Trilogy by George Lucas

Mostly it involved the rest of his life, and the commitment made by his best friend who had recentlydeparted beyond the blue sky above to enter a harsher, yet more rewarding career.
    The bigger man stopped before the assembly and entered into a peculiar squeaky dialogue with the jawa in charge. When they wished it, the jawas could be understood.
    Luke stood nearby, listening indifferently. Then he shuffled along behind his uncle as the latter began inspecting the five machines, pausing only to mutter an occasional word or two to his nephew. It was hard to pay attention, even though he knew he ought to be learning.
    â€œLuke—oh, Luke!” a voice called.
    Turning away from the conversation, which consisted of the lead jawa extolling the unmatched virtues of all five machines and his uncle countering with derision, Luke walked over to the near edge of the subterranean courtyard and peered down.
    A stout woman with the expression of a misplaced sparrow was busy working among decorative plants. She looked up at him. “Be sure and tell Owen that if he buys a translator to make sure it speaks Bocee, Luke.”
    Turning, Luke looked back over his shoulder and studied the motley collection of tired machines. “It looks like we don’t have much of a choice,” he called back down to her, “but I’ll remind him anyway.”
    She nodded up at him and he turned to rejoin his uncle.
    Apparently Owen Lars had already come to a decision, having settled on a small semi-agricultural robot. This one was similar in shape to Artoo Detoo, save that its multiple subsidiary arms were tipped with different functions. At an order it had stepped out of the line and was wobbling along behind Owen and the temporarily subdued jawa.
    Proceeding to the end of the line, the farmer’s eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the sand-scoured but still flashy bronze finish of the tall, humanoid Threepio.
    â€œI presume you function,” he grumbled at the robot. “Do you know customs and protocol?”
    â€œDo I know protocol?” Threepio echoed as the farmer looked him up and down. Threepio was determined to embarrass the jawa when it came to selling his abilities. “Do I know protocol! Why, it’s my primary function. I am also well—”
    â€œDon’t need a protocol ’droid,” the farmer snapped dryly.
    â€œI don’t blame you, sir,” Threepio rapidly agreed. “I couldn’t be more in agreement. What could be more of a wasteful luxury in a climate like this? For someone of your interests, sir, a protocol ’droid would be a useless waste of money. No, sir—versatility is my middle name. See Vee Threepio—Vee for versatility—at your service. I’ve been programmed for over thirty secondary functions that require only …”
    â€œI need,” the farmer broke in, demonstrating imperious disregard for Threepio’s as yet unenumerated secondary functions, “a ’droid that knows something about the binary language of independently programmable moisture vaporators.”
    â€œVaporators! We are both in luck,” Threepio countered. “My first post-primary assignment was in programming binary load lifters. Very similar in construction and memory-function to your vaporators. You could almost say …”
    Luke tapped his uncle on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. His uncle nodded, then looked back at the attentive Threepio again.
    â€œDo you speak Bocee?”
    â€œOf course, sir,” Threepio replied, confident for a change with a wholly honest answer. “It’s like a second language to me. I’m as fluent in Bocee as—”
    The farmer appeared determined never to allow him to conclude a sentence. “Shut up.” Owen Lars looked down at the jawa. “I’ll take this one, too.”
    â€œShutting up, sir,” responded Threepio quickly, hard put to conceal his glee at