III
THE BURNISHED CONFERENCE TABLE was as soulless and unyielding as the mood of the eight Imperial Senators and officers ranged around it. Imperial troopers stood guard at the entrance to the chamber, which was sparse and coldly lit from lights in the table and walls. One of the youngest of the eight was declaiming. He exhibited the attitude of one who had climbed far and fast by methods best not examined too closely. General Tagge did possess a certain twisted genius, but it was only partly that ability which had lifted him to his present exalted position. Other noisome talents had proven equally efficacious.
Though his uniform was as neatly molded and his body as clean as that of anyone else in the room, none of the remaining seven cared to touch him. A certain sliminess clung cloyingly to him, a sensation inferred rather than tactile. Despite this, many respected him. Or feared him.
“I tell you, he’s gone too far this time,” the General was insisting vehemently. “This Sith Lord inflicted on us at the urging of the Emperor will be our undoing. Until the battle station is fully operational, we remain vulnerable.
“Some of you still don’t seem to realize how well equipped and organized the rebel Alliance is. Their vessels are excellent, their pilots better. And they are propelled by something more powerful than mere engines: this perverse, reactionary fanaticism of theirs. They’re more dangerous than most of you realize.”
An older officer, with facial scars so deeply engraved that even the best cosmetic surgery could not fully repair them, shifted nervously in his chair. “Dangerous to your starfleet, General Tagge, but not to this battle station.” Wizened eyes hopped from man to man, traveling around the table. “I happen to think Lord Vader knows what he’s doing. The rebellion will continue only as long as those cowards have a sanctuary, a place where their pilots can relax and their machines can be repaired.”
Tagge objected. “I beg to differ with you, Romodi. I think the construction of this station has more to do with Governor Tarkin’s bid for personal power and recognition than with any justifiable military strategy. Within the Senate the rebels will continue to increase their support as long—”
The sound of the single doorway sliding aside and the guards snapping to attention cut him off. His head turned as did everyone else’s.
Two individuals as different in appearance as they were united in objectives had entered the chamber. The nearest to Tagge was a thin, hatchet-faced man with hair and form borrowed from an old broom and the expression of a quiescent piranha. The Grand Moff Tarkin, Governor of numerous outlying Imperial territories, was dwarfed by the broad, armored bulk of Lord Darth Vader.
Tagge, unintimidated but subdued, slowly resumed his seat as Tarkin assumed his place at the end of the conference table. Vader stood next to him, a dominating presence behind the Governor’s chair. For a minute Tarkin stared directly at Tagge, then glanced away as if he had seen nothing. Tagge fumed but remained silent.
As Tarkin’s gaze roved around the table a razor-thin smile of satisfaction remained frozen in his features. “The Imperial Senate will no longer be of any concern to us, gentlemen. I have just received word that the Emperor has permanently dissolved that misguided body.”
A ripple of astonishment ran through the assembly. “The last remnants,” Tarkin continued, “of the Old Republic have finally been swept away.”
“This is impossible,” Tagge interjected. “How will the Emperor maintain control of the Imperial bureaucracy?”
“Senatorial representation has not been formally abolished, you must understand,” Tarkin explained. “It has merely been superseded for the—” he smiled a bit more—“duration of the emergency. Regional Governors will now have direct control and a free hand in administering their territories. This means that the Imperial presence can at last be brought to bear properly on the vacillating worlds of the Empire. From now on, fear will keep potentially traitorous local governments in line. Fear of the Imperial fleet—and fear of this battle station.”
“And what of the existing rebellion?” Tagge wanted to know.
“If the rebels somehow managed to gain access to a complete technical schema of this battle station, it is remotely possible that they might be able to locate a weakness susceptible to minor exploitation.” Tarkin’s smile shifted to a smirk. “Of course, we all know how well guarded, how carefully protected, such vital data is. It could not possibly fall into rebel hands.”
