Wesley nodded, then reminded himself that nodding wasn't a Zhuik gesture. "Yes. Something's up. Lieutenant Worf is running combat simulations against Ferengi ships. And-did you hear what Commander Riker said to Mr. Worf?"

" 'Back-to-back,' " Shrev said. "A phrase which Klingons use to describe survival in a desperate battle. But there is more. The amba.s.sador delivered a computer message to the captain."

"I've looked at it." Wesley kept his voice low. It seemed polite, and Shrev's own quiet voice encouraged that. "The message wasn't private-or if there was a private part, it was deleted."

"I, too, have seen it," Shrev said. "A record of a planetary survey, ended by a Ferengi attack."

"And the data on Megara doesn't match the computer records," Wesley said.

"The Ferengi may have done something." Shrev hesitated. "May I ask a question which could seem rude?"

"Sure-uh, I mean, I won't take offense."

Shrev smiled; that seemed to be the one truly universal expression. "Why do you come to me with this? Others are more knowledgeable, and you have highly placed friends."

"I've got several reasons," Wesley said. "When I was on the computer, I noticed you were interested in this, too. We work pretty well on the bridge, and I figured we could work together here.

"For a second thing-" He sighed. "This is going to sound silly. If I ask the captain, or Mr. Riker, what's going on, they're likely to turn this into a research a.s.signment." And it's still hard to face the captain, he thought, after the way I lied to everyone. He may have forgiven me, but I haven't.

"Instead you create your own a.s.signment." There was humor in her silken voice. "Pardon me; I intend no mockery. You wish to work on your own, without pressure from our seniors."

"Right," Wesley said. "I thought you'd understand, because you haven't been out of the Academy all that long-" Did that sound rude? he wondered suddenly. "I don't mean that you're inexperienced. I mean that your memories are fresher."

"They are." Shrev rocked forward on her stool and rose to her feet. "Did you know that this matter is a secret?"

"Well-it can't be too secret," he said. "I mean, if you really want to keep a secret on the Enterprise, you don't put it in the computer where just anyone can find it."

"Anyone, that is, who finds a minor challenge in bypa.s.sing security blocks. As I do." Shrev began pacing back and forth, her hands folded behind her back. "Let us define the matter. We wish to understand the Megaran situation. The Federation sends a special amba.s.sador, which suggests that more is at stake than Ferengi interference."

"It does." Wesley realized he had hardly given Offenhouse a thought. He had looked at statistics and probe readings, as though this were strictly a scientific problem.

"This amba.s.sador must have special talents," Shrev said. "If we can identify them, we might understand the situation."

"I'll see what I can find out about Mr. Offenhouse," Wesley said. "A secret is one thing, but I don't think anyone will mind talking about the amba.s.sador himself."

Shrev smiled as she paced. "No, especially as the amba.s.sador annoys everyone who meets him."

Wesley hadn't noticed that. "I didn't know that Zhuiks can sense emotions. Uh, I don't doubt you, but I don't know as much as I'd like about your people."

Shrev laughed lightly. "You are the most delightful human I have ever met, Wesley." She waved a hand alongside one of her slim, quivering antennae. "We do not detect emotions, as would a Betazoid, but we can sense the electric fields which surround most living tissue. These are often indicative of emotions. I believe the captain, Mr. Riker and Mr. Worf were annoyed by their conference with the amba.s.sador. He puzzled Counselor Troi. I cannot answer for Mr. Data."

"n.o.body can," Wesley said. "Mr. Data doesn't have emotions. But that means he notices things other people miss. I'll see what he has to say."

"And the others, as well," Shrev said. "If they speak of the amba.s.sador they may disparage him, but we can take that into account. While you do this, I shall see what I can learn of the Ferengi presence in this quadrant ."

"Okay," Wesley said, and stood up. "I'll let you know as soon as I learn anything."

Out in the corridor, Wesley went to the nearest computer station. "Where's Amba.s.sador Offenhouse?" he asked, thinking the direct approach might work.

"The amba.s.sador is in a turbolift," the computer answered. "He is en route to the Ten-Forward lounge."

Then so am I, Wesley told himself. He decided to walk. It was ship's evening, and the lights were dimmed in simulated night: a good time to think.

I screwed up, he thought, thinking of the accident. Five one-seat training s.p.a.cecraft, flying a tight formation in a rehearsal for the Academy's commencement exercise. The team's cadet leader had wanted to do something spectacular, and he had persuaded Wesley and the other team members to try a simple maneuver, one which would mingle their trainers' exhausts and ignite the plasma into a glorious rosette. The maneuver was dangerous and against regulations, but Wesley had agreed to try it.

