The Commander pursed his lips, shook his head slightly, perhaps a bit

sympathetically, as he considered the woman. "She'll die before she gives you any

information." Vader's reply was chilling in its indifference. "Leave that to me."

He considered a moment, then went on. "Send out a wide-band distress signal.

Indicate that the Senator's ship encountered an unexpected meteorite cluster it could

not avoid. Readings indicate that the shift shields were overridden and the ship was

hulled to the point of vacating ninety-five percent of its atmosphere. Inform her

father and the Senate that all aboard were killed."

A cluster of tired-looking troops marched purposefully up to their Commander

and the Dark Lord. Vader eyed them expectantly.

"The data tapes in question are not aboard the ship. There is no valuable

information in the ship's storage banks and no evidence of bank erasure," the officer

in charge recited mechanically. "Nor were any transmissions directed outward from

the ship from the time we made contact. A malfunctioning lifeboat pod was ejected

during the fighting, but it was confirmed at the time that no life forms were on board."

Vader appeared thoughtful. "It could have been a malfunctioning pod," he

mused, "That might also have contained the tapes. Tapes are not life forms. In all

probability any native finding them would be ignorant of their importance and would

likely clear them for his own use. Still…"

"Send down a detachment to retrieve them, or to make certain they are not in the

pod," he finally ordered the Commander and attentive officer. "Be as subtle as

possible; there is no need to attract attention, even on this miserable outpost world."

As the officer and troops departed, Vader turned his gaze back to the Commander.

"Vaporize this fighter—we don't want to leave anything. As for the pod, I cannot

take the chance it was a simple malfunction. The data it might contain could prove

too damaging. See to this personally, Commander. If those data tapes exist, they

must be retrieved or destroyed at all costs." Then he added with satisfaction, "With

that accomplished and the Senator in our hands, we will see the end of this absurd

rebellion."

"It shall be as you direct, Lord Vader," the Commander acknowledged. Both

men entered the accessway to the cruiser.

"What a forsaken place this is!"

Threepio turned cautiously to look back at where the pod lay half buried in sand.

His internal gyros were still unsteady from the rough landing. Landing! Mere

application of the term unduly flattered his dull associate.

On the other hand, he supposed he ought to be grateful they had come down in

one piece. Although, he mused as he studied the barren landscape, he still wasn't

sure they were better off here than they would have been had they remained on the

captured cruiser. High sandstone mesas dominated the skyline to one side. Every

other direction showed only endless series of marching dunes like long yellow teeth

stretching for kilometer on kilometer into the distance. Sand ocean blended into sky-

glare until it was impossible to distinguish where one ended and the other began.

A faint cloud of minute dust particles rose in their wake as the two robots

marched away from the pod. That vehicle, its intended function fully discharged,

was now quite useless. Neither robot had been designed for pedal locomotion on

this kind of terrain, so they had to fight their way across the unstable surface.

"We seem to have been made to suffer," Threepio moaned in self-pity. "It's a

rotten existence." Something squeaked in his right leg and he winced. "I've got to

rest before I fall apart. My internals still haven't recovered from that headlong crash

you called a landing."

He paused, but Artoo Detoo did not. The little automation had performed a

sharp turn and was now ambling slowly but steadily in the direction of the nearest

outjut of mesa.

"Hey," Threepio yelled. Artoo ignored the call and continued striding.

"Where do you think you are going?"

Now Artoo paused, emitting a stream of electronic explanation as Threepio

exhaustedly walked over to join him.

"Well, I'm not going that way," Threepio declared when Artoo had concluded his

explanation. "It's too rocky." He gestured in the direction they had been walking,

at an angle away from the cliffs. "This way is much easier." A metal hand waved

disparagingly at the high mesas. "What makes you think there are settlements that

way, anyhow?"

A long whistle issued from the depths of Artoo.

"Don't get technical with me," Threepio warned. "I've had just about enough

of your decisions."

Artoo beeped once.

"All right, go your way," Threepio announced grandly. "You'll be sandlogged

within a day, you nearsighted scrap pile." He gave the Artoo unit a contemptuous

shove, sending the smaller robot tumbling down a slight dune. As it struggled at the

bottom to regain its feet, Threepio started off toward the blurred, glaring horizon,

glancing back over his shoulder. "Don't let me catch you following me, begging for

help," he warned, "because you won't get it."

