Luke's Aunt Beru 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 lot of 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.
    "I 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?"
    "For 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, "it might 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 angry.  "It's nothing,"
he mumbled, still not meeting Luke's gaze.  "A name from another time."  He
squirmed nervously in his seat.  "A name that can only mean trouble."
    Luke refused to heed the implied warning and pressed on.  "Is it someone
related to old Ben, then?  I didn't know he had any relatives."
    "You stay away from that old wizard, he hear me!" his uncle exploded,
awkwardly substituting threat for reason.
    "Owen…" Aunt Beru started to interject gently, but the big farmer cut her off
sternly.
    "Now, this is important, Beru."  He turned his attention back to his nephew.
"I've told you about Kenobi before.  He's a crazy old man; he'd dangerous and full
of mischief, and he's the best left well along."
    Beru's pleading gaze caused him to quiet somewhat.  "That 'droid has nothing
to do with him.  Couldn't have," he grumbled half to himself.  "Recording—huh!
Well, tomorrow I want you to take the unit into Anchorhead and have its memory
flushed."
    Snorting, Owen bent to his half-eaten meal with determination.  "That will be
the end of this foolishness.  I don't care where that machine thinks it came from.  I
paid hard credit for it, and it belongs to us now."
    "But suppose it does belong to someone else" Luke wondered.  "What if this
Obi-wan person comes looking for his 'droid?"
    An expression between sorrow and a sneer crossed his uncle's seamed face at a
remembrance.  "He won't.  I don't think that man exists anymore.  He died about
the same time as your father."  A huge mouthful of hot food was shoveled inward.
"Now forget about it."
    "Then it was a real person," Luke murmured, staring down at his plate.  He
added slowly, "Did he know my father?"
    "I said forge about it." Owen snapped.  "Your only worry as far as those
two 'droids are concerned is having them ready for work tomorrow.  Remember, the
last of our saving is tied up in those two.  Wouldn't even have bought them if it
wasn't so near harvest."  He shook a spoon at his nephew.  "In the morning I want
you to have them working with the irrigation units up on the south ridge.
    "You know," Luke replied distantly, "I think these 'droids are going to work out
fine.  In fact, I—"  He hesitated, shooting his uncle a surreptitious glare.  "I was
thinking about our agreement about me staying on for another season."
    His uncle failed to react, so Luke rushed on before his nerve failed.  "If these
new 'droids do work out, I want to transmit my application to enter the Academy for
next year."
    Owen scowled, trying to hide his displeasure with food.  "You mean, you want
to transmit application next year—after the harvest."
    "You have more than enough 'droids now, and they're in good condition.
They'll last."
    "'droids, yes," his uncle agreed, "but 'droids can't replace a man, Luke.  You
know that.  The harvest is when I need you the most.  It's just for one more season
after this one."  He looked away, bluster and anger gone now.
    Luke toyed with his food, not eating, saying nothing.
    "Listen," his uncle told him, "for the first time we've got a chance for a real
fortune.  We'll make enough to hire some extra hands for next time.  Not 'droids—
people.  Then you can go to the Academy."  He fumbled over words, unaccustomed
to pleading.  "I need you here, Luke.  You understand that, don't you?"
    "It's another year," his nephew objected sullenly.  "Another year."
    "How many times had he heard that before?  How many times had they
repeated this identical charade with the same result?
    Convinced once more that Luke had come round to his way of thinking.  Owen
shrugged the objection off.  "Time will pass before you know it"
    Abruptly Luke rose, shoving his barely touched plate of food aside.  "That's
what you said last year when Biggs left."  He spun and half ran from the room.
    "Where are you going, Luke?" his aunt yelled worriedly after him.
    Luke's reply was bleak, bitter.  "Looks like I'm going nowhere."  Then he
added, out of consideration for his aunt's sensibilities, "I have to finish cleaning
those 'droids if they're going to be ready to work tomorrow."
