Alan Dean Foster - Splinter of the Mind's Eye

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Splinter Of The Mind's Eye by Alan Dean Foster

Alan Dean Foster

Splinter Of The Mind's Eye

Based on the characters and situations created by George Lucas

ISBN 0-345-29659-1

Cover art by Ralph McQuarrie

For Dad & Mom Oxley, Louis & Ellie; with all my love, which would fill several universes.

HOW beautiful was the universe, Luke thought. How beautifully flowing, glorious and aglow like the

robe of a queen. Ice-black clean in its emptiness and solitude, so unlike the motley collage of spinning

dust motes men called their worlds, where the human bacteria throve and multiplied and slaughtered

one another. All so that one might say he stood a little higher than his fellows.

In depressed moments he felt sure there was no really happy living matter on any of those worlds.

Only a plethora of destructive human diseases which fought and raged constantly against one another,

a sequence of cancerous civilizations which fed on its own body, never healing yet somehow not quite

dying.

A particularly virulent strain of one of those cancers had killed his own mother and father, then his

Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen. It had also taken from him the man he had learned to respect more than

any other, the elderly Jedi knight Ben Kenobi.

Although he had seen Kenobi struck by the light-saber of Darth Vader on board the now obliterated

Imperial Deathstar battle station, he could not be certain the old wizard was truly dead. Vader's saber

had left only empty air in its wake. That Ben Kenobi had departed this plane of existence was

unarguable. What no one could tell was what level of existence he had passed into. Maybe death and...

Maybe not.

There were times when Luke experienced an agreeably crawly sensation, as if someone were lurking

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just behind him. That unseen presence occasionally seemed to move arms and legs for him, or to

supply suggestions and thoughts when his own mind was helplessly blank. Blank as that of the former

farm boy of Tatooine's desert world.

Unseen spirits or not, Luke reflected grimly, if there was one thing he was sure of it was that the

callow youth he had once been was dead and dry as dust. In the Rebel Alliance of worlds struggling

against the corrupt rule of the Imperial government he held no formal title. But no one taunted him or

called him farm boy—not since he had helped destroy the bloated battle station secretly built by

Governor Moff Tarkin and his henchman Darth Vader.

Luke had no experience with titles, hence no use for them. When the Rebel leaders offered him any

reward within their ability to grant, he had asked only to be permitted to continue piloting a fighter in

the Alliance's service. Some thought his request unduly modest, but one shrewd general disagreed,

explaining how Luke might be more valuable to the Rebellion without a title or commission which, the

veteran pointed out to his colleagues, would serve only to make the youth a prime target for Imperial

assassination. So Luke remained the pilot he'd always wanted to be, perfecting his flying skills and

always, unceasingly, wrestling with the Force Ben Kenobi had enabled him to begin to understand.

No time for meditating now, he reminded himself as he studied the instruments of his X-wing fighter.

A glance forward showed the brilliant pulsing sun-ball of Circarpous Major, its devastating radiance

stopped down to viewable intensity by the phototropic material of the transparent port itself.

"Everything okay back there, Artoo?" he called into his pickup. A cheerful beep from the stubby 'droid

locked in position behind the cockpit assured Luke that it was.

Their destination was the fourth planet out from this star. Like so many others, the Circarpousians

were appalled by the atrocities perpetrated by the Empire, but too paralyzed by fear to openly join the

Rebel Alliance. Over the years, a burgeoning underground movement had arisen on Circarpous, an

underground needing only enough aid and encouragement from the Alliance to rise and swing their

world to the cause of freedom.

From the tiny, hidden Rebel station on the outermost planet of the system, Luke and the Princess were

racing to a critically important meeting with the heads of that underground, to offer the necessary

promise of support. He checked his console chronometer. They would arrive in plenty of time to

reassure the highly nervous underground chiefs.

Leaning slightly forward and glancing to starboard, he could admire the sleek Y-wing fighter cruising

alongside. Two figures sat silhouetted by instrument lights within its cockpit. One was the gleaming

golden shape of See Threepio, Artoo's 'droid companion.

The other... whenever he looked at her, the other caused emotions to boil within him like soup too long

on the fire, no matter if she was separated from him by near vacuum as at present or by only an arm's

length in a conference room. It was for and because of that individual, Princess and Senator Leia

Organa of the now-vaporized world of Alderaan, that Luke had originally become involved in the

Rebellion. First her portrait and then her person had initiated the irreversible metamorphosis from farm

boy to fighter pilot. Now the two of them were the official emissaries from the ruling council of the

Rebel government to the vacillating underground on Circarpous.

