THE PARADISE SNARE(29)
But it was obvious the pilgrims weren’t. Their bodies writhed on the stone, and muffled moans of happiness and pleasure made a soft swell of sound.
Sickened, Han looked over at the priests. They obviously weren’t affected as the pilgrims were. So this is why these poor dupes stay, once they find out they’re expected to work in the spice factories, Han thought, feeling a surge of bitter resentment on behalf of the pilgrims. They slave all day, then they hike up here and get a jolt of feel-good vibrations that makes even the best spice pale by comparison.
Han wondered whether he’d be expected to attend these “evening devotionals” every night, and hoped that he wouldn’t. It had been hard enough to push away that rush of warmth and pleasure tonight. He was afraid that if he had to be exposed to it every night, he wouldn’t have the strength, the resolution, to reject the Ylesian priests’ “happy pill.”
By this time, the pilgrims were beginning to get up, some of them weaving unsteadily. All of their eyes were glazed, and many looked like addicts Han had seen in spice and oobalah dens on Corellia and other worlds.
“Do they do this every night?” he muttered to the Twi’lek.
The alien’s reddish eyes were shining with joy. “Oh, yes. Wasn’t it wonderful?”
“Great,” Han said, but the Twi’lek was so enraptured he missed the sarcasm.
“Do they ever not hold these ‘devotions’?” Han asked, curious. “They are only canceled if there has been trouble in the factories. One time a worker went mad and took a foreman hostage, then he demanded passage off-planet. Evening devotions and the Exultation were canceled—it was horrible.”
“So what happened to the mad worker?” Han asked, reflecting that the “madman” sounded completely sane to him.
“Before morning, we managed to overpower him and turn him over to the guards, thank the One,” the Twi’lek said.
Yeah, I’ll bet, Han thought. They couldn’t stand being without their little nightly charge.
The service was evidently over.
Veratil joined Han for the walk back to the central compound. Han was disinclined to talk, and truthfully pleaded fatigue. The Sacredot, saying that he understood perfectly, showed the Corellian pilot back to the infirmary.
“You may eat and sleep here tonight,” he said, “and tomorrow we will take you to your permanent quarters in our Administration Building.”
“Where’s that?” Han asked, pausing halfway through a bite of indifferent—but filling—reedoxstew.
The Sacredot waved his arm roughly northeast. “Not visible from here, but there is a path through the trees. I will meet you back here in, say, six Standard hours? Will that provide you with sufficient sleep?”
Han nodded. He could always try to snatch a nap later. “Fine.” When the priest was gone, Han dragged off his clothes and boots, realizing that he had to get something clean to wear by tomorrow, or he wouldn’t be fit for polite society. He considered taking a shower before bed, but he was just too tired.
Han had always been able to set himself to wake up whenever he wished to, so he mentally programmed himself to wake up in five and a half hours.
Then, his mind whirling with images and impressions, he lay down on the narrow infirmary bunk and was instantly asleep.
It took him a few minutes the next morning to remember just who he was (Vykk Draygo, and don’t forget it!) and what he was doing in this sticky-hot place. Han ventured into the shower and was pleased to find the refresher unit contained everything necessary for a human being.
He hummed tunelessly as he soaped himself, but when he lifted a foot to wash it, Han froze in surprise and dismay. Fuzzy, bluegreen, mossy stuff was growing between his toes!
Alarmed, Han checked further and was disgusted to find patches starting in his armpits, at the back of his neck, and other, even more personal areas.
Cursing, he scrubbed the disgusting fungus away, leaving raw skin behind, and then, realizing he was running late, he bolted out of the shower. What kind of place is this, anyway?
When he walked back into the sleeping area, he found the medical droid waiting for him, with a new pilot’s uniform draped over one arm.
The droid held a jar of slimy gray stuff in its other hand. “Pardon me, sir,” the droid said. “But may I ask whether you are experiencing any . .
. outbreaks of fungus growing on your skin?”
“Yeah,” Han snarled. “The climate in this place is miserable. Nobody deserves to live in this dump.”
“I quite understand, sir,” the droid said, actually managing to sound sympathetic. “May I offer the contents of this jar? It should prevent fungal growths with regular application.”