    Silence hung in the air of the dining room after Luke departed.  Husband and
wife ate mechanically.  Eventually Aunt Beru stopped shoving her food around her
plate, looked up, and pointed out earnestly, "Owen, you can't keep him here forever.
Most of his friends are gone, the people he grew up with.  The Academy means so
much to him."
    Listlessly her husband replied, "I'll make it up to him next year.  I promise.
We'll have money—or maybe, the year after that."
    "Luke's just not a farmer, Owen," she continued firmly.  "He never will be, no
matter how hard you try to make him one."  She shook her head slowly.  "He's got
too much of his father in him."
    For the first time all evening Owen Lars looked thoughtful as well as concerned
as he gazed down the passage Luke had taken.  "That's what I'm afraid of," he
whispered.

    Luke had gone topside.  He stood on the sand watching the double sunset as
first one and then the other of Tatooine's twin suns sank slowly behind the distant
range of dunes.  In the fading light the sands turned gold, russet, and flaming red-
orange before advancing night put the bright colors to sleep for another day.  Soon,
for the first time, those sands would blossom with food plants.  This former
wasteland would see and eruption of green.
    The thought ought to have sent a thrill of anticipation through Luke.  He should
have been as flushed with excitement as his uncle was whenever he described the
coming harvest.  Instead, Luke felt nothing but a vast indifferent emptiness.  Not
even the prospect of having a lot of money for the first time in his life excited him.
What was there to do with money in Anchorhead—anywhere on Tatooine, for that
matter?
    Part of him, an increasingly large part, was growing more and more restless at
remaining unfulfilled.  This was not an uncommon feeling in youths his age, but for
reasons Luke did not understand it was much stronger in him than in any of his
friends.
    As the night cold came creeping over the sand and up his legs, he brushed the
grit from his trousers and descended into the garage.  Maybe working on the 'droids
would bury some of the remorse a little deeper in his mind.  A quick survey of the
chamber showed no movement.  Neither of the new machines was in sight.
Frowning slightly, Luke took a small control box from his belt and activated a couple
of switches set into the plastic.
    A low him came from the box.  The caller produced the taller of the two robots,
Threepio.  In fact, he gave a yell of surprise as he jumped up behind the skyhopper.
    Luke started toward him, openly puzzled.  "What are you hiding back there
for?"
    The robot came stumbling around the prow of the craft, he attitude one of
desperation.  It occurred to Luke then that despite his activating the caller, the Artoo
unit was still nowhere to be seen.
    The reason for his absence—or something related to it—came pouring unbidden
from Threepio.  "It wasn't my fault," the robot begged frantically.  "Please don't
deactivate me!  I told him not to go, but he's faulty.  He must be malfunctioning.
Something has totally boiled his logic circuits.  He kept babbling on about some sort
of mission, sir.  I never heard a robot with delusions of grandeur before.  Such
things shouldn't even be within the cogitative theory units of one that's as basic as an
Artoo unit, and…"
    "You mean…?" Luke started to gape.
    "Yes, sir…he's gone."
    "And I removed his restraining coupling myself," Luke muttered slowly.
Already he could visualize his uncle's face.  The last of their savings tied up in
these 'droids, he had said.
    Racing out of the garage, Luke hunted for non-existent reasons why the Artoo
unit should go berserk.  Threepio followed on his heels.
    From a small ridge which formed the highest point close by the homestead, Luke
had a panoramic view of the surrounding desert.  Bringing out the precious
macrobinoculars, he scanned the rapidly darkening horizons for something small,
metallic, three-legged, and out of its mechanical mind.
    Threepio fought his way up through the sand to stand beside Luke.  "That Artoo
unit has always caused nothing but trouble," he groaned.  "Astromech 'droids are
becoming too iconoclastic even for me to understand, sometimes."
    The binoculars finally came down, and Luke commented matter-of-factly, "Well,
he's nowhere in sight."  He kicked furiously at the ground.  "Damn it—how could I
have been so stupid, letting it trick me into removing that restrainer!  Uncle Owen's
going to kill me."
