The Last Stand - Brad Ferguson [58]
“What—oh, yes,” Troi said with some relief. “I do, too, now that you mention it.”
Off in the near distance, two Krann dressed in the same dark outfits as Riker and Troi were heading down the broad arcade in their direction. They were as conspicuous as a pair of burned-out bulbs in the center of one of those garish antique signs that cultural anthropologists kept on exhibit at the Las Vegas Cultural Preserve. Despite their somber dress, the Krann couple was chatting animatedly and, obviously, laughing at something one of them had just said. Suddenly the two drifted off the causeway and into one of the open stalls that lined it.
Riker and Troi began walking in that direction. Despite their initial apprehension, their dark, confining attire attracted hardly more than a glance as they passed several score gaudily dressed Krann.
They quickly spotted the two Krann they were seeking.
“One male, one female,” Troi said.
“Not so hard to tell them apart, either,” Riker said.
The darkly dressed Krann were standing around the largest of several bins inside the stall. The male was holding up a blue and yellow garment dyed in colors that almost seemed to glow in the ambient light. The item of clothing looked to Riker like a pullover shirt. There were other Krann in the stall— men, women, and a few children—but all of them were dressed in comfortable-looking clothes dyed in bright, clashing colors. As they watched, a Krann family—it could only have been that—gathered together a number of items and walked out of the store.
“It’s a clothing outlet,” Riker said. “Something like that, anyway. These people are shopping.”
“Yes,” Troi said. “I can see related goods on those shelves lining the walls. It’s like a bazaar, but with a lot less commotion.” She thought about it. “Maybe this is the kind of thing you do when you have a large population, but you don’t have replicators. You put everything in a central location and pick out what you need—and only what you need.”
As the two Enterprise officers watched, the Krann male in dark dress suddenly turned away from the bin and, noticing them, gave them a grin and a big wave. Seeing that, the woman with him turned too and, smiling, gestured them over in friendly fashion.
“Well, here goes nothing,” Riker muttered.
“Right behind you,” said Troi.
Smiling as broadly as he could manage, Riker strode into the stall, Troi close behind him. “Hello,” he called out.
“Greetings,” the Krann woman replied. “Off shift a bit early, I see. Your distributor must be down, too.”
“Yes,” Riker said, nodding ruefully. “They’re working on it but, you know …”
“Sure,” the woman said. “Second time this year for us. We didn’t want to wait for them to get ours running again, either. Last time it took them the whole next shift. We have somewhere to go.” She looked around. “I think there must be a facilitator around here somewhere …”
Riker looked around. “There’s never one around when you need one,” he said knowingly.
The Krann woman laughed. “Isn’t that the truth?” She looked through the bin, fussing. “Hull, this thing is a mess. How are you supposed to retrieve the samples you want? I mean, look. The pasterjacks are all mixed in with the opinopps!”
“Told you we should have done this yesterwatch,” the man with her said mildly.
There was suddenly a gentle voice behind them. “Does anyone see anything they like?”
Riker turned. The voice belonged to a short, balding Krann male who was dressed in an elaborately casual outfit dyed in colors only slightly less bright than most of the clothing in the bins. He was smiling pleasantly at Riker.
“Maybe that green and yellow item over there,” Riker said, pointing.
The man blinked. “For you?”
Riker realized he had made a mistake of some sort. “No, of course not,” he said, thinking quickly. “For her.” He indicated Troi, who was not standing at his side.
“Oh. Oh, well, certainly! My apologies.” The facilitator handed Troi the garment. It was cut much like a jacket, and it seemed to be about her size. “It’s a fine choice for your spouse.”
“I like it,” Troi said.