Are you in need of a droid? Is work on the moisture farm too much for one man and his farm boy nephew? Then head on down to Mos Eisley and buy your very own personal mechanical assistant!

Mos Eisley Robotics! These are the droids you're looking for!

As Tatooine's second sun rose over the horizon, the lads awoke to meet the production team. One of them stepped forth and handed Tycho a datapad. Tycho hit the power switch and began to read the message's contents.

'"Though you have succeeded in creating your podracers, you have not yet been blooded as true podracer pilots. Your next task is to take your racers and travel to the Mos Espa Circuit, where each of you shall complete a lap while your two companions manage the track's many challenges and traps."'

Even Wes looked uneasy. 'Challenges and traps.'

'Yep,' said Tycho, who seemed utterly at ease. 'The Hutts have upped the difficulty a bit ever since Anakin Skywalker won. At least one straightaway has automated ion turrets buried along the sides. The local Tusken tribe has also been handed some fresh new weapons to terrorize pilots.'

'Whoa, wait a minute,' Hobbie said, 'Tuskens? You mean they'll be around to shoot at us?'

Tycho shrugged. 'According to the producers, they've been instructed to use only stun bolts on their weapons today. They were particularly amenable to the idea of terrorizing foreigners, even if they couldn't kill them. Or at least that's what the translator droid told me.'

'HROOOOONK HURK HURRRRRR HROOOONK.'

'Master Tycho,' said the battered protocol droid, 'I believe this Tusken chief has agreed to the arrangements. Though he is upset at the no kill rule, he will gladly take potshots at your fellow idiot aliens.'

'You "believe"?' Tycho raised an eyebrow.

'Well, it's either that or he will eviscerate you, Master Klivian, and Master Janson and use your blood to flavor tomorrow night's stew.'

Tycho coughed uncomfortably. 'Well. Let's just hope it's the former. Otherwise, this will be one very short show.'

With the twin suns at their zenith, the three podracers set off across the Dune Sea towards Mos Espa. The racers, arranged in a wedge formation, left great plumes of sand in their wake. They passed moisture farms and ranches, canyons and the massive skeletons of krayt dragons and other beasts long forgotten.

'You know, this isn't actually so bad,' Wes said. 'It's a bit slower than I'd like-and that's something coming from a guy who flew Y-wings-but Tatooine has some truly magnificent vistas. You don't get sights like these on Coruscant or Corellia with all their gray towers and urban filth. I mean, look at that.' He gestured to his right and turned his dashboard camera. To Wes' starboard stood a number of rock formations, from colossal arches to great cylindrical pillars. In the center of the formation was an oasis, protected by shade and surrounded by animals and greenery. Carved into the cliff face behind it was a statue of a bipedal creature with four arms and an elongated head, its features eroded by the passage of time.

To Wes' port side, Hobbie reclined in his seat and adjusted his shemagh. 'Oh yes, this is a proper podracer, the Block 2 Supper Leggera. The handling is great, the brakes all work perfectly, and just listen to that engine roar. This. Is. Incredible, ladies and gents. Well, it would be if it wasn't for this infernal heat. And the sand. He spat a wad of sandy phlegm out the side of his control pod for emphasis. 'I'm surprised this thing has lasted what with all the sa-' Then his starboard thruster sputtered. 'Oh no.'

'Gents, I've got a warning light. I've got to stop for a bit.'

'Alright then,' said Tycho over the comm, 'have fun.'

As dictated by Top Gear tradition, Wes and Tycho sped off to their destination, leaving Hobbie and the production crew to deal with his mechanical problems. With great caution, Hobbie opened up one of his Quadrijets. 'Ye gods!' he exclaimed. A small stream of sand poured out from his engines. 'Not only have I got sand in one of my thrusters, it looks like my podracer has actually had diarrhea.' Indeed, an unsightly brown liquid was splattered across the engine's innards.

'Okay,' he said to the camera. 'Super Leggera wasn't a very good idea after all. I think I know how to fix this, though.'

Several hours later, Hobbie pulled into the garage of the Mos Espa racing circuit. Wes and Tycho seemed quite content to watch their sandblasted comrade from the comfort of their lawn chairs. They gave him a space golf clap as he dismounted.

'What's with the droid?' Hobbie asked, gesturing to the silver bipedal model in the back corner.

'Oh, that?' said Wes. 'That was there before we got here. Doesn't work properly, though.'

'Statemen-en-en-ent,' it buzzed, tightening its grip on its blaster rifle, 'I will terminate-terminate-terminate-terminate-destroy all meatbags.'

'I wouldn't worry too much about it,' Tycho said. 'Oh, and Wes and I drew straws to see who would go first. You got the short straw.'

Hobbie groaned. 'I hate you guys.'

Wes and Tycho picked up the bags sitting by their chairs and hopped into the production team's speeder. They waved jauntily at him before driving off to their designated spots on the track. 'I have a bad feeling about this,' said Hobbie to the camera. 'But you know what? Screw it. Let's do this.'

He jumped into his podracer and hit the ignition switch. With a mighty roar, its engines lit, and Hobbie took his place at the starting line. 'Alright, set to sport mode, cutting maneuvering safeties, and activating launch control.' He revved his engines. The lights descended. Three. Two. One.

Hobbie's podracer rocketed forward-a nearly perfect start. He took his racer through the circuit's tight corners and rocky straightaways. He dodged the ion bolts and rocky outcrops flawlessly, taking no damage in the process. 'Right,' he said to himself, 'You can do this, Hobbie. You can do this. You are a leaf on the wind. Leaf. On. The wind. Watch how I-'

A blaster bolt shot off one of his rear-view mirrors.

'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-'

Wes giggled as he resighted his sniper rifle. The Tuskens also seemed to enjoy themselves as they took potshots at Hobbie's podracer. The mesa rang with the snap-crack of blaster fire. 'Hobbie, stop sideslipping so I can shoot you properly.'

'JANSOOOOOON!' Hobbie raged. 'CURSE YOUR SUDDEN BUT INEVITABLE BETRAYAL!'

'Stop being such a baby,' Wes said on the comm. 'They're set to stun.'

'STUNNING THE DRIVER MEANS CRASHING THE RACER, YOU NERF HERDER!'

'Oh, stop whining, Captain Crash. Just use your bacta sponsorships.'

As if to punctuate his sentence, Wes blasted off Hobbie's other rear-view mirror.

'Hate sand. Hate this planet. Hate you. Hate-is that a Y-wing?'

Surely enough, it was. The BTL-S3 followed Hobbie's podracer perfectly and inverted, allowing the ion cannons to fire at him unobstructed.

'Take us just a smidge to port,' Tycho said to ST-166, the team's tame racing pilot. ST-166 was clad, as always, in full TIE flight gear painted a stark white. Tycho, in his standard Alliance orange flight suit, manned the Y-wing's gunner seat.

'There we go,' he muttered. 'Firing.'

Hobbie's high-pitched yelps of panic were music to his ears. And to the audience's.