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across the length of the wall to the entering patron’s right, booths to the left with tables in between. Sanchez felt it was all tastefully done, with one exception. An extremely large and badly executed oil portrait hung over the center of the bar depicting a cream colored Great Dane. Frank Carr explained that the dog was indeed the one and only “Bismarck,” the owner’s beloved and dearly departed hound.
    “It’s either the worst painting ever, or the ugliest dog ever,” observed Sanchez.
    During the first half-hour of their meeting, Sanchez dug right into the briefing materials, prattling on about technical details and other particulars that Carr seemed only marginally interested in. He fidgeted and repeatedly looked at his mobile to check the time.
    “Why didn’t we just stay at Yancey House and do this?” Sanchez asked as the server set down her second cup of La Paz. “Isn’t taking briefing pads outside of headquarters a bit, well—unorthodox?”
    “Not for me,” replied Carr as he threw back the last gulp of Old Oakfield, then received another from the server. “James knew where we were going as soon as we left the office, he’s just given up trying to stop me.”
    Carr looked across the table and grinned at her. It was the first time she’d seen him look genuinely pleased. “That smile suits you, Mr. Carr. You ought to use it more often.”
    “I used to, but you know, things happen.” An uncomfortable pause fell across the table. “How’s your coffee?”
    Sanchez relaxed a notch. “It’s good. Actually, it's very good. I’d say this La Paz blend comes from the southern continent of Quijano. It’s a little more bitter than what we grow in the north.” She suddenly felt self-conscious. “Sorry. I know two things really well—flying and coffee. I grew up on my father’s coffee plantation.”
    “With a childhood surrounded by coffee, I’m surprised you’re not sick of the stuff,” Carr mused. “So that explains your vast knowledge of coffee. How did you become a pilot?”
    “When I was growing up on Quijano, there was a space force base near our plantation. I used to go out into the fields and just watch the shuttles coming and going. It was mesmerizing. I decided I wanted to do more than farm coffee for the rest of my life. I wanted to see what those shuttle pilots were seeing, up there,” she made a gesture pointing upward. “My Uncle Leo suggested that I apply to Space Force Flight School when I was old enough and so I did. Graduated second in my class.” She took another sip. “Uncle Leo was a pilot in his day too. My family must have the flying gene.”
    Sanchez seemed to become self-conscious and stopped talking, which left an uncomfortable silence at the table.
    “Look, Ms. Sanchez. Sorry if I’ve come off as a little rude. I’m sure you’re an excellent pilot and also a very good operative, but I really do have to emphasize that I’ve worked alone on almost every mission I’ve ever conducted for the OMI, so this teamwork thing is going to take me some getting used to.”
    “How long have you worked for the Office?”
    “Six years. And you?”
    She cleared her throat and looked uncomfortable. “Well, I’ve been a space force pilot for four years, but I only transferred to OMI a short time ago.”
    “How short?” he asked, sounding out the words for emphasis.
    “Six, um, months,” Sanchez replied awkwardly. “Actually, this is my first official mission.”
    Carr stared at her a moment, then looked blankly into the air as if deciding how to react. As he started to speak, a plump man approached the booth.
    “Frank! How are you, my friend?” the gentleman asked, while offering a handshake. Erich Hessler was the owner of Bismarck’s. Overweight and walking with a cane, he had a gregarious manner. Sanchez was relieved that he intruded on what could have been a nasty moment. Carr introduced her and the two men chatted.
    “Erich, my offer if still good for that