This shop sold handmade cloth, and to judge from Wesley's comments it was attractive to the human eye. It looked drab to her, just as-or so she suspected-the light-polarizing material of her tunic looked dull and murky to Wesley. "Do you weave this yourself?" Wesley asked the shopkeeper, a young woman with very long hair.

"My sister and I this cloth make," she said, and sighed. "Better work we cannot find. The falling sickness we have, and for us the rateyes no place allow. Lucky we are that for cloth some money-paper a few people can spend."

" 'Money-paper'?" Wesley asked. "I've never seen any of that. Maybe I could buy some from you?"

The woman found that agreeable, and Shrev stood by quietly as they bartered. Excellent, Shrev thought. Wesley asked questions that established the value of local money, in terms the amba.s.sador might find useful. Shrev found it impossible to think in terms of wages and prices, but at last she saw something that told her everything that mattered. Wesley swapped a single gold coin for a double handful of paper, and the woman shed a tear of joy at the trade. With the exchange made, Wesley gathered up the bolts of cloth he'd purchased and they left the store.

" 'Falling sickness'?" Shrev asked. They were on a narrow, muddy street, empty of people. Her voice seemed oddly loud here.

"She probably meant epilepsy," Wesley said.

"Ah, a neural problem." Other questions begged for answers. "I have also noticed how these people taste their coins. I wonder if they can sense the flavor of metals."

Wesley looked puzzled. " 'Taste'? Oh. You couldn't know, but biting is a traditional test for gold-our teeth are harder than gold, so they can dent the coins if they're pure."

"Fascinating." Zhuik "teeth" were chitinous horseshoe plates, suitable only for crushing certain flowers to extract their nectar. She looked at Wesley's burden-bolts of cloth, an ornate rug, a set of bronze candlesticks. Shrev was carrying an armload of scrolls and a plumed helmet. "Shall we send our purchases to the ship?"

"Good idea." They found a dry spot near a brick wall, set everything on the ground and signaled the Enterprise. "I'd hate to see cargo bay two right now," Wesley said.

Shrev laughed quietly. "Imagine how the captain will feel. I fear his ship will look like an Orion trader's hold. Should you not add that paper money to the collection?"

"No, I want to show that to Mr. Offenhouse." Wesley tucked the paper into his coin pouch, then watched as the transporter took away their booty. "He'll want to hear what that woman told me about the local money. Maybe he can make sense out of it."

"One may hope." Shrev glanced at the sky. The clouds had thinned, but the light was dimming as the sun neared the horizon. Night would not handicap her, but it would be a problem for Wesley. Lacking her ability to see in the infrared, he could not find his way in that thing which his people called the "dark." "Wesley, please let me know when the light grows inadequate for your eyes. We will leave then."

"We should have another hour of daylight," Wesley said. He looked up and down the street. "There's our tail again."

"Our followers?" Shrev followed his glance, and saw the two Megarans who had followed them ever since they had beamed down. The men had stayed several dozen meters away, and Shrev had finally decided that they were police spies. No doubt the Megarans, or their overlords, wanted to know everything their visitors did.

Shrev and Wesley walked away from the two men, toward a small square. The town was filled with such squares, connected by zigzag streets. As they drew closer, Shrev heard a loud voice, rising above an angry mutter of other voices. Whatever was said, the tangle of voices was too much for the Universal Translator.

"There's someone in a brown robe up there," Wesley said. He was fifteen centimeters taller than Shrev, which gave him a better view. "She looks like she's doing the talking," Wesley said. "And-that robe looks funny, but I can't put my finger on what's wrong with it."

"We will have to get closer-" Shrev stopped as two men came out of a side alley, five meters in front of them. For one astonished moment she refused to believe what her antennae told her. Then she touched the communicator badge pinned to her tunic. "Enterprise, we would be most appreciative if you beamed us up now."

Wesley was shocked out of his manners. "Shrev, what are you-" he began in a loud voice.

The two men charged at them, without even the briefest introduction. One drew a knife with a curved blade and lunged at Wesley. Shrev went after the man, twisted back as he turned to slash at her, came forward again and chopped at his forearm with the side of her hand.

The knife stung into her left side, slicing through her tunic and cracking an exoskeletal plate. The blade became wedged in the chitin, and Shrev fought to ignore the pain as the man tried to jerk his knife loose. She clutched her fists together and slammed them into the side of the man's head. He dropped his knife as the blow stunned him, and a second blow sent him to his knees. Shrev struck two more blows to his head, and with the last she heard the sharp crack of bone. The man crumpled in death, the side of his skull crushed.

Wesley was battling the second man. Shrev saw him reel backward from a jab to his chest. Shrev took a step toward him, then clutched at her side and felt lukewarm blood soaking her tunic. Then the transporter locked on to them. Within seconds she and Wesley were back on the ship.

Wesley caught her as she sagged to the deck. "Sickbay!" he shouted at De Shay.

The transporter flicked them into sickbay. As Wesley helped her onto a biobed, Shrev saw several other injured crew members undergoing emergency treatment. Dr. Crusher hurried over to them. "Wesley, are you all right?" she demanded.

