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Approaching the replicators, Worf and I each took a tray from a stack in a recessed compartment. I ordered a ham-and-egg sandwich, an old favorite from my boyhood on Earth, then found a seat at an empty table and waited for Worf to join me.

Unfortunately, Worf’s replicator wasn’t working as well as he had hoped. As we would learn later, it simply wasn’t programmed for a great variety of Klingon dishes. After making several attempts, the lieutenant rumbled deep in his throat and reached for the replicator I’d used.

The result was the same. Refusing to believe he couldn’t have his heart’s desire a plate of rokeg blood pie, as it turned out Worf reached for the third replicator. However, by then, a Pandrilite had come up behind him for a second helping and was reaching for the same set of controls.

As you may have guessed by now, this Pandrilite was Corbis, of whom I spoke. If I told you the fellow was big, it would be an understatement. He stood a head and a half above my security officer, and Worf was not puny by any means.

In any event, in reaching for the replicator, my lieutenant inadvertently upset Corbis’s tray. Before the Pandrilite could react, his plate slid into his chest and deposited the greasy remains of a stew.

With a curse, he righted his tray and the plate slid back. But by then it was too late.

Corbis looked down at his tunic, where the stew had left a dark, oily stain. Then he looked at Worf.

“What are you, blind?” he rumbled with a voice like thunder. “Who’s going to clean this tunic?”

The Klingon shrugged. “That is your problem. You would not have soiled yourself if you had not been so eager to grab for more food.”

“I soiled myself?” the Pandrilite echoed, towering over Worf. “It was you who pushed my tray over.”

“I pushed nothing,” the Klingon insisted, his lips pulling back to show his teeth.

“You’re a liar,” Corbis grated, leaning forward so his eyes were only inches from Worf’s. “You shoved my tray and you’ll clean my tunic or you’ll take your next meal through a tube.”

I had overheard everything, of course. At first, I let it go, thinking the incident would blow over. But when I heard the Pandrilite’s threat, I knew I had been overly optimistic.

Getting up from my seat, I hurried over to intervene. In the process, I saw a couple of Corbis’s friends rush over, as well. One was an Oord, judging by the tusks protruding from either side of his mouth. The other was a rather husky Thelurian, his facial markings an angry green.

It was a disaster in the making. However, I intended to head it off. After all, I had negotiated treaties between entire species. Surely, I thought, I could make peace between Worf and a Pandrilite.

I was mistaken, of course. It wasn’t the first time, and, sadly, it would not be the last.

Worf, I must say, was showing admirable restraint. At least, by Klingon standards. His eyes narrowing, he said, “I would advise you not to make threats you cannot carry out.”

“Oh, I can carry them out all right,” Corbis replied and flung the remnants of his meal in the direction of Worf’s face.

The lieutenant must have been expecting it, because he ducked. Instead of hitting him, the Pandrilite’s tray went hurtling across the room and struck a bulkhead, then clattered to the floor.

Arriving just in time or so I thought I interposed myself between Worf and Corbis. “Gentlemen,” I said, “this is a simple misunderstanding. I’m sure if we cool down for a moment, we can settle everything.”

The Pandrilite looked at me for a moment, as if trying to decipher my existence. Then he drove his fist into my face, sending me hurtling like his tray except not quite as far.

As I regained my senses, I saw Worf had not taken kindly to the battering of his commanding officer. Hauling off, he drove a blow of his own into the center of Corbis’s face, snapping the man’s head back and sending him staggering over the replicator rail.

Unfortunately, the Pandrilite’s friends had entered the fray by that time. Spinning Worf around, the Oord head-butted him between