Free Trilogy by George Lucas

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 a suggestive nod toward a workbench laden with dismembered machine parts. “Otherwise he’s liable to take up thatcleaning 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.
    â€œNo,” 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.”

IV
    L UKE’S AUNT B ERU WAS FILLING A pitcher with blue liquid from a refrigerated container. Behind her, in the dining area, a steady buzz of conversation reached to the kitchen.
    She sighed sadly. The mealtime discussions between her husband and Luke had grown steadily more acrimonious as the boy’s restlessness pulled him in directions other than farming. Directions for which Owen, a stolid man of the soil if there ever was one, had absolutely no sympathy.
    Returning the bulk container to the refrigerator unit, she placed the pitcher on a tray and hurried back to the dining room. Beru was not a brilliant woman, but she possessed an instinctive understanding of her important position in this household. She functioned like the damping rods in a nuclear reactor. As long as she was present, Owen and Luke would continue to generate a lotof heat, but if she was out of their presence for too long—
boom
!
    Condenser units built into the bottom of each plate kept the food on the dining-room table hot as she hurried in. Immediately, both men lowered their voices to something civilized and shifted the subject. Beru pretended not to notice the change.
    â€œI think that Artoo unit might have been stolen, Uncle Owen,” Luke was saying, as if that had been the topic of conversation all along.
    His uncle helped himself to the milk pitcher, mumbling his reply around a mouthful of food. “The jawas have a tendency to pick up anything that’s not tied down, Luke, but remember, they’re basically afraid of their own shadows. To resort to outright theft, they’d have to have considered the consequences of being pursued and punished. Theoretically, their minds shouldn’t be capable of that. What makes you think the ’droid is stolen?”
    â€œFor one thing, it’s in awfully good shape for a discard. It generated a hologram recording while I was cleaning—” Luke tried to conceal his horror at the slip. He added hastily, “But that’s not important. The reason I think it might be stolen is because it claims to be the property of someone it calls Obi-wan Kenobi.”
    Maybe something in the food, or perhaps the milk, caused Luke’s uncle to gag. Then again, it might have been an expression of disgust, which was Owen’s way of indicating his opinion of that peculiar personage. In any case, he continued eating without looking up at his nephew.
    Luke pretended the display of graphic dislike had never happened. “I thought,” he continued determinedly, “itmight have meant old Ben. The first name is different, but the last is identical.”
    When his uncle steadfastly maintained his silence, Luke prompted him directly. “Do
you
know who he’s talking about, Uncle Owen?”
    Surprisingly, his uncle looked uncomfortable instead of