Trilogy

by George Lucas

  Only then did the suggestion of a sigh escape from Kenobi; only then did his body appear to relax. Bringing the lightsaber down, he flipped it carefully upward in a reflex saluting motion which ended with the deactivated weapon resting innocuously on his hip.

  That final movement broke the total quiet which had enshrouded the room. Conversation resumed, as did the movement of bodies in chairs, the scraping of mugs and pitchers and other drinking devices on tabletops. The bartender and several assistants appeared to drag the unsightly corpses out of the room, while the mutilated human vanished wordlessly into the crowd, cradling the stump of his gun arm and counting himself fortunate.

  To all appearances the cantina had returned to its former state, with one small exception. Ben Kenobi was given a respectful amount of space at the bar.

  Luke barely heard the renewed conversation. He was still shaken by the speed of the fight and by the old man’s unimagined abilities. As his mind cleared and he moved to rejoin Kenobi, he could overhear bits and snatches of the talk around him. Much of it centered on admiration for the cleanness and finality of the fight.

  “You’re hurt, Luke,” Kenobi observed solicitously.

  Luke felt the bruise where the big creature had struck him. “I …” he started to say, but old Ben cut him off. As if nothing had happened, he indicated the great hairy mass which was shouldering its way through the crowd toward them.

  “This is Chewbacca,” he explained when the anthropoid had joined them at the bar. “He’s first mate on a ship that might suit our needs. He’ll take us to her captain-owner now.”

  “This way,” the Wookiee grunted—at least, it sounded something like that to Luke. In any case, the huge creature’s follow-me gesture was unmistakable. They started to wend their way deeper into the bar, the Wookiee parting the crowd like a gravel storm cutting canyonettes.

  Out in front of the cantina, Threepio paced nervously next to the landspeeder. Apparently unconcerned, Artoo Detoo was engaged in animated electronic conversation with a bright red R-2 unit belonging to another of the cantina’s patrons.

  “What could be taking them so long? They went to hire one ship—not a fleet.”

  Abruptly Threepio paused, beckoning silently for Artoo to be quiet. Two Imperial troopers had appeared on the scene. They were met by an unkempt human who had emerged almost simultaneously from the depths of the cantina.

  “I do not like the looks of this,” the tall ’droid murmured.

  Luke had appropriated someone else’s drink from a waiter’s tray as they made their way to the rear of the cantina. He gulped at it with the giddy air of one who feels himself under divine protection. That safe he was not, but in the company of Kenobi and the giant Wookiee he began to feel confident that no one in the bar would assault him with so much as a dirty look.

  In a rear booth they encountered a sharp-featured young man perhaps five years older than Luke, perhaps a dozen—it was difficult to tell. He displayed the openness of the utterly confident—or the insanely reckless. At their approach the man sent the humanoid wench who had been wriggling on his lap on her way with a whispered something which left a wide, if inhuman, grin on her face.

  The Wookiee Chewbacca rumbled something at the man, and he nodded in response, glancing up at the newcomers pleasantly.

  “You’re pretty handy with that saber, old man. Not often does one see that kind of swordplay in this part of the Empire anymore.” He downed a prodigious portion of whatever filled his mug. “I’m Han Solo, captain of the Millennium Falcon.” Suddenly he became all business. “Chewie tells me you’re looking for passage to the Alderaan system?”

  “That’s right, son. If it’s on a fast ship,” Kenobi told him. Solo didn’t bridle at the “son.”

  “Fast ship? You mean you’ve never heard of the Millennium Falcon?”

  Kenobi appeared amused. “Should I?”

  “It’s the ship that made the Kessel run in less than twelve standard timeparts!” Solo told him indignantly. “I’ve outrun Imperial starships and Corellian cruisers. I think she’s fast enough for you, old man.” His outrage subsided rapidly. “What’s your cargo?”

  “Only passengers. Myself, the boy, and two ’droids—no questions asked.”

  “No questions.” Solo regarded his mug, finally looked up. “Is it local trouble?”

