Trilogy (11 page)

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?”

A smile of perverse youthfulness split that collage of wrinkled skin and beard. “Of course I know him: he's me. Just as you probably suspected, Luke. I haven't gone by the name
Obi-wan
, though, since before you were born.”

“Then,” Luke essayed, gesturing at Artoo Detoo, “this 'droid does belong to you, as he claims.”

“Now, that's the peculiar part,” an openly puzzled Kenobi confessed, regarding the silent robot. “I can't seem to remember owning a 'droid, least of all a modern Artoo unit. Most interesting, most interesting.”

Something drew the old man's gaze suddenly to the brow of nearby cliffs. “I think it's best we make use of your landspeeder some. The sandpeople are easily startled, but they'll soon return in greater numbers. A landspeeder's not a prize readily conceded, and after all, jawas they're not.”

Placing both hands over his mouth in a peculiar fashion, Kenobi inhaled deeply and let out an unearthly howl that made Luke jump. “That ought to keep any laggards running for a while yet,” the old man concluded with satisfaction.

“That's a krayt dragon call!” Luke gaped in astonishment. “How did you do that?”

“I'll show you sometime, son. It's not too hard. Just
takes the right attitude, a set of well-used vocal cords, and a lot of wind. Now, if you were an Imperial bureaucrat, I could teach you right off, but you're not.” He scanned the cliff-spine again. “And I don't think this is the time or place for it.”

“I won't argue that.” Luke was rubbing at the back of his head. “Let's get started.”

That was when Artoo let out a pathetic beep and whirled. Luke couldn't interpret the electronic squeal, but he suddenly comprehended the reason behind it. “Threepio,” Luke exclaimed, worriedly. Artoo was already moving as fast as possible away from the landspeeder. “Come on, Ben.”

The little robot led them to the edge of a large sandpit. It stopped there, pointing downward and squeaking mournfully. Luke saw where Artoo was pointing, then started cautiously down the smooth, shifting slope while Kenobi followed effortlessly.

Threepio lay in the sand at the base of the slope down which he had rolled and tumbled. His casing was dented and badly mangled. One arm lay broken and bent a short distance away.

“
Threepio!
” Luke called. There was no response. Shaking the 'droid failed to activate anything. Opening a plate on the robot's back, Luke flipped a hidden switch on and off several times in succession. A low hum started, stopped, started again, and then dropped to a normal purr.

Using his remaining arm, Threepio rolled over and sat up. “Where am I,” he murmured, as his photoreceptors continued to clear. Then he recognized Luke. “Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I must have taken a bad step.”

“You're lucky any of your main circuits are still operational,”
Luke informed him. He looked significantly toward the top of the hill. “Can you stand? We've got to get out of here before the sandpeople return.”

Servomotors whined in protest until Threepio ceased struggling. “I don't think I can make it. You go on, Master Luke. It doesn't make sense to risk yourself on my account. I'm finished.”

“No, you're not,” Luke shot back, unaccountably affected by this recently encountered machine. But then, Threepio was not the usual uncommunicative, agri-functional device Luke was accustomed to dealing with. “What kind of talk is that?”

“Logical,” Threepio informed him.

Luke shook his head angrily. “Defeatist.”

With Luke and Ben Kenobi's aid, the battered 'droid somehow managed to struggle erect. Little Artoo watched from the pit's rim.

Hesitating part way up the slope, Kenobi sniffed the air suspiciously. “Quickly, son. They're on the move again.”

Trying to watch the surrounding rocks and his footsteps simultaneously, Luke fought to drag Threepio clear of the pit.

The decor of Ben Kenobi's well-concealed cave was Spartan without appearing uncomfortable. It would not have suited most people, reflecting as it did its owner's peculiarly eclectic tastes. The living area radiated an aura of lean comfort with more importance attached to mental comforts than those of the awkward human body.

They had succeeded in vacating the canyon before the Tusken Raiders could return in force. Under Kenobi's direction, Luke left a trail behind them so confusing that not even a hypernasal jawa could have followed it.

Luke spent several hours ignoring the temptations of
Kenobi's cave. Instead he remained in the corner which was equipped as a compact yet complete repair shop, working to fix Threepio's severed arm.

Fortunately, the automatic overload disconnects had given way under the severe strain, sealing electronic nerves and ganglia without real damage. Repair was merely a matter of reattaching the limb to the shoulder, then activating the self-reseals. Had the arm been broken in mid-“bone” instead of at a joint, such repairs would have been impossible save at a factory shop.

While Luke was thus occupied, Kenobi's attention was concentrated on Artoo Detoo. The squat 'droid sat passively on the cool cavern floor while the old man fiddled with its metal insides. Finally the man sat back with a “Humph!” of satisfaction and closed the open panels in the robot's rounded head. “Now let's see if we can figure out what you are, my little friend, and where you came from.”

