Star Wars: Episode IV: A New Hope

by George Lucas

  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?”

  “I’ll show you sometime, son. It’s not too hard. Just takes the right attitude, a set of well-used vocal cords, and a lot of wind. Now, if you were an imperial bureaucrat, I could teach you right off, but you’re not.” He scanned the cliff-spine again. “And I don’t think this is the time or place for it.”

  “I won’t argue that.” Luke was rubbing at the back of his head. “Let’s get started.”

  That was when Artoo let out a pathetic beep and whirled. Luke couldn’t interpret the electronic squeal, but he suddenly comprehended the reason behind it. “Threepio.” Luke exclaimed, worriedly. Artoo was already moving as fast as possible away from the landspeeder. “Come on, Ben.”

  The little robot led them to the edge of a large sandpit. It stopped there, pointing downward and squeaking mournfully. Luke saw where Artoo was pointing, then started cautiously down the smooth, shifting slope while Kenobi followed effortlessly.

  Threepio lay in the sand at the base of the slope down which he had rolled and tumbled. His casing was dented and badly mangled, One arm lay broken and bent a short distance away.

  “Threepio!” Luke called. There was no response. Shaking the droid failed to activate anything. Opening a plate on the robot’s back, Luke flipped a hidden switch on and off several times in succession. A low hum started, stopped, started again, and then dropped to a normal purr.

  Using his remaining arm, Threepio rolled over and sat up. “Where am I?” he murmured, as his photoreceptors continued to clear. Then he recognized Luke. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I must have taken a bad step.”

  “You’re lucky any of your main circuits are still operational,” Luke informed him. He looked significantly toward the top of the hill. “Can you stand? We’ve got to get out of here before the sandpeople return.”

  Servomotors whined in protest until Threepio ceased struggling. “I don’t think I can make it. You go on, Master Luke. It doesn’t make sense to risk yourself on my account. I’m finished.”

  “No, you’re not,” Luke shot back, unaccountably affected by this recently encountered machine. But then, Threepio was not the usual uncommunicative, agrifunctional device Luke was accustomed to dealing with. “What kind of talk is that?”

  “Logical,” Threepio informed him.

  Luke shook his head angrily. “Defeatist.”

  With Luke and Ben Kenobi’s aid, the battered droid somehow managed to struggle erect. Little Artoo watched from the pit’s rim.

  Hesitating part way up the slope, Kenobi sniffed the air suspiciously. “Quickly, son. They’re on the move again.”

  Trying to watch the surrounding rocks and his footsteps simultaneously, Luke fought to drag Threepio clear of the pit.

  The decor of Ben Kenobi’s well-concealed cave was Spartan without appearing uncomfortable. It would not have suited most people, reflecting as it did its owner’s peculiarly eclectic tastes. The living area radiated an aura of lean comfort with more importance attached to mental comforts than those of the awkward human body.

  They had succeeded in vacating the canyon before the Tusken Raiders could return in force. Under Kenobi’s direction, Luke left a trail behind them so confusing that not even a hypernasal jawa could have followed it.

  Luke spent several hours ignoring the temptations of Kenobi’s cave. Instead he remained in the corner which was equipped as a compact yet complete repair shop, working to fix Threepio’s severed arm.

  Fortunately, the automatic overload disconnects had given way under the severe strain, sealing electronic nerves and ganglia without real damage. Repair was merely a matter of reattaching the limb to the shoulder, then activating the self-reseals. Had the arm been broken in mid-“bone” instead of at a joint, such repairs would have been impossible save at a factory shop.

  While Luke was thus occupied, Kenobi’s attention was concentrated on Artoo Detoo. The squat droid sat passively on the cool cavern floor while the old man fiddled with its metal insides. Finally the man sat back with a “Humph!” of satisfaction and closed the open panels in the robot’s rounded head. “Now let’s see if we can figure out what you are, my little friend, and where you came from.”

  Luke was almost finished anyway, and Kenobi’s words were sufficient to pull him away from the repair area. “I saw part of the message,” he began, “and I...”

