckoning to Muuurgh. The two walked between aisles of supplies, to reach the platform turbolift in the center of the facility. “Let’s go all the way down and see the really good stuff,” he said to the Togorian. Privately, Han was wondering whether he might be able to light-finger some of those tiny black vials. Selling a little glitterstim on the side in a port city would increase his credit account by leaps and bounds …
Han pushed the button for the bottom floor, and the platform, swaying slightly, started down.
Cool air wafted up from the depths as the turbolift went down in pitch-darkness. The draft felt wonderful after the humid heat of the Ylesian jungle.
Within one floor, all light was gone. Han fumbled for his goggles, pulled them up over his eyes. Immediately he could see, though everything was in shades of black and white. The illumination came from small light inserts in the walls. The turbolift plunged downward, and Han could see the workers as they crouched over their workstations. Piles of raw, fibrous threads studded with minuscule crystals lay piled before them.
Finally, six floors down, the turbolift ground to a halt. Han and Muuurgh got off. “Have you ever been here before?” he asked the bodyguard softly. Muuurgh’s neck fur was standing on end, and his white whiskers bristled beneath his goggled eyes.
“No …” the Togorian whispered back. “My people are plains-dwellers. Not like caves. Not like dark. Muuurgh will be happy when Pilot wishes to leave this place. Only Muuurgh’s word of honor keeps him here in wretched darkness.”
“Steady,” Han said. “We won’t be here that long. I just want to get a look around.”
He led the way into the factory. The cavernous area was filled with soft swishings, but was otherwise silent. Long tables lined the walls and were ranged in the aisleways. Each table was a workstation, and a worker sat or crouched, according to his, her, or its individual anatomy, before the table. There were many humans, Han realized, sitting on tall stools, hunched over their work.
Few looked up as Han and Muuurgh went up to the level supervisor, a furred Devaronian female, and identified themselves. The supervisor waved a reddish, sharp-nailed hand at the floor. “My workers are the most skilled,” she said proudly. “It takes skill to measure and trim the number of fibrous strands so each dose will contain the correct amount of spice. It is essential—but very difficult—to line up the fibers