Worf finished sharpening his bat'telh and put it back in its place. He stood behind Alexander and looked at his homework. "What are you studying?" he asked.

"It's my Earth-history a.s.signment, Father." He twisted the computer pad so Worf could see it. There was text, and an animated image of humans dressed in costumes similar to the one Amba.s.sador Offenhouse had affected on Megara-black coats, pinstriped pants, stovepipe hats and sashes. "It's about a human called Theodore Roosevelt. There was this big, stupid war between Russia and j.a.pan, and he was asked to help end it. That was hard because the two enemies really hated one another, and if either side saw any sign that he wasn't being fair to them, they'd leave and the war would go on."

"That is natural," Worf said. "What did this Roosevelt do?"

"Well, custom said that he had to invite both sides to a feast," Alexander said. "Humans are like us, they eat together to show they're friendly. Only at human feasts like this one you bring in one group at a time, announce who they are and let them sit down. Coming in first is important, so it was going to look like whoever sat down first had Roosevelt's favor. Everyone was scared that the dishonor would start the war again.

"So Roosevelt changed the custom. He had all the chairs taken out of a feast hall. Then he told everyone that the feast would start at a certain time, and each side would come in through a different door. They arrived at the same time, and because there weren't any chairs n.o.body was dishonored by sitting down second."

"Clever," Worf rumbled. He heard the enthusiasm in his son's voice; his human side was filled with admiration for this war-ending Roosevelt. Worf was both pleased and puzzled to discover that this did not trouble him. "And did Roosevelt make a peace?"

Alexander nodded vigorously. "The humans gave him something called a peace prize, too. His people felt honored because he was the first of their line to win that."

"Interesting." Worf wondered how he could tell his son that he could accept the human side of Alexander's nature. "There are some things to be learned from humans," he said at last.

The intercom signaled. "Riker to Worf. Lieutenant, Data is tied up in his lab. Let's talk battle over dinner."

"Understood," Worf answered. He decided that Riker's reference to Data and his lab was figurative, and not literal. Pity, he thought. "Come," he told Alexander.

"Okay." Alexander switched off his computer and got up. "I guess Commander Riker wants to hear about your battle, too."

Too? Worf thought, and smiled. "Commander Riker is a human of many interests," he said as they left their quarters.

"He's okay, but ..." Alexander's voice took on a conspiratorial tone. "I hear he likes tribbles."

"n.o.body's perfect," Worf said. He found it good to hear his son laugh at that.

Dazed with fatigue, Beverly Crusher stumbled down the corridor toward her cabin. She had lost count of the number of operations she had performed in the past dozen hours, and one of her staff had sent her off to rest before she could start blundering. At least the worst of it was over, but her mind was crowded with memories of melted eyeb.a.l.l.s and irradiated tissues; how could any rational being use weapons that did such things?

The same way we use knives and clubs, she thought, recalling Kardel Anit's injuries. He'd lost an arm and an eye the old-fashioned way. His injuries had been repaired easily enough-although he had been a difficult patient, as uncooperative and suspicious as a Romulan with an engraved invitation to a Klingon banquet. Well, he might not like aliens, but every time he used his new arm or opened his new eye he would be reminded that he owed them a debt. That might temper his xenophobia, and that of anyone who knew him.

Just the same, she was sorry she'd gone to so much trouble to make sure his new eye matched the old one.

Beverly reached her quarters. The door slid halfway open and jammed. Tired and annoyed, she banged the activator panel with her fist, then gave up and eased through the crack. Her foot caught on something, and it was all she could do to keep from sprawling on the deck.

She gaped at the junk heaped in her quarters: bolts of cloth, intricate metal devices, leather bags, a set of grotesquely ornate chairs, artwork, scrolls, clothing, a loom and sundry devices unknown to Beverly. Wesley said he'd bought a few gifts for his friends, she thought as she picked her way toward her bedroom. He must be on good terms with everyone in Starfleet! "Crusher to De Shay," she said. "What's all this junk doing in my quarters?"

"Junk?" De Shay repeated. "Oh. Sorry, Doctor. We had to clear everything out of cargo bay two, and the only option-"

"-was to give it back to its owners," she concluded. "Okay, just beam it all into s.p.a.ce, or something."

The transporter chief gave an apologetic cough. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but that would violate wastedisposal regulations."

I'd like to prescribe something for whoever cooked up that regulation, Beverly thought as she broke the connection. Maybe a good antipsychotic drug or two ... maybe a pacemaker for a feeble bureaucratic brain.

She couldn't reach her bed over the mounds of rubbish. Too weary to fight on, she grabbed a bolt of quilted fabric, unrolled it on one of the floor's few open spots, and curled up on the deck. "Wesley Crusher," she muttered, "when you get home, you're going to wish you were back in that swamp."

"You should not have patted Chudak on the head," Picard told Offenhouse. The amba.s.sador was seated on a biobed in sickbay while a Vulcan doctor ministered to his bloodied, mangled hand. "He was bound to take offense."

"I know, but I didn't think the jerk would bite me." Offenhouse looked at the doctor. "Are Ferengi allergic to human flesh and blood?" he demanded.

"There are certain metabolic incompatibilities," the doctor told him as she adjusted her protoplaser.

"Good!" Offenhouse raged. Anger had turned his face as red as a Martian sunset. "I hope I gave him food poisoning! I hope he has the dry heaves for a week! I hope he swells up like a dead fish and starts foaming at the mouth!"