    "Begging your pardon, sir," ventured a hopeful Threepio, visions of jawas
dancing in his head, "but can't we go after him?"
 Luke turned.  Studiously he examined the wall of black advancing toward them
"Not at night.  It's too dangerous with all the raiders around.  I'm not too concerned
about the jawas, but sandpeople…no, not in the dark.  We'll have to wait until
morning to try to track him"
    A shout rose from the homestead below.  "Luke—Luke, are you finished with
those 'droids yet?  I'm turning down the power for the night."
    "All right!" Luke responded, sidestepping the question.  "I'll be down in a few
minutes, Uncle Owen!"  Turning, he took one last look at the vanished horizon.
"Boy, am I in for it!" he muttered.  "That little 'droid's going to get me in a lot of
trouble."
    "Oh, he excells at that, sir." Threepio confirmed with mock cheerfulness.  Luke
threw him a sour look, and together they turned and descended into the garage.

    "Luke…Luke!"  Still rubbing the morning sleep from his eyes, Owen glanced
from side to side, loosening his neck muscles.  "Where could that boy be loafing
now?" he wondered aloud at the lack of response.  There was no sign of movement
in the homestead, and he had already checked above.
    "Luke!" he yelled again.  Luke, luke, luke…the name echoed teasing back at
him from the homestead walls.  Turning angrily, he stalked back into the kitchen,
where Beru was preparing breakfast.
    "Have you seen Luke this morning?" he asked as softly as he could manage.
    She glance briefly at him, then returned to her cooking.  "Yes.  He said he had
some things to do before he started out to the south ridge this morning, so he left
early."
    "Before breakfast?" Owen frowned worriedly.  "That's not like him.  Did he
take the new 'droids with him?"
    "I think so.  I am sure I saw at least one of them with him."
    "Well," Owen mused, uncomfortable but with nothing to really hang
imprecations on, "he'd better have those ridge units repaired by midday or there'll be
hell to pay."

    An unseen face shielded by smooth white metal emerged from the half-buried
life pod that now formed the backbone of a dune slightly higher than its neighbors.
The voice sounded efficient, but tired.
    "Nothing," the inspecting trooper muttered to his several companions.  "No
tapes, and no sign of habitation."
    Powerful handguns lowered at the information that the pod was deserted.  One
of the armored men turned, calling out to an officer standing some distance away.
"This is definitely the pod that cleared the rebel ship, sir, but there's nothing on
board."
    "Yet it set down intact," the officer was murmuring to himself.  "It could have
done so on automatics, but if it was a true malfunction, then they shouldn't have been
engaged."  Something didn't make sense.
    "Here's why there's nothing on board and no hint of life, sir," a voice declared.
    The officer turned and strode several paces to where another trooper was
kneeling in the sand.  He held up an object for the officer's inspection.  It shone in
the sun.
    "'Droid plating," the officer observed after a quick glance at the metal fragment.
Superior and underling exchanged a significant glance.  Then their eyes turned
simultaneously to the high mesas off to the north.

    Gravel and fine sand formed a gritty fog beneath the landspeeder as it slid across
the rippling wasteland of Tatooine on humming repulsors.  Occasionally the craft
would jog slightly as it encountered a dip or slight rise, to return to its smooth passage
as its pilot compensated for the change in terrain.
    Luke leaned back in the seat, luxuriating in unaccustomed relaxation as Threepio
skillfully directed the powerful landcraft around dunes and rocky outcrops.  "You
handle a landspeeder pretty well, for a machine," he noted admiringly.
    "Thank you, sir," a gratified Threepio responded, his eyes never moving from the
landscape ahead.  "I was not lying to your uncle when I claimed versatility as my
middle name.  In fact, on occasion I have been called upon to perform unexpected
functions in circumstances which would have appalled my designers."
    Something pinged behind them, then pinged again.
