Luke grinned, noting the robot's reaction. "Yes, it's a lubrication bath." He

eyed the tall bronze robot appraisingly. "And from the looks of it, you could use

about a week's submergence. But we can't afford that so you'll have to settle for an

afternoon." Then Luke turned his attention to Artoo Detoo, walking up to him and

flipping open a panel that shielded numerous gauges.

"As for you," he continued, with a whistle of surprise, "I don't know how you've

kept running. Not surprising, knowing the jawas' reluctance to part with any erg-

fraction they don't have to. It's recharge time for you." He gestured toward a large

power unit.

Artoo Detoo followed Luke's gesture, then beeped once and waddled over the

boxy construction. Finding the proper cord, he automatically flipped open a panel

and plugged the triple prongs into his face.

Threepio had walked over to the large cistern, which was filled almost full with

aromatic cleansing oil. With a remarkably humanlike sigh he lowered himself

slowly into the tank.

"You two behave yourselves," Luke cautioned them as he moved to a small two-

man sky hopper. A powerful little suborbital spacecraft, it rested in the hangar

section of the garage-workshop. "I've got work of my own to do."

Unfortunately, Luke's energies were still focused on his farewell encounter with

Biggs, so that hours later he had finished few of his chores. Thinking about his

friend's departure, Luke was running a caressing hand over the damaged port fin of

the 'hopper—the fin he had damaged while running down an imaginary Tie fighter in

the wrenching twists and turns of a narrow canyon. That was when the projecting

ledge had clipped him as effectively as an energy beam.

Abruptly something came to a boil within him. With atypical violence he threw

a power wrench across a worktable nearby. "It just isn't fair!" he declared to no one

in particular. His voice dropped disconsolately. "Biggs is right. I'll never get out

of here. He's planning rebellion against the Empire, and I'm trapped on a blight of a

farm."

"I beg your pardon, sir."

Luke spun, startled, but it was only the tall 'droid, Threepio. The contrast in the

robot was striking compared with Luke's initial sight of him. Bronze-colored alloy

gleamed in the overhead lights of the garage, cleaned of pits and dust by the powerful

oils.

"Is there anything I might do to help?" the robot asked solicitously.

Luke studied the machine, and as he did so some of his anger drained away.

There was no point in yelling cryptically at a robot.

"I doubt it," he replied, "unless you can alter time and speed up the harvest. Or

else teleport me off this sandpile under Uncle Owen's nose."

Sarcasm was difficult for even an extremely sophisticated robot to detect, so

Threepio considered the question objectively before finally replying, "I don't think so,

sir. I'm only a third-degree 'droid and not very knowledgeable about such things as

transatomic physics." Suddenly, the events of the past couple of days seemed to

catch up with him all at once. "As a matter of fact, young sir," Threepio went on

while looking around him with fresh vision, "I'm not even sure which planet I'm on."

Luke chuckled sardonically and assumed a mocking pose. "If there's bright

center to this universe, you're on the world farthest from it."

"Yes, Luke sir."

The youth shook his head irritably. "Never mind the 'sir'—it's just Luke.

And this world is called Tatooine."

Threepio nodded slightly. "Thank you, Luke s—Luke. I am See Threepio,

human-droid relations specialist." He jerked a casual metal thumb back toward the

recharge unit. "That is my companion, Artoo Detoo."

"Pleased to meet you, Threepio," Luke said easily. "You too, Artoo."

Walking across the garage, he checked a gauge on the smaller machine's front panel,

plugging the charge cord he saw something, which made him frown and lean close.

"Something wrong, Luke?" Threepio inquired.

Luke went to a nearby tool wall and selected a small many-armed device. "I

don't know yet, Threepio."

Returning to the recharger, Luke bent over Artoo and began scraping at several

bumps in the small 'droid's top with a chromed pick. Occasionally he jerked back

sharply as bits of corrosion were flicked into the air by the tiny tool.

Threepio watched, interested, as Luke worked. "There's a lot of strange carbon

scoring here of a seen a lot of action out of the ordinary."

"Indeed, sir," Threepio admitted, forgetting to drop the honorific. This time

Luke was too absorbed elsewhere to correct him. "Sometimes I'm amazed we're in

as good shape as we are." He added as an afterthought, while still shying away from

the thrust of Luke's question, "What with the rebellion and all."

Despite his caution, it seemed to Threepio that he must have given something

away, for an almost jawa-like blaze appeared in Luke's eyes. "You know about the

rebellion against the Empire?" he demanded.

"In a way," Threepio confessed reluctantly. "The rebellion was responsible for

our coming into your service. We are refugees, you se." He did not add from

where.

Not that Luke appeared to care. "Refugees!" Then I did see a space battle!"

He rambled on rapidly, excited. "Tell me where you've been—in how many

encounters. How is the rebellion going? Does the Empire take it seriously? Have

you seen many ships destroyed?"

"A bit slower, please, sir," Threepio pleaded. "You misinterpret our status.

We were innocent bystanders. Our involvement with the rebellion was of the most

marginal nature.

