"No doubt about it, we're doomed," he recited mournfully as Artoo righted

himself, returning to full activation. "Do you think they'll melt us down?" He

became silent for several minutes, then added, "It's this waiting that gets to me."

Abruptly the far wall of the chamber slid aside and the blinding white glare of a

Tatooine morning rushed in on them. Threepio's sensitive photoreceptors were hard

pressed to adjust in time to prevent serious damage.

Several of the repulsive-looking jawas scrambled agilely into the chamber, still

dressed in the same swathing and filth Threepio had observed on them before.

Using hard weapons of an unknown design, they prodded at the machines. Certain

of them, Threepio noted with a mental swallow, did not stir.

Ignoring the immobile ones, the jawas herded those still capable of movement

outside, Artoo and Threepio among them. Both robots found themselves part of an

uneven mechanical line.

Shielding his eyes against the glare, Threepio saw that five of them were

arranged alongside the huge sandcrawler. Thoughts of escape did not enter his mind.

Such a concept was utterly alien to a mechanical. The more intelligent a robot was,

the more abhorrent and unthinkable the concept. Besides, had he tried to escape,

built-in sensors would have detected the critical logic malfunction and melted every

circuit in his brain.

Instead, he studied the small domes and vaporators that indicated the presence of

a larger underground human homestead. Though he was unfamiliar with this type of

construction, all signs pointed to a modest, if isolated, habitation. Thoughts of being

dismembered for parts or slaving in some high-temperature mine slowly faded. His

spirits rose correspondingly.

"Maybe this won't be so bad after all," he murmured hopefully. "If we can

convince these bipedal vermin to unload us here, we may enter into sensible human

service again instead of being melted into slag."

Artoo's sole reply was a noncommittal chirp. Both machines became silent as

the jawas commenced scurrying around them, striving to straighten one poor machine

with a badly bent spine, to disguise a dent or scrape with liquid and dust.

As two of them bustled about, working on his sand-coated skin, Threepio fought

to stifle an expression of disgust. One of his many human-analog functions was the

ability to react naturally to offensive odors. Apparently hygiene was unknown

among the jawas. But he was certain no good would come of pointing this out to

them.

Small insects drifted in clouds about the faces of the jawas, who ignored them.

Apparently the tiny individualized plagues were regarded as just a different sort of

appendage, like an extra arm or leg.

So intent was Threepio on his observation that he failed to notice the two figures

moving toward them from the region of the largest dome. Artoo had to nudge him

slightly before he looked up.

The first man wore an air of grim, semi-perpetual exhaustion, sandblasted into

his face by too many years of arguing with a hostile environment. His graying hair

was frozen in tangled twists like gypsum helicites. Dust frosted his face, clothes,

hands, and thoughts. But the body, if not the spirit, was still powerful.

Proportionately dwarfed by his uncle's wrestler-like body, Luke strode slump-

shouldered in his shadow, his present attitude one of dejection rather than exhaustion.

He had a great deal on his mind, and it had very little to do with farming. Mostly it

involved the rest of his life, and the commitment made by his best friend who had

recently departed beyond the blue sky above to enter a harsher, yet more rewarding

career.

The bigger man stopped before the assembly and entered into a peculiar squeaky

dialogue with the jawa in charge. When they wished it, the jawas could be

understood.

Luke stood nearby, listening indifferently. Then he shuffled along behind his

uncle as the latter began inspecting the five machines, pausing only to mutter an

occasional word or two to his nephew. It was hard to pay attention, even though he

knew he ought to be learning.

"Luke—oh, Luke!" a voice called.

Turning away from the conversation, which consisted of the lead jawa extolling

the unmatched virtues of all five machines and his uncle countering with derision,

Luke walked over to the near edge of the subterranean courtyard and peered down.

A stout woman with the expression of a misplaced sparrow was busy working

among decorative plants. She looked up at him. "Be sure and tell Owen that if he

buys a translator to make sure it speaks Bocce, Luke."

Turning, Luke looked back over his shoulder and studied the motley collection of

tired machines. "It looks like we don't have much of a choice," he called back down

to her, "but I'll remind him anyway."

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

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. "I'll 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 a

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 safely 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 wither 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 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 'droid, and there was a hominess 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.

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