  “Let’s just say we’d like to avoid any Imperial entanglements,” Kenobi replied easily.

  “These days that can be a real trick. It’ll cost you a little extra.” He did some mental figuring. “All in all, about ten thousand. In advance.” He added with a smile, “And no questions asked.”

  Luke gaped at the pilot. “Ten thousand! We could almost buy our own ship for that.”

  Solo shrugged. “Maybe you could and maybe you couldn’t. In any case, could you fly it?”

  “You bet I could,” Luke shot back, rising. “I’m not such a bad pilot myself. I don’t—”

  Again the firm hand on his arm. “We haven’t that much with us,” Kenobi explained. “But we could pay you two thousand now, plus another fifteen when we reach Alderaan.”

  Solo leaned forward uncertainly. “Fifteen … You can really get your hands on that kind of money?”

  “I promise it—from the government on Alderaan itself. At the worst, you’ll have earned an honest fee: two thousand.”

  But Solo seemed not to hear the last. “Seventeen thousand … All right, I’ll chance it. You’ve got yourselves a ship. As for avoiding Imperial entanglements, you’d better twist out of here or even the Millennium Falcon won’t be any help to you.” He nodded toward the cantina entrance, and added quickly, “Docking bay ninety-four, first thing in the morning.”

  Four Imperial troopers, their eyes darting rapidly from table to booth to bar, had entered the cantina. There was muttering from among the crowd, but whenever the eyes of one of the heavily armed troopers went hunting for the mutterers, the words died with sullen speed.

  Moving to the bar, the officer in charge asked the bartender a couple of brief questions. The big man hesitated a moment, then pointed toward a place near the back of the room. As he did so, his eyes widened slightly. Those of the officer were unreadable.

  The booth he was pointing to was empty.

  VII

  LUKE AND BEN WERE SECURING Artoo Detoo in the back of the speeder while Threepio kept a lookout for any additional troops.

  “If Solo’s ship is as fast as his boasting, we should be all right,” the old man observed with satisfaction.

  “But two thousand—and fifteen more when we reach Alderaan!”

  “It’s not the fifteen that worries me; it’s the first two,” Kenobi explained. “I’m afraid you’ll have to sell your speeder.”

  Luke let his gaze rove over the landspeeder, but the thrill it had once given him was gone—gone along with other things best not dwelt on.

  “It’s all right,” he assured Kenobi listlessly. “I don’t think I’ll need it again.”

  * * *

  From their vantage point in another booth, Solo and Chewbacca watched as the Imperials strode through the bar. Two of them gave the Corellian a lingering glance. Chewbacca growled once and the two soldiers hurried their pace somewhat.

  Solo grinned sardonically, turning to his partner. “Chewie, this charter could save our necks. Seventeen thousand!” He shook his head in amazement. “Those two must really be desperate. I wonder what they’re wanted for. But I agreed, no questions. They’re paying enough for it. Let’s get going—the Falcon won’t check itself out.”

  “Going somewhere, Solo?”

  The Corellian couldn’t identify the voice, coming as it did through an electronic translator. But there was no problem recognizing the speaker or the gun it held stuck in Solo’s side.

  The creature was roughly man-sized and bipedal, but its head was something out of delirium by way of an upset stomach. It had huge, dull-faceted eyes, bulbous on a pea-green face. A ridge of short spines crested the
high skull, while nostrils and mouth were contained in a tapirlike snout.

  “As a matter of fact,” Solo replied slowly, “I was just on my way to see your boss. You can tell Jabba I’ve got the money I owe him.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday—and last week—and the week prior to that. It’s too late, Solo. I’m not going back to Jabba with another one of your stories.”

  “But I’ve really got the money this time!” Solo protested.

  “Fine. I’ll take it now, please.”

  Solo sat down slowly. Jabba’s minions were apt to be cursed with nervous trigger fingers. The alien took the seat across from him, the muzzle of the ugly little pistol never straying from Solo’s chest.

  “I haven’t got it here with me. Tell Jabba—”

  “It’s too late, I think. Jabba would rather have your ship.”