It had failed. The trainers had collided during a practice run near Saturn, and Joshua Albert, one of the cadet pilots, one of Wesley's best friends, had died. There had been a board of inquiry-and the team's leader had convinced Wesley and the other survivors to lie about the accident, to protect the team. That had failed, too. The lie had grown too complicated to withstand investigation, but Wesley had told the truth only after Captain Picard had threatened to reveal it himself. His punishment, the loss of a year's academic credit, had seemed trivial in comparison to what he had done.

Why didn't I show a little backbone? Wesley asked himself. I should have said the maneuver was too dangerous ... should have owned up to what I did, should never have lied to everyone. That disgrace was as hard to bear as the death of a friend. He didn't know how he would ever cleanse himself of it.

The Ten-Forward lounge was half full when Riker, Worf and Data entered it. "Evening, gents," Guinan said from behind her bar. As always, the dark woman seemed amused, as though she had caught the universe in the act of playing a subtle joke. "What will it be?"

"The usual, Guinan," Riker said. "All around."

The lounge's hostess nodded. "Coming right up."

Data turned to Riker as the three officers waited at the bar. "I remain uncertain about the cinematic recording we observed," the android said. "The putative hero, George Lincoln, was referred to as the 'missing link.' Am I correct in a.s.suming that this refers to a hypothetical stage in the human evolutionary process?"

"That's right," Riker said. "It means the missing step between us and our prehuman ancestors."

Data nodded. "It is my understanding that such a reference, with its implication of inferior mental abilities, would offend a human being, yet the character reveled in this appellation."

"It figures that he would," Riker said. "Only an idiot would get into the fixes he did."

"But why did he enjoy this name?" Data asked.

"I guess the twentieth century didn't have a lot of respect for brains," Riker said. "Or for life, when you consider that people back then took movies like that seriously."

"But it was-diverting," Worf said.

And it almost made you laugh, my friend, Riker thought as he nodded. Someday Riker would break the control-or fill in the void-that kept Worf from laughing. He took that as a challenge. If he could make Worf laugh, it would mean he had a better understanding of the Klingon soul.

Guinan returned to them with a tray bearing three goblets. "Here you go," she said. "One Skagway Slide, one prune juice, and one Data Surprise."

Riker raised an eyebrow. "What's a Data Surprise?" he asked.

Guinan's smile broadened. "Anything that surprises Data." She watched as Data tasted his drink. "How about it, Data? Surprised?"

"I have not yet developed an understanding of that emotion," Data admitted. "However, as to the concoction, I believe the appropriate descriptive terms are sweet, heavy and dry, with sweet predominating. Am I correct in a.s.suming that this drink would make a suitable after-dinner liqueur?"

"Very good," Guinan said in approval. "That's exactly how they use it on Argelius. We'll make a gourmet out of you yet, Data."

Worf grunted and sipped his prune juice. Riker tried not to smile as the purple liquid brought a pleased glow to the Klingon's face. Someday, Riker thought, someone is going to work up the nerve to tell him why humans drink prune juice-but that someone won't be me! Riker's own drink had the sledgehammer taste of fermented fruit juices; it was similar to the moonshine made by lumberjacks in his native Alaska. Even with synthehol to take the place of ethyl alcohol, it still tasted like a man's drink.

The lounge door slid open and Amba.s.sador Offenhouse came in. There was something belligerent about the way the man walked up to the bar, but Guinan only smiled at him. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Amba.s.sador," she said. "What's your pleasure?"

Offenhouse nodded at Worf. "I'll have what the big guy's having."

Guinan verged on laughter. "Coming right up."

Prune juice has a soothing effect on the Klingon soul, and Worf remained calm as Offenhouse looked at him. "Tell me something," the human said. "The Ferengi have been doing business with the Romulans and Klingons. Do you think either of them would sell that ship-cloaking gimmick to the Ferengi?"

"No," Worf said. "Do you fear a cloaked Ferengi ship?"

"Yes." Offenhouse accepted a gla.s.s of prune juice from Guinan. He started to raise it to his lips, then lowered it. "Could the Ferengi have a cloaked ship?"

"Perhaps we shall find out," Worf said.

"Why worry about that?" Riker asked him. Despite himself he couldn't take his eyes off Offenhouse's drink. He wanted to see the look on the man's face when he belted down a slug of prune juice.

"Why? It should be obvious," Offenhouse said. He stared into his drink. "What if the little SOBs have an ace up a sleeve? I'd hate to find out the hard way."

"Mr. Amba.s.sador," Data said, "does this issue not fall under your definition of a top secret?"

"Yeah, it does," he said. "But I don't understand modern warfare, and I hate surprises. Worf, just suppose, for one wild minute, that some day you chance to meet a cloaked Ferengi battle-cruiser. What happens?"

"They die," Worf said, and tossed down half of his drink. It made him talkative. "No cloaking device is perfect. Against the Enterprise a cloaked ship has no defense but overconfidence."

