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Artoo raspberried him again.

“I don’t care what you call me. Most droids would need three days of maintenance just to get the carbon scoring off their plates. You go bustling off after a few moments, muttering something about having the solution to the bombing. I don’t understand how getting hit with a blaster would give you any kind of solution at all.”

Threepio rounded the corner. Artoo was standing near the rubble closest to the door of the Senate Hall. Most of the dirt had been cleared away, leaving electronic parts, broken metal, and ruined communications devices. Bits of furniture were mixed in: the desks designed for multilimbed senators; the perches made for birdlike representatives; the translators for those who didn’t speak Basic.

Artoo had his jack in the middle of the pile. His scanner was out, and it was flashing as it moved. His headlamp was trained on the pile in front of him.

“Surely the investigators filtered through that junk,” Threepio said. “As usual, you’re making too much of all of this. Sometimes, Artoo, I wonder why Master Luke tolerates you. You’ve become much too eccentric.”

Artoo beeped.

“No, of course I don’t want him to replace you with a new droid. Those new droids are stuck-up.” Threepio stopped beside the pile Artoo was working on.

Artoo moaned softly.

“You were right?” Threepio asked. “About what?”

Artoo pulled his jack out from the rubble. In it, he held a small detonator of the same type found in the X-wing.

“It has an Imperial signature,” Threepio said. “Oh, dear. Mistress Leia isn’t going to like this.”

Artoo beeped.

“No, I don’t like it much either. Will those Imperial monsters never leave us alone?”

Artoo didn’t answer. He set the detonator on a small patch of bare floor, then began to rummage through the pile again.

“I thought you found what you were looking for. We should leave, tell someone about this.” Threepio started toward the door. When he stepped into the darkness, he turned. Artoo was still digging through the pile. “Artoo, you’ve done all you can. We need to tell Mistress Leia.”

Artoo beeped long and loud.

“What do you mean I don’t understand? I understand perfectly.”

Artoo chirruped.

Threepio came back into the room. A bit of rubble fell off the ceiling and he ducked. “It’s not safe here. You have enough.”

Artoo beeped.

“There has to be more what? The detonator is all you—oh.” Threepio leaned against a pile and then sprang away when it moved. “I see. The detonator in the X-wings worked in concert with the computer. You need to know what this detonator worked with. Move aside, then. We’ll both look.

“And,” he added softly, “I hope we don’t get blown up in the process.”

Twenty-seven

Luke wrapped his arms around his head as he soared through the air. Bits of flaming shrapnel fell all around him. He had barely opened the X-wing’s hatch when the ship exploded. If he had been inside, he probably would have broken his neck against the shatterproof glass.

It felt as if he fell forever. His skin burned where the shrapnel hit him. He couldn’t control the fall. There was nowhere soft to land. He braced himself, using all of his Force strength, but something was interfering. He felt as if he were wrapped in cotton.

And then he landed. Legs first, the bones in his left ankle snapping. He tucked and rolled, the carved pavement biting his back, his shoulders. He kept rolling until he slammed into a building, and he lay there for a moment, unable to breathe from the shock of it all.

The main section of the X-wing had landed near him. More parts rained around him, sparks flying. Curtains in the building beside him burned. Smoke rose up the mudbrick walls, scorching them. More burning pieces of the X-wing were scattered all along the sandstone street.

The smoke had an acrid smell. Sweat ran down Luke’s face. His whole body hurt, and he still had trouble drawing a breath. Sparks were dancing all around him. He peered at them, saw bits of material in the flame, and then swore.

The back of his flight suit was burning.

He rolled over onto his back, trying