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Sending her on so dangerous a mission, Luke had thought from the first, was a risk. But a second

system was ready to commit itself to the Alliance, if it was announced that Circarpous had also joined.

At the same time, if that second system would declare its defiance of the Empire, then the

Circarpousian underground would undoubtedly come over to the side of the Rebellion. So not one, but

two systems waited on the outcome of this mission. And if it failed, Luke knew, both systems would

probably lose heart and withhold their desperately needed aid. They had to succeed.

Luke had no doubts, as he silently adjusted his ship's attitude a quarter of a degree to the plane of the

solar ecliptic, about the outcome of their mission. He couldn't imagine anyone who could not be

persuaded by Princess Leia. She could convince him of anything. Luke treasured those moments when

she forgot her station and titles. He dreamed of a time when she might forget them forever.

A beep from behind woke Luke from his daydreaming, wiped the smile from his face. They were

preparing to pass close by Circarpous V, and Artoo was reminding him of it. A vast, cloud-shrouded

globe, the planet was listed in Luke's library as being mostly unexplored, save for a single early

Imperial scouting expedition. According to the computer readout, it was also known to the

Circarpousians as Mimban, and... His intership communicator dinged for attention. "I'm receiving you,

Princess."

Her reply was filled with irritation. "My port engine is beginning to generate unequal radiation

pulses." Even when bothered, to him that voice was as naturally sweet and pleasing as sugar-laden

fruit. "How bad?" he inquired, frowning worriedly. "Bad enough, Luke." The words sounded strained.

"I'm losing control already, and the inequality's getting worse. I don't think I'm going to be able to

compensate. We'll have to stop at the first base down below on Mimban and have the problem

corrected." Luke opened his mouth to reply, did so after hesitating briefly. "You can't possibly make it

safely to Circarpous IV?"

"I don't think so, Luke. I might make near-orbit, but then we'd have to deal with official repair systems

and couldn't set down as planned. We'd miss the meeting, and we can't miss it. Resistance groups from

all over the Circarpous system are going to be there. If I don't arrive, they'll panic. We'll have one

Stang of a time getting them to surface again. And the Circarpous, worlds are vital to the Rebellion,

Luke."

"I still don't think..." he began.

"Don't make me make it an order, Luke."

Biting back his initial response, he hurriedly began a check of visual readout charts and records.

"According to my information tapes, Mimban doesn't have a repair station, Leia. In fact," he added

with a glance at the murky green-white sphere below and to one side, "Mimban might not even have

an emergency standby station."

"It doesn't matter, Luke. I have to make the conference, and I'm going down while I still have some

real control. Surely, in a system as populous as this one, any world with a breathable atmosphere's

going to be equipped with facilities for emergency repair. Your data must be old or else you're

searching the wrong tapes." A pause, then, "You can prove it by shifting your communicator monitor

to frequency oh-four-six-one."

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Luke adjusted the requisite controls. Instantly a steady whine filled the small cabin.

"Sound familiar?" she asked him.

"That's a directional landing beacon, all right," he replied, confused. Several further queries, however,

revealed no records of a station on Mimban. "But there's still nothing in the listings on either Imperial

or Alliance tapes. If we..." He broke off as a puff of gas glowed brightly from the Princess' Y-wing,

expanded brightly and vanished. "Leia! Princess Leia!"

Her small ship was already curving away from him. "Lost lateral controls completely now, Luke! I've

got to go down!"

Luke rushed to match her glide path. "I don't deny the presence of the beacon. Maybe we'll be lucky!

Try to shift power to your port controls!"

"I'm doing the best I can." A brief silence, followed by, "Stop moving around, Threepio, and watch

your ventral manipulators!"

A contrite, metallic, "Sorry, Princess Leia," sounded from her cabin companion, the bronzed human-

cyborg relations 'droid See Threepio. "But what if Master Luke is correct and there is no station

below? We could find ourselves marooned forever on this empty world, without companionship,

without knowledge tapes, without... without lubricants!"

"You heard the beacon, didn't you?" Luke saw a small explosion whereupon the Y-wing dove surface-

ward at an abruptly sharper angle. For a few moments only static answered his frantic calls. Then the

interference cleared. "Close, Luke. I lost my starboard dorsal engine completely. I cut port dorsal

ninety percent to balance guidance systems."

"I know. I've cut power to slow with you."

In the Y-wing's tiny cabin Threepio sighed, gripped the walls around him more firmly. "Try to set us

down gently, please, Princess. Rough landings do terrible things to my internal gyros."

