"I'll think about it," Wesley said. He turned and fled out the door.

Riker chuckled as Worf rejoined him and Data at the bar. "Nothing scares a cadet like the threat of an extra a.s.signment."

Guinan had been listening quietly while she polished the bar with a rag. "Riker, you have a mean streak," she said.

Worf nodded at the hostess. "He does have many admirable qualities-for a human." He picked up Offenhouse's gla.s.s and drained it in a gulp.

Picard nodded at the reflection in his dresser mirror. Only his admiring smile spoiled the cla.s.sic filmnoir look that the fedora and trenchcoat gave him. If his hunch was right, dealing with Ralph Offenhouse was about to become much easier.

The cabin door slid open and Offenhouse strode into the room, uninvited. "Picard-" he began, and stopped cold. "What's with the costume?"

"I'm going to spend an hour on the holodeck," Picard said. "We can talk there-in private."

"All right," the man said grudgingly. He stepped into the corridor with Picard. "But why are you dressed like Humphrey Bogart?"

Picard needed a second to place the name; recognition was an unexpected benefit of his pa.s.sion for old detective stories. "One of my favorite pastimes is to play the role of Dixon Hill," Picard said. "He's a fictional detective of the San Francisco of the Roosevelt era, and I simulate that world on the holodeck. You might find this amusing-I researched the background myself, but I have my doubts as to the accuracy of the settings."

"And you'd like me to spot the errors?" Offenhouse asked.

"If you would." In truth, Picard had done a good deal of his own historical research, and he doubted Offenhouse would find any glaring anachronisms. If anything, he should find himself at home in surroundings that approximated his own era.

"It'll be my pleasure," Offenhouse said with a smile. "Somehow you don't seem like the detective-novel type, Picard."

"Appearances are deceptive, aren't they?" Picard said. "I quite enjoy a good mystery. The beauty of the Hill novels is that they present all the clues one needs to solve the mystery, but the presentation is made in such a way that one can easily miss the clues. One never quite knows what is happening."

"I'd think you get enough of that in real life," the amba.s.sador said. They entered the turbolift at the end of the corridor, and Picard ordered it to holodeck three. "By the way, Picard," Offenhouse said, "you might want to keep an eye on that Crusher kid. He knows something's in the wind."

Picard raised an eyebrow. "Does he, now?"

"Yeah. He was pumping me for information a few minutes ago, down in Ten-Forward."

"Wesley is an inquisitive and intelligent young man," Picard said. "He's also discreet. If he uncovers any secrets, he won't reveal them."

Offenhouse looked thoughtful. "If he's that smart, maybe we should bring him in on this."

"No, not yet. I'd like to see how far he can go on his own." The turbolift stopped and released them. Picard led Offenhouse to the holodeck entrance. "Computer, run Picard program number one. Set a date in March, nineteen thirty-six."

"Program engaged," the computer said, opening the door for them.

They stepped into a waiting room, where a blond secretary sat behind a desk, buffing her nails with an emery board. "No calls for ya, Mistah Hill," she said to Picard.

"Understood, Madeline," Picard said, manually opening the k.n.o.bbed door to his office. "Mr. Offenhouse and I are not to be disturbed."

The office was dingy and run-down, but the chairs were comfortable. "Not too shabby," Offenhouse admitted as he seated himself. "Of course, your secretary should wear green lipstick and orange gloves, and most offices like this would have a cuckoo clock on the wall."

"I see," Picard said. He sat behind his desk, wrote a memo on the amba.s.sador's suggestions, then opened a drawer and pulled out a gin bottle and two dirty gla.s.ses. He found himself slipping into the Hill persona almost without thought as he poured the drinks. "I think it's time we both came clean," he said as he offered a gla.s.s to Offenhouse. "I take it you don't want my services."

