Luke studied the rebellious ’droid curiously. Threepio started to say something, considered the circumstances and thought better of it. Instead, he remained silent, staring straight ahead.
A minute later, something pinged sharply nearby. Glancing down, Luke saw that a head plate had popped off the top of the agricultural ’droid. A grinding noise was coming from within. A second later the machine was throwing internal components all over the sandy ground.
Leaning close, Luke peered inside the expectorating mechanical. He called out, "Uncle Owen! The servomotor-central on this cultivator unit is shot. Look…" He reached in, tried to adjust the device, and pulled away hurriedly when it began a wild sparking. The odor of crisped insulation and corroded circuitry filled the clear desert air with a pungency redolent of mechanized death.
Owen Lars glared down at the nervous jawa. "What kind of junk are you trying to push on us?" The jawa responded loudly, indignantly, while simultaneously taking a couple of precautionary steps away from the big human. He was distressed that the man was between him and the soothing safely of the sandcrawler.
Meanwhile, Artoo Detoo had scuttled out of the group of machines being led back toward the mobile fortress. Doing so turned out to be simple enough, since all the jawas had their attention focused on the argument between their leader and Luke’s uncle.
Lacking sufficient armature for wild gesticulation, the Artoo unit suddenly let out a high whistle, then broke it off when it was apparent he had gained Threepio’s attention.
Tapping Luke gently on the shoulder, the tall ’droid whispered conspiratorially into his ear. "If I might say so, young sir, that Artoo unit is a real bargain. In top condition. I don’t believe these creatures have any idea what good shape he’s really in. Don’t let all the sand and dust deceive you." Luke was in the habit of making instant decisions—for good or bad—anyway.
"Uncle Owen!" he called.
Breaking off the argument without taking his attention from the jawa, his uncle glanced quickly at him. Luke gestured toward Artoo Detoo. "We don’t want any trouble. What about swapping this—" he indicated the burned-out agricultural ’droid—"for that one?" The older man studied the Artoo unit professionally, then considered the jawas.
Though inherently cowards, the tiny desert scavengers could be pushed too far. The sandcrawler could flatten the homestead—at the risk of inciting the human community to lethal vengeance.
Faced with a no-win situation for wither side if he pressed too hard, Owen resumed the argument for show’s sake before gruffly assenting. The head jawa consented reluctantly to the trade, and both sides breathed a mental sigh of relief that hostilities had been avoided. While the jawa bowed and whined with impatient greed, Owen paid him off.
Meanwhile, Luke had led the two robots toward an opening in the dry ground.
A few seconds later they were striding down a ramp kept clear of drifting sand by electrostatic repellers.
"Don’t you ever forget this," Threepio muttered to Artoo, leaning over the smaller machine. "Why I stick my neck out for you, when all you ever bring me is trouble, is beyond my capacity to comprehend." The passage widened into garage proper, which was cluttered with tools and sections of farming machinery. Many looked heavily used, some to the point of collapse. But the lights were comforting to both ’droid, and there was a hominess to the chamber which hinted at a tranquillity not experienced by either machine for a long time. Near the center of the garage was a large tub, and the aroma drifting from it made Threepio’s principal olfactory sensors twitch.
责任编辑：mman