    Luke frowned and popped the speeder canopy.  A few moments of digging in
the motor casing eliminated the metallic bark.
    "How's that?" he yelled forward.
    Threepio signaled that the adjustment was satisfactory.  Luke turned back into
the cockpit and closed the canopy over them again.  Silently he brushed his wind-
whipped hair back out of his eyes as his attention returned to the dry desert ahead of
them.
    "Old Ben Kenobi is supposed to live out in this general direction.  Even though
nobody knows exactly where, I don't see how that Artoo unit could have come this far
so quickly."  His expression was downcast.  "We must have missed him back in the
dunes somewhere.  He could be anywhere out here.  And Uncle Owen must be
wondering why I haven't called in from the south ridge by now."
    Threepio considered a moment, then ventured, "Would it help, sir, if you told
him that it was my fault?"
    Luke appeared to brighten at the suggestion.  "Sure…he needs you twice as
much now.  Probably he'll only deactivate you for a day or so, or give you a partial
memory flush."
    Deactivate?  Memory flush?  Threepio added hastily, "On second thought, sir,
Artoo would still be around if you hadn't removed his restraining module."
    But something more important than fixing responsibility for the little robot's
disappearance was on Luke's mind at the moment.  "Wait a minute," he advised
Threepio as he stared fixedly at the instrument panel.  "There's something dead
ahead on the metal scanner.  Can't distinguish outlines at this distance, but judging
by size alone, it could be our wandering 'droid.  Hit it."
    The landspeeder jumped forward as Threepio engaged the accelerator, but its
occupants were totally unaware that other eyes were watching as the craft increased
its speed.

    Those eyes were not organic, but then, they weren't wholly mechanical, either.
No one could say for certain, because no one had ever made that intimate a study of
the Tusken Raiders—known less formally to the margin farmers of Tatooine simply as
the sandpeople.
    The Tusken didn't permit close study of themselves, discouraging potential
observers by methods as effective as they were uncivilized.  A few xenologists
thought they must be related to the jawas.  Even fewer hypothesized that the jawas
were actually the mature form of the sandpeople, but this theory was discounted by
the majority of serious scientists.
    Both races affected tight clothing to shield them from Tatooine's twin dose of
solar radiation, but there most comparisons ended.  Instead of heavy woven cloaks
like the jawas wore, the sandpeople wrapped themselves mummy-like in endless
swathing and bandages and loose bits of cloth.
    Where the jawas feared everything, a Tusken Raider feared little.  The
sandpeople were larger, stronger, and far more aggressive.  Fortunately for the
human colonists of Tatooine, they were not very numerous and elected to pursue their
nomadic existence in some of Tatooine's most desolate regions.  Contact between
human and Tusken, therefore, was infrequent and uneasy, and they murdered no more
than a handful of human per year.  Since the human population had claimed its share
of Tuskens, not always with reason, a peace of a sort existed between the two—as
long as neither side gained an advantage.
    One of the pair felt that that unstable condition had temporarily shifted in his
favor, and he was about to take full advantage of it as he raised his rifle toward the
landspeeder.  But his companion grabbed the weapon and shoved down on it before
it could be fired.  This set off a violent argument between the two.  And, as they
traded vociferous opinions in a language consisting mostly of consonants, the
landspeeder sped on its way.
    Either because the speeder had passed out of range or because the second Tusken
had convinced the other, the two broke off the discussion and scrambled down the
backside of the high ridge.  Snuffling and a shifting of weight took place at the ridge
bottom as the two Banthas stirred at the approach of their masters.  Each was as
large as a small dinosaur, with bright eyes and long, thick fur.  They hissed anxiously
as the two sandpeople approached, then mounted them from knee to saddle.
    With a kick Banthas rose.  Moving slowly but with enormous strides, the two
massive horned creatures swept down the back of the rugged bluff, urged on by their
anxious, equally outrageous mahouts.