Below the crest of the dune, the Artoo unit righted itself. It paused briefly to

clean its single electronic eye with an auxiliary arm. Then it produced an electronic

squeal, which was almost, though not quite, a human expression of rage. Humming

quietly to itself then, it turned and trudged off toward the sandstone ridges as if

nothing had happened.

Several hours later a straining Threepio, his internal thermostat overloaded and

edging dangerously toward overheat shutdown, struggled up the top of what he hoped

was the last towering the dune. Nearby, a pillars and buttresses of bleached calcium,

the bones of some enormous beast, formed an unpromising landmark. Reaching the

crest of the dune, Threepio peered anxiously ahead. Instead of the hoped-for

greenery of human civilization he saw only several dozen more dunes, identical in

form and promise to the one he now stood upon. The farthest rose even higher than

the one he presently surmounted.

Threepio turned and looked back toward the now far-off rocky plateau, which

was beginning to grow indistinct with distance and heat distortion. "You

malfunctioning little twerp," he muttered, unable even now to admit to himself that

perhaps, just possibly, the Artoo unit might have been right. "This is all your fault.

You tricked me into going this way, but you'll do no better."

Nor would he if he didn't continue on. So he took a step forward and heard

something grind dully within a leg joint. Sitting down in an electronic funk, he

began picking sand from his encrusted joints.

He could continue on his present course, he told himself. Or he could confess

to an error in judgment and try to catch up again with Artoo Detoo. Neither prospect

held much appeal for him.

But there was a third choice. He could sit here, shining in the sunlight, until his

joints locked, his internals overheated, and the ultraviolet burned out his

photoreceptors. He would become another monument to the destructive power of

the binary, like the colossal organism whose picked corpse he had just encountered.

Already his receptors were beginning to go, he reflected. It seemed he saw

something moving in the distance. Heat distortion, probably. No—no—it was

definitely light on metal, and it was moving toward him. His hopes soared.

Ignoring the warnings from his damaged leg, he rose and began waving frantically.

It was, he saw now, definitely a vehicle, though of a type unfamiliar to him.

But a vehicle it was, and that implied intelligence and technology.

He neglected in his excitement to consider the possibility that it might not be of

human origin.

"So I cut off my power, shut down the afterburners, and dropped in low on

Deak's tail," Luke finished, waving his arms wildly. He and Biggs were walking in

the shade outside the power station. Sounds of metal being worked came from

somewhere within, where Fixer had finally joined his robot assistant in performing

repairs.

"I was so close to him," Luke continued excitedly, "I thought I was going to fry my

instrumentation. As it was. I busted up the skyhopper pretty bad." That

recollection inspired a frown.

"Uncle Owen was pretty upset. He grounded me for the rest of the season."

Luke's depression was brief. Memory of his feat overrode its immorality.

"You should have been there, Biggs!"

"You ought to take it a little easier," his friend cautioned. "You may be the

hottest bush pilot this side of Mos Eisley, Luke, but those little skyhoppers can be

dangerous. They move awfully fast for tropospheric craft—faster than they need to.

Keep playing engine jockey with one and someday, whammo!" He slammed one fist

violently into his open palm. "You're going to be nothing more than a dark spot on

the damp side of a canyon wall."

"Look who's talking," Luke retorted. "Now that you've been on a few big

automatic starships you're beginning to sound like my uncle. You've gotten soft in

the cities." He swung spiritedly at Biggs, who blocked the movement easily, making

a halfhearted gesture of counterattack.

Biggs's easygoing smugness dissolved into something warmer. "I've missed

you, kid."

Luke looked away, embarrassed. "Things haven't exactly been the same since

you left, either, Biggs. It's been so—" Luke hunted for the right word and finally

finished helplessly, "so quiet." His gaze traveled across the sandy, deserted streets of

Anchorhead. "Its always been quiet, really."

Biggs grew silent, thinking. He glanced around. They were along out there.

Everyone else was back inside the comparative coolness of the power station. As he

leaned close Luke sense an unaccustomed solemness in his friend's tone.

"Luke, I don't come back just to say good-bye, or to crow over everyone because

I got through the Academy." Again he hesitate, unsure of himself. Then he blurted

out rapidly, not giving himself a chance to back down, "But I want somebody to know.

I can't tell my parents."

Gaping at Biggs, Luke could only gulp, "Know what? What are you talking

about?"