"That's quite possible, Mr. Amba.s.sador," Picard said. "You do have a remarkable effect on people. Now, would you explain why Chudak is so terrified of the Vo?"

"He raped her," Offenhause said, slowly calming down. "Now the little s.p.a.ce-sleazoid is scared stiff that Gatyn plans to get even-which she does. She's going to work his f.a.n.n.y off for the next thirty or forty years. I'm going to enjoy watching that," he added, glancing at his injured hand.

"Thirty or forty years?" Picard repeated, non-plussed. "It sounds as though you're keeping the Ferengi as slaves."

"Who, me?" Offenhouse affected an innocent look. "Picard, Chudak's contract says that he has to industrialize Megara, and that the Vo Gatyn decides when he's done-"

"And I doubt she'll ever feel satisfied," Picard said in suspicion. "You suggested this arrangement, didn't you?"

"I wish I had, but Odovil and Gatyn worked out most of it," Offenhouse said. "Don't feel sorry for Chudak, Picard. That contract was meant as a sham; there's justice in making the Ferengi live up to its terms."

The doctor finished working on the amba.s.sador's hand. She wasted no time in speaking with Offenhouse; there were other patients in sickbay, Megarans waiting to have their injuries treated, and the doctor went at once to tend to her next patient. Picard and Offenhouse left the sickbay.

They walked down the corridor. "What will happen on Megara now?" Picard asked. "I've heard your talk about reconstruction and justice, but what do you really have in mind?"

"I want to help undo everything the Ferengi did to these people," the amba.s.sador said. He flexed his hand and nodded at its supple motions. "The poverty, the crime, the violence-we have to help get this society back on its feet."

"And you think you can do that?" Picard asked.

"Me? No," he said. "All I can do is offer a few ideas and call in some help from the Federation. But the Megarans can do it."

"You sound quite confident," Picard said.

Offenhouse nodded. "Despite everything the Ferengi did to drag them down, they're still decent people. There's a lot of violence down there, but most of the Megarans are peaceful and hardworking. If they weren't, Megara would be a lot worse ... and Odovil wouldn't have drawn the line at killing the Ferengi. They'll make things improve because that's what they want. Give them a few years, and they'll have their world back in order."

"I'm sure they will," Picard said thoughtfully. "But for the present, the Megarans still pose a serious threat to the Federation."

"Because they have ships and an att.i.tude." Offenhouse waved a hand, dismissing the point. "We've taken care of that. Odovil plans to hire all of the astronauts the Ferengi trained here-"

"-and keep them away from their ships?" Picard nodded. "That's a most elegant and straightforward solution to our problem, Mr. Amba.s.sador. Well done."

The amba.s.sador cleared his throat. "Well, we won't ground all of them," he said. "Only the ones we don't trust. The others-see, Odovil's going into the shipping business. I told her she could sell tritanium to the Federation, and we could contract out to supply warp generators and other goodies to folks all over the quadrant. We'll turn a profit doing this-"

"Why am I not surprised?" Picard muttered, addressing himself to the corridor ceiling.

"-and we'll use the cash to finance Megara's reconstruction," Offenhouse finished.

"Even so, allowing the Megarans into s.p.a.ce seems risky," Picard said as they came to a turbolift door.

"Everything worthwhile is risky," Offenhouse said, leaning against the bulkhead. "This'll give the Megarans contact with people on other worlds, and that's the best way to cure their xenophobia. They'll see for themselves that outworlders aren't as monstrous as they've heard.

"And think about this," Offenhouse went on. "The Carda.s.sians wanted to destabilize this part of the galaxy and threaten the Federation. Well, I'm turning the tables on them, using their ships and factories for our purposes. Not only is Megara going to be the key to developing this sector, but some day soon it'll join the Federation. Don't be surprised if we're selling you starships in a few years."

"At a profit, no doubt," Picard said.

"You wouldn't want the Megarans to feel cheated, would you?" The turbolift door opened, and the two men entered the elevator. "Transporter room three," Offenhouse said, and glanced at Picard. "It's time for me to beam down and get to work."

"You seem to have a lot of plans for Megara," Picard said as the lift slid into motion.

"Oh, I do," Offenhouse agreed. "Megara has unlimited potential. It's going to be the most important world in this sector, count on it. And if you think I'm ambitious, you should hear Odovil's plans. Talk about your irresistible forces! Give us a few decades, and Megara will rival Earth."

Picard smiled at the man's optimism, but something occurred to him. A few decades? he wondered. By twentieth-century standards Offenhouse was already middle-aged, and even with modern medical technology to keep him healthy his remaining lifespan probably would amount to no more than forty or fifty years. "It sounds like the work of a lifetime."

"Well, I've got a lifetime," Offenhouse said. He became oddly subdued as he looked at the captain. "I never thanked you people, did I?"

"For helping you on Megara?" Picard asked.

"For bringing me back to life," Offenhouse said. "I made a lot of mistakes the last time around, and now I've got a chance to make up for them. Maybe there's even some justice in this. I used my talents to bring Khan Singh into the world, and now I can use those talents to help another world. Thanks."

"Not at all," Picard said. The prospect of saying good-bye to Offenhouse made him magnanimous. "Working with you has been a unique experience."

"Ain't I something?" he asked, recovering his normal c.o.c.kiness. The turbolift stopped and opened its door. "So long, Picard," Offenhouse said as he stepped into the corridor. "I've got a world to save."