  “Over my dead body,” Solo said unamiably.

  The alien was not impressed. “If you insist. Will you come outside with me, or must I finish it here?”

  “I don’t think they’d like another killing in here,” Solo pointed out.

  Something which might have been a laugh came from the creature’s translator. “They’d hardly notice. Get up, Solo. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time. You’ve embarrassed me in front of Jabba with your pious excuses for the last time.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Light and noise filled the little corner of the cantina, and when it had faded, all that remained of the unctuous alien was a smoking, slimy spot on the stone floor.

  Solo brought his hand and the smoking weapon it held out from beneath the table, drawing bemused stares from several of the cantina’s patrons and clucking sounds from its more knowledgeable ones. They had known the creature had committed its fatal mistake in allowing Solo the chance to get his hands under cover.

  “It’ll take a lot more than the likes of you to finish me off. Jabba the Hut always did skimp when it came to hiring his hands.”

  Leaving the booth, Solo flipped the bartender a handful of coins as he and Chewbacca moved off. “Sorry for the mess. I always was a rotten host.”

  * * *

  Heavily armed troopers hurried down the narrow alleyway, glowering from time to time at the darkly clad beings who hawked exotic goods from dingy little stalls. Here in Mos Eisley’s inner regions the walls were high and narrow, turning the passageway into a tunnel.

  No one stared angrily back at them; no one shouted imprecations or mouthed obscenities. These armored figures moved with the authority of the Empire, their side-arms boldly displayed and activated. All around, men, not-men, and mechanicals were crouched in waste-littered doorways. Among accumulations of garbage and filth they exchanged information and concluded transactions of dubious legality.

  A hot wind moaned down the alleyway and the troopers closed their formation. Their precision and order masked a fear of such claustrophobic quarters.

  One paused to check a door, only to discover it tightly locked and bolted. A sand-encrusted human shambling nearby visited a half-mad harangue on the trooper. Shrugging inwardly, the soldier gave the crazy human a sour eye before moving on down the alley to join up again with his fellows.

  As soon as they were well past, the door slid open a crack and a metallic face peered out. Below Threepio’s leg, a squat barrel shape struggled for a view.

  “I would rather have gone with Master Luke than stay here with you. Still, orders are orders. I don’t quite know what all the trouble is about, but I’m sure it must be your fault.”

  Artoo responded with a near impossibility: a sniggering beep.

  “You watch your language,” the taller machine warned.

  The number of old landspeeders and other powered transports in the dusty lot which were still capable of motion could be counted on the fingers of one hand. But that was not the concern of Luke and Ben as they stood bargaining with the tall, slightly insectoid owner. They were here not to buy, but to sell.

  None of the passersby favored the hagglers with so much as a curious glance. Similar transactions which were the business of no one but the transactors took place half a thousand times daily in Mos Eisley.

  Eventually there were no more pleas or threats to be exchanged. As though doling out vials of his own blood, the owner finalized the sale by passing a number of small metal shapes to Luke. Luke and the insectoid traded formal good-byes and then they parted, each convinced he had gotten the better of the deal.

  “He says it’s the best he can do. Since the XP-38 came out, they just aren’t in demand anymore,” Luke sighed.

  “Don’t look so discouraged,” Kenobi chided him. “What you’ve obtained will be sufficient. I’ve enough to cover the rest.”

  Leaving the main street, they turned down an alleyway and walked past a small robot herding along a clutch of creatures resembling attenuated anteaters. As they rounded the corner Luke strained for a forlorn glimpse of the old landspeeder—his last link with his former life. Then there was no more time for looking back.

  Something short and dark that might have been human underneath all its wrappings stepped out of the shadows as they moved away from the corner. It continued staring after them as they disappeared down a bend in the walkway.

  The docking-bay entrance to the small saucer-shaped spacecraft was completely ringed by half a dozen men and aliens, of which the former were by half the most grotesque. A great mobile tub of muscle and suet topped by a shaggy scarred skull surveyed the semicircle of armed assassins with satisfaction. Moving forward from the center of the crescent, he shouted toward the ship.

