Trilogy

by George Lucas

  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.”

  IV

  LUKE’S AUNT BERU WAS FILLING A pitcher with blue liquid from a refrigerated container. Behind her, in the dining area, a steady buzz of conversation reached to the kitchen.

  She sighed sadly. The mealtime discussions between her husband and Luke had grown steadily more acrimonious as the boy’s restlessness pulled him in directions other than farming. Directions for which Owen, a stolid man of the soil if there ever was one, had absolutely no sympathy.

  Returning the bulk container to the refrigerator unit, she placed the pitcher on a tray and hurried back to the dining room. Beru was not a brilliant woman, but she possessed an instinctive understanding of her important position in this household. She functioned like the damping rods in a nuclear reactor. As long as she was present, Owen and Luke would continue to generate a lot of heat, but if she was out of their presence for too long—boom!

  Condenser units built into the bottom of each plate kept the food on the dining-room table hot as she hurried in. Immediately, both men lowered their voices to something civilized and shifted the subject. Beru pretended not to notice the change.

  “I think that Artoo unit might have been stolen, Uncle Owen,” Luke was saying, as if that had been the topic of conversation all along.

  His uncle helped himself to the milk pitcher, mumbling his reply around a mouthful of food. “The jawas have a tendency to pick up anything that’s not tied down, Luke, but remember, they’re basically afraid of their own shadows. To resort to outright theft, they’d have to have considered the consequences of being pursued and punished. Theoretically, their minds shouldn’t be capable of that. What makes you think the ’droid is stolen?”

  “For one thing, it’s in awfully good shape for a discard. It generated a hologram recording while I was cleaning—” Luke tried to conceal his horror at the slip. He added hastily, “But that’s not important. The reason I think it might be stolen is because it claims to be the property of someone it calls Obi-wan Kenobi.”

  Maybe something in the food, or perhaps the milk, caused Luke’s uncle to gag. Then again, it might have been an expression of disgust, which was Owen’s way of indicating his opinion of that peculiar personage. In any case, he continued eating without looking up at his nephew.

  Luke pretended the display of graphic dislike had never happened. “I thought,” he continued determinedly, “it might have meant old Ben. The first name is different, but the last is identical.”

  When his uncle steadfastly maintained his silence, Luke prompted him directly. “Do you know who he’s talking about, Uncle Owen?”

  Surprisingly, his uncle looked uncomfortable instead of angry. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, still not meeting Luke’s gaze. “A name from another time.” He squirmed nervously in his seat. “A name that can only mean trouble.”

  Luke refused to heed the implied warning and pressed on. “Is it someone related to old Ben, then? I didn’t know he had any relatives.”

  “You stay away from that old wizard, you hear me!” his uncle exploded, awkwardly substituting threat for reason.

  “Owen …” Aunt Beru started to interject gently, but the big farmer cut her off sternly.

  “Now, this is important, Beru.” He turned his attention back to his nephew. “I’ve told you about Kenobi before. He’s a crazy old man; he’s dangerous and full of mischief, and he’s best left well alone.”

  Beru’s pleading gaze caused him to quiet somewhat. “That ’droid has nothing to do with him. Couldn’t have,” he grumbled half to himself. “Recording—huh! Well, tomorrow I want you to take the unit into Anchorhead and have its memory flushed.”

  Snorting, Owen bent to his half-eaten meal with determination. “That will be the end of this foolishness. I don’t care where that machine thinks it came from. I paid hard credit for it, and it belongs to us now.”

  “But suppose it does belong to someone else,” Luke wondered. “What if this Obi-wan person comes looking for his ’droid?”

  An expression between sorrow and a sneer crossed his uncle’s seamed face at the remembrance. “He won’t. I don’t think that man exists anymore. He died about the same time as your father.” A huge mouthful of hot food was shoveled inward. “Now forget about it.”

  “Then it was a real person,” Luke murmured, staring down at his plate. He added slowly, “Did he know my father?”

  “I said forget about it,” Owen snapped. “Your only worry as far as those two ’droids are concerned is having them ready for work tomorrow. Remember, the last of our savings is tied up in those two. Wouldn’t even have bought them if it wasn’t so near harvest.” He shook a spoon at his nephew. “In the morning I want you to have them working with the irrigation units up on the south ridge.”

  “You know,” Luke replied distantly, “I think these ’droids are going to work out fine. In fact, I—” He hesitated, shooting his uncle a surreptitious glare. “I was thinking about our agreement about me staying on for another season.”

