Chekov had enjoyed the singer's performance immensely in spite of the fact that the musical style was, from his perspective, nearly ancient. The genre's name escapes him, but it's still vaguely familiar--still from some time in Earth history, likely. When he catches her watching a nearby game, it only seems polite to get up and pay her a compliment.

"You have a very beautiful voice," the young man says by way of greeting, holding his drink up in a mock toast. His accent is distinctly Russian and heavy enough to render his words nearly incomprehensible. "What is it called, that kind of music?"