It was tall, but hardly monstrous.  Artoo frowned inwardly as he checked ocular
circuitry and reactivated his innards.
    The monster looked very much like and old man.  He was clad in a shabby
cloak and loose robes hung with a few small straps, packs, and unrecognizable
instruments.  Artoo searched the human's wake but detected no evidence of a
pursuing nightmare.  Nor did the man appear threatened.  Actually, Artoo thought,
he looked kind of pleased.
    It was impossible to tell where the odd arrival's overlapping attire ended and his
skin began.  That aged visage blended into the sand-stroked cloth, and his beard
appeared but an extension of the loose threads covering his upper chest.
    Hints of extreme climates other than desert, of ultimate cold and humidity, were
etched into that seamed face.  A questing beak of nose, like a high rock, protruded
outward from a flashflood of wrinkles and scars.  The eyes bordering it were a liquid
crystalazure.  The man smiled through sand and dust and beard, squinting at the sight
of the crumpled form lying quietly alongside of the landspeeder.
    Convinced that the sandpeople had been the victims of an auditory delusion of
some kind—conveniently ignoring the fact that he had experienced it also—and
likewise assured that this stranger meant Luke no harm, Artoo shifted his position
slightly, trying to obtain a better view.  The sound produced by a tiny pebble he
dislodged was barely perceptible to his electronic sensors, but the man whirled as if
shot.  He stared straight at Artoo's alcove, still smiling gently.
    "Hello there," he called in a deep, surprisingly cheerful voice.  "Come here, my
little friend.  No need to be afraid."
    Something forthright and reassuring was in that voice.  In any case, the
association of an unknown human was preferable to remaining isolated in this
wasteland.  Waddling out into the sunlight.  Artoo made his way over to where
Luke lay sprawled.  The robot's barrel-like body inclined forward as he examined
the limp form.  Whistles and beeps of concern came from within.
    Walking over, the old man bent beside Luke and reached out to touch his
forehead, then his temple.  Shortly, the unconscious youth was stirring and
mumbling like a dreaming sleeper.
    "Don't worry," the human told Artoo, "he'll be all right."
    As if to confirm this opinion, Luke blinked, stared upward uncomprehendingly,
and muttered, "What happened?"
    "Rest easy, son," the man instructed him as he sat back on his heels.  "You've
had a busy day."  Again the boyish grin.  "You're mighty lucky your head's still
attached to the rest of you."
    Luke looked around, his gaze coming to rest on the elderly face hovering above
him.  Recognition did wonders for his condition.
    "Ben…it's got to be!"  A sudden remembrance made him look around fearfully.
But there was no sign of sandpeople.  Slowly he raised his body to a sitting position.
"Ben Kenobi…am I glad to see you!"
    Rising, the old man surveyed the canyon floor and rolling rimwall above.  One
foot played with the sand.  "The Jundland wastes are not to be traveled lightly.  It's
the misguided traveler who tempts the Tusken's hospitality."  His gaze went back to
his patient.  "Tell me, young man, what brings you out this far into nowhere?"
    Luke indicated Artoo Detoo.  "This little 'droid.  For a while I thought he'd
gone crazy, claiming he was searching for a former master.  Now I don't think so.
I've never seen such devotion in a 'droid—misguided or otherwise.  There seems to
be no stopping him; he even resorted to tricking me."
    Luke's gaze shifted upward.  "He claims to be the property of someone called
Obi-wan Kenobi." Luke watched closely, but the man showed no reaction.  "Is that a
relative of yours?  My uncle thinks he was a real person.  Or is it just some
unimportant bit of scrambled information that got shifted into his primary
performance bank?"
    An introspective frown did remarkable things to that sandlbasted face.  Kenobi
appeared to ponder the question, scratching absently at his scruffy beard.  "Obi-wan
Kenobi!," he recited.  "Obi-wan…now, that's a name I haven't heard in a long time.
A long time.  Most curious."
    "My uncle said he was dead," Luke supplied helpfully.
    "Oh, he's not dead," Kenobi corrected him easily.  "Not yet, not yet."
    Luke climbed excitedly to his feet, all thoughts of Tusken Raiders forgotten now.
"You know him, then?"
    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 it's 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-seals.
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, and 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 characters
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 want 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 in 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, jewel-like 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 crossed 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 fellow—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…
    "I've got to get back home," he found himself muttering thickly.  "It's late.