  His uncle failed to react, so Luke rushed on before his nerve failed. “If these new ’droids do work out, I want to transmit my application to enter the Academy for next year.”

  Owen scowled, trying to hide his displeasure with food. “You mean, you want to transmit the application next year—after the harvest.”

  “You have more than enough ’droids now, and they’re in good condition. They’ll last.”

  “ ’Droids, yes,” his uncle agreed, “but ’droids can’t replace a man, Luke. You know that. The harvest is when I need you the most. It’s just for one more season after this one.” He looked away, bluster and anger gone now.

  Luke toyed with his food, not eating, saying nothing.

  “Listen,” his uncle told him, “for the first time we’ve got a chance for a real fortune. We’ll make enough to hire some extra hands for next time. Not ’droids—people. Then you can go to the Academy.” He fumbled over words, unaccustomed to pleading. “I need you here, Luke. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “It’s another year,” his nephew objected sullenly. “Another year.”

  How many times had he heard that before? How many times had they repeated this identical charade with the same result?

  Convinced once more that Luke had come around to his way of thinking, Owen shrugged the objection off. “Time will pass before you know it.”

  Abruptly Luke rose, shoving his barely touched plate of food aside. “That’s what you said last year when Biggs left.” He spun and half ran from the room.

  “Where are you going, Luke?” his aunt yelled worriedly after him.

  Luke’s reply was bleak, bitter. “Looks like I’m going nowhere.” Then he added, out of consideration for his aunt’s sensibilities, “I have to finish cleaning those ’droids if they’re going to be ready to work tomorrow.”

  Silence hung in the air of the dining room after Luke departed. Husband and wife ate mechanically. Eventually Aunt Beru stopped shoving her food around her plate, looked up, and pointed out earnestly, “Owen, you can’t keep him here forever. Most of his friends are gone, the people he grew up with. The Academy means so much to him.”

  Listlessly her husband replied, “I’ll make it up to him next year. I promise. We’ll have money—or maybe, the year after that.”

  “Luke’s just not a farmer, Owen,” she continued firmly. “He never will be, no matter how hard you try to make him one.” She shook her head slowly. “He’s got too much of his father in him.”

  For the first time all evening Owen Lars looked thoughtful as well as concerned as he gazed down the passage Luke had taken. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he whispered.

  Luke had gone topside. He stood on the sand watching the double sunset as first one and then the other of Tatooine’s twin suns sank slowly behind the distant range of dunes. In the fading light the sands turned gold, russet, and flaming red-or
ange before advancing night put the bright colors to sleep for another day. Soon, for the first time, those sands would blossom with food plants. This former wasteland would see an eruption of green.

  The thought ought to have sent a thrill of anticipation through Luke. He should have been as flushed with excitement as his uncle was whenever he described the coming harvest. Instead, Luke felt nothing but a vast indifferent emptiness. Not even the prospect of having a lot of money for the first time in his life excited him. What was there to do with money in Anchorhead—anywhere on Tatooine, for that matter?

  Part of him, an increasingly large part, was growing more and more restless at remaining unfulfilled. This was not an uncommon feeling in youths his age, but for reasons Luke did not understand it was much stronger in him than in any of his friends.

  As the night cold came creeping over the sand and up his legs, he brushed the grit from his trousers and descended into the garage. Maybe working on the ’droids would bury some of the remorse a little deeper in his mind. A quick survey of the chamber showed no movement. Neither of the new machines was in sight. Frowning slightly, Luke took a small control box from his belt and activated a couple of switches set into the plastic.

  A low hum came from the box. The caller produced the taller of the two robots, Threepio. In fact, he gave a yell of surprise as he jumped up behind the skyhopper.

  Luke started toward him, openly puzzled. “What are you hiding back there for?”

  The robot came stumbling around the prow of the craft, his attitude one of desperation. It occurred to Luke then that despite his activating the caller, the Artoo unit was still nowhere to be seen.

  The reason for his absence—or something related to it—came pouring unbidden from Threepio. “It wasn’t my fault,” the robot begged frantically. “Please don’t deactivate me! I told him not to go, but he’s faulty. He must be malfunctioning. Something has totally boiled his logic circuits. He kept babbling on about some sort of mission, sir. I never heard a robot with delusions of grandeur before. Such things shouldn’t even be within the cogitative theory units of one that’s as basic as an Artoo unit, and …”