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famous french painting Han kept his ear tuned, for his eyes were still useless. He spoke with recklessdisregard, to put the guards at ease—to get them used to his talking and moving, sowhen the time came for him really to move, they'd be a critical fraction behind hismark. And, of course—as always—he spoke just to hear himself speak. "I think my sight is getting better," he said, squinting over the sand. "Instead ofbig dark blur, I see a big bright blur." "Believe me, you're not missing anything." Luke smiled. "I grew up here." Luke thought of his youth on Tatooine, living on his uncle's farm, cruising in hissouped-up landspeeder with his few friends—sons of other settlers, sitting their ownlonely outposts. Nothing ever to do here, really, for man or boy, but cruise themonotonous dunes and try to avoid the peevish Tusken Raiders who guarded the sandas if it were gold-dust. Luke knew this place. He'd met Obi-wan Kenobi, here—old Ben Kenobi, the hermit who'd lived in thewilderness since nobody knew when. The man who'd first shown Luke the way ofthe Jedi.