that your lift tube didn’t go all the way to the top level… if ya know what I mean. Said ya think more of droids than people. Don’t matter to me none about your preferences. Me, I’m just passin’ through, an’ I need ya to fix it.”
“Him.”
“Huh?”
“Fix him. Fix your droid.”
“Yeah. What’s a locomotor? I know ships ’n all. Been flyin’ a freighter for years. Droids, well, that’s somethin’ I never took to studyin’.”
“A locomotor is the servomechanism that gives your droid—and other protocol droids, scout droids, and others like them—the ability to walk, to move.”
“So can you replace it?”
“Yes. No problem. But not at the moment. I don’t have any spare locomotors in the shop. They’re on order. Expected on the next merchant transport.”
“When’ll that be.”
“Next week.”
“So whadda I do? I gotta be leavin’ in a day, no more ’n two. Got someplace I gotta go, an appointment ta keep. I need it ta translate for me.”
“Him.”
“Yeah. I need him ta translate for me.”
“You could buy another protocol unit. I have a few on sale.” Amalk eased away from the pilot’s droid and gestured at his shop’s walls.
Amalk’s shop consisted of one large room, which when it was built would have been called spacious. Now it seemed small and crowded. The walls were lined with droids. Like soldiers, a few dozen protocol droids stood in a row, their silver, gold, brass, and bronze metal plating gleaming in the light that spilled through the lone window.
Nearby were several R2, R4, and R5 units, and something that looked like a prototype or a modification of another R-series model. Remotes of various sizes hung from the celling, blinking and whirring like cantina decorations. Not true droids, they were programmable to perform simple functions and had no independent initiative.
There were also medical droids, mining droids, power droids, companion droids, exploration droids, scout droids, geo-survey droids, and more. One, which looked like a refitted interrogation droid, was busy dusting the place. Behind the counter were shelves upon shelves filled with metal legs, arms, wheels, treads, spools of wire, circuits, chips, and hundreds of small tools.
“I kinda like that silver one,” the pilot said after looking everything over. “Haven’t had a silver one before. Is it on sale?”
Amalk nodded. “Yes, he’s on sale.”
“How much?”
“Trade in this droid, which I’ll repair when I get the locomotor shipment, and throw in seven hundred credits. The sliver droid’s yours.”
“Six.”
“Six-fifty.”
“Deal.” The pilot fumbled in his pocket for a credstick. “Got a restraining bolt for it? Notice none of your droids here got ’em attached.”
“Haven’t had need for them.” Amalk reached under the counter and fumbled around. “This’ll serve.” He passed it to the pilot, and the transaction was concluded.
“Uh, thanks,” the pilot said as he exited the shop. “Wouldn’t be able ta get my business done properly without one of these droids.” The silver protocol unit cast a last glance at Amalk, uttered a string of rushed sentences in a program language, and followed his new owner.
“Is the pilot gone?” This from an outmoded geo-survey droid.
“The ignoramus,” a partially-repaired chef droid retorted. “I’ve known smarter remotes.”
“He’s crossing the street,” a gold protocol droid said. He was craning his shiny neck as far as it would go and leaning away from the wall for a better view of the departing customer. “There. Out of sight. Headed with C3-LD8 toward the hangar. Poor Eldee.”
The other protocol droids moved away from the wall and started chatting to themselves and Amalk. The R5 units chirped and hooted. And the chef droid ran through the ingredients it needed for Amalk’s dinner.
“Good riddance to that customer,” the gold protocol added. “Tatooine will be better for his departure. At least
“Him.”
“Huh?”
“Fix him. Fix your droid.”
“Yeah. What’s a locomotor? I know ships ’n all. Been flyin’ a freighter for years. Droids, well, that’s somethin’ I never took to studyin’.”
“A locomotor is the servomechanism that gives your droid—and other protocol droids, scout droids, and others like them—the ability to walk, to move.”
“So can you replace it?”
“Yes. No problem. But not at the moment. I don’t have any spare locomotors in the shop. They’re on order. Expected on the next merchant transport.”
“When’ll that be.”
“Next week.”
“So whadda I do? I gotta be leavin’ in a day, no more ’n two. Got someplace I gotta go, an appointment ta keep. I need it ta translate for me.”
“Him.”
“Yeah. I need him ta translate for me.”
“You could buy another protocol unit. I have a few on sale.” Amalk eased away from the pilot’s droid and gestured at his shop’s walls.
Amalk’s shop consisted of one large room, which when it was built would have been called spacious. Now it seemed small and crowded. The walls were lined with droids. Like soldiers, a few dozen protocol droids stood in a row, their silver, gold, brass, and bronze metal plating gleaming in the light that spilled through the lone window.
Nearby were several R2, R4, and R5 units, and something that looked like a prototype or a modification of another R-series model. Remotes of various sizes hung from the celling, blinking and whirring like cantina decorations. Not true droids, they were programmable to perform simple functions and had no independent initiative.
There were also medical droids, mining droids, power droids, companion droids, exploration droids, scout droids, geo-survey droids, and more. One, which looked like a refitted interrogation droid, was busy dusting the place. Behind the counter were shelves upon shelves filled with metal legs, arms, wheels, treads, spools of wire, circuits, chips, and hundreds of small tools.
“I kinda like that silver one,” the pilot said after looking everything over. “Haven’t had a silver one before. Is it on sale?”
Amalk nodded. “Yes, he’s on sale.”
“How much?”
“Trade in this droid, which I’ll repair when I get the locomotor shipment, and throw in seven hundred credits. The sliver droid’s yours.”
“Six.”
“Six-fifty.”
“Deal.” The pilot fumbled in his pocket for a credstick. “Got a restraining bolt for it? Notice none of your droids here got ’em attached.”
“Haven’t had need for them.” Amalk reached under the counter and fumbled around. “This’ll serve.” He passed it to the pilot, and the transaction was concluded.
“Uh, thanks,” the pilot said as he exited the shop. “Wouldn’t be able ta get my business done properly without one of these droids.” The silver protocol unit cast a last glance at Amalk, uttered a string of rushed sentences in a program language, and followed his new owner.
“Is the pilot gone?” This from an outmoded geo-survey droid.
“The ignoramus,” a partially-repaired chef droid retorted. “I’ve known smarter remotes.”
“He’s crossing the street,” a gold protocol droid said. He was craning his shiny neck as far as it would go and leaning away from the wall for a better view of the departing customer. “There. Out of sight. Headed with C3-LD8 toward the hangar. Poor Eldee.”
The other protocol droids moved away from the wall and started chatting to themselves and Amalk. The R5 units chirped and hooted. And the chef droid ran through the ingredients it needed for Amalk’s dinner.
“Good riddance to that customer,” the gold protocol added. “Tatooine will be better for his departure. At least
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