“The technical data to which you are obliquely referring,” rumbled Darth Vader angrily, “will soon be back in our hands. If—”
Tarkin shook the Dark Lord off, something no one else at the table would have dared to do. “It is immaterial. Any attack made against this station by the rebels would be a suicidal gesture, suicidal and useless—regardless of any information they managed to obtain. After many long years of secretive construction,” he declared with evident pleasure, “this station has become the decisive force in this part of the universe. Events in this region of the galaxy will no longer be determined by fate, by decree, or by any other agency. They will be decided by this station!”
A huge metal-clad hand gestured slightly, and one of the filled cups on the table drifted responsively into it. With a slightly admonishing tone the Dark Lord continued. “Don’t become too proud of this technological terror you’ve spawned, Tarkin. The ability to destroy a city, a world, a whole system is still insignificant when set against the force.”
“ ‘The Force,’ ” Tagge sneered. “Don’t try to frighten us with your sorcerer’s ways, Lord Vader. Your sad devotion to that ancient mythology has not helped you to conjure up those stolen tapes, or gifted you with clairvoyance sufficient to locate the rebels’ hidden fortress. Why, it’s enough to make one laugh fit to—”
Tagge’s eyes abruptly bulged and his hands went to his throat as he began to turn a disconcerting shade of blue.
“I find,” Vader ventured mildly, “this lack of faith disturbing.”
“Enough of this,” Tarkin snapped, distressed. “Vader, release him. This bickering among ourselves is pointless.”
Vader shrugged as if it were of no consequence. Tagge slumped in his seat, rubbing his throat, his wary gaze never leaving the dark giant.
“Lord Vader will provide us with the location of the rebel fortress by the time this station is certified operational,” Tarkin declared. “That known, we will proceed to it and destroy it utterly, crushing this pathetic rebellion in one swift stroke.”
“As the Emperor wills it,” Vader added, not without sarcasm, “so shall it be.”
If any of the powerful men seated around the table found this disrespectful tone objectionable, a glance at Tagge was sufficient to dissuade them from mentioning it.
The dim prison reeked of rancid oil and stale lubricants, a veritable metallic charnel house. Threepio endured the discomfiting atmosphere as best he could. It was a constant battle to avoid being thrown by every unexpected bounce into the walls or into a fellow machine.
To conserve power—and also to avoid the steady stream of complaints from his taller companion—Artoo Detoo had shut down all exterior functions. He lay inert among a pile of secondary parts, sublimely unconcerned at the moment as to their fate.
“Will this never end?” Threepio was moaning as another violent jolt roughly jostled the inhabitants of the prison. He had already formulated and discarded half a hundred horrible ends. He was certain only that their eventual disposition was sure to be worse than anything he could imagine.
Then, quite without warning, something more unsettling than even the most battering bump took place. The sandcrawler’s whine died, and the vehicle came to a halt—almost as if in response to Threepio’s query. A nervous buzz rose from those mechanicals who still retained a semblance of sentience as they speculated on their present location and probable fate.
At least Threepio was no longer ignorant of his captors or of their likely motives. Local captives had explained the nature of the quasi-human mechanic migrants, the jawas. Traveling in their enormous mobile fortress-homes, they scoured the most inhospitable regions of Tatooine in search of valuable minerals—and salvageable machinery. They had never been seen outside of their protective cloaks and sandmasks, so no one knew exactly what they looked like. But they were reputed to be extraordinarily ugly. Threepio did not have to be convinced.
Leaning over his still-motionless companion, he began a steady shaking of the barrellike torso. Epidermal sensors were activated on the Artoo unit, and the lights on the front side of the little robot began a sequential awakening.
“Wake up, wake up,” Threepio urged. “We’ve stopped someplace.” Like several of the other, more imaginative robots, his eyes were warily scanning metal walls, expecting a hidden panel to slide aside at any moment and a giant mechanical arm to come probing and fumbling for him.