"They're not so good on my insides either," the Princess shot back, lips clenched tightly as she fought

the sluggish controls. "Besides, you've nothing to worry about. 'Droids can't get spacesick."

Threepio could have argued otherwise, but remained silent as the Y-wing commenced a stomach-

turning roll downward. Luke had to react rapidly to follow. There was one tiny positive sign: the

beacon signal was not imaginary. It was really there, beeping steadily when he adjusted the controls on

his board so that the signal was audible. Maybe Leia was right.

But he still didn't feel confident. "Artoo, let me know if you spot anything unusual on our way down.

Keep all your sensory plug-ins on full power." A reassuring whistle filled the cockpit.

They were at two hundred kilometers and descending when Luke jumped in his seat. Something began

pushing at his mind. A stirring in the Force. He tried to relax, to let it fill and flow over and through

him just as old Ben had instructed him.

His sensitivity was far from perfectly attuned and he sincerely doubted he would ever attain half the

command of the Force that Kenobi had possessed... though the old man had expressed great

confidence in Luke's potential. Still, he knew enough to categorize that subtle tingling. It sparked an

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almost palpable feeling of unease in him, and it came from something (or several somethings) on the

surface below. Yet he wasn't sure. Not that he could do anything about it now. The only concern of the

moment was hoping the Princess' ship could set down safely.

But the sooner they left Mimban, the better he'd feel.

Despite her own problems, the Princess was taking the time to relay coordinate information to him. As

if he couldn't plot her own course by himself. Instead, he tried to identify something he'd just spotted

below them as they entered the outer atmosphere. Something funny in the clouds here... he couldn't

decide just what.

He voiced his new concern to the Princess. "Luke you're worrying too much. You'll worry yourself to

death at an early age. And that would be a waste of..."

He never did find out what worrying himself to death would be a waste of because at that moment they

entered troposphere for the first time and the immediate reaction of both ships to the thicker air and air

to ships was anything but normal.

It seemed as if they'd suddenly plunged from a cloud-dotted but unexceptional-appearing sky into an

ocean of liquid electricity. Gigantic multicolored bolts of energy erupted from empty air, contacted the

hulls of the two ships and fomented instrumental chaos where order had reigned seconds before.

Instead of the blue or yellow-tinged canopy they'd expected to sail through, the atmosphere around

them was drenched with bizarre, perambulating energies so wild and frenzied they bordered on the

animate. Behind Luke, Artoo Detoo beeped nervously.

Luke fought his own instrumentation. It flaunted a farrago of electronic nonsense at him. The madly

bucking X-wing was held in the grip of unidentified forces powerful enough to toss it about like a

plaything. The chromatic storm vanished behind him as if he'd suddenly emerged from a waterspout,

but his controls continued to exhibit what were probably permanent manifestations of the

electronically addled.

A quick verbal survey revealed what he most feared: the Princess' fighter was nowhere in sight. Trying

to control his drunken ship with one hand on the manual controls, Luke activated the communicator

with the other.

"Leia! Leia, are you...?"

"No... control, Luke," came the static-sprinkled reply. He could barely make out the words.

"Instruments... replonza. I'm trying to get down in... one piece. If we..."

Gone, no matter how frantically he cajoled the communicator. His attention was diverted as something

in one overhead panel blew out in a shower of sparks and metal fragments. The cockpit filled with

acrid fumes.

Impelled by a desperate thought, Luke activated the fighter's tracker. Part of the little ship's offensive

armament, it was among its best-built and sealed components. Even so, it had been overloaded by the

fury of the peculiar distorting energies, energies which its designers had never anticipated that it would

encounter.

Useless now, nonetheless its automatic record was intact and playable. It showed for several moments

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the falling spiral which could only have been left by the Princess' ship. As best as he could without

auto-enhancement, Luke set the X-wing on a pursuit course downward. There was little to no chance

of following the Princess precisely. He simply prayed that now they might land somewhere other than

on opposite sides of the planet from each other. He simply prayed they might land.

Swerving slightly like a crippled camel in a sandstorm, the fighter continued to drop. As the lush

surface of Mimban rushed up at him Luke caught rolling, twisting glimpses of mountainless green

swaths interwoven with veins and arteries of muddy brown and blue.

Though he was utterly ignorant of Mimbanian topography, the green and blue-brown of rivers and

streams and vegetation seemed infinitely preferable as landing sites to, say, the endless cerulean of

open sea or the gray spires of young mountains. No rock is as soft as water and no water so soft as a

swamp, he reflected, trying to cheer himself. He was starting to believe he actually might survive the

touchdown, the Princess doing likewise.