Luke was almost finished anyway, and Kenobi's words were sufficient to pull him away from the repair area. “I saw part of the message,” he began, “and I …”

Once more the striking portrait was being projected into empty space from the front of the little robot. Luke broke off, enraptured by its enigmatic beauty once again.

“Yes, I think that's got it,” Kenobi murmured contemplatively.

The image continued to flicker, indicating a tape hastily prepared. But it was much sharper, better defined now, Luke noted with admiration. One thing was apparent: Kenobi was skilled in subjects more specific than desert scavenging.

“General Obi-wan Kenobi,” the mellifluous voice was
saying, “I present myself in the name of the world family of Alderaan and of the Alliance to Restore the Republic. I break your solitude at the bidding of my father, Bail Organa, Viceroy and First Chairman of the Alderaan system.”

Kenobi absorbed this extraordinary declamation while Luke's eyes bugged big enough to fall from his face.

“Years ago, General,” the voice continued, “you served the Old Republic in the Clone Wars. Now my father begs you to aid us again in our most desperate hour. He would have you join him on Alderaan. You
must
go to him.

“I regret that I am unable to present my father's request to you in person. My mission to meet personally with you has failed. Hence I have been forced to resort to this secondary method of communication.

“Information vital to the survival of the Alliance has been secured in the mind of this Detoo 'droid. My father will know how to retrieve it. I plead with you to see this unit safely delivered to Alderaan.”

She paused, and when she continued, her words were hurried and less laced with formality. “You
must
help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You are my last hope. I will be captured by agents of the Empire. They will learn nothing from me. Everything to be learned lies locked in the memory cells of this 'droid. Do not fail us, Obi-wan Kenobi. Do not fail
me
.”

A small cloud of tridimensional static replaced the delicate portrait, then it vanished entirely. Artoo Detoo gazed up expectantly at Kenobi.

Luke's mind was as muddy as a pond laced with petroleum. Unanchored, his thoughts and eyes turned for stability to the quiet figure seated nearby.

The old man. The crazy wizard. The desert bum and all-around character whom his uncle and everyone else had known of for as long as Luke could recall.

If the breathless, anxiety-ridden message the unknown woman had just spoken into the cool air of the cave had affected Kenobi in any way he gave no hint of it. Instead, he leaned back against the rock wall and tugged thoughtfully at his beard, puffing slowly on a water pipe of free-form tarnished chrome.

Luke visualized that simple yet lovely portrait. “She's so—so—” His farming background didn't provide him with the requisite words. Suddenly something in the message caused him to stare disbelievingly at the oldster. “General Kenobi, you fought in the Clone Wars? But … that was so long ago.”

“Um, yes,” Kenobi acknowledged, as casually as he might have discussed the recipe for shang stew. “I guess it was a while back. I was a Jedi knight once. Like,” he added, watching the youth appraisingly, “your father.”

“A Jedi knight,” Luke echoed. Then he looked confused. “But my father didn't fight in the Clone Wars. He was no knight—just a navigator on a space freighter.”

Kenobi's smile enfolded the pipe's mouthpiece. “Or so your uncle has told you.” His attention was suddenly focused elsewhere. “Owen Lars didn't agree with your father's ideas, opinions, or with his philosophy of life. He believed that your father should have stayed here on Tatooine and not gotten involved in …” Again the seemingly indifferent shrug. “Well, he thought he should have remained here and minded his farming.”

Luke said nothing, his body tense as the old man related bits and pieces of a personal history Luke had viewed only through his uncle's distortions.

“Owen was always afraid that your father's adventurous life might influence you, might pull you away from Anchorhead.” He shook his head slowly, regretfully at the remembrance. “I'm afraid there wasn't much of the farmer in your father.”

Luke turned away. He returned to cleaning the last particles of sand from Threepio's healing armature. “I wish I'd known him,” he finally whispered.

“He was the best pilot I ever knew,” Kenobi went on, “and a smart fighter. The force … the instinct was strong in him.” For a brief second Kenobi actually appeared old. “He was also a good friend.”

Suddenly the boyish twinkle returned to those piercing eyes along with the old man's natural humor. “I understand you're quite a pilot yourself. Piloting and navigation aren't hereditary, but a number of the things that can combine to make a good small-ship pilot are. Those you may have inherited. Still, even a duck has to be taught to swim.”

“What's a duck?” Luke asked curiously.

“Never mind. In many ways, you know, you are much like your father.” Kenobi's unabashed look of evaluation made Luke nervous. “You've grown up quite a bit since the last time I saw you.”