"You know—one of your Casey Specials. Where you start off with half a glass of Irish whisky, add a dash or two of absinthe, a drop of—"
"I don't stock no absinthe, major." Casey's freckled face was abruptly hostile. "You know that. It's against regulations."
Lance fought down a tremor. Everybody was in on it. Everybody. He compromised for a minute: "Give me a slug of Teacher's on the rocks, then."
Casey measured out the drink for him.
Lance downed it. His hand gripped the edge of the bar. "Casey, do you know me?"
He watched Casey study him. The thick reddish eyebrows knit. "It's a pretty big base, major. Lots of faces. Sometimes, I kind of forget the names."
Lance's blood pressure gave a spurt. "I'm Major Lance Cooper! Hell, you've rung up my chits often enough!"
And his mind added: How could you forget?
"Major." Casey's eyes narrowed, while the uneasy suspicion in them grew. "We don't have no chit system at this club."
Lance's head felt like it would explode. He could take no more.