Frantically he fought to discover a combination of circuits that would reactivate the target tracker.

Once he partly succeeded. The screen showed the Y-wing still on the course he'd just plotted. His

chance of setting down close to her ship was looking better.

Despite the demands on his mind, he couldn't help but consider the energy distortions that had ruined

their instrumentation. The fact that the rainbow maelstrom was confined to one area—an area very

close to the location of the landing beacon—raised questions as intriguing as they were disturbing.

Trying to minimize the effects of his insane controls, Luke switched off his engines and continued

down on glide. Back on Tatooine he'd had plenty of practice idling in his skyhopper. But that was

considerably different from doing practically the same thing in a vehicle as complex as this fighter. He

had no idea if the same thought would occur to the Princess, or if she had had any experience in

powerless flight. Anxiously chewing his lower lip, Luke realized that even if she tried gliding, his own

craft was far better suited to such a maneuver than her Y-wing.

If only he could see her he'd feel a lot better. Strain his eyes as he might, though, there was no sign of

her. Soon, he knew, all chance of visual contact would vanish. His ship began plunging recklessly into

a floor of dirty gray cotton, thick cumulo-nimbus clouds.

Several rambling flashes crackled through the air, only this time the lightning was natural. But Luke

was deep in clouds by then and could see nothing. Panic hammered at him. If the visibility stayed like

this all the way to the surface he'd locate the ground a bit too late, the hard way. As he considered

switching back to auto, distorted as it was, he broke out of the bottom layer of clouds. The air was

thick with rain, but not so bad that he failed to make out the terrain below. Time was running out faster

than altitude now. He had barely enough of either to pull back on the atmospheric controls before

something jolted the fighter from below. That was followed instantly by a series of similar crackings

as he clipped off the crowns of the tallest trees.

Eyeballing his airspeed indicator, Luke fired braking rockets and nudged the ship's nose down ever so

gently. At least he would be spared the worry of igniting the vegetation around the landing site.

Everything hereabouts was drenched.

Again he fired the braking rockets. A series of violent jolts and jounces shook him despite his battle

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harness. A green floral wave crested ahead and overwhelmed him with darkness....

He blinked. Ahead, the shattered foreport of the fighter framed jungle with crystal geometry. All was

quiet. As he tried to lean forward water caressed his face. That helped to clear his mind and bring the

scenery into sharp focus. Even the rain was falling with caution, he mused, that is if it were indeed a

light rain, instead of an exceptionally heavy mist.

Craning his neck, Luke noted that the metal overhead had been peeled back neatly—as if by some

giant opener—by the thick, now cracked limb of an enormous tree. If by chance the fighter had slid in

here slightly higher, Luke's skull would have been peeled off just as neatly—a bit more to port and the

broad bole of the tree would have smashed him back into the power plant. He had escaped

decapitation and fatal compression by a meter either way.

Water continued to drip into the broken, open cockpit from the wood above. Luke suddenly realized

he was parched and opened his mouth to let the water quench his thirst. He noticed a slight saltiness

that didn't seem right. The rain (or mist) water looked clear and pure. It was. The saltiness, he realized,

came from the blood trickling down from the gash in his forehead. It ran down the left side of his nose

and onto his lips.

Undoing the g-locks, Luke slipped free of the harness. Even moving slowly and carefully, he felt as if

every muscle in his body had been grabbed and pulled from opposite ends to the near-breaking point.

Ignoring the pain as best he could, he inventoried his surroundings.

Between the distortions generated by the electronic storm he'd passed through and the more prosaic

results of the crash, his instruments had become candidates for the secondhand shop. They would

never operate this fighter again. Turning to his left, he keyed the exit panel but was not surprised when

it failed to respond. After throwing the double switch on the manual release he jabbed the emergency

stud. Two of the four explosive bolts fired. The panel moved a few centimeters, then froze.

Pressing himself back in the pilot's seat, Luke braced himself with both hands and kicked. That

accomplished nothing save to send shooting pains up both legs. All that remained was the standard

exit, if it hadn't been too badly jammed. Reaching up with both hands, he shoved the release

mechanism, then pushed. Nothing. He paused, panting as he considered his alternatives.

The cockpit hood began to lift by itself. Squirming frantically, Luke tried to find his pistol. A

querulous beep reassured him. "Artoo Detoo!"