“No doubt about it, we’re doomed,” he recited mournfully as Artoo righted himself, returning to full activation. “Do you think they’ll melt us down?” He became silent for several minutes, then added, “It’s this waiting that gets to me.”
Abruptly the far wall of the chamber slid aside and the blinding white glare of a Tatooine morning rushed in on them. Threepio’s sensitive photoreceptors were hard pressed to adjust in time to prevent serious damage.
Several of the repulsive-looking jawas scrambled agilely into the chamber, still dressed in the same swathings and filth Threepio had observed on them before. Using hand weapons of an unknown design, they prodded at the machines. Certain of them, Threepio noted with a mental swallow, did not stir.
Ignoring the immobile ones, the jawas herded those still capable of movement outside, Artoo and Threepio among them. Both robots found themselves part of an uneven mechanical line.
Shielding his eyes against the glare, Threepio saw that five of them were arranged alongside the huge sandcrawler. Thoughts of escape did not enter his mind. Such a concept was utterly alien to a mechanical. The more intelligent a robot was, the more abhorrent and unthinkable the concept. Besides, had he tried to escape, built-in sensors would have detected the critical logic malfunction and melted every circuit in his brain.
Instead, he studied the small domes and vaporators that indicated the presence of a larger underground human homestead. Though he was unfamiliar with this type of construction, all signs pointed to a modest, if isolated, habitation. Thoughts of being dismembered for parts or slaving in some high-temperature mine slowly faded. His spirits rose correspondingly.
“Maybe this won’t be so bad after all,” he murmured hopefully. “If we can convince these bipedal vermin to unload us here, we may enter into sensible human service again instead of being melted into slag.”
Artoo’s sole reply was a noncommittal chirp. Both machines became silent as the jawas commenced scurrying around them, striving to straighten one poor machine with a badly bent spine, to disguise a dent or scrape with liquid and dust.
As two of them bustled about, working on his sandcoated skin, Threepio fought to stifle an expression of disgust. One of his many human-analog functions was the ability to react naturally to offensive odors. Apparently hygiene was unknown among the jawas. But he was certain no good would come of pointing this out to them.
Small insects drifted in clouds about the faces of the jawas, who ignored them. Apparently the tiny individualized plagues were regarded as just a different sort of appendage, like an extra arm or leg.
So intent was Threepio on his observation that he failed to notice the two figures moving toward them from the region of the largest dome. Artoo had to nudge him slightly before he looked up.
The first man wore an air of grim, semiperpetual exhaustion, sandblasted into his face by too many years of arguing with a hostile environment. His graying hair was frozen in tangled twists like gypsum helicites. Dust frosted his face, clothes, hands, and thoughts. But the body, if not the spirit, was still powerful.
Proportionately dwarfed by his uncle’s wrestlerlike body, Luke strode slump-shouldered in his shadow, his present attitude one of dejection rather than exhaustion. He had a great deal on his mind, and it had very little to do with farming. Mostly it involved the rest of his life, and the commitment made by his best friend who had recently departed beyond the blue sky above to enter a harsher, yet more rewarding career.
The bigger man stopped before the assembly and entered into a peculiar squeaky dialogue with the jawa in charge. When they wished it, the jawas could be understood.
Luke stood nearby, listening indifferently. Then he shuffled along behind his uncle as the latter began inspecting the five machines, pausing only to mutter an occasional word or two to his nephew. It was hard to pay attention, even though he knew he ought to be learning.
“Luke—oh, Luke!” a voice called.
Turning away from the conversation, which consisted of the lead jawa extolling the unmatched virtues of all five machines and his uncle countering with derision, Luke walked over to the near edge of the subterranean courtyard and peered down.
A stout woman with the expression of a misplaced sparrow was busy working among decorative plants. She looked up at him. “Be sure and tell Owen that if he buys a translator to make sure it speaks Bocee, Luke.”
