Cara flinched, grinning under the barrage of caps, putting his arms out over the table so that his drink wasn’t spilled. “But,” he said, sounding reasonable. “It’s got to be right eventually…”

“Na, wrong again,” Sharrow said. She took some more trax. She felt drunker than she ought to feel. Could it be because it was on an empty stomach? They’d come to the Onomatopoeia for hangover cures and lunch, but somehow-it being their last day before another tour unless peace broke out-it had turned all too easily into another drinking bout.

Had she had breakfast? She accepted her cap back from somebody, and put it on over her crew-cut scalp. No, she couldn’t remember whether she’d had breakfast or not.

She drained the trax, said, “Next!” quite loudly, and put her glass down and pointed at Miz at the same time. Somebody refilled her glass.

Miz looked thoughtful. Then his thin, bright face lit up. “A Tax cruiser hitting another asteroid at half the speed of-”

They all started shouting and throwing their caps at him.

“This is getting too silly,” Froterin said, as Miz started to retrieve the caps. Froterin looked massively round them all. “Everybody’s starting to repeat themselves.”

“What was that?”

“Pardon?”

“Eh?”

Froterin stood shakily, his seat scraping back across the pavement, teetering and almost falling into the street. He put his hand onto his broad chest, over his heart. “But now,” he rumbled, “I think it’s time for a little song…” He started to sing: “Oh, Caltasp oh Caaaltasp…”

“Oh, Fate… My cap!”

“Give me my cap!”

“Mine first! I’m less drunk and I aim better anyway!”

“Throw something else!”

“I know!”

“Not my drink, you cretin; use his!”

“Oh CAAALtasp, oh CAAALtasp-”

“My ears! My ears!”

“It’s no good, sir; caps just bounce off it!”

“Oh no! His glass is empty!”

Vleit got out of her seat and tip-toed round to Sharrow while the rest tried to stop Froterin singing. Vleit had a wicked grin on her face, and when she got to Sharrow she crouched down and whispered in her ear.

Sharrow nodded vigorously and they both dissolved into fits of giggles and then throaty, coughing laughter. “Yes!” Sharrow nodded, crying with laughter. “Yes!”

“Oh CAAAALtasp, oh CAAAAAAALtasp, oh thank you very much,” Froterin said, and sat down with the mug of mullbeer Miz had brought him. He sat supping happily.

“She got it! Vleit-hic! shit-got it!”

“What?”

“What was it?”

“Come on!”

Sharrow sat shaking her head and drying her eyes on her shirt sleeve while Vleit got up from the cafe pavement, holding her stomach and still laughing.

“What?”

“That’s cheating!”

“What was the answer?”

“Not telling,” Sharrow laughed.

“You got to tell,” Miz protested. “Otherwise how do we know Vleit’s really won?”

Sharrow put her cap back on again and glanced at Vleit;they both started giggling again, then guffawing. “You want to tell them?” Sharrow said.

“Not me, commander.” Vleit shook her head, still giggling. “You tell them. Rank Has Its Problems; remember?”

“Yeah!”

“What was it?”

“Yeah; come on; tell us!”

“All right, all right,” Sharrow said, sitting up properly in her seat. Then, suddenly, she looked worried; her smooth brow furrowed. “Shit,” she said. “I’ve forgotten what the fucking word was.” She shook her head.

She put her head down on the table and pretended to cry. At least two caps bounced off her before Cenuij roared, “Schlotch!”

Sharrow looked up quickly. “You sure?”

“Positive,” Cenuij said precisely.

Sharrow sighed. “Yeah; schlotch.”

“So?” Miz said, arms wide. “What’s schlotch onomatopoeic for or with or whatever?”

“It’s the sound,” Sharrow said, leaning conspiratorially over the table, and glancing up and down the street. “Of…” She shook her head. “It’s no good,” she said with feigned regret. “I’m just not drunk enough yet to tell you.”

“WHAT?”

“Sharrow!”

“Oh, come on…Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Vleit; what the hell was it?”

“Sharrow; you said you’d tell; what is it?”

Sharrow grinned, fended off a flung cap then put her head back and laughed loudly while the others protested.

A timid-looking waiter approached from out of the bistro, holding a tray nervously to his chest as though it was a shield. He came up to Sharrow; she smiled at the young waiter and adjusted her cap.

The waiter coughed. “Um, Commander Sharrow?” he said.

“You read a good name-tag, kid,” Miz said, winking at him.

“Yeah,” Cenuij said. “Stick with us, we’ll make you a waiter. Oh. You are a-”

Sharrow waved them both to be quiet. “Yes,” she said, staring rather blearily at the youth.

“Phone call for you, Commander. Military.” The young waiter scurried back into the bistro.

Sharrow looked puzzled. She put her hand into the pocket of her uniform jacket, which was hanging over the back of her seat. She winced and grimaced, then brought her hand out covered in red goo. “What miserable scumbag put ghrettis sauce all over my fucking comm set?” she roared, standing and letting the red sauce drip onto the pavement.

“Shit,” Miz said in a small voice. “I thought I did that to Dloan’s jacket, back at the inn.”

“Dloan’s?” Sharrow shouted at him. She pointed at Dloan’s uniform. “How many bars on his jacket? One! How many on mine? Two!” she yelled, pointing at them with her other hand.

Miz shrugged, smiling. “I thought I was seeing double.”

“Fucking double guard duties,” Sharrow muttered as she strode past him towards the bistro interior. “Get that shit out of my pocket; now!”

“Must be strong stuff, that ghrettis sauce,” she heard Dloan musing. “Mil comm set’s supposed to be waterproof to a pressure of…”

Inside the bistro it was quiet and dark; only the staff were there. “Thanks, Vol,” she said to the proprietor as she took the phone.

“Commander Sharrow here,” she said, nodding appreciatively to Vol when he handed her a cloth for her hand.

She closed her eyes as she listened. After a while she said, “Comm set broke down, sir. No idea why, sir.” Her eyes screwed tighter. “Possibly enemy action, sir.”

She wiped her hand and nodded again to Vol, who went to sit at the far end of the bistro with the rest of the staff.

She glanced back through the bistro’s windows to the street at the group, who were trying to sort out whose cap was whose. She smiled, watching them, then returned her attention to the phone. “Yes, sir! On our way, sir,” she said, and made to put the phone down. “I beg your pardon, sir?” She frowned at her reflection on the other side of the bar, visible through the glasses and between the up-ended barrels. “The doc? I mean, surgeon-commander… of course, sir.”

She looked at her reflection again, shrugged at herself.

“Yes,” she said into the phone. “Hi, doc; what’s the problem?” She leant on the bar, pushing her cap up and rubbing her face. “What-? Oh, the check-ups.” She grinned at her reflection. “What is it; somebody taken a rad-blast, or are we talking exotic diseases?”

She listened for half a minute or so.

She watched the reflection of her face in the mirror go pale.

After a while she cleared her throat and said, “Yes, I’ll do that, doc. Of course.” She started to put the phone down again, then stopped and said, “Thanks, doc,” into it, and only then put it back behind the counter.

She stood there for a moment, staring at her image in the mirror. She glanced down at her shirt. “Shit,” she whispered, looking back up to her reflection. “And you’re pickling the little fucker.”

Vol came back round the other side of the bar with a tray full of dirty glasses. She started when she saw him, then leaned over, beckoning.

“Vol. Vol!” she whispered.

The aproned proprietor, burly-fit and placid as ever, leaned over to her and whispered back, “Yes, Commander?”