A curved metallic hood looked down at him, the single red electronic eye studying him anxiously.

"Yes, I'm okay... I think."

Using Artoo's center leg as a brace, Luke pulled himself up and out. Clearing his legs, he got to his

feet and found himself standing on top of the grounded X-wing. He rested his back against the curve

of the great, overhanging branch.

A mournful whistle-honk sounded and he glanced down at Artoo, who clung securely to the metal hull

nearby. "I don't know what you're saying, Artoo, without Threepio to translate for us. But I can guess."

His gaze turned outward. "I don't know where he and the Princess are. I'm not even sure where we

are."

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Slowly he took stock of the surface of Mimban. Dense growth rose all around, but it was clumped in

large pockets, instead of presenting a continuous front like a normal jungle. There was ample open

space. Mimban, or at least the section where he'd come down, was part swamp, part jungle, part bog.

Fluid mud filled most of a languid stream to the right of the ship. It meandered in slow motion. To his

left the trunk of the enormous tree he'd nearly hit towered into the mist. Beyond lay a tangle of other

tall growths fringed with bushes and tired, drooping ferns. Gray-brown ground bordered it. There was

no way to tell from a distance how solid the surface was. Bracing himself with a hand on a small

branch, Luke leaned over the side of the ship. The X-wing appeared to be resting on similar terrain. It

wasn't sinking. That meant he might be able to walk. This was some comfort to him, since without a

ship he was a rotten flier.

Smiling slightly to himself, he crouched and peered under the limb. The double wing on the port side

of the ship had been snapped off cleanly somewhere back in the forest, leaving only twin metal stubs.

Both engines on that side, naturally, were also missing. Unequivocally, he was grounded.

Carefully crawling back into the ruined cockpit he unlocked the seat and shifted it to one side, then

began rummaging in the sealed compartment behind it for the material he'd have to carry with him.

Emergency rations, his father's lightsaber, a thermal suit... the last because despite the tropic

appearance of some of the vegetation, it was decidedly cool outside.

Luke knew there were temperate rain forests as well as tropical ones. While the temperature would

probably not become dangerously cold, it still could combine with the omnipresent moisture to give

him an uncomfortable and potentially debilitating chill. So he took the precaution of packing the thin

suit. The survival pack for his back was strapped to the backside of the seat. Unbuckling it, he began

to fill its copious interior with supplies from the compartment.

When the rip-proof sack was stuffed, he tried to seal the cockpit as best he could to protect it. Then he

sat on the edge of the seat and thought.

His preliminary observations had revealed no sign of the Princess' Y-wing. Yet in the damp, foggy air

it could have touched down ten meters away and still be effectively invisible. She probably had landed

or crashed slightly ahead of him, according to his estimate of how rapidly he had set his own ship

down. Lacking any other information, he had no choice but to continue on foot along his last plotted

course for her.

It had occurred to him to stand on the nose of the ship and shout, but he'd decided it would be better to

locate the ship visually first. The cacophony of cries, hoots, howls, whistles and buzzings which

seeped out of the encircling bog and thick vegetation didn't encourage him to make himself

conspicuous. Shouting might attract all sorts of attention, some of it possibly carnivorous.

Better to find the Princess' ship first. With any luck she would be seated sensibly in the cockpit, alive

and intact and fuming with impatience as she waited for him to arrive.

Pulling himself clear of the cockpit again, Luke used branches for balance as he climbed down to the

broken stub of the port double wing. He lowered himself carefully to the ground, which was soft,

almost springy. Pulling up one foot, he saw that his boot sole was already coated with sticky gray gook

that resembled wet modeling clay. But the ground held, supported him. Artoo joined him a moment

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later.

Thanks to the abruptness of his forced landing, he didn't have to search for a walking stick. There was

an abundance of shattered, splintered limbs strewn in the fighter's wake. He selected one which would

serve both for support and for testing the ground ahead.

Using the nose of the ship as a crude guide, he set his tracomp and they started off, angling a few

degrees to starboard.

It might have been a movement of bush branches in the forest, it might have been the Force, or it

might have been an old-fashioned hunch, but even Ben Kenobi would have admitted that Luke had

only one chance of finding the Princess' ship. If it didn't lie close along the path he was taking, if he

missed it and passed on, he could continue trodding the surface of Mimban for a thousand years

without ever seeing her again.

If his original plotting tape had been accurate and if she hadn't altered her course of descent at the last

moment for some strange reason, he ought to find her within a week. Of course, he considered, she

might not have been able to prevent her fighter from changing its angle of fall. He shunted that

possibility aside. The situation was grim enough without such speculations.

