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, "like I cannot hit high notes now if I try." "Then do not try," I advise. "One problem at a time is too much." There is a commotion at the entrance on the other side of the dance floor, where some people all dressed up come in. A woman is holding her head and moaning and threatening to faint all over the place. Frankie hurries over to us, running fidgety hands through his hair. "For goodness sake, play something," he almost begs. "What gives?" I inquire. "Flying cuspidors," Frankie says in a frantic tone. "They are all around the place, like they are maybe mad at something, and a few minutes ago they buzz the ferry and get the passengers all nervous and upset. If they do that again, business will be bad; maybe even now it will be bad. Play something!" He hops out in front with his baton and gives us a quick one-two, and we all swing into "Space On My Hands," real loud so as to get people's minds off things which Frankie wants to get people's minds off of.