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“Planted the seed.” Momaw Nadon blinked slowly. With his eyes squinched shut, all semblance of a face vanished. “A good way to express it. If all goes as planned, the ‘seed’ will come to fruition before this day is over.” One eyestalk swiveled. “Did Alima pay well?”

Muftak buzzed with amusement. “Five hundred. The Imperial chit he issued proved worthless, of course.”

“Not surprising,” Nadon said.

Muftak ran a claw through his hair, scratching nervously. “Momaw … what will become of you? Alima is ruthless. Now he’s looking for you.”

“He has found me,” Nadon admitted, his dual voice a harsh whisper. “Do not worry, my friend. All is unfolding as it must.”

The Talz took another sip of ale, reluctant to pursue this depressing subject.

“No matter what happens today,” the Hammerhead continued, “things here in Mos Eisley are changing. Yesterday you learned the name of your species. Soon you will discover the name of your world, and where it is located. Then … what? Will you go home?”

Muftak let out a tiny buzz, rising in pitch. “Home. It is such a simple word. In my native language, the word is ‘p’zil.’ ” He paused, unwilling to reveal such intimate details even to a friend. “If I have dreamed truly, it is a cool, wet world, with wide, rich jungles beneath a deep indigo sky. My dreams are full of huge flowers shaped like giant bells, all colors, hanging high in the lush foliage. I climb to those flowers, treading along a strong ridged petal. Deep in the center darkness lies a rich reservoir of nectar. I drink, marvelous rippling flavors …” He sighed. “This ale is only a pale reflection.”

The Ithorian bobbed his eyestalks in understanding. “Those dreams are true, my friend. Racial memories, no doubt, to guide you when you emerge from your cocoon. Just as you were born with a knowledge of your native language. I have never heard of such a people as the Talz, but they are obviously unique and of great value. You must return and join your essence with that of your people. It is the Law of Life.”

“I haven’t thought that far, I’m afraid,” said Muftak. “I don’t have the credits to pay for such a trip. And … what about Kabe? The galaxy is in turmoil. Even if I could obtain safe passage for us, I can’t trust her. She only thinks of herself. How can I take her with me?”

Momaw Nadon closed his eyes for a long moment. “I may not live out the day, so I cannot help you. But you will think of something. Let us drink—”

Suddenly Kabe bobbed up at Muftak’s side. “He won’t serve me again!” she sputtered angrily. “Damn that Wuher. And damn Chalmun! I’ll feed the Sarlacc with them both. They won’t sell me any juice, Muftak. My credits are good, damn it! Damn them all! You know that I—”

Muftak interrupted her with a loud buzz. “Calm down, little one. What did Wuher say?”

“He said he wanted no tipsy Ranats robbing his customers. Me, a Ranat! Muftak, can you go talk to him? Please?”

Muftak stroked his proboscis slowly, thinking. “His reaction isn’t surprising, considering what happened last time we were here, Kabe. But … I’ll speak to him.” He raised his glass to Momaw Nadon. “After all, this is a celebration … of sorts.”

Kabe’s ears twitched with distaste as Figrin D’an’s sextet swung into yet another off-key, off-tempo number. The little Chadra-Fan’s hearing was as sensitive as Muftak’s sense of smell, and this “music” was particularly jarring. But Chalmun’s cantina was the cheapest source of juri juice around, so she endured it. She guzzled the dregs from her cup, feeling the pleasant rush of the liquor.

Licking the last drops from her whiskers, she held up her tumbler. “More, Wuher. More juri juice! I’m thirsty!” The bartender glanced across the room at Muftak, muttered something under his breath, then grudgingly took the glass and refilled it with the ruby brew. Kabe grabbed it eagerly.

Suddenly, the bartender straightened, scowling angrily. Was he getting ready to summon the bouncer? Kabe stood poised, ready to run