星球大战第十三章(1)
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A cheering, gleeful throng of technicians, mechanics, and other inhabitants of the Alliance headquarters swarmed around each fighter as it touched down and taxied into the temple hangar. Several of the other surviving pilots had already vacated their ships and were waiting to greet Luke. On the opposite side of the fighter, the crowd was far smaller and more restrained. It consisted of a couple of technicians and one tall, humanoid ’droid who watched worriedly as the humans mounted the scorched fighter and lifted a badly burned metal hulk from its back. "Oh, my! Artoo?" Threepio pleaded, bending close to the carbonized robot. "Can you hear me? Say something." His unwinking gaze turned to one of the techs. "You can repair him, can’t you?" "We’ll do our best." The man studied the vaporized metal, the dangling components. "He’s taken a terrible beating." "You must repair him! Sir, if any of my circuits or modules will help, I’ll gladly donate them…" they moved slowly away, oblivious to the noise and excitement around them. Between robots and the humans who repaired them there existed a very special relationship. Each partook a little of the other and sometimes the dividing line between man and machine was more blurred than many would admit. The center of the carnival atmosphere was formed by three figures who battled to see who could compliment the others the most. When it came to congratulatory back-slapping, however, Chewbacca won by default. There was laughter as the Wookie looked embarrassed at having nearly flattened Luke in his eagerness to greet him. "I know you’d come back," Luke was shouting, "I just know it! I would’ve been nothing but dust if you hadn’t sailed in like that, Han!" Solo had lost none of his smug self-assurance. "Well, I couldn’t very well let a flying farm boy go up against that station all by himself. Besides, I was beginning to realize what could happen, and I felt terrible about it, Luke—leaving you to maybe take all the credit and get all the reward." As they laughed, a little figure, robes flowing rushed up to Luke in a very unsenatorial fashion. "You did it, Luke, you did it!" Leia was shouting. She fell into his arms and hugged him as he spun her around. Then she moved to Solo and repeated the embrace. Expectantly, the Corellian was not quite as embarrassed. Suddenly awed by the adulation of the crowd, Luke turned away. He gave the tired fighter a look of approval, then found his gaze traveling upward, up to the ceiling high overhead. For a second he thought he heard something faintly like a gratified sigh, a relaxing of muscles a crazy old man had once performed in moments of pleasure. Of course, it was probably the intruding hot wind of a steaming jungle world, but Luke smiled anyway at what he thought he saw up here. There were many rooms in the vast expanse of the temple, which had been converted for modern service by the technicians of the Alliance. Even in their desperate need, however, there was something too clean and classically beautiful about the ruins of the ancient throne room for the architects to modify. They had left it as it was, save for scouring it clear of creeping jungle growth and debris. For the first time in thousands of years that spacious chamber was full. Hundreds of rebel troops and technicians stood assembled on the old stone floor, gathered together for one last time before dispersing to new posts and distant homes. For the first time ever the massed ranks of pressed uniforms and polished semi-armor stood arrayed together in a fitting show of Alliance might. The banners of the many worlds which had lent support to the rebellion fluttered in the gentle breeze formed inside. At the far end of a long open aisle stood a vision gowned in formal white, barred with chalcedony waves—Leia Organa’s signet of office. |
