by George Lucas
Gravel and fine sand formed a gritty fog beneath the landspeeder as it slid across the rippling wasteland of Tatooine on humming repulsors. Occasionally the craft would jog slightly as it encountered a dip or slight rise, to return to its smooth passage as its pilot compensated for the change in terrain.
Luke leaned back in the seat, luxuriating in unaccustomed relaxation as Threepio skillfully directed the powerful landcraft around dunes and rocky outcrops. “You handle a landspeeder pretty well, for a machine,” he noted admiringly.
“Thank you, sir,” a gratified Threepio responded, his eyes never moving from the landscape ahead. “I was not lying to your uncle when I claimed versatility as my middle name. In fact, on occasion I have been called upon to perform unexpected functions in circumstances which would have appalled my designers.”
Something pinged behind them, then pinged again.
Luke frowned and popped the speeder canopy. A few moments of digging in the motor casing eliminated the metallic bark.
“How’s that?” he yelled forward.
Threepio signaled that the adjustment was satisfactory. Luke turned back into the cockpit and closed the canopy over them again. Silently he brushed his wind-whipped hair back out of his eyes as his attention returned to the dry desert ahead of them.
“Old Ben Kenobi is supposed to live out in this general direction. Even though nobody knows exactly where, I don’t see how that Artoo unit could have come this far so quickly.” His expression was downcast. “We must have missed him back in the dunes some where. He could be anywhere out here. And Uncle Owen must be wondering why I haven’t called in from the south ridge by now.”
Threepio considered a moment, then ventured, “Would it help, sir, if you told him that it was my fault?”
Luke appeared to brighten at the suggestion. “Sure... he needs you twice as much now. Probably he’ll only deactivate you for a day or so, or give you a partial memory flush.”
Deactivate? Memory flush? Threepio added hastily, “On second thoughts, sir, Artoo would still be around if you hadn’t removed his restraining module.”
But something more important than fixing responsibility for the little robot’s disappearance was on Luke’s mind at the moment. “Wait a minute,” he advised Threepio as he stared fixedly at the instrument panel. “There’s something dead ahead on the metal scanner. Can’t distinguish outlines at this distance, but judging by size alone, it could be our wandering droid. Hit it.”
The landspeeder jumped forward as Threepio engaged the accelerator, but its occupants were totally unaware that other eyes were watching as the craft increased its speed.
Those eyes were not organic, but then, they weren’t wholly mechanical, either. No one could say for certain, because no one had ever made that intimate a study of the Tusken Raiders—known less formally to the margin farmers of Tatooine simply as the sandpeople.
The Tuskens didn’t permit close study of themselves, discouraging potential observers by methods as effective as they were uncivilized. A few xenologists thought they must be related to the jawas. Even fewer hypothesized that the jawas were actually the mature form of the sandpeople, but this theory was discounted by the majority of serious scientists.
Both races affected tight clothing to shield them from Tatooine’s twin dose of solar radiation, but there most comparisons ended. Instead of heavy woven cloaks like the jawas wore, the sandpeople wrapped themselves mummylike in endless swathings and bandages and loose bits of cloth.
Where the jawas feared everything, a Tusken Raider feared little. The sandpeople were larger, stronger, and far more aggressive. Fortunately for the human colonists of Tatooine, they were not very numerous and elected to pursue their nomadic existence in some of Tatooine’s most desolate regions. Contact between human and Tusken, therefore, was infrequent and uneasy, and they murdered no more than a handful of humans per year. Since the human population had claimed its share of Tuskens, not always with reason, a peace of a sort existed between the two—as long as neither side gained an advantage.
One of the pair felt that that unstable condition had temporarily shifted in his favor, and he was about to take full advantage of it as he raised his rifle toward the landspeeder. But his companion grabbed the weapon and shoved down on it before it could be fired. This set off a violent argument between the two. And, as they traded vociferous opinions in a language consisting mostly of consonants, the landspeeder sped on its way.
