Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

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GALEN ERSO WAS NOT A good farmer. That was only one of his many flaws, but it was the reason he was still alive.

A man of more diverse talents—a different Galen, a Galen who could intuit what colonial crops would thrive in an alien world’s soil, or who could check a withered tree for rot without peeling away its bark—would have grown bored. His mind, left idle in the fields, would have returned to subjects he had forsworn. That Galen, consciously or by habit, would have sought out the very work that had driven him to exile. He would have stared into the hearts of stars and formulated theorems of cosmic significance.

In time, he would have drawn attention. His obsessions would surely have killed him.

Yet an unskilled farmer was anything but idle; so the true Galen, the one who inhabited the realm of reality instead of idle fantasy, had no trouble filling his days on Lah’mu without succumbing to temptation. He took bacterial samples off boulders left by prehistoric volcanoes and looked in awe at the evergreen moss and grass and weeds that seemed to sprout from every surface. He surveyed the endless crooked hills of his domain, and he was grateful that he had yet to master his new profession.

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