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she also had a double shot glass with some kind of chaser.
    I extended my hand. “I’m Peter Cochrane,” I said.
    â€œSo I gathered from your friend. Pleased to meet you, Commander Peter Cochrane,” she said, gripping my hand firmly in reply for a few seconds. As I pulled back, my fingers went to my new collar pins nervously, then I took a drink of my bitter. I had two full stars, she had three.
    â€œAnd whom do I have the pleasure of sharing this drink with?” I said, trying to open up the conversation.
    â€œI’m Dobrina Kierkopf, Commander, Royal Carinthian Navy, class of ’74,” she said. The same year that Derrick had graduated from our Academy. That would make her twenty-six, three years older than me. I took another sip of my beer to calm my nerves.
    â€œPleased to meet you, Commander,” I said. “Kierkopf? Is that Carinthian?” I asked out of curiosity.
    â€œActually it’s Slovenian,” she said back. “We have a plurality of German ancestry on our world, with large mixes of other nationalities from Central Europe on Old Earth.”
    â€œAh, fascinating,” I said. Then without thinking I blurted out: “So, Commander, what brings you to High Station?” She smiled silently for a moment as I got redder and redder. It was an innocent enough question . . .
    â€œThat sounds like a pickup line, Commander. Do you use it often on superior officers?”
    I swallowed hard, embarrassed at how my question had come out. “Forgive me, Commander, I didn’t mean to imply—”
    â€œOh, so you
don’t
find me attractive?” she cut in, a very stern look on her face. “Am I too old for you?”
    â€œCertainly not, ma’am! It’s just, I didn’t—” She laughed hard and then covered her mouth as she giggled. “You’re playing me,” I said.
    â€œGuilty,” she said, then took a drink of her stout. I did my best shy-young-officer impression then and matched her with a drink of my bitter.
    â€œYou really should switch to something more robust,” she said as I had a mouth full of beer. It took me a second to respond in kind.
    â€œNo thank you, madam,” I said. “I’ve tried that motor oil before and once was enough!”
    â€œYou’re sure?” she asked. I nodded.
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œThen maybe I could interest you in trying some of this.” She slid the double shot glass across the table to me. “It’s a family favorite back home, especially in New Wurzburg, where I’m from,” she said.
    I looked down at the nearly full shot glass. The drink was clear with a slight green tinge and looked harmless enough. She sat and waited patiently, her hands clasped together.
    â€œAren’t you up for the challenge, Commander Peter Cochrane of Quantar?” she said, teasing me. I had no intention of backing down now. I took the glass in a swift and casual motion. Raising it to my lips, I hesitated only a second before taking an ill-advisedly large drink. For a second I tasted the pleasant flavors of apple and pear mixed together, then the viscous fluid started burning my lips and tongue. It crawled down my esophagus like a worm on fire. I coughed and choked, my eyes watering as I struggled to catch a breath of air without burning my lungs.
    â€œMy . . . God!” I choked out, “What
is
that?” She reached across the table and snatched the glass from my hand, then downed the rest of it, more than half a glass full, in one quick gulp, snapping her head back at the finish and exhaling.
    â€œWe call it schnapps,” she said in a normal tone of voice. I was still coughing. “As I said, a family favorite back home.”
    â€œI’m glad I’m not in your family,” I said. She smiled wryly.
    â€œYes, well, I should answer your original question, Commander,” she said.
    â€œI’ve forgotten