It was tall, but hardly monstrous. Artoo frowned inwardly as he checked ocular
circuitry and reactivated his innards.
The monster looked very much like and old man. He was clad in a shabby
cloak and loose robes hung with a few small straps, packs, and unrecognizable
instruments. Artoo searched the human's wake but detected no evidence of a
pursuing nightmare. Nor did the man appear threatened. Actually, Artoo thought,
he looked kind of pleased.
It was impossible to tell where the odd arrival's overlapping attire ended and his
skin began. That aged visage blended into the sand-stroked cloth, and his beard
appeared but an extension of the loose threads covering his upper chest.
Hints of extreme climates other than desert, of ultimate cold and humidity, were
etched into that seamed face. A questing beak of nose, like a high rock, protruded
outward from a flashflood of wrinkles and scars. The eyes bordering it were a liquid
crystalazure. The man smiled through sand and dust and beard, squinting at the sight
of the crumpled form lying quietly alongside of the landspeeder.
Convinced that the sandpeople had been the victims of an auditory delusion of
some kind—conveniently ignoring the fact that he had experienced it also—and
likewise assured that this stranger meant Luke no harm, Artoo shifted his position
slightly, trying to obtain a better view. The sound produced by a tiny pebble he
dislodged was barely perceptible to his electronic sensors, but the man whirled as if
shot. He stared straight at Artoo's alcove, still smiling gently.
"Hello there," he called in a deep, surprisingly cheerful voice. "Come here, my
little friend. No need to be afraid."
Something forthright and reassuring was in that voice. In any case, the
association of an unknown human was preferable to remaining isolated in this
wasteland. Waddling out into the sunlight. Artoo made his way over to where
Luke lay sprawled. The robot's barrel-like body inclined forward as he examined
the limp form. Whistles and beeps of concern came from within.
Walking over, the old man bent beside Luke and reached out to touch his
forehead, then his temple. Shortly, the unconscious youth was stirring and
mumbling like a dreaming sleeper.
"Don't worry," the human told Artoo, "he'll be all right."
As if to confirm this opinion, Luke blinked, stared upward uncomprehendingly,
and muttered, "What happened?"
"Rest easy, son," the man instructed him as he sat back on his heels. "You've
had a busy day." Again the boyish grin. "You're mighty lucky your head's still
attached to the rest of you."
Luke looked around, his gaze coming to rest on the elderly face hovering above
him. Recognition did wonders for his condition.
"Ben…it's got to be!" A sudden remembrance made him look around fearfully.
But there was no sign of sandpeople. Slowly he raised his body to a sitting position.
"Ben Kenobi…am I glad to see you!"
Rising, the old man surveyed the canyon floor and rolling rimwall above. One
foot played with the sand. "The Jundland wastes are not to be traveled lightly. It's
the misguided traveler who tempts the Tusken's hospitality." His gaze went back to
his patient. "Tell me, young man, what brings you out this far into nowhere?"
Luke indicated Artoo Detoo. "This little 'droid. For a while I thought he'd
gone crazy, claiming he was searching for a former master. Now I don't think so.
I've never seen such devotion in a 'droid—misguided or otherwise. There seems to
be no stopping him; he even resorted to tricking me."
Luke's gaze shifted upward. "He claims to be the property of someone called
Obi-wan Kenobi." Luke watched closely, but the man showed no reaction. "Is that a
relative of yours? My uncle thinks he was a real person. Or is it just some
unimportant bit of scrambled information that got shifted into his primary
performance bank?"
An introspective frown did remarkable things to that sandlbasted face. Kenobi
appeared to ponder the question, scratching absently at his scruffy beard. "Obi-wan
Kenobi!," he recited. "Obi-wan…now, that's a name I haven't heard in a long time.
A long time. Most curious."
"My uncle said he was dead," Luke supplied helpfully.
"Oh, he's not dead," Kenobi corrected him easily. "Not yet, not yet."
Luke climbed excitedly to his feet, all thoughts of Tusken Raiders forgotten now.
"You know him, then?"
A smile of perverse youthfulness split that collage of wrinkled skin and beard.
"Of course I know him; he's me. Just as you probably suspected, Luke. I haven't
gone by the name Obi-wan, though, since before you were born."
"Then," Luke essayed, gesturing at Artoo Detoo, "this 'droid does belong to you,
as he claims."
"Now, that's the peculiar part," an openly puzzled Kenobi confessed, regarding
the silent robot. "I can't seem to remember owning a 'droid, least of all a modern
Artoo unit. Most interesting, most interesting."
Something drew the old man's gaze suddenly to the brow of nearby cliffs. "I
think it's best we make use of your landspeeder some. The sandpeople are easily
startled, but they'll soon return in greater numbers. A landspeeder's not a prize
readily conceded, and after all, jawas they're not."
Placing both hands over his mouth in a peculiar fashion, Kenobi inhaled deeply
and let out an unearthly howl that made Luke jump. "That ought to keep any
laggards running for a while yet," the old man concluded with satisfaction.
"That's a krayt dragon call!" Luke gaped in astonishment "How did you do
that?"