A cheering, gleeful throng of technicians, mechanics, and other inhabitants of the

Alliance headquarters swarmed around each fighter as it touched down and taxied into

the temple hangar. Several of the other surviving pilots had already vacated their

ships and were waiting to greet Luke.

On the opposite side of the fighter, the crowd was far smaller and more

restrained. It consisted of a couple of technicians and one tall, humanoid 'droid who

watched worriedly as the humans mounted the scorched fighter and lifted a badly

burned metal hulk from its back.

"Oh, my! Artoo?" Threepio pleaded, bending close to the carbonized robot.

"Can you hear me? Say something." His unwinking gaze turned to one of the

techs. "You can repair him, can't you?"

"We'll do our best." The man studied the vaporized metal, the dangling

components. "He's taken a terrible beating."

"You must repair him! Sir, if any of my circuits or modules will help, I'll

gladly donate them…"

they moved slowly away, oblivious to the noise and excitement around them.

Between robots and the humans who repaired them there existed a very special

relationship. Each partook a little of the other and sometimes the dividing line

between man and machine was more blurred than many would admit.

The center of the carnival atmosphere was formed by three figures who battled to

see who could compliment the others the most. When it came to congratulatory

back-slapping, however, Chewbacca won by default. There was laughter as the

Wookie looked embarrassed at having nearly flattened Luke in his eagerness to greet

him.

"I know you'd come back," Luke was shouting, "I just know it! I would've

been nothing but dust if you hadn't sailed in like that, Han!"

Solo had lost none of his smug self-assurance. "Well, I couldn't very well let a

flying farm boy go up against that station all by himself. Besides, I was beginning to

realize what could happen, and I felt terrible about it, Luke—leaving you to maybe

take all the credit and get all the reward."

As they laughed, a little figure, robes flowing rushed up to Luke in a very

unsenatorial fashion. "You did it, Luke, you did it!" Leia was shouting.

She fell into his arms and hugged him as he spun her around. Then she moved

to Solo and repeated the embrace. Expectantly, the Corellian was not quite as

embarrassed.

Suddenly awed by the adulation of the crowd, Luke turned away. He gave the

tired fighter a look of approval, then found his gaze traveling upward, up to the

ceiling high overhead. For a second he thought he heard something faintly like a

gratified sigh, a relaxing of muscles a crazy old man had once performed in moments

of pleasure. Of course, it was probably the intruding hot wind of a steaming jungle

world, but Luke smiled anyway at what he thought he saw up here.

There were many rooms in the vast expanse of the temple, which had been

converted for modern service by the technicians of the Alliance. Even in their

desperate need, however, there was something too clean and classically beautiful

about the ruins of the ancient throne room for the architects to modify. They had left

it as it was, save for scouring it clear of creeping jungle growth and debris.

For the first time in thousands of years that spacious chamber was full.

Hundreds of rebel troops and technicians stood assembled on the old stone floor,

gathered together for one last time before dispersing to new posts and distant homes.

For the first time ever the massed ranks of pressed uniforms and polished semi-armor

stood arrayed together in a fitting show of Alliance might.

The banners of the many worlds which had lent support to the rebellion fluttered

in the gentle breeze formed inside. At the far end of a long open aisle stood a vision

gowned in formal white, barred with chalcedony waves—Leia Organa's signet of

office.

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