    "It's him, all right," Luke declared with mixed anger and satisfaction as the tiny
tripodal form came into view.  The speeder banked and swung down onto the floor
of a huge sandstone canyon.  Luke slipped his rifle out from behind the seat and
swung it over his shoulder.  "Come round in front of him, Threepio," he instructed.
    "With pleasure, sir."
    The Artoo unit obviously noted their approach, but mad no move to escape; it
could hardly have outrun the landspeeder anyway.  Artoo simply halted as soon as it
detected them and waited until the craft swung around in a smooth arc.  Threepio
came to a sharp halt, sending up a low cloud of sand on the smaller robot's right.
Then the whine from the landspeeder's engine dropped to a low idling hum as
Threepio put it in parking mode.  A last sigh and the craft stopped completely.
    After finishing a cautious survey of the canyon, Luke led his companion out onto
the gravelly surface and up to Artoo Detoo.  "Just where," he inquired sharply, "did
you think you were going?"
    A feeble whistle issued from the apologetic robot, but it was Threepio and not
the recalcitrant rover who was abruptly doing most of the talking.
    "Master Luke here is now your rightful owner, Artoo.  How could you just
amble away from him like this?  Now that's he's found you, let's have no more of
this 'Obi-wan Kenobi's gibberish.  I don't know where picked that up—or that
melodramatic hologram, either."
    Artoo started to beep in protest, but Threepio's indignation was too great to
permit excuses.  "And don't talk to me about your mission.  What rot!  You're
fortunate Master Luke doesn't blast you into a million pieces right here and now."
    "Not much chance of that," admitted Luke, a bit overwhelmed by Threepio's
casual vindictiveness.  "Come on—it's getting late."  He eyed the rapidly rising
suns.  "I just hope we can get back before Uncle Owen really lets go."
    "If you don't mind my saying so," Threepio suggested, apparently unwilling that
the Artoo unit should get off so easily, "I think you ought to deactivate the little
fugitive until you've gotten him safely back in the garage."
    "No.  He's not going to try anything." Luke studied the softly beeping 'droid
sternly.  "I hope he's learned his lesson.  There's no need to—"
    Without warning the Artoo unit suddenly leaped off the ground—no mean feat
considering the weakness of the spring mechanisms in his three thick legs.  His
cylindrical body was twisting and spinning as he let out a frantic symphony of
whistles, hoots, and electronic exclamations.
    Luke was tired, not alarmed.  "What is it?  What's wrong with him now?"
He was beginning to see how Threepio's patience could be worn thin.  He had had
about enough of this addled instrument himself.
    Undoubtedly the Artoo unit had acquired the holo of the girl by accident, then
used it to entice Luke into removing his restraining module.  Threepio probably had
the right attitude.  Still, once Luke got its circuits realigned and its logic couplings
cleaned, it would make a perfectly serviceable farm unit.  Only…if that was the case,
then why was Threepio looking around so anxiously?
    "Oh my, sir.  Artoo claims there are several creatures of unknown type
approaching from the southeast."
    That could be another attempt by Artoo to distract them, but Luke couldn't take
the chance.  Instantly he had his rifle off his shoulder and had activated the energy
cell.  He examined the horizon in the indicated direction and saw nothing.  But then,
sandpeople were experts at making themselves unseeable.
    Luke suddenly realized exactly how far out they were, how much ground the
landspeeder had covered that morning.  "I've never been out in this direction this far
from the farm before," he informed Threepio.  "There are some awfully strange
things living out here.  Not all of them have been classified.  It's better to treat
anything as dangerous until determined otherwise.  Of course, if it's something
utterly new…"  His curiosity prodded him.  In any case, this was probably just
another ruse of Artoo Detoo's.  "Let's take a look," he decided.
    Moving cautiously forward and keeping his rifle ready, he led Threepio toward
the crest of a nearby high dune.  At the same time he took care not to let Artoo out of
his sight.
