blank stare. "Which is?"

"Come on," I say mysteriously. "You and me have got things to do."

It is hard to say who is more nervous that night, Hotlips or a certain
piano player with my name. Frankie is smirking like always, and Stella
Starlight is sitting and looking beautiful while she waits for her cue.
Hotlips is fumbling with his trumpet like maybe he never sees one
before. And I--even I am not exactly calm like always.

The band begins to warm up, but we do not knock ourselves out because
there are still no customers to speak of. Frankie's license makes it
plain that he has to stay over the western hemisphere so he has to wait
until it gets dark enough there for the people to want to go
night-clubbing, even though it is not really night on the _Saturn_, or
morning or anything else.

We play along like always, and Hotlips has his trumpet pressed into his
face, and nothing but beautiful sounds come from the band. I do not know
if Frankie is altogether happy about this, for he does not like Hotlips
and would like this chance to bounce him. But what surprises me most is
that the thrush, Stella Starlight, keeps looking back at Hotlips like
she notices him for the first time and is plenty worried by what she
sees.

We have a short break after a while and I am telling Hotlips that the
idea goes over real great, when Stella Starlight waltzes over. Hotlips'
big eyes bug out and I can see him shaking and covered with goosebumps.

"You do not play like that before, Hotlips," she coos. "What did you
do?"

Hotlips blushes and stammers, "Eddie and I fix--" But I give him a kick
in his big shins before he gives the whole thing away.

"Hotlips does some practicing this afternoon," I tell her, "to get his
lip in shape for tonight."

She looks at me like she is looking through me, and then she turns back
to Hotlips and says, soft and murmuring: "Please do not play too high,
Hotlips. I am delicate and am disturbed by high sounds."

She waltzes away, and I scratch my head and try to figure out what this
pitch is for. Hotlips is not trying to figure out anything; he just sits
there looking like he has just got his trumpet out of hock for the last
time.

"Hotlips," I say to him.

"Go away, please, Eddie," he tells me. "I am in heaven."

"You will be in the poorhouse or maybe even in jail if you tell somebody
how we fix your playing," I warn him.

"I still feel funny feelings though, Eddie," he tells me, frowning,
"lik