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Mos Eisley was clearly a cesspool, one of the worst backwater towns on one of the least hospitable planets she’d ever seen. The desert air had chapped her lips and dried out the delicate membranes of her nose and throat; it would take weeks if not months for her to adapt. No, she thought, she had to get out of here as quickly as possible. And to do that, she’d need money. That’s where Droopy and Max came in.

“We need a gig,” she told them.

“We need dinner!” Max said. “I think I’ll have room service.”

“Not a chance!” Sy said. “They charge extra for that. We’ll go out for dinner. There’s bound to be a cheap take-out place near here.”

“But I’m hungry now!” Max said.

Sy sighed and rose. “Then we’d better go,” she said. If she waited much longer, she knew Max would order room service whether she forbade him to or not. And they didn’t have the cash to spare for frills like room service. She glanced at Droopy. At least he wouldn’t eat. One of the crates contained a supply of giant white slugs in stasis fields—several years’ worth, at the rate he seemed to consume them.

Max walked to the door, which opened, and Sy followed him. Droopy brought up the rear. Perhaps it would be good to get out, Sy thought. She could start making some subtle inquiries about work. A place this big had to have at least one opening for a singer of her talent.

It was such a rough place, though, that she’d need protection. Slowly a plan came to her, and it was so clever it made her laugh out loud. Max glanced back at her impatiently; Droopy didn’t even look up.

Yes, she thought. She’d let Max be the leader of the band. If anything happened, it would happen to him—just as with Evar Orbus. She’d manage the money. It wouldn’t be hard to talk Max into an arrangement like that. With him fronting for her, what could possibly go wrong?

She’d get them off Tatooine as quickly as possible, hire a few more musicians, and before she knew it, she’d have a band to be reckoned with. Jizz-wailers were in big demand around the galaxy. And with her voice, they couldn’t possibly fail.

Max munched on a bantha kabob and nodded every once in a while to the tall, dark-skinned human with long hair and moustaches seated across from him. What had Sy called him? Naroon Cuthas … the talent scout for some big guy out in the desert. Max was barely paying attention; after all, Sy was the one who’d brought the guy over, and he was busy eating. She could entertain him till Max finished.

“Jizz-wailers …” Naroon Cuthas said, stroking his long moustaches. “Yes, I think I could use you, at least short-term.”

“Who do you work for?” Sy asked.

“Jabba the Hutt. Ever hear of him?”

“No,” Max said. If this was what the local cuisine tasted like, he was never leaving, he thought. He finished his meal, searched the tabletop for crumbs, didn’t find any, and gestured for the waiter to bring him two more kabobs.

“He has a palace,” Cuthas continued. “I’m in town picking up some supplies, so I’d be glad to give you a ride. I can have you audition for him tonight, and if he likes you, you can send for your belongings and stay in the palace.”

The bantha meat, Max thought, was cooked to perfection: moist, succulent, and exactly the right shades of pink, gray, and yellow. Even the grease had a delightfully sharp aftertaste, he thought, licking it off his fingers one by one. Delicious. He’d never had the like before.

Cuthas seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Had he missed something? Sy poked him in the ribs.

“It’s a good job,” she whispered in his ear. “We should take it.”

“Okay,” he said.

“How soon can you start?” Cuthas asked.

“After dinner?” Max said. He took another bite, then another, then a third. “Wonderful food!” he said.

“I’ll meet you at your hotel,” he said.

“Sounds great,” Max said. The waiter set another platter before him. “Pass the dioche sauce?”

“This way,” Naroon Cuthas said, indicating a broad corridor leading down from the hovercar landing bay. They had parked