"We were leading the room by a country light year until the last round, when this pointy-eared hobgoblin decided to set himself in a cold three notrump," snarled McCoy.
Spock raised his eyebrow another millimeter. "Simple logic, Doctor. An elementary analysis will demonstrate that playing for ten tricks via a repeating vice squeeze was a superior--"
"And then!" the doctor bellowed, pointing accusingly at Spock's chest. "And then, on the last hand, he showed all the backbone of a Denobulan water slug!"
This was the hand in question. Missing the cold slam had been costly; even 7S would have come home.
"How can he pass four hearts? Even on Vulcan, that's a four-loser hand!" The doctor threw back his Romulan ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
"Your contention that I should strain to make another slam try when you are known to have wasted values in the diamond suit is irrational, Doctor. Surely once you bid past the potentially lucrative three notrump after I had shown a strong six-four hand, I must place you with a void or small singleton in spades--"
"What do you want me to do, you green-blooded fiend? Raise you with the stiff ace? You're the one with the club stopper!"
"Your references to my non-human physiology serve no purpose other than to illustrate your illogical dependence on insulting me when you have no valid--"
"Why you smug, emotionally-stunted excuse for a Starfleet officer--"
Kirk sighed; these two might be at it for hours. How should he split the Gordian knot?