Turning, Luke looked back over his shoulder and studied the motley collection of tired machines. “It looks like we don’t have much of a choice,” he called back down to her, “but I’ll remind him anyway.”
She nodded up at him and he turned to rejoin his uncle.
Apparently Owen Lars had already come to a decision, having settled on a small semi-agricultural robot. This one was similar in shape to Artoo Detoo, save that its multiple subsidiary arms were tipped with different functions. At an order it had stepped out of the line and was wobbling along behind Owen and the temporarily subdued jawa.
Proceeding to the end of the line, the farmer’s eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the sand-scoured but still flashy bronze finish of the tall, humanoid Threepio.
“I presume you function,” he grumbled at the robot. “Do you know customs and protocol?”
“Do I know protocol?” Threepio echoed as the farmer looked him up and down. Threepio was determined to embarrass the jawa when it came to selling his abilities. “Do I know protocol! Why, it’s my primary function. I am also well—”
“Don’t need a protocol ’droid,” the farmer snapped dryly.
“I don’t blame you, sir,” Threepio rapidly agreed. “I couldn’t be more in agreement. What could be more of a wasteful luxury in a climate like this? For someone of your interests, sir, a protocol ’droid would be a useless waste of money. No, sir—versatility is my middle name. See Vee Threepio—Vee for versatility—at your service. I’ve been programmed for over thirty secondary functions that require only …”
“I need,” the farmer broke in, demonstrating imperious disregard for Threepio’s as yet unenumerated secondary functions, “a ’droid that knows something about the binary language of independently programmable moisture vaporators.”
“Vaporators! We are both in luck,” Threepio countered. “My first post-primary assignment was in programming binary load lifters. Very similar in construction and memory-function to your vaporators. You could almost say …”
Luke tapped his uncle on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. His uncle nodded, then looked back at the attentive Threepio again.
“Of course, sir,” Threepio replied, confident for a change with a wholly honest answer. “It’s like a second language to me. I’m as fluent in Bocee as—”
The farmer appeared determined never to allow him to conclude a sentence. “Shut up.” Owen Lars looked down at the jawa. “I’ll take this one, too.”
“Shutting up, sir,” responded Threepio quickly, hard put to conceal his glee at being selected.
“Take them down to the garage, Luke,” his uncle instructed him. “I want you to have both of them cleaned up by suppertime.”
Luke looked askance at his uncle. “But I was going into Tosche station to pick up some new power converters and …”
“Don’t lie to me, Luke,” his uncle warned him sternly. “I don’t mind you wasting time with your idle friends, but only after you’ve finished your chores. Now hop to it—and before supper, mind.”
Downcast, Luke directed his words irritably to Threepio and the small agricultural robot. He knew better than to argue with his uncle.
“Follow me, you two.” They started for the garage as Owen entered into price negotiations with the jawa.
Other jawas were leading the three remaining machines back into the sandcrawler when something let out an almost pathetic beep. Luke turned to see an Artoo unit breaking formation and starting toward him. It was immediately restrained by a jawa wielding a control device that activated the disk sealed on the machine’s front plate.
Luke studied the rebellious ’droid curiously. Threepio started to say something, considered the circumstances and thought better of it. Instead, he remained silent, staring straight ahead.
A minute later, something pinged sharply nearby. Glancing down, Luke saw that a head plate had popped off the top of the agricultural ’droid. A grinding noise was coming from within. A second later the machine was throwing internal components all over the sandy ground.
Leaning close, Luke peered inside the expectorating mechanical. He called out, “Uncle Owen! The servomotor-central on this cultivator unit is shot. Look …” He reached in, tried to adjust the device, and pulled away hurriedly when it began a wild sparking. The odor of crisped insulation and corroded circuitry filled the clear desert air with a pungency redolent of mechanized death.
Owen Lars glared down at the nervous jawa. “What kind of junk are you trying to push on us?”
