by George Lucas
“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 nep
hew. “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 round 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-orange 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...”
“You mean...?” Luke started to gape.
“Yes, sir... he’s gone.”
“And I removed his restraining coupling myself,” Luke muttered slowly. Already he could visualize his uncle’s face. The last of their savings tied up in these droids, he had said.
Racing out of the garage, Luke hunted for non-existent reasons why the Artoo unit should go berserk. Threepio followed on his heels.
From a small ridge which formed the highest point close by the homestead, Luke had a panoramic view of the surrounding desert. Bringing out the precious macrobinoculars, he scanned the rapidly darkening horizons for something small, metallic, three-legged, and out of its mechanical mind.
Threepio fought his way up through the sand to stand beside Luke. “That Artoo unit has always caused nothing but trouble,” he groaned. “Astromech droids are becoming too iconoclastic even for me to understand, sometimes.”
The binoculars finally came down, and Luke commented matter-of-factly, “Well, he’s nowhere in sight.” He kicked furiously at the ground. “Damn it—how could I have been so stupid, letting it trick me into removing that restrainer! Uncle Owen’s going to kill me.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” ventured a hopeful Threepio, visions of jawas dancing in his head, “But can’t we go after him?”
Luke turned. Studiously he examined the wall of black advancing toward them. “Not at night. It’s too dangerous with all the raiders around. I’m not too concerned about the jawas, but sandpeople... no, not in the dark. We’ll have to wait until morning to try to track him.”
A shout rose from the homestead below. “Luke—Luke, are you finished with those droids yet? I’m turning down the power for the night.”
“All right!” Luke responded, sidestepping the question. I’ll be down in a few minutes, Uncle Owen!” Turning, he took one last look at the vanished horizon. “Boy, am I in for it!” he muttered. “That little droid’s going to get me in a lot of trouble.”
“Oh, he excels at that, sir.” Threepio confirmed with mock cheerfulness. Luke threw him a sour look, and together they turned and descended into the garage.
“Luke... Luke!” Still rubbing the morning sleep from his eyes, Owen glanced from side to side, loosening his neck muscles. “Where could that boy be loafing now?” he wondered aloud at the lack of response. There was no sign of movement in the homestead, and he had already checked above.
“Luke!” he yelled again. Luke, Luke, Luke... the name echoed teasingly back at him from the homestead walls. Turning angrily, he stalked back into the kitchen, where Beru was preparing breakfast.
“Have you seen L
uke this morning?” he asked as softly as he could manage.
She glanced briefly at him, then returned to her cooking. “Yes. He said he had some things to do before he started out to the south ridge this morning, so he left early.”
“Before breakfast?” Owen frowned worriedly. “That’s not like him. Did he take the new droids with him?”
“I think so. I’m sure I saw at least one of them with him.”
“Well,” Owen mused, uncomfortable but with nothing to really hang imprecations on, “he’d better have those ridge units repaired by midday or there’ll be hell to pay.”
An unseen face shielded by smooth white metal emerged from the half-buried life pod that now formed the backbone of a dune slightly higher than its neighbors. The voice sounded efficient, but tired.
“Nothing,” the inspecting trooper muttered to his several companions. “No tapes, and no sign of habitation.”
Powerful handguns lowered at the information that the pod was deserted. One of the armored men turned, calling out to an officer standing some distance away. “This is definitely the pod that cleared the rebel ship, sir, but there’s nothing on board.”
“Yet it set down intact,” the officer was murmuring to himself. “It could have done so on automatics, but if it was a true malfunction, then they shouldn’t have been engaged.” Something didn’t make sense.
“Here’s why there’s nothing on board and no hint of life, sir,” a voice declared.
The officer turned and strode several paces to where another trooper was kneeling in the sand. He held up an object for the officer’s inspection. It shone in the sun.
“Droid plating,” the officer observed after a quick glance at the metal fragment. Superior and underling exchanged a significant glance. Then their eyes turned simultaneously to the high mesas off to the north.