"I'm fine, Mom," he said. "Shrev's been stabbed."

"I see," Dr. Crusher said. She scanned Shrev, then cut away her tunic and went to work. She spoke as she adjusted an anabolic protoplaser. "Shrev, there's a hole in your left cardial tube. Don't talk, save your strength."

"I must speak," Shrev said weakly. "Wesley, our attackers were Carda.s.sians, surgically altered to resemble Megarans."

"Carda.s.sians?" he said loudly, then dropped his voice. "Carda.s.sians. Please don't misunderstand me, I mean no offense, but are you certain?"

"Quite," she said. The pain eased as the protoplaser accelerated the healing process. "The modifications may fool human eyes, but not my eyes. Or my antennae. The scars and distortions are quite visible in infrared, as are the hz'zhivezh, the ... body-electric patterns unique to each species. Inform the captain at once, Cadet."

"Hold it," the doctor said. "Wesley, you're not going anywhere until-"

"I'm all right, Mom," he said, clearly nettled.

"Then what's that on your face?" Dr. Crusher spoke without looking up from her work. "Catsup? You always were a sloppy eater, but you're usually not that messy."

Wesley winced as he touched his forehead. "I still have to tell the captain," he said.

"You can't," Dr. Crusher said. "He's down on the surface. Dr. Par'mit'kon!"

The Saurian hurried into the sickbay. "Yes, Doctor?"

Dr. Crusher nodded at her son. "Bulldog this cowboy and make sure his head isn't any more cracked than normal. And somebody bring me a unit of Zhuik blood, type arrow-down-curl-left."

The reptilian doctor turned his lidless yellow eyes on Wesley. "Come with me, Cadet."

"Just let me report first," Wesley insisted. "Crusher to bridge ..."

Shrev puzzled over the human exchange while Wesley spoke with Commander Riker. Among Zhuiks, a child never disputed her mother, and a mother placed her child's welfare above all else. Concern for family was a genetic necessity; without it, one was no better than a mutant-if not actually a mutant. Dr. Crusher might have concealed her emotion behind a certain rough humor, but why would she conceal it in the first place?

Don't complain, Shrev told herself. The human willingness to place public duty above family had meant lifesaving attention for her from the ship's best doctor, and an added measure of safety for the ship from Wesley. Knowing at once that the Enterprise faced Carda.s.sians might mean the difference between life and death for the crew.

"Shrev," Dr. Crusher said after a moment, "you're a very lucky young lady. You can expect some discomfort for a few more hours, but you won't even have a scar."

"I thank you for your excellent work." The news that she would not bear a scar came as a relief. There were cultures that regarded scars as a sign of fighting prowess, but Zhuiks considered them too suggestive of genetic defects. "And I must congratulate you on your son. Wesley conducted himself well during our mission."

"Glad to hear it," she said with a smile. An orderly brought a transfusion unit, and Dr. Crusher slid its needle into a vein on Shrev's forearm. Green fluid flowed down the tube.

"Wesley is quite remarkable," Shrev said, puzzled by her offhand response to the compliment. "He is intelligent, observant and polite."

" 'Polite'? My Wesley?" Dr. Crusher shook her head in mock surprise. "We really do live in an age of wonders."

"I can a.s.sure you that I am quite serious," Shrev said.

"I know." The doctor smiled again as she patted Shrev on the shoulder. "You'd better rest now, young lady. You're a good influence on my son and we can't let anything happen to you."

"Carda.s.sians," Riker repeated thoughtfully. He sat in the captain's chair and looked at the scene on the main viewer. Smoke plumes trailed from several fires in the ramshackle city. Gatyn's fortress, ten kilometers away, remained untouched by the riot. "You're certain, Cadet?"

"Yes, sir," Wesley said. He still wore his civilian clothing, as well as a mediplast on his forehead. He looked a bit worse for wear, but his spirits seemed high. "They're surgically disguised, but not well enough to fool Ensign Shrev."

"Interesting," Riker said. Carda.s.sians, he thought. The armistice had banned them from this sector. Their presence was an act of war, and if he didn't handle this right, the situation would turn into a war. "I wish I could think of a way to tell the captain without tipping off the Carda.s.sians," he said.

"Perhaps you should bring the captain and the amba.s.sador back," Deanna Troi suggested.

"I agree," Worf said. "These attacks were too coordinated to be unplanned."

"As if someone was trying to run us out of town," Riker said. At least the riots created a perfect excuse to get the captain out of there. "Enterprise to Picard."

"Go ahead, Number One," Picard answered.

"Sir, there are widespread disturbances in Kes Pa'kess," Riker said. "Our away teams were attacked."

"Casualties?" Picard asked.

"Several injuries, two of them serious," Riker said. "Lieutenant Broz has a concussion and Ensign Shrev took a knife in one of her cardial tubes. They're both out of danger."

"I see. Why weren't our people evacuated at the first sign of trouble?" Picard asked.