  Once more the striking portrait was being projected into empty space from the front of the little robot. Luke broke off, enraptured by its enigmatic beauty once again.

  “Yes, I think that’s got it,” Kenobi murmured contemplatively.

  The image continued to flicker, indicating a tape hastily prepared. But it was much sharper, better defined now, Luke noted with admiration. One thing was apparent: Kenobi was skilled in subjects more specific than desert scavenging.

  “General Obi-Wan Kenobi,” the mellifluous voice was saying, “I present myself in the name of the world family of Alderaan and of the Alliance to Restore the Republic. I break your solitude at the bidding of my father, Bail Organa, Viceroy and First Chairman of the Alderaan system.”

  Kenobi absorbed this extraordinary declamation while Luke’s eyes bugged big enough to fall from his face.

  “Years ago, General,” the voice continued, “you served the Old Republic in the Clone Wars. Now my father begs you to aid us again in our most desperate hour. He would have you join him on Alderaan. You must go to him.

  “I regret that I am unable to present my father’s request to you in person. My mission to meet personally with you has failed. Hence I have been forced to resort to this secondary method of communication.

  “Information vital to the survival of the Alliance has been secured in the mind of this Detoo 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.”

  “Um, 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.”

  “A 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.

  “Owen 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.

  “He 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.”

  “What’s a duck?” Luke asked curiously.

  “Never 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 no reply for that, Luke waited silently as Kenobi sank back into deep contemplation. After a while the old man stirred, evidently having reached an important decision.

  “All this reminds me,” he declared with deceptive casualness, “I have something here for you.” He rose and walked over to a bulky, old-fashioned chest and started rummaging through it. All sorts of intriguing items were removed and shoved around, only to be placed back in the bin. A few of them Luke recognized. As Kenobi was obviously intent on something important, he forbore inquiring about any of the other tantalizing flotsam.

  “When you were old enough,” Kenobi was saying, “your father wanted you to have this... if I can ever find the blasted device. I tried to give it to you once before, but your uncle wouldn’t allow it. He believed you might get some crazy ideas from it and end up following old Obi-Wan on some idealistic crusade.

  “You see, Luke, that’s where your father and your uncle Owen disagreed. Lars is not a man to let idealism interfere with business, whereas your father didn’t think the question even worth discussing. His decision on such matters came like his piloting—instinctively.”

  Luke nodded. He finished picking out the last of the grit and looked around for one remaining component to snap back into Threepio’s open chest plate. Locating the restraining module, he opened the receiving latches in the machine and set about locking it back in place. Threepio watched the process and appeared to wince ever so perceptibly.

  Luke stared into those metal and plastic photoreceptors for a long moment. Then he set the module pointedly on the workbench and closed the droid up. Threepio said nothing.

  A grunt came from behind them, and Luke turned to see a pleased Kenobi walking over. He handed Luke a small, innocuous-looking device, which the youth studied with interest.

  It consisted primarily of a short, thick handgrip with a couple of small switches set into the grip. Above this small post was a circular metal disk barely larger in diameter than his spread palm. A number of unfamiliar, jewellike components were built into both handle and disk, including what looked like the smallest power cell Luke had ever seen. The reverse side of the disk was polished to a mirror brightness. But it was the power cell that puzzled Luke the most. Whatever the thing was, it required a great deal of energy, according to the rating form of the cell.

  Despite the claim that it had belonged to his father, the gizmo looked newly manufactured. Kenobi had obviously kept it carefully. Only a number of minute scratches on the handgrip hinted at previous usage.

  “Sir?” came a familiar voice Luke hadn’t heard in a while.

  “What?” Luke was startled out of his examination.

  “If you’ll not be needing me,” Threepio declared, “I think I’ll shut down for a bit. It will help the armature nerves to knit, and I’m due for some internal self-cleansing anyhow.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Luke said absently, returning to his fascinated study of the whatever-it-was. Behind him, Threepio became silent, the glow fading temporarily from his eyes. Luke noticed that Kenobi was watching him with interest. “What is it?” he finally asked, unable despite his best efforts to identify the device.

