Commander Aldair strutted into the pub like a bantam rooster raised on an exclusive diet of genetically modified braggadocio. Mission Specialist Fuller, his mildly adequate cohort, waddled in Aldair's wake with a swelled chest, inflated lungs, and a slightly purple complexion.

"What'll you have, mate?" asked Aldair above the drone of the crowd while slapping his companion on the back in the time-honored tradition of male bonding.

Fuller, not anticipating the gesture, stammered out his preference amid a forced exhale and a series of suppressed coughs. He then received his half of the order, turned towards the patrons of the pub, and thrust his mug inexplicably in the air.

"Triumph, we won!" he shouted at the top of lungs. The pub grew suddenly silent -- the only sound heard was the subtle shower of beer suds on Aldair's formerly flawless sports coat.

"A free round of drinks on the house!" added Aldair in an effort to deflect the awkward glare of one hundred eyes converging on him and his colleague simultaneously. Easily appeased, the crowd erupted with a sonic 'hoorah!' and resumed its pursuit of pleasure with renewed abandon.

Fuller cast a surprised look towards Aldair. "Free drinks -- are you crazy?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"Ah, don't sweat it," replied Aldair between swigs of fermented swill. "With the prize money we won, it's a drop in the bucket. A cool quarter of a billion dollars: how's that for a solid week's paycheck? We're rich, rich I tell ya!"

Aldair and Fuller exchanged a flurry of high fives, only to be interrupted by one of the pub's regulars.

"Congratulations, gentleman -- thanks for the drinks," said the diminutive man with a toothy smile. "One question though, if I may: what's the cause for the celebration?"

Fuller feigned a half bow, took a slight step back, and yielded to his commander with an airy wave of his hand. "We just won the Zed Prize," said Aldair, unsuccessfully masking his pride at the accomplishment.

"Oh, I vaguely remember reading about that some time ago. Can you refresh my memory on the specifics?"

"Certainly," said Aldair. "The Zed Prize is a NASA-sponsored competition that awards a princely sum to the first team from the private sector that can successful send a manned spaceship to the Ort Cloud and back in under a week's time."

"Ahh, The Ort Cloud -- fantastic showing there, lads! But tell me, what's this NASA you're referring to?"

"The National Aeronautics and Space Administration...surely you've heard of them?" asked Fuller incredulously.

"Nope, can't say that I have. But wow, to see the Ort Cloud -- the birth place of comets. Again, good showing there lads!" The old man slapped Aldair on the back, scooped up his round of freshly poured libations from the bar, and then returned to his comrades at his table.

"That's bizarre," said Aldair. "That gentleman knows the significance of the Ort Cloud but doesn't know what NASA is. Truly odd."

"Yeah, whatever," said Fuller distractedly while he scoped out the crowd. "Say, I've seen better male to female ratios at a tractor pull. Whadda say we check out of here and mosey over to another bar? In the meantime, I've got to part with some barley pop and visit the restroom."

Aldair agreed and motioned the bartender to settle up the tab.

"Two beers, plus a round for the pub...that'll be ten billion dollars to ya, mack," said the bartender without blinking.

Aldair choked down the remaining contents of his mug as three thoughts collided in his cranium simultaneously: near light speed travel, time dilation, and inflation.

"Alright," said Aldair with his trademark composure. "My buddy's got this one," he added as he subtly reached for a handful of beer nuts and then discretely made his way towards the exit.