Either because the speeder had passed out of range or because the second Tusken had convinced the other, the two broke off the discussion and scrambled down the back side of the high ridge. Snuffling and a shifting of weight took place at the ridge bottom as the two Banthas stirred at the approach of their masters. Each was as large as a small dinosaur, with bright eyes and long, thick fur. They hissed anxiously as the two sandpeople approached, then mounted them from knee to saddle.
With a kick the Banthas rose. Moving slowly but with enormous strides, the two massive horned creatures swept down the back of the rugged bluff, urged on by their anxious, equally outrageous mahouts.
“It’s him, all right,” Luke declared with mixed anger and satisfaction as the tiny tripodal form came into view. The speeder banked and swung down onto the floor of a huge sandstone canyon. Luke slipped his rifle out from behind the seat and swung it over his shoulder. “Come round in front of him, Threepio,” he instructed.
“With pleasure, sir.”
The Artoo unit obviously noted their approach, but made no move to escape; it could hardly have outrun the landspeeder anyway. Artoo simply halted as soon as it detected them and waited until the craft swung around in a smooth arc. Threepio came to a sharp halt, sending up a low cloud of sand on the smaller robot’s right. Then the whine from the landspeeder’s engine dropped to a low idling hum as Threepio put it in parking mode. A last sigh and the craft stopped completely.
After finishing a cautious survey of the canyon, Luke led his companion out onto the gravelly surface and up to Artoo Detoo. “Just where,” he inquired sharply, “did you think you were going?”
A feeble whistle issued from the apologetic robot, but it was Threepio and not the recalcitrant rover who was abruptly doing most of the talking.
“Master Luke here is now your rightful owner, Artoo. How could you just amble away from him like this? Now that he’s found you, let’s have no more of this ‘Obi-Wan Kenobi’ gibberish. I don’t know where you picked that up—or that melodramatic hologram, either.”
Artoo started to beep in protest, but Threepio’s indignation was too great to permit excuses. “And don’t talk to me about your mission. What rot! You’re fortunate Master Luke doesn’t blast you into a million pieces right here and now.”
“Not much chance of that,” admitted Luke, a bit overwhelmed by Threepio’s casual vindictiveness. “Come on—it’s getting late.” He eyed the rapidly rising suns. “I just hope we can get back before Uncle Owen really lets go.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so,” Threepio suggested, apparently unwilling that the Artoo unit should get off so easily, “I think you ought to deactivate the little fugitive until you’ve gotten him safely back in the garage.”
“No. He’s not going to try anything.” Luke studied the softly beeping droid sternly. “I hope he’s learned his lesson. There’s no need to—”
Without warning the Artoo unit suddenly leaped off the ground—no mean feat considering the weakness of the spring mechanisms in his three thick legs. His cylindrical body was twisting and spinning as he let out a frantic symphony of whistles, hoots, and electronic exclamations.
Luke was tired, not alarmed. “What is it? What’s wrong with him now?” He was beginning to see how Threepio’s patience could be worn thin. He had had about enough of this addled instrument himself.
Undoubtedly the Artoo unit had acquired the holo of the girl by accident, then used it to entice Luke into removing his restraining module. Threepio probably had the right attitu
de. Still, once Luke got its circuits realigned and its logic couplings cleaned, it would make a perfectly serviceable farm unit. Only... if that was the case, then why was Threepio looking around so anxiously?
“Oh my, sir. Artoo claims there are several creatures of unknown type approaching from the southeast.”
That could be another attempt by Artoo to distract them, but Luke couldn’t take the chance. Instantly he had his rifle off his shoulder and had activated the energy cell. He examined the horizon in the indicated direction and saw nothing. But then, sandpeople were experts at making themselves unseeable.
Luke suddenly realized exactly how far out they were, how much ground the landspeeder had covered that morning. “I’ve never been out in this direction this far from the farm before,” he informed Threepio. “There are some awfully strange things living out here. Not all of them have been classified. It’s better to treat anything as dangerous until determined otherwise. Of course, if it’s something utterly new...” His curiosity prodded him. In any case, this was probably just another ruse of Artoo Detoo’s. “Let’s take a look,” he decided.