The jawa responded loudly, indignantly, while simultaneously taking a couple of precautionary steps away from the big human. He was distressed that the man was between him and the soothing safety of the sandcrawler.
Meanwhile, Artoo Detoo had scuttled out of the group of machines being led back toward the mobile fortress. Doing so turned out to be simple enough, since all the jawas had their attention focused on the argument between their leader and Luke’s uncle.
Lacking sufficient armature for wild gesticulation, the Artoo unit suddenly let out a high whistle, then broke it off when it was apparent he had gained Threepio’s attention.
Tapping Luke gently on the shoulder, the tall ’droid whispered conspiratorially into his ear. “If I might say so, young sir, that Artoo unit is a real bargain. In top condition. I don’t believe these creatures have any idea what good shape he’s really in. Don’t let all the sand and dust deceive you.”
Luke was in the habit of making instant decisions—for good or bad—anyway. “Uncle Owen!” he called.
Breaking off the argument without taking his attention from the jawa, his uncle glanced quickly at him. Luke gestured toward Artoo Detoo. “We don’t want any trouble. What about swapping this—” he indicated the burned-out agricultural ’droid—“for that one?”
The older man studied the Artoo unit professionally, then considered the jawas. Though inherently cowards, the tiny desert scavengers could be pushed too far. The sandcrawler could flatten the homestead—at the risk of inciting the human community to lethal vengeance.
Faced with a no-win situation for either side if he pressed too hard, Owen resumed the argument for show’s sake before gruffly assenting. The head jawa consented reluctantly to the trade, and both sides breathed a mental sigh of relief that hostilities had been avoided. While the jawa bowed and whined with impatient greed, Owen paid him off.
Meanwhile, Luke had led the two robots toward an opening in the dry ground. A few seconds later they were striding down a ramp kept clear of drifting sand by electrostatic repellers.
“Don’t you ever forget this,” Threepio muttered to Artoo, leaning over the smaller machine. “Why I stick my neck out for you, when all you ever bring me is trouble, is beyond my capacity to comprehend.”
The passage widened into the garage proper, which was cluttered with tools and sections of farming machinery. Many looked heavily used, some to the point of collapse. But the lights were comforting to both ’droids, and there was a hominess to the chamber which hinted at a tranquillity not experienced by either machine for a long time. Near the center of the garage was a large tub, and the aroma drifting from it made Threepio’s principal olfactory sensors twitch.
Luke grinned, noting the robot’s reaction. “Yes, it’s a lubrication bath.” He eyed the tall bronze robot appraisingly. “And from the looks of it, you could use about a week’s submergence. But we can’t afford that so you’ll have to settle for an afternoon.” Then Luke turned his attention to Artoo Detoo, walking up to him and flipping open a panel that shielded numerous gauges.
“As for you,” he continued, with a whistle of surprise, “I don’t know how you’ve kept running. Not surprising, knowing the jawas’ reluctance to part with any erg-fraction they don’t have to. It’s recharge time for you.” He gestured toward a large power unit.
Artoo Detoo followed Luke’s gesture, then beeped once and waddled over to the boxy construction. Finding the proper cord, he automatically flipped open a panel and plugged the triple prongs into his face.
Threepio had walked over to the large cistern, which was filled almost full with aromatic cleansing oil. With a remarkably humanlike sigh he lowered himself slowly into the tank.
“You two behave yourselves,” Luke cautioned them as he moved to a small two-man skyhopper. A powerful little suborbital spacecraft, it rested in the hangar section of the garage-workshop. “I’ve got work of my own to do.”
Unfortunately, Luke’s energies were still focused on his farewell encounter with Biggs, so that hours later he had finished few of his chores. Thinking about his friend’s departure, Luke was running a caressing hand over the damaged port fin of the ‘hopper—the fin he had damaged while running down an imaginary Tie fighter in the wrenching twists and turns of a narrow canyon. That was when the projecting ledge had clipped him as effectively as an energy beam.