"I'm talking about the talking that's been going on at the Academy—and other

places, Luke. Strong talking. I made some new friends, outsystem friends. We

agreed about the way certain things are developing, and—" his voice dropped

conspiratorially—"When we reach one of the peripheral systems, we're going to jump

ship and join the Alliance."

Luke stared back at his friend, tried to picture Biggs—fun-loving, happy-go-

lucky, live-for-today Biggs—as patriot afire with rebellious fervor.

"You're going to join the rebellion?" he started. "You've got to be kidding.

How?"

"Damp down, will you?" the bigger man cautioned. "You've got a mouth like a

crater."

"I'm sorry," Luke whispered rapidly. "I'm quiet—listen how quiet I am. You

can barely hear me—"

Biggs cut him off and continued. "A friend of mine from the Academy has a

friend on Bestine who might enable us to make contact with an armed rebel unit."

"A friend of a—You're crazy," Luke announced with conviction, certain his friend

had gone mad. "You could wander around forever trying to find a real rebel outpost.

Most of them are only myths. This twice removed friend could be an imperial agent.

You'd end up on Kessel, or worse. If rebel outposts were so easy to find, the Empire

would have wiped them out years ago."

"I know it's a long shot," Biggs admitted reluctantly. "If I don't contact them,

then"—a peculiar light came into Biggs's eyes, a conglomeration of newfound

maturity and…something else—"I'll do what I can, on my own."

He stared intensely at his friend. "Luke, I'm not going to wait for the Empire to

conscript me into its service. In spite of what you hear over the official information

channels, the rebellion is growing, spreading. And I want to be on the right side—

the side I believe in." His voice altered unpleasantly, and Luke wondered what he

saw in his mind's eye.

"You should have heard some of the stories I've heard, Luke, learned of some of

the outrages I've learned about. The Empire may have been great and beautiful once,

but the people in charge now—" He shook his head sharply. "It's rotten, Luke,

rotten."

"And I can't do a damn thing," Luke muttered morosely. "I'm stuck here."

He kicked futilely at the ever-present sand of Anchorhead.

"I though you were going to enter the Academy soon," Biggs observed. "If

that's so, then you'll have your chance to get off this sandpile."

Luke snorted derisively. "Not likely. I had to withdraw my application." He

looked away, unable to meet his friend's disbelieving stare. "I had to. There's been

a lot of unrest among the sandpeople since you left, Biggs. They've even raided the

outskirts of Anchorhead."

Biggs shook his head, disregarding the excuse. "Your uncle could hold off a

whole colony of raiders with one blaster."

"From the house, sure," Luke agreed, "but Uncle Owen's finally got enough

vaporators installed and running to make the farm pay off big. But he can't guard all

that land by himself, and he says he needs me for one more season. I can't run out

on him now."

Biggs sighed sadly. "I feel for you, Luke. Someday you're going to have to

learn to separate what seems to be important from what really is important." He

gestured around them.

"What good is all your uncle's work if it's taken over by the Empire? I've

heard that they're starting to imperialize commerce in all the outlying systems. It

won't be long before your uncle and everyone else on Tatooine are just tenants

slaving for the greater glory of the Empire."

"That couldn't happen here," Luke objected with a confidence he didn't quite

feel. "You've said it yourself—the Empire won't bother with this rock."

"Things change, Luke. Only the threat is completely removed—well, there are

two things men have never been able to satisfy; their curiosity and their greed.

There isn't much the high Imperial bureaucrats are curious about."

Both men stood silent. A sandwhirl traversed the street in silent majesty,

collapsing against a wall to send newborn baby zephyrs in all directions.

"I wish I was going with you," Luke finally murmured. He glanced up. "Will

you be around long?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I'm leaving in the morning to rendezvous with the

Ecliptic."

"Then I guess...I won't seeing you again."

"Maybe someday," Biggs declared. He brightened, grinning that disarming grin.

"I'll keep a look out for you, brother. Try not to run into any canyon walls in the

meantime."

"I'll be at the Academy the season after," Luke insisted, more to encourage

himself than Biggs. "After that, who knows where I'll end up?" He sounded

determined. "I won't be drafted into the starfleet, that's for sure. Tale care of

yourself. You'll…always be the best friend I've got." There was no need for a

handshake. These two had long since passed beyond that.

"So long, then, Luke," Biggs said simply. He turned and reentered the power

station.