Offenhouse tasted the drink, shrugged and looked at Picard. "d.a.m.n straight. When Starfleet told me they were sending the Enterprise to Megara, I banged my fist on desks, screamed till I was blue in the face, threatened to resign-"

"Why?" Picard asked. "If you feel a personal animosity against me-"

"It isn't you, Picard, it's your ship. When Singh gave me this c.o.c.k-and-bull story about how no other suitable ship was available-" Offenhouse looked at his gla.s.s in disgust, then put it on the desk. "Picard, a talk like this needs real booze, not this synthehol sissy-juice."

Picard put his own gla.s.s down. "Precisely what is wrong with my ship?"

"Civilians," Offenhouse said. He got up, went to the window and looked at the San Francisco skyline. The Golden Gate Bridge was a series of curves, as graceful as a Shinto shrine yet almost overwhelmed by the ugly lump of Alcatraz. To Picard, those neighboring structures had always brought home the extreme contradictions of the twentieth century, the good and evil that had so frequently lived side by side-and the inept way in which good had fought evil.

"Civilians," Offenhouse repeated. He turned away from the window with an expression that verged on pain. "Picard, this is a battleship-right?"

"If necessary, yes," the captain admitted.

"It's also an exploratory ship," Offenhouse said. "You're supposed to nose around in odd places and see what turns up."

Picard nodded at the man. "That's true."

"Combat and exploration-those are two good, fast ways to die."

"Indeed they are." Picard leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin in thought. "You're asking what gives us the right to take civilians into harm's way."

"You catch on fast," the amba.s.sador said. He stepped back to the desk and looked at the doc.u.ments cluttering it. One was a local newspaper, the Sun. The paper crinkled as Offenhouse idly fingered the headlines. Colored Wards May Vote For FDR This November, one announced, while another warned Germany To Reoccupy the Rhineland, Hitler Declares.

"The risk is a necessary evil," Picard told him. "There was a time when Starfleet ships were primarily military vessels. We had a 'heroic age' of such captains as Garth, Pike, Kirk and Sulu-"

"That was a little after my time," Offenhouse said.

"-but it was a dangerous era," Picard went on. "Too often such captains took enormous risks with dubious benefits. They would violate the Prime Directive for reasons that seem trivial. Several times they almost plunged the Federation into war. They were sane, by all medical standards, yet still unbalanced."

"I read about that," Offenhouse said. He sat down and propped his feet on Picard's desk. He closed his eyes, but Picard saw nothing restful in his face. "Decker slugged it out with a doomsday machine, just for the h.e.l.l of it. Garth tried to become the new Napoleon, Tracey committed genocide on Omega Three-you Starfleet captains sure are a distinguished lot."

"Some of us become carried away with our authority," Picard said. "And Starfleet tried numerous solutions to this problem. Civilian crews, female command staffs, crews which mixed races from scores of worlds, automated decision processes. Nothing worked. Then we realized that we were placing military men in military vessels, and cutting them off from the rest of the Federation. A few weeks in such a restricted environment will distort anyone's worldview."

Offenhouse opened one eye to look at Picard. "So they pack a ship with families just to keep you from getting careless?"

"That's one of several reasons for a civilian presence here," Picard said. He found the Cyclopean gaze unsettling, and was glad when Offenhouse closed the eye again. "Bitter experience has shown that this is necessary. When you have children underfoot you can't pretend that the universe is strictly a place of heroic battles, or forget that your actions have farreaching consequences. You also live in a more balanced world, and that preserves one's own balance."

"And you're convinced this is right," Offenhouse said.

"No, sir, I am not," Picard admitted. "Even though this principle works, I do not know that the means justify the ends. But I do know that Starfleet will not replace the Enterprise on this a.s.signment simply to calm your nerves. You will have to weigh your decisions as carefully as I must."

Offenhouse snorted. "I had that in mind anyway."

"The captains you named had good intentions, too," Picard said. "But let's discuss our intentions in regard to Megara. Why do you think this world is dangerous?"

"Aside from a trigger-happy Ferengi ship?" Offenhouse sighed. "Picard, I estimate the Ferengi have spent fifty billion credits on Megara. They're trying to hide what they're doing. I'm sure Dixon Hill has investigated people who've killed for a lot less."