"As to battles, we were in several, I think. It is difficult to tell when one is not

directly in contact with the actual battle machinery." He shrugged neatly. "Beyond

that, there is not much to say. Remember, sir, I am little more than a cosmeticized

interpreter and not very good at telling stories or relating histories, and even less

proficient at embellishing them. I am a very literal machine."

Luke turned away, disappointed, and returned to his cleaning of Artoo Detoo.

Additional scraping turned up something puzzling enough to demand his full attention.

A small metal fragment was tightly lodged between two bar conduits that would

normally form a linkage. Setting down the delicate pick, Luke switched to a larger

instrument.

"Well, my little friend," he murmured, "you've got something jammed in here

real good." As he pushed and pried Luke directed half his attention to Threepio.

"Were you on a star freighter or was it—"

metal gave way with a powerful crack, and the recoil sent Luke tumbling head

over heels. Getting to his feet, he started to curse—then froze, motionless.

The front of the Artoo unit had begun to glow, exuding a three-dimensional

image less than one-third of a meter square but precisely defined. The portrait

formed within the box was so exquisite that in a couple of minutes Luke discovered

he was out of breath—because he had forgotten to breath.

Despite a superficial sharpness, the image flickered and jiggled unsteadily, as if

the recording had been made and installed with haste. Luke stared at the foreign

colors being projected into the prosaic atmosphere of the garage and started to form a

question. But it was never finished. The lips on the figure moved, and the girl

spoke—or rather, seemed to speak. Luke knew the aural accompaniment was

generated somewhere within Artoo Detoo's squat torso.

"Obi-wan Kenobi," the voice implored huskily, "help me! You're my only

remaining hope." A burst of static dissolved the face momentarily. Then it

coalesced again, and once more the voice repeated, "Obi-wan Kenobi, you're my only

remaining hope."

With a raspy hum the hologram continued. Luke sat perfectly still for a long

moment, considering what he was seeing, then he blinked and directed his words to

the Artoo unit.

"What's this all about, Artoo Detoo?"

the stubby 'droid shifted slightly, the cubish portrait shifting with him, and

beeped what sounded vaguely like a sheepish reply.

Threepio appeared as mystified as Luke. "What is that?" he inquired sharply,

gesturing at the speaking portrait and then at Luke. "You were asked a question.

What and who is that, and how are you originating it—and why?"

The Artoo unit generated a beep of surprise, for all the world as if just noticing

the hologram. This was followed by a whistling stream of information.

Threepio digested the data, tried to frown, couldn't, and strove to convey his own

confusion via the tone of his voice. "He insist it's nothing, sir. Merely a

malfunction—old data. A tape that should have been erased but was missed. He

insists we pay it no mind."

That was like telling Luke to ignore a cache of Durindfires he might stumble

over in the desert. "Who is she?" he demanded, staring enraptured at the hologram.

"She's beautiful."

"I really don't know who she is," Threepio confessed honestly. "I think she

might have been a passenger on our last voyage. From what I recall, she was a

personage of some importance. This might have something to do with the fact that

our Captain was attaché to—"

Luke cut him off, savoring the way sensuous lips formed and reformed the

sentence fragment. "Is there any more to this recording? It sounds like it's

incomplete." Getting to his feet, Luke reached out for the Artoo unit.

The robot moved backward and produced whistles of such frantic concern that

Luke hesitated and held off reaching for the internal controls.

Threepio was shocked. "Behave yourself, Artoo," he finally chastised his

companion. "You're going to get us into trouble." He had vision of the both of

them being packed up as uncooperative and shipped back to the jawas, which was

enough to make him imitate a shudder.

"It's all right—he's our master now." Threepio indicated Luke. "You can

trust him." I feel that he has our best interests in mind."

Detoo appeared to hesitate, uncertain. Then he whistled and beeped a long

complexity at his friend.

"Well?" Luke prompted impatiently.

Threepio paused before replying. "He says that he is the property of one Obi-

wan Kenobi, a resident of this world. Of this very region, in fact. The sentence

fragment we are hearing is part of a private message intended for this person."

Threepio shook his head slowly. "Quite frankly, sir, I don't know what he's

talking about. Our last master was Captain Colton. I never heard Artoo mention a

prior master. I've certainly never heard of an Obi-wan Kenobi. But with all we've

been through," he concluded apologetically, "I'm afraid his logic circuits have gotten

a bit scrambled. He's become decidedly eccentric at times." And while Luke

considered this turn of events, Threepio took the opportunity to throw Artoo a furious

look of warning.

"Obi-wan Kenobi," Luke recited thoughtfully. His expression suddenly

brightened. "Say…I wonder if he could be referring to old Ben Kenobi."

"Begging your pardon," Threepio gulped, astonished beyond measure, "but you

actually know of such a person?"

"Not exactly," he admitted in a more subdued voice. "I don't know anyone

named Obi-wan—but old Ben lives somewhere out on the fringe of the Western Dune

Sea. He's kind of a local character—a hermit. Uncle Owen and a few of the other

farmers say he's a sorcerer.

"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 tour recalcitrant, rust-ridden innards, you stubborn bunk

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

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."

• 6小时掌握学英语的秘诀！——点击看答案
• 专治男女记不住单词的秘密