  “Come on out, Solo! We’ve got you surrounded.”

  “If so, you’re facing the wrong way,” came a calm voice.

  Jabba the Hut jumped—in itself a remarkable sight. His lackeys likewise whirled—to see Han Solo and Chewbacca standing behind them.

  “You see, I’ve been waiting for you, Jabba.”

  “I expected you would be,” the Hut admitted, at once pleased and alarmed by the fact that neither Solo nor the big Wookiee appeared to be armed.

  “I’m not the type to run,” Solo said.

  “Run? Run from what!” Jabba countered. The absence of visible weapons bothered Jabba more than he cared to admit to himself. There was something peculiar here, and it would be better to make no hasty moves until he discovered what was amiss.

  “Han, my boy, there are times when you disappoint me. I merely wish to know why you haven’t paid me … as you should have long ago. And why did you have to fry poor Greedo like that? After all you and I have been through together.”

  Solo grinned tightly. “Shove it, Jabba. There isn’t enough sentiment in your body to warm an orphaned bacterium. As for Greedo, you sent him to kill me.”

  “Why, Han,” Jabba protested in surprise. “Why would I do that? You’re the best smuggler in the business. You’re too valuable to fry. Greedo was only relaying my natural concern at your delays. He wasn’t going to kill you.”

  “I think he thought he was. Next time don’t send one of those hired twerps. If you’ve got something to say, come see me yourself.”

  Jabba shook his head and his jowls shook—lazy, fleshy echoes of his mock sorrow. “Han, Han—if only you hadn’t had to dump that shipment of spice! You understand … I just can’t make an exception. Where would I be if every pilot who smuggled for me dumped his shipment at the first sign of an Imperial warship? And then simply showed empty pockets when I demanded recompense? It’s not good business. I can be generous and forgiving—but not to the point of bankruptcy.”

  “You know, even I get boarded sometimes, Jabba. Did you think I dumped that spice because I got tired of its smell? I wanted to deliver it as much as you wanted to receive it. I had no choice.” Again the sardonic smile. “As you say, I’m too valuable to fry. But I’ve got a charter now and I can pay you back, plus a little extra. I just need some more time. I can give you a thousand on account, the rest in three week
s.”

  The gross form seemed to consider, then directed his next words not to Solo but to his hirelings. “Put your blasters away.” His gaze and a predatory smile turned to the wary Corellian.

  “Han, my boy, I’m only doing this because you’re the best and I’ll need you again sometime. So, out of the greatness of my soul and a forgiving heart—and for an extra, say, twenty percent—I’ll give you a little more time.” The voice nearly cracked with restraint. “But this is the last time. If you disappoint me again, if you trample my generosity in your mocking laughter, I’ll put a price on your head so large you won’t be able to go near a civilized system for the rest of your life, because on every one your name and face will be known to men who’ll gladly cut your guts out for one-tenth of what I’ll promise them.”

  “I’m glad we both have my best interests at heart,” replied Solo pleasantly as he and Chewbacca started past the staring eyes of the Hut’s hired guns. “Don’t worry, Jabba, I’ll pay you. But not because you threaten me. I’ll pay you because … it’s my pleasure.”

  “They’re starting to search the spaceport central,” the Commander declared, having to alternately run a couple of steps and then walk to keep pace with the long strides of Darth Vader. The Dark Lord was deep in thought as he strode down one of the battle station’s main corridors, trailed by several aides.

  “The reports are just starting to come in,” the Commander went on. “It’s only a matter of time before we have those ’droids.”

  “Send in more men if you have to. Never mind the protests of the planetary Governor—I must have those ’droids. It’s her hope of that data being used against us that is the pillar of her resistance to the mind probes.”

  “I understand, Lord Vader. Until then we must waste our time with Governor Tarkin’s foolish plan to break her.”

  * * *

  “There’s docking bay ninety-four,” Luke told Kenobi and the robots who had rejoined them, “and there’s Chewbacca. He seems excited about something.”