Star Wars - Shifting Gears - Unpublished by Jean Rabe Page A

then,” Amalk suggested. “Dust wouldn’t be a problem if you kept him on your ship.”
    “Can’t keep it on my ship. I need it nearby ’n case I come across someone or somethin’ I wanna talk to. For business.”
    “And you conduct your business on the street?”
    “Sometimes. ’N in the cantina, too. But the cantina rules… well, they won’t let me take it inside,” the pilot returned. “So I keep it just outside the door. Next best thing.”
    Then you must spend an awful lot of time inside the cantina, Amalk thought, for all this dust damage to occur.
    Amalk leaned across the counter and ran his age-spotted hands over the droid’s tarnished face. It was a kind gesture that was lost on the pilot, but not on the ailing droid. “You’re in need of an oil bath, my new friend,” Amalk said softly. “Hammer out a few of these dents.”
    “Huh?”
    “I said fixing him shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” he said more loudly. “It looks like his photoreceptors are damaged.”
    The pilot raised an eyebrow and his lips parted in an unspoken question.
    “Photoreceptors,” Amalk explained. “Your droid’s eyes, the devices that snag the light rays—natural and manufactured—and convert them into electronic signals. The signals are processed by the video computer at the base of his head and are translated into images so he can see. Operates on the same principle as human eyes. In any event, the casings are cracked. Dust got inside and choked the workings.”
    “Hate all this dust,” the pilot grumbled.
    Amalk’s rheumy blue eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Not just the casings. You’ve got other problems, too, don’t you fellow?” He was chatting to the droid, and the droid began to talk back.
    “What’s that noise?” the pilot cut in. “That squawky stuff? Somethin’ wrong with its vocalizer?”
    “Vocabulator. Speech synthesizer.”
    “Yeah. That’s what I meant. Is it broken, too?”
    Amalk shook his head. “It’s not noise,” he muttered. “It’s language.”
    “Not one I understand,” the pilot retorted.
    “Few do.”
    But Amalk was one of those few. What sounded like insects buzzing around the cramped shop’s interior was a specialized program language. Droids often used it to communicate among themselves. It was largely unintelligible to organics. Amalk buzzed fluently—questions upon questions tumbling from his lips. The droid quickly provided answers.
    “So you travel a lot, I imagine, being a freighter pilot,” Amalk said, finally returning his attention to the pilot.
    “Yeah.”
    “Get to see much of the galaxy?”
    “Yeah. I get around. Even been to the Corporate Sector a few times.”
    “Ever travel in Imperial territory?” Amalk asked as he popped the chestplate off the droid and looked inside.
    “Yeah. Not that it’s any of your business, though.”
    “I’d bet that’s dangerous. Imperial assault shuttles buzzing around, maybe even a Star Destroyer. But then you look like you’re not afraid of much.”
    “I’m not.” The pilot puffed out his chest. “Besides, it’s not all that dangerous for me. I got some contacts, do some odd jobs for ’em now and again. Just occasional stuff. Stay friendly with ’em and you’re better off. Healthier and wealthier. Know what I mean?”
    “Indeed I do.” Amalk’s thick fingers prodded the droid’s wires and circuits. “Hmmm. What have we here?”
    The pilot moved closer, tried to peer over Amalk’s shoulder to get a look inside the droid’s chest.

    “Not good,” Amalk tsked. “Not good at all. See this?”
    “What? Dust got inside there, too?”
    “No. The locomotor. It’s wearing out. It will need to be replaced right away. Your droid probably won’t be able to take more than another hundred steps or so under his own power before the locomotor burns out.”
    “Good thing I brought it to ya to fix then.” The pilot looked pleased with himself. “Back at the hangar, they said ya was the best. Also said