Abruptly something came to a boil within him. With atypical violence he threw a power wrench across a work-table nearby. “It just isn’t fair!” he declared to no one in particular. His voice dropped disconsolately. “Biggs is right. I’ll never get out of here. He’s planning rebellion against the Empire, and I’m trapped on a blight of a farm.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
Luke spun, startled, but it was only the tall ’droid, Threepio. The contrast in the robot was striking compared with Luke’s initial sight of him. Bronze-colored alloy gleamed in the overhead lights of the garage, cleaned of pits and dust by the powerful oils.
“Is there anything I might do to help?” the robot asked solicitously.
Luke studied the machine, and as he did so some of his anger drained away. There was no point in yelling cryptically at a robot.
“I doubt it,” he replied, “unless you can alter time and speed up the harvest. Or else teleport me off this sandpile under Uncle Owen’s nose.”
Sarcasm was difficult for even an extremely sophisticated robot to detect so Threepio considered the question objectively before finally replying, “I don’t think so, sir. I’m only a third-degree ’droid and not very knowledgeable about such things as transatomic physics.” Suddenly, the events of the past couple of days seemed to catch up with him all at once. “As a matter of fact, young sir,” Threepio went on while looking around him with fresh vision, “I’m not even sure which planet I’m on.”
Luke chuckled sardonically and assumed a mocking pose. “If there’s a bright center to this universe, you’re on the world farthest from it.”
“Yes, Luke sir.”
The youth shook his head irritably. “Never mind the ‘sir’—it’s just Luke. And this world is called Tatooine.”
Threepio nodded slightly. “Thank you, Luke s—Luke. I am See Threepio, human-droid relations specialist.” He jerked a casual metal thumb back toward the recharge unit. “That is my companion, Artoo Detoo.”
“Pleased to meet you, Threepio,” Luke said easily. “You too, Artoo.” Walking across the garage, he checked a gauge on the smaller machine’s front panel, then gave a grunt of satisfaction. As he began unplugging the charge cord he saw something which made him frown and lean close.
“Something wrong, Luke?” Threepio inquired.
Luke went to a nearby tool wall and selected a small many-armed device. “I don’t know yet, Threepio.”
Returning to the recharger, Luke bent over Artoo and began scraping at several bumps in the small ’droid’s top with a chromed pick. Occasionally he jerked back sharply as bits of corrosion were flicked into the air by the tiny tool.
Threepio watched, interested, as Luke worked. “There’s a lot of strange carbon scoring here of a type I’m not familiar with. Looks like you’ve both seen a lot of action out of the ordinary.”
“Indeed, sir,” Threepio admitted, forgetting to drop the honorific. This time Luke was too absorbed elsewhere to correct him. “Sometimes I’m amazed we’re in as good shape as we are.” He added as an afterthought, while still shying away from the thrust of Luke’s question. “What with the rebellion and all.”
Despite his caution, it seemed to Threepio that he must have given something away, for an almost jawa-like blaze appeared in Luke’s eyes. “You know about the rebellion against the Empire?” he demanded.
“In a way,” Threepio confessed reluctantly. “The rebellion was responsible for our coming into your service. We are refugees, you see.” He did not add from where.
Not that Luke appeared to care. “Refugees! Then I did see a space battle!” He rambled on rapidly, excited. “Tell me where you’ve been—in how many encounters. How is the rebellion going? Does the Empire take it seriously? Have you seen many ships destroyed?”
“A bit slower, please, sir,” Threepio pleaded. “You misinterpret our status. We were innocent bystanders. Our involvement with the rebellion was of the most marginal nature.
“As to battles, we were in several, I think. It is difficult to tell when one is not directly in contact with the actual battle machinery.” He shrugged neatly. “Beyond that, there is not much to say. Remember, sir, I am little more than a cosmeticized interpreter and not very good at telling stories or relating histories, and even less proficient at embellishing them. I am a very literal machine.”
