Recipe for Disaster
Scene 11
"May I be of assistance, Padawan?"
Jocasta Nu's hair was pulled back in a rictus-knot of unsullied silver; her raptor-bright eyes skewered the prospective recipient of her help with unrelenting acuity.
"Um.. yes, Master. I need this volume, but it doesn't appear to be in circulation."
"Nonsense," the formidable guardian of wisdom snorted. "Let me see."
Obi-Wan pointed to the catalog number in question, relinquishing his seat at the Archives data terminal to a higher authority.
A few minutes silent scrutiny of the computer system, and Madame Nu rose to her feet in a rustle of embroidered cloth. "Hm." Her thin brows lifted in disapprobation. "Someone borrowed that particular reference work ninety-six years ago, and never returned it."
The padawan gave an involuntary cringe, his agile imagination readily supplying what punitive measures might await a culprit of such brazen and magnificent daring.
But the head Archivist only shook her aged head and scrawled something illegible on a sheet of flimsy. "Here," she sniffed, thrusting the enigmatic missive into his hand. "If you want that book so badly, you may fetch it yourself. I do have my limits."
He blinked, non-plussed. "But... who...?"
The librarian had already glided halfway down the aisle. "Master Yoda, of course," she snapped, and then rounded a corner, leaving the young Jedi mired in his own dilemma.
But surrender was not an option. Heart in his throat, he proceeded boldly upwards to the Grand Master's private chambers, only to find them unoccupied. A series of discreet inquiries sent him haring off on a wild bantha chase from the Council spire to the arboretum to the dojo, to the refectory, and then back to the younglings' classroom wing, where he managed to intercept the ancient Jedi between instructional sessions.
"Obi-Wan," the hoary green magister greeted him. "Look of desperate man, you have. Need my help, hmm?"
"Yes, Master. Well, I need a recipe book you might have in your personal possession..." He proffered the Archivist's terse epistle and swallowed audibly.
Yoda squinted balefully at the note, face rumpling into a mass of vexed lines. "Bad book this was. Useless."
"Yes, Master, but I still need it-"
"Need nothing, a Jedi does, except the Force!" The ancient one's gnarled stick was thrust up into his face. "Cooking: no point do I see in it. Ruins good food. Hm."
The padawan shifted nervously foot to foot, queasily contemplating Master Yoda's notorious gustatory quirks. "Yes, Master, but -"
"Enough," the Grand Master chuffed, slamming his cane against the floor. "Know better than to seek wisdom in mere book, you should. Besides, too late is it. Lost volume on Ragoon IV, I did. Ninety years ago." he shoved the note back into Obi-Wan's hand. "Report me to Madame Nu, you should, if demand such action your honor does."
Unwilling to play intermediary in the strife of two such titanic personalities, Obi-Wan shook his head vigorously. "No Master, It is not my place, and -"
"Good," the ancient one snorted, stumping forward along the concourse. "Late I am for teaching little ones. Pester me not anymore about cookbook." A slight pause, in which the pointed ears perked forward and the gimlet eyes widened impishly. "Wonderful, is the mind of a child, Obi-Wan. Wonderful."
His certainty that this last remark was directed specially at him was proportionate only to his uncertainty about its meaning. Obi-Wan sighed, turned tail, and beat a forlorn retreat, heading with lackluster step toward Troon's classroom and the next culinary arts lesson.