    Once at the top he lay flat and traded his rifle for the macrobinoculars.  Below,
another canyon spread out before them, rising to a wind-weathered wall of rust and
ocher.  Advancing the binocs slowly across the canyon floor, he settled unexpectedly
on two tethered shapes.  Banthas—and riderless!
    "Did you say something, sir?" wheezed Threepio, struggling up behind Luke.
His locomotors were not designed for such outer climbing and scrambling.
    "Banthas, all right," Luke whispered over his shoulder, not considering in the
excitement of the moment that Threepio might not know a Bantha from a panda.
    He looked back into the eyepieces, refocusing slightly.  "Wait…it's sandpeople,
sure.  I see one of them."
    Something dark suddenly blocked his sight.  For a moment he thought that a
rock might have moved in front of them.  Irritably he dropped the binoculars and
reached out to move the blinding object aside.  His hand touched something like soft
metal.
    It was a bandaged leg about as big around as both of Luke's together.  Shocked,
he looked up…and up.  The towering figure glaring down at him was no jawa.  It
had seemingly erupted straight from the sand.
    Threepio took a startled step backward and found no footing.  As gyros whined
in protest the tall robot tumbled backward down the side of the dune.  Frozen in
place, Luke heard steadily fading bangs and rattles as Threepio bounced down the
steep slope behind him.
    As the moment of confrontation passed, the Tusken let out a terrifying grunt of
fury and pleasure and brought down his heavy gaderffii.  The double-edged ax
would have cleaved Luke's skull neatly in two, except that he threw the rifle up in a
gesture more instinctive than calculated.  His weapon deflected the blow, but would
never do so again.  Made from cannibalized freighter plating the huge ax shattered
the barrel and made metallic confetti of the gun's delicate insides.
    Luke scrambled backward and found himself against a steep drop.  The Raider
stalked him slowly, weapon held high over its rag-enclosed head.  It uttered a
gruesome, chuckling laugh, the sound made all the more inhuman by the distortion
effect of its grid-like sandfilter.
    Luke tried to view his situation objectively, as he had been instructed to do in
survival school.  Trouble was, his mouth was dry, his hands were shaking, and he
was paralyzed with fear.  With the Raider in front of him and a probably fatal drop
behind, something else in his mind took over and opted for the least painful response.
He fainted.
    None of the Raiders notice Artoo Detoo as the tiny robot force himself into a
small alcove in the rocks near the landspeeder.  One of them was carrying the inert
form of Luke.  He dumped the unconscious youth in a heap next to the speeder, then
joined his fellows as they began swarming over the open craft.
    Supplies and spare parts were thrown in all directions,  from time to time the
plundering would be interrupted as several of them quibbled or fought over a
particularly choice bit of booty.
    Unexpectedly, distribution of the landspeeder's content ceased, and with
frightening speed the Raiders became part of the desertscape, looking in all directions.
    A lost breeze idled absently down the canyon.  Far off to the west, something
howled.  A rolling, booming drone ricocheted off canyon walls and crawled
nervously up and down a gorgon scale.
    The sandpeople remained poised a moment longer.  Then they were uttering
loud grunts and moans of fright as they rushed to get away from the highly visible
landspeeder.
    The shivering howl sounded again, nearer this time.  Bu now the sandpeople
were halfway to their waiting Banthas, that were likewise lowing tensely and tugging
at their tethers.
    Although the sound held no meaning for Artoo Detoo, the little 'droid tried to
squeeze himself even deeper into the almost-cave.  The booming howl came closer.
Judging by the way the sandpeople had reacted, something monstrous beyond
imagining had to be behind that rolling cry.  Something monstrous and murder-bent
which might not have the sense to distinguish between edible organics and inedible
machines.
    Not even the dust of their passing remained to mark where the Tusken Raiders
had only minutes before been dismembering the interior of the landspeeder.  Artoo
Detoo shut down all but vital functions, trying to minimize noise and light as a
swishing sound grew gradually audible.  Moving toward the landspeeder, the
creature appeared above the top of a nearby dune…