"The disturbances started simultaneously," Riker said. "Between the surprise and the load on the transporter system, we couldn't act fast enough. We'll know more when Commander Data finishes debriefing all the away teams. Sir, it might be a good idea if you return until the situation stabilizes. I think the situation bears discussion."

Offenhouse's voice broke in. "We're safe here, Riker. We'll come home after we chat with the Vo Gatyn. Bye, now."

Riker heard Worf growl as Offenhouse closed the channel. "You're right," Riker said to him. "We should beam them up at once."

Worf growled again.

Riker sighed. "I know. The amba.s.sador is in charge."

Worf growled for a third time.

"I don't like it either," Riker agreed. He got out of the captain's chair and went to Worf's station. "If you were a Carda.s.sian, how would you hide a ship?"

"Through indirection," Worf said promptly.

"The Ferengi ship?" Riker asked. He shook his head. "We've scanned it. There are plenty of Ferengi on board, but no Carda.s.sians, and no place for them to hide."

"And I don't sense any Carda.s.sians on it," Deanna added.

"Perhaps a ship arrives only to transfer personnel and supplies," Worf said. "A planetary base does not need a ship."

"True ... but I can't imagine the Carda.s.sians doing without one. A ship is too useful."

"The Carda.s.sians may have hidden a ship in this region," Worf suggested.

Riker stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Could be," he admitted. "The Carda.s.sians make an art out of ambushes. Where's the best place in this system to hide a ship?"

Wesley had been listening quietly. "Commander, there's a binary neutron star in the area, where they could hide a whole fleet," he said. "The radiation is too intense for sensor readings. Computer, put Weber Five-Twelve on the main screen."

Riker looked at the distorted, static-hashed image that appeared on the screen. Two neutron stars whirled around one another, so close that gravity pulled them into teardrop shapes, while their magnetic fields churned the wisps of hydrogen around the stars into a glowing plasma. Gravity waves made the image ripple as though seen through sheets of running water.

Worf growled at the unsteady image. "Computer, overlay the image with radiation levels."

"Unable to comply," the computer stated. "Radiation levels are fluctuating too rapidly for reliable measurements."

"The probe data said that the levels are high," Wesley said, "but a ship with a good set of shields could take them almost indefinitely."

"And if a Carda.s.sian ship is hiding anywhere, it's there," Riker said. If, he thought. If a Carda.s.sian ship was hiding there, he could count on them to exploit Weber 512's natural cover to the fullest extent possible. He would have no way to detect it ... unless ... "Riker to La Forge. How are you coming with that new detector?"

"We're almost ready for another test, Commander," the engineer answered.

"Give it priority," Riker ordered. "We may need it."

Chapter Nine.

SOMEBODY WAS TRYING to impress the Federation visitors with their lack of importance. In the hour since Riker's call, Picard had seen a half-dozen people approach the throne to speak with the Vo Gatyn, and he was certain that all of them had entered the hall after the humans. Nevertheless, Picard and Offenhouse waited patiently for their audience with Megara's ruler.

Picard bent his head and spoke quietly to Offenhouse. "Exactly what do you hope to learn from Gatyn?"

"A lot," Offenhouse said. "I'd like to know just how tight a grip Chudak has here, what sort of orders he gives, maybe who gives him orders-things like that. Why? Getting bored?"

Picard shook his head. "I'm concerned with my crew's safety."

"Riker has things under control. Now cheer up and look at our pal. Chudak's twice as bored as we are."

That was true. The Ferengi Daimon stood by a table, drinking wine while he eyed a Megaran woman. From time to time Picard had seen him talk with various female Megarans, but it was clear that they loathed his attentions. Even so, that did not deter him from the Ferengi habit of pestering non-Ferengi women. As always, Picard wondered what attracted Ferengi to alien women. Simple logic suggested that the Ferengi heart should quicken to the sight of a bald head, slashing teeth, soup-bowl ears.

The captain smiled at himself. Ah, Jean-Luc, he thought, since when does logic count in affairs of the heart?

Verden reentered the Great Hall, his white-and-yellow robes fluttering as he hastened to the throne. The pagus spoke briefly to his monarch, then gestured for the two humans to approach the throne. They did so; Picard nodded to the thin woman, while Offenhouse tipped his hat. "Your Majesty," Offenhouse said. "The Federation would like to discuss trade and business."

"Such discussions we don't wish," she said. "Go away."

"Perhaps Chudak doesn't wish it," Offenhouse said, "but we can offer you better terms than he does."

Gatyn looked impatient. "Spoken we have. Go. Verden."

Verden gestured sharply to the humans. "Come with me."

"Happy to oblige," Offenhouse said. He raised his walking stick to his hat brim in a salute, and then he and Picard followed Verden into a narrow side corridor.

Verden stopped under a glaring light in the stone ceiling. "Spoken the Vo has," he said. "You must leave."

"She didn't say to leave now," Offenhouse said.

"To say this she did not need," Verden said. Even through the Universal Translator, his voice sounded cold. "To discuss business you wish? The rateyes you would throw out, their work you would do instead?"