Trilogy by George Lucas Page B

’droid. My father will know how to retrieve it. I plead with you to see this unit safely delivered to Alderaan.”
    She paused, and when she continued, her words were hurried and less laced with formality. “You
must
help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You are my last hope. I will be captured by agents of the Empire. They will learn nothing from me. Everything to be learned lies locked in the memory cells of this ’droid. Do not fail us, Obi-wan Kenobi. Do not fail
me
.”
    A small cloud of tridimensional static replaced the delicate portrait, then it vanished entirely. Artoo Detoo gazed up expectantly at Kenobi.
    Luke’s mind was as muddy as a pond laced with petroleum. Unanchored, his thoughts and eyes turned for stability to the quiet figure seated nearby.
    The old man. The crazy wizard. The desert bum and all-around character whom his uncle and everyone else had known of for as long as Luke could recall.
    If the breathless, anxiety-ridden message the unknown woman had just spoken into the cool air of the cave had affected Kenobi in any way he gave no hint of it. Instead, he leaned back against the rock wall and tugged thoughtfully at his beard, puffing slowly on a water pipe of free-form tarnished chrome.
    Luke visualized that simple yet lovely portrait. “She’s so—so—” His farming background didn’t provide him with the requisite words. Suddenly something in the message caused him to stare disbelievingly at the oldster. “General Kenobi, you fought in the Clone Wars? But … that was so long ago.”
    â€œUm, yes,” Kenobi acknowledged, as casually as he might have discussed the recipe for shang stew. “I guess it was a while back. I was a Jedi knight once. Like,” he added, watching the youth appraisingly, “your father.”
    â€œA Jedi knight,” Luke echoed. Then he looked confused. “But my father didn’t fight in the Clone Wars. He was no knight—just a navigator on a space freighter.”
    Kenobi’s smile enfolded the pipe’s mouthpiece. “Or so your uncle has told you.” His attention was suddenly focused elsewhere. “Owen Lars didn’t agree with your father’s ideas, opinions, or with his philosophy of life. He believed that your father should have stayed here on Tatooine and not gotten involved in …” Again the seemingly indifferent shrug. “Well, he thought he should have remained here and minded his farming.”
    Luke said nothing, his body tense as the old man related bits and pieces of a personal history Luke had viewed only through his uncle’s distortions.
    â€œOwen was always afraid that your father’s adventurous life might influence you, might pull you away from Anchorhead.” He shook his head slowly, regretfully at the remembrance. “I’m afraid there wasn’t much of the farmer in your father.”
    Luke turned away. He returned to cleaning the last particles of sand from Threepio’s healing armature. “I wish I’d known him,” he finally whispered.
    â€œHe was the best pilot I ever knew,” Kenobi went on, “and a smart fighter. The force … the instinct was strong in him.” For a brief second Kenobi actually appeared old. “He was also a good friend.”
    Suddenly the boyish twinkle returned to those piercing eyes along with the old man’s natural humor. “I understand you’re quite a pilot yourself. Piloting and navigation aren’t hereditary, but a number of the things that can combine to make a good small-ship pilot are. Those you may have inherited. Still, even a duck has to be taught to swim.”
    â€œWhat’s a duck?” Luke asked curiously.
    â€œNever mind. In many ways, you know, you are much like your father.” Kenobi’s unabashed look of evaluation made Luke nervous. “You’ve grown up quite a bit since the last time I saw you.”
    Having