waiting for the stagecoach

If there’s one good thing to say about duty on this insignificant little dirtball, it’s this: these humans sure know how to ferment a proper beverage.

I’ve been all over the galaxy and back, and beings were pretty much the same all over, but good luck finding a decent drink. Most of the stuff I’ve had would peel paint just with the vapors. But the humans did some amazing things with a scrap of plant called a grape.

I sat on my porch, a bottle of Bollinger on ice next to my chair, waiting for the transport beam that would take my report, sitting in a data crystal on the table across from me, back to Central. I made a mental note to send another case of red wine back to Central. The last one I sent was used up rather quickly by the eggheads during “experimentation”.

Soon enough, the comet appeared, and a transport bubble flared on the table. The crystal vanished.

I love the cool evenings on this world; just me and a bottle of the best bubbly. I poured another glass and sighed contentedly.

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