by George Lucas
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.
“Do you speak Bocce?”
“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 Bocce as—”
The farmer appeared determined never to allow him to conclude a sentence. “Shut up.” Owen Lars looked down at the jawa. Til 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 homeliness 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 humanlik
e 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 worktable 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 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 impo
rtance. 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.