Moving cautiously forward and keeping his rifle ready, he led Threepio toward the crest of a nearby high dune. At the same time he took care not to let Artoo out of his sight.
Once at the top he lay flat and traded his rifle for the macro-binoculars. Below, another canyon spread out before them, rising to a wind-weathered wall of rust and ocher. Advancing the binocs slowly across the canyon floor, he settled unexpectedly on two tethered shapes. Banthas—and riderless!
“Did you say something, sir?” wheezed Threepio, struggling up behind Luke. His locomotors were not designed for such outer climbing and scrambling.
“Banthas, all right,” Luke whispered over his shoulder, not considering in the excitement of the moment that Threepio might not know a Bantha from a panda.
He looked back into the eyepieces, refocusing slightly. “Wait... it’s sandpeople, sure. I see one of them.”
Something dark suddenly blocked his sight. For a moment he thought that a rock might have moved in front of him. Irritably he dropped the binoculars and reached out to move the blinding object aside. His hand touched something like soft metal.
It was a bandaged leg about as big around as both of Luke’s together. Shocked, he looked up... and up. The towering figure glaring down at him was no jawa. It had seemingly erupted straight from the sand.
Threepio took a startled step backward and found no footing. As gyros whined in protest the tall robot tumbled backward down the side of the dune. Frozen in place, Luke heard steadily fading bangs and rattles as Threepio bounced down the steep slope behind him.
As the moment of confrontation passed, the Tusken let out a terrifying grunt of fury and pleasure and brought down his heavy gaderffii. The double-edged ax would have cleaved Luke’s skull neatly in two, except that he threw the rifle up in a gesture more instinctive than calculated. His weapon deflected the blow, but would never do so again. Made from cannibalized freighter plating the huge ax shattered the barrel and made metallic confetti of the gun’s delicate insides.
Luke scrambled backward and found himself against a steep drop. The Raider stalked him slowly, weapon held high over its rag-enclosed head. It uttered a gruesome, chuckling laugh, the sound made all the more inhuman by the distortion effect of its gridlike sandfilter.
Luke tried to view his situation objectively, as he had been instructed to do in survival school. Trouble was, his mouth was dry, his hands were shaking, and he was paralyzed with fear. With the Raider in front of him and a probably fatal drop behind, something else in his mind took over and opted for the least painful response. He fainted.
None of the Raiders noticed Artoo Detoo as the tiny robot forced himself into a small alcove in the rocks near the landspeeder. One of them was carrying the inert form of Luke. He dumped the unconscious youth in a heap next to the speeder, then joined his fellows as they began swarming over the open craft.
Supplies and spare parts were thrown in all directions. From time to time the plundering would be interrupted as several of them quibbled or fought over a particularly choice bit of booty.
Unexpectedly, distribution of the landspeeder’s contents ceased, and with frightening speed the Raiders became part of the desertscape, looking in all directions.
A lost breeze idled absently down the canyon. Far off to the west, something howled. A rolling, booming drone ricocheted off canyon walls and crawled nervously up and down a gorgon scale.
The sandpeople remained poised a moment longer. Then they were uttering loud grunts and moans of fright as they rushed to get away from the highly visible landspeeder.
The shivering howl sounded again, nearer this time. By now the sandpeople were halfway to their waiting Banthas, that were likewise lowing tensely and tugging at their tethers.
Although the sound held no meaning for Artoo Detoo, the little droid tried to squeeze himself even deeper into the almost-cave. The booming howl came closer. Judging by the way the sandpeople had reacted, something monstrous beyond imagining had to be behind that rolling cry. Something monstrous and murder-bent which might not have the sense to distinguish between edible organics and inedible machines.
Not even the dust of their passing remained to mark where the Tusken Raiders had only minutes before been dismembering the interior of the landspeeder. Artoo Detoo shut down all but vital functions, trying to minimize noise and light as a swishing sound grew gradually audible. Moving toward the landspeeder, the creature appeared above the top of a nearby dune...