"Put that way, I understand your concern." Picard opened his desk drawer and took out a flat steel rectangle. Its top made a snapping noise as he flipped it open, revealing a peculiar arrangement of a bit of twine, a vented metal cage and a tiny ridged wheel. "Fifty billion credits?"

"Yeah. That's based on the probe data. When you look at the budget, and Megara's location, this smells like a clandestine military operation."

"Except that the Ferengi are not overtly militaristic." Picard studied the rectangle. Its purpose eluded him-wait, he could smell a volatile hydrocarbon fuel soaking its wick. Thumbing the wheel created sparks, which ignited the wick. Perhaps the device was evidence from one of Hill's cases-it could be useful in starting a fire. "They only fight when they might win a profit," Picard said. His nose wrinkled at the device's acrid smoke.

"I know," the amba.s.sador said. "And-" He sniffed the air. "And-I never meant to-that is, I don't see a profit in, in, I mean around-"

Awkwardly, Picard closed the cap on the rectangle, extinguishing its blue flame. "Mister Amba.s.sador?" he asked in concern. Offenhouse had clenched his chair's armrests in a white-knuckled grip, as though desperate for something to anchor him to this world. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah ... I just need a little sleep." Offenhouse chuckled as he stood up. "You'd think that after taking the big sleep I'd be wide awake for the rest of your-I mean this century."

"We can continue our talk later," Picard said.

"Yeah ... we've got all the time in the world." Offenhouse gave Picard an absentminded wave as he went to the holodeck exit. It slid open, revealing the starship corridor beyond the illusory office. Picard saw a look of painful disappointment on Offenhouse's face as he stared at the hallway. "All the time in the world," he repeated sadly.

Chapter Four.

ADMIRAL SINGH'S image vanished from the viewscreen. Picard sat in silence for a long moment, then stood up and went to his ready room's window. We're on our own, he thought as he looked at the drifting starfield.

The door hissed. "You wanted to see me, Captain?" Riker asked.

"Yes, Number One." One dim red star moved a bit more quickly than the others. Parallax, Picard thought idly; the red dwarf was probably within a few light-weeks of the Enterprise, and the ship's speed made it seem to race along.

Picard turned away from the window. "I've just spoken with Admiral Singh. The mission goes on."

Riker scowled. "With an unstable anachronism of an amba.s.sador?"

"Ralph Offenhouse is not unstable," Picard said. "But he is troubled."

"Does anyone know what's 'troubling' him?" Riker asked.

Picard shook his head. "There's very little information available on the amba.s.sador. As Admiral Singh just told me, his file begins with his death certificate. He was less than cooperative with his counselors, but they believe that he's quite capable of fulfilling his a.s.signment, and that his work is the best therapy for his troubles. His talents more than outweigh his problems-and the historical record suggests that before his death he was a stable, even brilliant, man."

"By twentieth-century standards," Riker said.

Picard smiled slightly. "After speaking with him on the holodeck I find that he's more impressive than he lets on. For example, he knows that Wesley Crusher is investigating the Megaran situation."

"Is he?" Riker asked in obvious surprise.

"It would seem that Wesley asked some well-directed questions in Ten-Forward." Picard returned to his seat and gestured for his executive officer to join him. "Number One, both Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi a.s.sure me that the amba.s.sador is all right. However, I would like to know what made him so edgy today. What transpired in Ten-Forward?"

Riker stroked his beard. "Well ... he asked Worf if Ferengi ships used a cloaking device, and if fighting them was a problem. That's when Wesley came in. He asked Offenhouse what sort of work he did, and the amba.s.sador gave him a lot of double-talk. Then Wesley mentioned the Stargazer incident, and that's when Offenhouse called you. He seemed upset," Riker finished.

Picard nodded. "What was said about the Stargazer?"

"Only the basic facts," Riker said. "You commanded the ship, it was our first contact with the Ferengi, and they attacked without provocation."

That explains a great deal, Picard thought. Or does it? It's almost too obvious. "Can you think of anything else?"

"Well-Offenhouse mentioned his son," Riker said. "I think Wesley reminded Offenhouse of him."