I'm in for it as it is."  Remembering something, he gestured toward the motionless
bulk of Artoo Detoo.  "You can keep the 'droid.  He seems to want you to.  I'll
think of something to tell my uncle—I hope," he added forlornly.
    "I need your help, Luke," Kenobi explained, his manner a combination of
sadness and steel.  "I'm getting too old for this kind of thing.  Can't trust myself to
finish it properly on my own.  This mission is far too important."  He nodded
toward Artoo Detoo.  "You heard and saw the message."
    "But…I can't get involved with anything like that," protested Luke.  "I've got
work to do; we've got crops to bring in—even though Uncle Owen could always
break down and hire a little extra help.  I mean, one, I guess.  But there's nothing I
can do about it.  Not now.  Besides, that's all such a long way from here.  The
whole thing is really none of my business."
    "That sounds like your uncle talking," Kenobi observed without rancor.
    "Oh!  My Uncle Owen…How am I going to explain all this to him?"
    The old man suppressed a smile, aware that Luke's destiny had already been
determined for him.  It had been ordained five minutes before he had learned about
the manner of his father's death.  It had been ordered before that when he had heard
the complete message.  It had been fixed in the nature of things when he had first
viewed the pleading portrait of the beautiful Senator Organa awkwardly projected by
the little 'droid.  Kenobi shrugged inwardly.  Likely it had been finalized even
before the boy was born.  Not that Ben believed in predestination, but he did believe
in heredity—and in the force.
    "Remember, Luke, the suffering of one man is the suffering of all.  Distances
are irrelevant to injustice.  If not stopped soon enough, evil eventually reaches out to
engulf all men, whether they have opposed it or ignored it."
    "I suppose," Luke confessed nervously, "I could take you as far as Anchorhead.
You can get transport from there to Mos Eisley, or wherever it is you want to go."
    "Very well," agreed Kenobi.  "That will do for a beginning.  Then you must do
what you feel is right."
    Luke turned away, now thoroughly confused.  "Okay.  Right now I don't feel
too good…"

    The holding hole was deathly dim, with only the bare minimum of illumination
provided.  There was barely enough to see the black metal walls and the high ceiling
overhead.  The cell was designed to maximize a prisoner's feelings of helplessness,
and this it achieved well.  So much so that the single occupant started tensely as a
hum came from one end of the chamber.  The metal door which began moving aside
was as thick as her body—as if, she mused bitterly, they were afraid she might break
through anything less massive with her bare hands.
    Straining to see outside, the girl saw several imperial guards assume positions
just outside the doorway.  Eyeing them defiantly, Leia Organa backed up against the
far wall.
    Her determined expression collapsed as soon as a monstrous black form entered
the room, gliding smoothly as if on treads.  Vader's presence crushed her spirit as
thoroughly as an elephant would crush an eggshell.  That villain was followed by an
antiqued whip of a man who was only slightly less terrifying, despite his miniscule
appearance alongside the Dark Lord.
    Darth Vader made a gesture to someone outside.  Something that hummed like a
huge bee moved close and slipped inside the doorway.  Leia choked on her own
breath at the sight of the dark metal globe.  It hung suspended on independent
repulsors, a farrago of metal arms protruding from its sides.  The arms were tipped
with a multitude of delicate instruments.
    Leia studied the contraption fearfully.  She had heard rumors of such machines,
but had never really believed that Imperial technicians would construct such a
monstrosity.  Incorporated into its soulless memory was every barbarity, every
substantiated outrage known to mankind—and to several alien races as well.
    Vader and Tarkin stood there quietly, giving her plenty of time to study the
hovering nightmare.  The Governor in particular did not delude himself into thinking
that the mere presence of the device would shock her into giving up the information
he needed.  Not, he reflected, that the ensuing session would be especially
unpleasant.  There was always enlightenment and knowledge to be gained from such
encounters, and the Senator promised to be a most interesting subject.
    After a suitable interval had passed, he motioned to the machine.  "Now,
Senator Organa, Princess Organa, we will discuss the location of the principal rebel
base."
    The machine moved slowly toward her, traveling on a rising hum.  Its
indifferent spherical form blocked out Vader, the Governor, the rest of the cell…the
light…

    Muffled sounds penetrated the cell walls and thick door, drifting out into the
hallway beyond.  They barely intruded on the peace and quiet of the walkway
running past the sealed chamber.  Even so, the guards stationed immediately outside
managed to find excuses to edge a sufficient distance away to where those oddly
modulated sounds could no longer be heard at all.