Ten minutes later he emerged from the bathroom completely clothed, feeling marginally successful, if a bit like a character in a fantasy novel. The floor-length, hooded cape was mostly to blame for that, although the leather tabard beneath it certainly helped. It had taken him the longest to don the padded glove, with all its buckles to hold it in place over the bony prosthesis, but he'd managed it. He thought when he came home he might try once again to shave, this time with the glove on, but he didn't feel he had anymore time to spare for that now.
The robot was nowhere in sight. Sam headed along the gallery away from the bedroom, wondering how he was going to get to wherever Anakin worked, and also where that was. He hoped fervently that he wouldn't be expected to drive himself, after seeing the traffic outside; a slight mistake might prove fatal. Turning a corner he found himself on a broad veranda, open to the air and with a magnificent view overlooking the city. That was where the robot met him.
"Master Ani," it said, "I see you've decided to wear your glove under your sleeve instead of over it. It does look best there; much more natural. I take it you've gotten over your dislike of the way you said it chafed your arm?"
Sam's eyes widened, but he made no reply to the robot's comment; he'd have to change the way he wore the glove later, not only to appear more like Anakin, but to avoid being chafed himself. Instead, he asked, "How much longer until I have to leave?"
"I should think you had best hurry," the robot told him. "You overslept this morning, which was why I had to wake you."
So that was it, he thought, frustrated.. No information he could use. Nothing. Just leave, quickly, now, so he wouldn't be late. But leave for where? He tried to fight down panic, knowing there was no help for what he must do. Only ...
... only he was just talking to a robot, he realized. Maybe it wouldn't matter. At least, not if ...
"What happens if I'm late?" he asked, testing the robot's reaction.
It leaned back and stared at him as if in shock.
"Late?" it asked, managing to sound aghast, adding sincerely, "Why, Master Ani, you can't be late! If you arrive at the temple after first light, there will certainly be questions raised about where you've been all night. If they find out you were here, they could discover that you and Miss Padme are married. You would be thrown out of the order! It would be a terrible scandal - Miss Padme would very likely lose her seat in the senate! Oh, dear!" it exclaimed, as if reporters set to cover the scandal were pounding at the door, "Hurry!"
Sam gaped at the sudden onslaught of information, managing to not get caught up in the robot's panic mostly because he was trying so hard to absorb what he'd just heard: Anakin was some sort of priest - evidently expected to be celibate - but with a very pregnant secret wife who just happened to be a public figure? That might very well be enough to make him sick, Sam thought. And it might be the dilemma he'd come to fix. Or it might not. Saving someone from a scandal didn't sound serious enough, even if - or maybe especially if - they were a politician. Unless ... unless they wielded enough power to make a difference in something else if they did not lose their office. Or the reverse.
"So, I've never been late," he hypothesized to the robot.
"Oh, no, sir," it assured him.
"Not even close?"
It hesitated a moment, then admitted, "Well, there was one time you did miss the public transport. I'm sure you remember it."
"Tell me anyway," he instructed. "What did I do?"
"You had me call Artoo to come pick you up."
Someone could pick him up? That sounded promising.
"How about you call Artoo again," he instructed.
"But sir, you can still make the transport if you hurry. Calling Artoo involves quite a bit of risk."
Not as much risk as me wandering around the city without knowing where I'm supposed to be, he thought. Out loud he said, "I'll accept the risk. Call Artoo anyway."
The robot moaned - Sam did not mistake it, it actually moaned - but it walked away, he hoped to make the requested call. While it was gone, he busied himself unfastening the clasps on the glove. He'd just removed it when the robot returned.
"He'll be here as soon as he can," the robot informed him. "He said there was no one in the garage bay at the moment, so it shouldn't take him too long."
"Can you help me put this on?" Sam asked as he stuck his prosthetic fingers back into the glove.
"Of course, sir," the robot replied, deftly tucking his sleeve together and snapping the clasps shut in less time than Sam would have thought possible, given how stiff-looking he appeared to be.
"Oh," Sam added, wanting to get this out of the way before Artoo arrived and he forgot, "About Miss Padme?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You won't tell her anything about our conversation here, about me asking you all these questions? I wouldn't want her to worry."
"Oh, of course not, sir," the robot assured him.
"Good," said Sam, feeling slightly more secure. "Then until Artoo gets here, I'd like to ask you some more questions that I also don't want you telling Miss Padme about."
"Very good, sir."
"Start by telling me your name; what you're called."
The robot's eyes flashed off and on twice. Sam realized it was meant to imitate blinking, and it did give quite a good semblance of surprise to its appearance, he had to admit. Whoever had programmed him had done an excellent job of giving him a personality. Unless, of course, all robots of this model acted identically, which he supposed was possible.
"Sir?" it asked, its voice rising with incredulity.
"Go on."
It hesitated another moment, then said, "I am C-3PO, human cyborg, relations."
"C-3PO?"
"Yes, sir, but ... but ... but you know that, sir. You are the maker! You created me."
Sam's eyes widened.
"I designed you?" he asked.
"No, sir, I am a standard design protocol droid," it corrected, "but you assembled and programmed me when you were nine years old as a present for your mother. Don't you remember, sir?"
Sam hesitated; the information gave him a sudden feeling of kinship with and admiration for the man whose body he inhabited. Anakin seemed more to him now than just a young man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was also able to deduct that Anakin's mother must no longer be living if the robot now resided with his wife.
"You will not reveal any part of this conversation to Miss Padme," he reiterated.
"No, sir," it said mournfully.
"Now, is that what I usually call you - C3PO?"
"Threepio is what you usually call me, sir."
Sam nodded, and said, "Threepio, you said I was a member of an order at a temple. What order is it?"
"The Jedi Order, sir."
"And how long have I been a member?"
"Since you were nine, sir."
Since he was a child? thought Sam. It sounded odd to him, but he knew it wasn't unheard of; and this wasn't his own culture, after all.
"And I'm not permitted to be married?"
"The Jedi are not permitted attachments of any kind, sir."
An acetic group, then, he surmised.
"How many people know about my marriage?"
"None, sir, so far as I know."
"Not even Miss Padme's parents?"
"No, sir. You did suggest it, but she decided it would be too risky."
"What about Artoo?"
"Artoo?" the robot repeated, surprised. "Well, of course, Artoo and I know about it. We were the only witnesses at the ceremony."
Artoo — R2, of course. Artoo was another robot!
"How long have I been married?"
"Three years, sir," came the reply. "Since the beginning of the civil war, when you were recovering on Naboo from the loss of your arm."
Civil war?
"Is the war over?"
"Unfortunately not, sir."
Sam was mulling over this disturbing fact when a vehicle pulled up to the edge of the veranda and stopped there. A clear canopy popped open; no one appeared to be inside.
"He's here, sir," Threepio said unnecessarily.
With a last admonishment to Threepio to say nothing to Padme (though he didn't know why he kept repeating it; probably because the artificial intelligence seemed so lifelike, he decided), Sam climbed into the cockpit.