"Now, this is important, Beru." He turned his attention back to his nephew.

"I've told you about Kenobi before. He's a crazy old man; he'd dangerous and full

of mischief, and he's the best left well along."

Beru's pleading gaze caused him to quiet somewhat. "That 'droid has nothing

to do with him. Couldn't have," he grumbled half to himself. "Recording—huh!

Well, tomorrow I want you to take the unit into Anchorhead and have its memory

flushed."

Snorting, Owen bent to his half-eaten meal with determination. "That will be

the end of this foolishness. I don't care where that machine thinks it came from. I

paid hard credit for it, and it belongs to us now."

"But suppose it does belong to someone else" Luke wondered. "What if this

Obi-wan person comes looking for his 'droid?"

An expression between sorrow and a sneer crossed his uncle's seamed face at a

remembrance. "He won't. I don't think that man exists anymore. He died about

the same time as your father." A huge mouthful of hot food was shoveled inward.

"Now forget about it."

"Then it was a real person," Luke murmured, staring down at his plate. He

added slowly, "Did he know my father?"

"I said forge about it." Owen snapped. "Your only worry as far as those

two 'droids are concerned is having them ready for work tomorrow. Remember, the

last of our saving is tied up in those two. Wouldn't even have bought them if it

wasn't so near harvest." He shook a spoon at his nephew. "In the morning I want

you to have them working with the irrigation units up on the south ridge.

"You know," Luke replied distantly, "I think these 'droids are going to work out

fine. In fact, I—" He hesitated, shooting his uncle a surreptitious glare. "I was

thinking about our agreement about me staying on for another season."

His uncle failed to react, so Luke rushed on before his nerve failed. "If these

new 'droids do work out, I want to transmit my application to enter the Academy for

next year."

Owen scowled, trying to hide his displeasure with food. "You mean, you want

to transmit application next year—after the harvest."

"You have more than enough 'droids now, and they're in good condition.

They'll last."

"'droids, yes," his uncle agreed, "but 'droids can't replace a man, Luke. You

know that. The harvest is when I need you the most. It's just for one more season

after this one." He looked away, bluster and anger gone now.

Luke toyed with his food, not eating, saying nothing.

"Listen," his uncle told him, "for the first time we've got a chance for a real

fortune. We'll make enough to hire some extra hands for next time. Not 'droids—

people. Then you can go to the Academy." He fumbled over words, unaccustomed

to pleading. "I need you here, Luke. You understand that, don't you?"

"It's another year," his nephew objected sullenly. "Another year."

"How many times had he heard that before? How many times had they

repeated this identical charade with the same result?

Convinced once more that Luke had come round to his way of thinking. Owen

shrugged the objection off. "Time will pass before you know it"

Abruptly Luke rose, shoving his barely touched plate of food aside. "That's

what you said last year when Biggs left." He spun and half ran from the room.

"Where are you going, Luke?" his aunt yelled worriedly after him.

Luke's reply was bleak, bitter. "Looks like I'm going nowhere." Then he

added, out of consideration for his aunt's sensibilities, "I have to finish cleaning

those 'droids if they're going to be ready to work tomorrow."

Silence hung in the air of the dining room after Luke departed. Husband and

wife ate mechanically. Eventually Aunt Beru stopped shoving her food around her

plate, looked up, and pointed out earnestly, "Owen, you can't keep him here forever.

Most of his friends are gone, the people he grew up with. The Academy means so

much to him."

Listlessly her husband replied, "I'll make it up to him next year. I promise.

We'll have money—or maybe, the year after that."

"Luke's just not a farmer, Owen," she continued firmly. "He never will be, no

matter how hard you try to make him one." She shook her head slowly. "He's got

too much of his father in him."

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