  “Your father’s lightsaber,” Kenobi told him. “At one time they were widely used. Still are, in certain galactic quarters.”

  Luke examined the controls on the handle, then tentatively touched a brightly colored button up near the mirrored pommel. Instantly the disk put forth a blue-white beam as thick around as his thumb. It was dense to the point of opacity and a little over a meter in length. It did not fade, but remained as brilliant and intense at its far end as it did next to the disk. Strangely, Luke felt no heat from it, though he was very careful not to touch it. He knew what a lightsaber could do, though he had never seen one before. It could drill a hole right through the rock wall of Kenobi’s cave—or through a human being.

  “This was the formal weapon of a Jedi Knight,” explained Kenobi. “Not as clumsy or random as a blaster. More skill than simple sight was required for its use. An elegant weapon. It was a symbol as well. Anyone can use a blaster or fusioncutter—but to use a lightsaber well was a mark of someone a cut above the ordinary.” He was pacing the floor of the cave as he spoke.

  “For over a thousand generations, Luke, the Jedi Knights were the most powerful, most respected force in the galaxy. They served as the guardians and guarantors of peace and justice in the Old Republic.”

  When Luke failed to ask what had happened to them since, Kenobi looked up to see that the youth was staring vacantly into space, having absorbed little if any of the oldster’s instruction. Some men would have chided Luke for not paying attention. Not Kenobi. More sensitive than most, he waited patiently until the silence weighed strong enough on Luke for him to resume speaking.

  “How,” he asked slowly, “did my father die?”

  Kenobi hesitated, and Luke sensed that the old man had no wish to talk about this particular matter. Unlike Owen Lars, however, Kenobi was unable to take refuge in a comfortable lie.

  “He was betrayed and murdered,” Kenobi declared solemnly, “by a very young Jedi named Darth Vader.” He was not looking at Luke. “A boy I was training. One of my brightest disciples... one of my greatest failures.”

  Kenobi resumed his pacing. “Vader used the training I gave him and the Force within him for evil, to help the later corrupt Emperors. With the Jedi knights disbanded, disorganized, or dead, there were few to oppose Vader. Today they are all but extinct.”

  An indecipherable expression cros
sed Kenobi’s face. “In many ways they were too good, too trusting for their own health. They put too much trust in the stability of the Republic, failing to realize that while the body might be sound, the head was growing diseased and feeble, leaving it open to manipulation by such as the Emperor.

  “I wish I knew what Vader was after. Sometimes I have the feeling he is marking time in preparation for some incomprehensible abomination. Such is the destiny of one who masters the force and is consumed by its dark side.”

  Luke’s face twisted in confusion. “A force? That’s the second time you’ve mentioned a ‘force’.”

  Kenobi nodded. “I forget sometimes in whose presence I babble. Let us say simply that the force is something a Jedi must deal with. While it has never been properly explained, scientists have theorized it is an energy field generated by living things. Early man suspected its existence, yet remained in ignorance of its potential for millennia.

  “Only certain individuals could recognize the force for what it was. They were mercilessly labeled: charlatans, fakers, mystics—and worse. Even fewer could make use of it. As it was usually beyond their primitive controls, it frequently was too powerful for them. They were misunderstood by their fellows—and worse.”

  Kenobi made a wide, all-encompassing gesture with both arms. “The force surrounds each and every one of us. Some men believe it directs our actions, and not the other way around. Knowledge of the force and how to manipulate it was what gave the Jedi his special power.”

  The arms came down and Kenobi stared at Luke until the youth began to fidget uncomfortably. When he spoke again it was in a tone so crisp and unaged that Luke jumped in spite of himself. “You must learn the ways of the force also, Luke—if you are to come with me to Alderaan.”

  “Alderaan!” Luke hopped off the repair seat, looking dazed. “I’m not going to Alderaan. I don’t even know where Alderaan is.” Vaporators, droids, harvest—abruptly the surroundings seemed to close in on him, the formerly intriguing furnishings and alien artifacts now just a mite frightening. He looked around wildly, trying to avoid the piercing gaze of Ben Kenobi... old Ben... crazy Ben... General Obi-Wan...