Luke turned away, disappointed, and returned to his cleaning of Artoo Detoo. Additional scraping turned up something puzzling enough to demand his full attention. A small metal fragment was tightly lodged between two bar conduits that would normally form a linkage. Setting down the delicate pick, Luke switched to a larger instrument.
“Well, my little friend,” he murmured, “you’ve got something jammed in here real good.” As he pushed and pried Luke directed half his attention to Threepio. “Were you on a star freighter or was it—”
Metal gave way with a powerful crack, and the recoil sent Luke tumbling head over heels. Getting to his feet, he started to curse—then froze, motionless.
The front of the Artoo unit had begun to glow, exuding a three-dimensional image less than one-third of a meter square but precisely defined. The portrait formed within the box was so exquisite that in a couple of minutes Luke discovered he was out of breath—because he had forgotten to breathe.
Despite a superficial sharpness, the image flickered and jiggled unsteadily, as if the recording had been made and installed with haste. Luke stared at the foreign colors being projected into the prosaic atmosphere of the garage and started to form a question. But it was never finished. The lips on the figure moved, and the girl spoke—or rather, seemed to speak. Luke knew the aural accompaniment was generated somewhere within Artoo Detoo’s squat torso.
“Obi-wan Kenobi,” the voice implored huskily, “help me! You’re my only remaining hope.” A burst of static dissolved the face momentarily. Then it coalesced again, and once more the voice repeated, “Obi-wan Kenobi, you’re my only remaining hope.”
With a raspy hum the hologram continued. Luke sat perfectly still for a long moment, considering what he was seeing, then he blinked and directed his words to the Artoo unit.
“What’s this all about, Artoo Detoo?”
The stubby ’droid shifted slightly, the cubish portrait shifting with him, and beeped what sounded vaguely like a sheepish reply.
Threepio appeared as mystified as Luke. “What is that?” he inquired sharply, gesturing at the speaking portrait and then at Luke. “You were asked a question. What and who is that, and how are you originating it—and why?”
The Artoo unit generated a beep of surprise, for all the world as if just noticing the hologram. This was followed by a whistling stream of information.
Threepio digested the data, tried to frown, couldn’t and strove to convey his own confusion via the tone of his voice. “He insists it’s nothing, sir. Merely a malfunction—old data. A tape that should have been erased but was missed. He insists we pay it no mind.”
That was like telling Luke to ignore a cache of Durindfires he might stumble over in the desert. “Who is she?” he demanded, staring enraptured at the hologram. “She’s beautiful.”
“I really don’t know who she is,” Threepio confessed honestly. “I think she might have been a passenger on our last voyage. From what I recall, she was a personage of some importance. This might have something to do with the fact that our Captain was attaché to—”
Luke cut him off, savoring the way sensuous lips formed and reformed the sentence fragment. “Is there any more to this recording? It sounds like it’s incomplete.” Getting to his feet, Luke reached out for the Artoo unit.
The robot moved backward and produced whistles of such frantic concern that Luke hesitated and held off reaching for the internal controls.
Threepio was shocked. “Behave yourself, Artoo,” he finally chastised his companion. “You’re going to get us into trouble.” He had visions of the both of them being packed up as uncooperative and shipped back to the jawas, which was enough to make him imitate a shudder.
“It’s all right—he’s our master now.” Threepio indicated Luke. “You can trust him. I feel that he has our best interests in mind.”
Detoo appeared to hesitate, uncertain. Then he whistled and beeped a long complexity at his friend.
“Well?” Luke prompted impatiently.
Threepio paused before replying. “He says that he is the property of one Obi-wan Kenobi, a resident of this world. Of this very region, in fact. The sentence fragment we are hearing is part of a private message intended for this person.”