"Interesting," Picard mused. "Thank you, Number One."

Riker left the ready room, and Picard turned his attention to his computer console. After a few informative minutes, he called Deanna Troi.

Wesley spotted Shrev in the corridor outside holodeck two. She wore her gray tunic, and she had a knife belted to her waist. Wesley fought the urge to call her name as he walked up to her. He hadn't had the time to read up on Zhuik customs, but intuition told him that Shrev's people regarded loudness as rude.

She saw him approach. "h.e.l.lo, Wesley," she said. Her head bowed slightly to focus her slender antennae on him. "You look as though you have news."

Wesley kept his voice low. "I do, Shrev. I talked with the amba.s.sador a few hours ago. He said he's a developmental a.n.a.lyst-well, sort of."

"I do not understand this qualification," Shrev said.

"It's the nearest modern equivalent to his old profession," Wesley said. "I would have come back to you sooner, but I wanted to learn a little about the profession first."

The holodeck door opened and De Shay stepped out. He wore a soccer player's uniform, now muddy and gra.s.s-stained, and he grinned toothily as he juggled a soccer ball. He had a black eye. "Hi, Wes, Shrev," he said. "Hope I haven't kept anyone waiting."

"Not at all, sir," Shrev said. "I merely arrived a moment early."

"Did you-" Wesley cleared his throat and raised his voice to a normal level. "Did you have a good game, Mr. De Shay?"

"That I did," De Shay said cheerily. "We kicked the stuffings out of the b.l.o.o.d.y Brits, two-oh. There's never been a game like that, mon amie." He strolled away, deftly bouncing the ball from wrist to heel to head.

Wesley glanced at the holodeck door; Shrev would be eager to get in there. "We could talk later, when you're done here," he suggested.

"I must go on duty in an hour." She paused and seemed to think. "You might consider joining me here, although I fear my relaxation might distress you."

Wesley hesitated. "Could I ask how you'll relax?'

She nodded once, obviously copying the human gesture. "I will walk through a city hive. Certain people will behave rudely and I shall kill them." Shrev patted her sheathed dagger.

Wesley decided that didn't sound any worse than some of the things Worf and Riker did on the holodeck. "I'd like to join you," Wesley said. "We can talk privately, and I might learn something about Zhuiks, too."

"May what you learn be useful." Shrev turned to the door control. "Shrev program one, if you please."

The door opened into an oval tunnel that curved up and to the right. By the glow of feeble orange lamps, Zhuiks streamed up and down its translucent length in utter silence. The hard, pinched green faces glanced at Wesley, then turned away. Many of them looked unconscious despite their open eyes. Zhuiks did not sleep, but from time to time their minds lapsed into a somnolent state; as with human sleepwalkers, their bodies remained in motion while their brains rested. Wesley noted that, like terrestrial hive insects, all of the people he saw here were female.

"I have researched the Ferengi, as I promised," Shrev said to Wesley. "I found only that they have never entered this sector before. It is far from their own s.p.a.ce, and the distance would make trade unprofitable."

"But they're still here," Wesley whispered. Walking amid this alien horde made it easy for him to keep his voice low. He walked quickly behind Shrev; wherever they were going, they moved at a pace as rapid as that set by the other Zhuiks.

"And the amba.s.sador is here because they are here," Shrev murmured. They went around a sharp bend in the tunnel. Here the curved floor sloped downhill, toward a Y-shaped junction, while more Zhuiks swirled around them. Wesley saw two Zhuiks standing in a cubbyhole, heads bowed to let their antennae brush against one another. "You mentioned that he is a developmental a.n.a.lyst. I must confess my inexcusable ignorance of this topic. Could I trouble you to enlighten me upon it?"

"I can't claim to be an expert," Wesley said, "but a developmental a.n.a.lyst studies how an economic system works and finds places where you can improve it. That covers a lot of territory: resources, factories, personnel, research and development, distribution, transport-all sorts of things."

"A man who understands such matters could infer much about a society from only a few observations," Shrev said. "Now we must consider-"