Offenhouse rested an elbow on the bar. "So you can detect them?"

Worf shrugged. "It is not impossible."

"But it is difficult," the amba.s.sador said.

"You could ask Commander La Forge about that," Riker said, hoping that the amba.s.sador would take the hint and leave. "He's always looking for new ways to improve our sensors."

Offenhouse grunted. "Is he any good at that?"

"Geordi has earned several commendations for his innovative work in sensor technology," Data said. "His work on tachyonic heterodynes is especially well regarded."

The door opened again, and Riker saw Wesley Crusher come into Ten-Forward. He paused in the doorway and looked around, then steered himself toward Offenhouse. "Mr. Amba.s.sador?" he asked as the man hoisted his gla.s.s. "I'm not interrupting, am I?"

"No." Offenhouse lowered his gla.s.s and peered at the youth. "Wesley Crusher, isn't it? What can I do for you?"

Wesley hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Well-I'm taking a history cla.s.s at the Academy next term, and the course description says we're going to spend a week talking about the twentieth century. I thought I'd do better if I talked with someone who really was there when everything happened."

Offenhouse toyed with his gla.s.s of prune juice. "You sound like my boy did when he got into Annapolis."

Riker, a military man at heart, felt interested despite himself. "Annapolis was the American naval academy, wasn't it?"

"Right," Offenhouse said, and looked at Wesley. "Ask your questions, but you have to understand that I wasn't there for the entire century. I missed the last couple of years, and I'm a bit hazy on the early things, like the Wright Brothers and the invention of the crossbow."

Wesley nodded eagerly. "But you still must know a lot of things. Like-you were a businessman, weren't you?"

"Yep." Offenhouse looked down at his fingernails. "One of the best, in fact."

"What was business like?" Wesley asked. "The history texts aren't too clear on that."

"Things have changed a bit," Offenhouse admitted. "Okay, take my job. I was a financier, an investor-what you'd call a developmental a.n.a.lyst. I'd buy property-a factory, or an airline, or stock-at a low price, and sell it at a high price. The difference in prices was the profit-the extra money I made. I'd use that to make more investments, so I could make more profits."

Wesley seemed perplexed. "It sounds pretty circular," Wesley said. "Didn't you do anything?"

Offenhouse looked thoughtful as he twisted his gla.s.s around and around. "Yeah, I always did make a profit, and I'll tell you, I earned every single denarius of it."

"Mr. Amba.s.sador," Data said, "the denarius was an ancient Roman coin which went out of use long before the twentieth century."

Offenhouse grunted. "I suppose you read that in some history book?"

Data nodded. "That is a correct a.s.sumption, sir."

Offenhouse gestured at Data with his drink. "Who are you going to believe, me or some historian? Remember, I was there."

Data looked polite. "The historical record-"

"-ain't all it's cracked up to be," Offenhouse finished. "You wouldn't believe how many errors get into it. Like we used to say, it's the wieners who write the history books."

"I still don't understand what you did, "Wesley said impatiently.

"Basically, Wes," Riker said, "he did what the Ferengi do."

"That can't be right," Wesley said. "I mean, the Federation wouldn't let anyone act like them. The Ferengi are liars and thieves."

Offenhouse's jovial air leached away. "I know," he said.

Wesley missed his sudden change. "They don't even make sense. Ask Captain Picard. He made our first contact with them, and the first thing the Ferengi did was to attack. They crippled his ship, the Stargazer, and-"

Offenhouse slammed his drink down onto the counter with a crack that drew startled looks from everyone in Ten-Forward. He stomped over to the intercom station, blind to the world around him. "Computer, where's Picard?"

"Captain Picard is in his quarters," the computer's brisk female voice answered. "He is to be disturbed only for ship's business."

" 'Disturbed'?" Offenhouse let out a growl that impressed Worf. "I'll show him 'disturbed.' " He left the lounge.

Wesley looked from Worf to Riker to Data. "What did I say?" he asked plaintively.

Riker spread his hands helplessly. "Beats me, Wes, but you should say it more often." He watched Worf as the Klingon went to the intercom. Worf spoke quietly; Riker heard Picard's voice answer.

Data was looking at the door. "The amba.s.sador's reactions are most unusual," he observed.

"Do you know what's bothering him?" Wesley asked.

"It's nothing we can discuss right now," Riker said firmly. "The amba.s.sador insists on keeping a few secrets."

"Why?" Wesley asked. "Look, I know we're taking him to Megara. What's so secret about Megara?"

"You've checked the data on it, I suppose?" Riker asked.

"I've looked at the navigational summary," Wesley said. "It says Megara is primitive."

"We have more data than the summary," Riker said. "If you're interested, you could give me a report on the library information."