Threepio shook his head slowly. “Quite frankly, sir, I don’t know what he’s talking about. Our last master was Captain Colton. I never heard Artoo mention a prior master. I’ve certainly never heard of an Obi-wan Kenobi. But with all we’ve been through,” he concluded apologetically, “I’m afraid his logic circuits have gotten a bit scrambled. He’s become decidedly eccentric at times.” And while Luke considered this turn of events, Threepio took the opportunity to throw Artoo a furious look of warning.
“Obi-wan Kenobi,” Luke recited thoughtfully. His expression suddenly brightened. “Say … I wonder if he could be referring to old Ben Kenobi.”
“Begging your pardon,” Threepio gulped, astonished beyond measure, “but you actually know of such a person?”
“Not exactly,” he admitted in a more subdued voice. “I don’t know anyone named Obi-wan—but old Ben lives somewhere out on the fringe of the Western Dune Sea. He’s kind of a local character—a hermit. Uncle Owen and a few of the other farmers say he’s a sorcerer.
“He comes around once in a while to trade things. I hardly ever talk to him, though. My uncle usually runs him off.” He paused and glanced across at the small robot again. “But I never heard that old Ben owned a ’droid of any kind. At least, none that I ever heard tell of.”
Luke’s gaze was drawn irresistibly back to the hologram. “I wonder who she is. She must be important—especially if what you told me just now is true, Threepio. She sounds and looks as if she’s in some kind of trouble. Maybe the message is important. We ought to hear the rest of it.”
He reached again for the Artoo’s internal controls, and the robot scurried backward again, squeaking a blue streak.
“He says there’s a restraining separator bolt that’s circuiting out his self-motivation components.” Threepio translated. “He suggests that if you move the bolt he might be able to repeat the entire message,” Threepio finished uncertainly. When Luke continued to stare at the portrait, Threepio added, more loudly, “Sir!”
Luke shook himself. “What …? Oh, yes.” He considered the request. Then he moved and peered into the open panel. This time Artoo didn’t retreat.
“I see it, I think. Well, I guess you’re too small to run away from me if I take this off. I wonder what someone would be sending a message to old Ben for.”
Selecting the proper tool, Luke reached down into the exposed circuitry and popped the restraining bolt free. The first noticeable result of this action was that the portrait disappeared.
Luke stood back. “There, now.” There was an uncomfortable pause during which the hologram showed no sign of returning. “Where did she go?” Luke finally prompted. “Make her come back. Play the entire message, Artoo Detoo.”
An innocent-sounding beep came from the robot. Threepio appeared embarrassed and nervous as he translated. “He said, ‘What message?’ ”
Threepio’s attention turned half angrily to his companion. “What message? You know what message! The one you just played a fragment of for us. The one you’re hauling around inside your recalcitrant, rust-ridden innards, you stubborn hunk of junk!”
Artoo sat and hummed softly to himself.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Threepio said slowly, “but he shows signs of having developed an alarming flutter in his obedience-rational module. Perhaps if we—”
A voice from down a corridor interrupted him. “Luke … oh, Luke—come to dinner!”
Luke hesitated, then rose and turned away from the puzzling little ’droid. “Okay,” he called, “I’m coming, Aunt Beru!” He lowered his voice as he spoke to Threepio. “See what you can do with him. I’ll be back soon.” Tossing the just-removed restraining bolt on the workbench, he hurried from the chamber.
As soon as the human was gone, Threepio whirled on his shorter companion. “You’d better consider playing that whole recording for him,” he growled, with a suggestive nod toward a workbench laden with dismembered machine parts. “Otherwise he’s liable to take up that cleaning pick again and go digging for it. He might not be too careful what he cuts through if he believes you’re deliberately withholding something from him.”
A plaintive beep came from Artoo.
“No,” Threepio responded, “I don’t think he likes you at all.”
A second beep failed to alter the stern tone in the taller robot’s voice. “No, I don’t like you, either.”