Luke watched him disappear through the door, his own thoughts as chaotic and

frenetic as one of Tatooine's spontaneous dust storms.

There were any numbers of extraordinary features unique to Tatooine's surface.

Outstanding among them were the mysterious mists, which rose regularly from the

ground at the points where desert sands washed up against unyielding cliffs and mesas.

Fog in a steaming desert seemed as out of place as cactus on a glacier, but it

existed nonetheless. Meteorologists and geologists argued its origin among

themselves, muttering hard-to-believe theories about water suspended in sandstone

veins beneath the sand and incomprehensible chemical reactions which made water

rise when the ground cooled, then fall underground again with the double sunrise. It

was all very backward and very real.

Neither the mist nor the alien moans of nocturnal desert dwellers troubled Artoo

Detoo, however, as he made his careful way up the rocky arroyo, hunting for the

easiest pathway to the mesa top. His squarish, broad footpads made clicking sounds

loud in the evening light as sand underfoot gave way gradually to gravel.

For a moment, he paused. He seemed to detect a noise—like metal on rock—

ahead of him, instead of rock on rock. The sound wasn't repeated, though, and he

quickly resumed his ambling ascent.

Up the arroyo, too far up to be seen from below, a pebble trickled loose from the

stone wall. The tiny figure, which had accidentally dislodged the pebble, retreated

mouse-like into shadow. Two glowing points of light showed under overlapping

folds of brown cape a meter from the narrowing canyon wall.

Only the reaction of the unsuspecting robot indicated the presence of the whining

beam as it struck him. For a moment Artoo Detoo fluoresced eerily in the dimming

light. There was a single short electronic squeak. Then the tripodal support

unbalanced and the tiny automation toppled over onto its back, the lights on its front

blinking on and off erratically from the effects of the paralyzing beam.

Three travesties of men scurried out from behind concealing boulders. Their

motions were more indicative of rodent than humankind, and they stood little taller

than the Artoo unit. When they saw that the single burst of enervation energy had

immobilized the robot, they holstered their peculiar weapons. Nevertheless, they

approached the listless machine cautiously, with the trepidation of hereditary cowards.

Their cloaks were thickly coated with dust and sand. Unhealthy red-yellow

pupils glowed catlike from the depths of their hoods as they studied their captive.

The jawas conversed in low guttural croaks and scrambled analogs of human speech.

If, as anthropologists hypothesized, they had ever been human, they had long since

degenerated past anything resembling the human race.

Several more jawas appeared. Together, they succeeded in alternately hoisting

and dragging the robot back down the arroyo.

At the bottom of canyon—like some monstrous prehistoric beast—was a

sandcrawler as enormous as its owners and operators were tiny. Several dozen

meters high, the vehicle towered above the ground on multiple treads that were taller

than a tall man. Its metal epidermis was battered and pitted from with-standing

untold sandstorms.

On reaching the crawler, the jawas resumed jabbering among themselves.

Artoo Detoo could hear them but failed to comprehend anything. He need not have

been embarrassed at his failure. If they so wished, only jawas could understand

other jawas, for they employed a randomly variable language that drove linguists mad.

One of them removed a small disk from a belt pouch and sealed it to the Artoo

unit's flank. A large tube protruded from one side of the gargantuan vehicle. They

rolled him over to it and then moved clear. There was a brief moan, the whoosh of

powerful vacuum, and the small robot was sucked into the bowels of the sandcrawler

as neatly as a pea up a straw. This part of the job completed, the jawas engaged in

another bout of jabbering, following which they scurried into the crawler via tubes

and ladders, for all the world like a nest of mice returning to their holes.

None too gently, the suction tube deposited Artoo in a small cubical. In

addition to varied piles of broken instruments and outright scrap, a dozen or so robots

of differing shapes and sizes populated the prison. A few were locked in electronic

conversation. Others muddled aimlessly about. But when Artoo tumbled into the

chamber, one voice burst out in surprise.

"Artoo Detoo—it's you, it's you!" called an excited Threepio from the near

darkness. He made his way over to the still immobilized repair unit and embraced it

most unmechanically. Spotting the small disk sealed onto Artoo's side, Threepio

turned his gaze thoughtfully down to his own chest, where a similar device had

likewise been attached.

Massive gears, poorly lubricated, started to move. With a groaning and

grinding, the monster sandcrawler turned and lumbered with relentless patience into

the desert night.

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