The fog-mist-rain altered its consistency but never dried up completely. So it wasn't long before the

exposed portions of his body were thoroughly soaked. At present, he thought, it was more of a

belligerent fog than a real rain.

His suit kept his body moisture-free, but face, hands and scalp soon had rivulets of their own as water

accumulated. There were rare, almost clear-dry moments, but he still spent a lot of energy regularly

wiping the accumulated water beads from his forehead and cheeks.

Once he saw something that looked like a four-meter-long pale snake slither off into the underbrush at

his approach. As he strode cautiously over the path it had taken, he saw that it had left a grooved track

lined with luminous mucus in the soft earth. But Luke wasn't impressed. He had spent little time in

zoological study. Even on Tatooine, which harbored its own protoplasmic freaks, such things hadn't

interested him much. If a critter didn't try to eat you, claw you or otherwise ingest you, there were

other things to absorb one's interest.

Nonetheless, he now had to direct all his attention to keeping to his predetermined path. Despite the

tracom built into his suit sleeve he knew he could easily lose his way. A deviation of a tenth of a

degree could be critical.

He mounted a slight rise during one of the rare, almost clear periods. Through the fog and mist he

glimpsed monolithic gray battlements off in the distance. It seemed likely to him that those walls had

not been raised by human hands.

Their uniform steel-gray color made them look as if they'd been constructed of a child's toy blocks.

Luke couldn't be sure, this far away, whether their color was true or distorted by the shifting fog.

Soaring gray towers were inlaid with black stone or metal and boasted misshapen domes.

He paused, tempted for the first time to change direction and explore. There were discoveries to be

made here. However, the Princess waited not in that eldritch city but somewhere further on, in an

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environment which at any moment might prove hostile.

As if in response to his thought, he noticed a stirring in a clump of rust-green bushes ahead. Straining

every sense, he dropped to one knee and removed the lightsaber from its place at his waist. The

vegetation began to rustle violently. His thumb slid over the activation stud. Artoo beeped nervously

alongside.

Whatever was in there was moving toward him. He thought about testing the wind, remembered

sheepishly that there wasn't any. That, however, might not prove an inhibition to the creature

approaching him.

Quite abruptly the greenery ahead parted. Out walked the Mimbanite. It was a large dark brown furry

ball, with patches and stripes of green covering its body, roughly a meter in diameter. Four short furry

legs supported it, ending in thick, double digits. Four arms poked clear of the upper surface. The

modest tail was naked like a rat's.

Two wide eyes peering out from among the bristly fur were all that showed of a face. They grew wider

as they settled on Luke and Artoo Detoo.

Luke waited tensely, finger poised over the lightsaber switch.

The creature did not charge. Instead, it produced a startled, muffled squeal and whirled. With all eight

limbs propelling it, the creature shot back into the protective brush.

After several minutes of silence, Luke rose. His finger slid clear of the saber stud and he reattached the

weapon to his belt, smiling somewhat hysterically.

His first confrontation with an inhabitant of this world had sent it fleeing in terror from him. Maybe

the wildlife hereabouts, if not actually benign, was something less than dangerous. With that in mind

he continued on, his stride a bit longer, a touch more self-assured. His posture was straighter and his

spirits considerably higher, raised up by that stoutest of buoys, false confidence....

LEIA Organa made another half-hearted try at adjusting her rain-slicked hair, then gave up in disgust

and peered out at the lush growth surrounding her.

After losing all contact with Luke, she'd managed to land hard in this wet hell. She took some measure

of comfort in knowing that if Luke had also survived setdown, he'd try to reach her. After all, his job

was to see that she arrived safely at Circarpous IV.

Angrily she mused that now she was going to be rather more than slightly late for the conference. A

quick examination had indicated that she would no longer have to worry about the malfunctioning port

engine which was now a crumpled oblong metal shape, incapable of propelling itself or anything else

across so much as a light-second. The rest of the Y-wing was in little better shape.

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SplinterOfTheMind'sEyebyAlanDeanFosterAlanDeanFosterSplinterOfTheMind'sEyeBasedonthecharactersandsituationscreatedbyGeorgeLucasCopyright©1978byTheStarWarsCorporationISBN0-345-29659-1CoverartbyRalphMcQuarrieForDad&MomOxley,Louis&Ellie;withallmylove,whichwouldfills\everaluniverses.IHOWbeautifulwastheu...

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Alan Dean Foster - Splinter of the Mind's Eye

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