= V =
IT was tall, but hardly monstrous. Artoo frowned inwardly as he checked ocular circuitry and reactivated his innards.
The monster looked very much like an old man. He was clad in a shabby cloak and loose robes hung with a few small straps, packs, and unrecognizable instruments. Artoo searched the human’s wake but detected no evidence of a pursuing nightmare. Nor did the man appear threatened. Actually, Artoo thought, he looked kind of pleased.
It was impossible to tell where the odd arrival’s overlapping attire ended and his skin began. That aged visage blended into the sand-stroked cloth, and his beard appeared but an extension of the loose threads covering his upper chest.
Hints of extreme climates other than desert, of ultimate cold and humidity, were etched into that seamed face. A questing beak of nose, like a high rock, protruded outward from a flashflood of wrinkles and scars. The eyes bordering it were a liquid crystal-azure. The man smiled through sand and dust and beard, squinting at the sight of the crumpled form lying quietly alongside the landspeeder.
Convinced that the sandpeople had been the victims of an auditory delusion of some kind—conveniently ignoring the fact that he had experienced it also—and likewise assured that this stranger meant Luke no harm, Artoo shifted his position slightly, trying to obtain a better view. The sound produced by a tiny pebble he dislodged was barely perceptible to his electronic sensors, but the man whirled as if shot. He stared straight at Artoo’s alcove, still smiling gently.
“Hello there,” he called in a deep, surprisingly cheerful voice. “Come here, my little friend. No need to be afraid.”
Something forthright and reassuring was in that voice. In any case, the association of an unknown human was preferable to remaining isolated in this wasteland. Waddling out into the sunlight, Artoo made his way over to where Luke lay sprawled. The robot’s barrellike body inclined forward as he examined the limp form. Whistles and beeps of concern came from within.
Walking over, the old man bent beside Luke and reached out to touch his forehead, then his temple. Shortly, the unconscious youth was stirring and mumbling like a dreaming sleeper.
“Don’t worry,” the human told Artoo, “he’ll be all right.”
As if to confirm this opinion, Luke blinked, stared upward uncomprehendingly, and muttered, “What happened?”
“Rest easy, son,” the man instructed him as he sat back on his
heels. “You’ve had a busy day.” Again the boyish grin. “You’re mighty lucky your head’s still attached to the rest of you.”
Luke looked around, his gaze coming to rest on the elderly face hovering above him. Recognition did wonders for his condition.
“Ben... it’s got to be!” A sudden remembrance made him look around fearfully. But there was no sign of sandpeople. Slowly he raised his body to a sitting position. “Ben Kenobi... am I glad to see you!”
Rising, the old man surveyed the canyon floor and rolling rimwall above. One foot played with the sand. “The Jundland wastes are not to be traveled lightly. It’s the misguided traveler who tempts the Tuskens’ hospitality.” His gaze went back to his patient. “Tell me, young man, what brings you out this far into nowhere?”
Luke indicated Artoo Detoo. “This little droid. For a while I thought he”d gone crazy, claiming he was searching for a former master. Now I don’t think so. I’ve never seen such devotion in a droid—misguided or otherwise. There seems to be no stopping him; he even resorted to tricking me.”
Luke’s gaze shifted upward. “He claims to be the property of someone called Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Luke watched closely, but the man showed no reaction. “Is that a relative of yours? My uncle thinks he was a real person. Or is it just some unimportant bit of scrambled information that got shifted into his primary performance bank?”
An introspective frown did remarkable things to that sandblasted face. Kenobi appeared to ponder the question, scratching absently at his scruffy beard. “Obi-Wan Kenobi!” he recited. “Obi-Wan... now, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. A long time. Most curious.”
“My uncle said he was dead.” Luke supplied helpfully.
“Oh, he’s not dead,” Kenobi corrected him easily. “Not yet, not yet.”
Luke climbed excitedly to his feet, all thoughts of Tusken Raiders forgotten now. “You know him, then?”
