They had reached the tunnel junction. One Zhuik stepped out of the crowd and stood before Shrev. She glared at Wesley, then looked at Shrev. "Is there iron in your knife as well?" she asked quietly.

Shrev drew her knife. "You see that my knife is hardened copper. May I inquire who faces Shrev of Hive Zss'zhz?"

The woman brandished her own dagger. "I trust it pleases you to know that I am Zhen of Hive Zss'zhz. It is my station in life to examine the eggs laid in our clutches, and reject those which are defective."

"And I was hatched to be a Starfleet officer, serving the Federation to which Zhuik belongs," Shrev whispered.

"Mutant tool of aliens," the woman murmured, and pounced on Shrev. The crowd pulled back to give the fighters room. Wesley stepped forward to help Shrev, then retreated against the curved tunnel wall. It's what she wants, he told himself as Shrev and the woman circled one another, knives drawn and heads down. The woman lunged forward. Shrev spun on her heels and slashed at her. Shrev's dagger cut into her chest, and she flashed out of holographic existence. Shrev slid her dagger into its sheath and turned away, suddenly oblivious of Wesley.

The crowd surged on, and Shrev was drawn into the flow of bodies. Wesley shook himself out of his surprise and hurried after her. When he caught up with her, he saw a glaze over her eyes, as though she walked in her sleep.

Her attention returned to Wesley. "Now we must consider matters which might interest a developmental a.n.a.lyst," she said, sounding as though nothing had happened. "We have the enormous growth of Megaran industry. It is clear that the Ferengi are involved in this."

"They must be importing a lot of high-tech gear to do this," Wesley said. He wanted to ask her what had sparked the fight, but this didn't seem the proper time for curiosity. "And advisors. That's expensive ... and ... time."

"What about time?" Shrev asked.

"The changes they've made on Megara must have taken years," Wesley said. "But Ferengi don't make long-term investments like that. They go after quick profits. The quicker, the better."

"I know little of Ferengi," Shrev said. "Is it possible that they could make enormous profits by what they do here?"

"I don't know," Wesley said. "I guess that's one thing Mr. Offenhouse is supposed to learn. But Ferengi never act like this."

"Then we must refine what we know," Shrev said. There was a hole in the tunnel floor, with numerous bent copper rungs set in the walls. Zhuiks climbed up and down the rungs. Shrev went down the hole, and Wesley tried to descend as quickly as she did. It was invigorating, like working out in a gymnasium.

A Zhuik woman bowed to Shrev as she reached the ground. "May I trouble you for directions to the surface?" she whispered. Wesley clutched the rungs and watched Shrev draw her knife again.

Deanna Troi focused her attention on Ralph Offenhouse as she neared his quarters. He was awake and relaxed, and in a humorous mood. His rebound did not comfort the Betazoid empath. Mood swings were not uncommon in people with emotional troubles. His present good humor was not a healthy sign.

She signaled her presence at his door, and it opened at his invitation. The amba.s.sador lay on his bed in a bathrobe, arms crossed behind his head as he watched a holographic recording of a popular stage show. "Have a seat," he told her, and chuckled at the show.

"Thank you," Troi said. "How are you-"

His raucous laugh cut her off. "Sorry," he said when his laughter had subsided. "But this show is a cla.s.sic. See, it's the one where Mister Ed thinks he's ready for the glue factory, so he asks Wilbur to buy a little pony to keep him company and make him feel young again, only Wilbur accidentally buys a Shetland pony, and when Ed realizes the 'pony' is over twenty he suddenly understands he isn't so old after all, and it's as funny now as when I was a kid. Cla.s.sic!"

"I see," Troi said, noting the way he rambled. "But, Mr. Amba.s.sador, you couldn't possibly have seen this show as a child. It's 'Robot Rolls.' "

"Sure, that's what they call it," Offenhouse said with a knowing smirk. "But somebody just stole an old episode of 'Mister Ed,' changed the talking horse into a robotic aircar, and pa.s.sed it off as new. You people may have replaced TV with staged plays, but popular entertainment hasn't changed a bit since I kicked the bucket."

"Then why are you watching it?" Troi asked.

"Why? Simple." Offenhouse went to the replicator. "Two vodka martinis, with olives," he said. The replicator produced a pair of conical gla.s.ses, and he carried one to Troi. "You were born into this century. I wasn't. I need to pick up the background, schlock and all. A good businessman does things like that."

"That's very sensible." Troi sipped her drink. Thank goodness for synthehol, she thought. Drinking was an important ritual in many cultures, and synthehol had many of alcohol's benefits without the damaging side effects. The intoxication faded swiftly, but for social purposes it was enough. "You've probably guessed that this isn't a social call. Captain Picard tells me that you were extremely uncomfortable on the holodeck earlier today-"

"-and now you want to help me count my marbles," Offenhouse said, as he sat down with his drink. "That shouldn't take long. One, two. Yeah, I still got 'em all."

She smiled. "Can you tell me what you felt on the holodeck?"

He sighed. "It looked like I was back in the real San Francisco-I spent a summer there when I was a boy. Frisco was different then, but there were still offices like the one Picard showed me, and my dad took me to some of them. I was okay at first, but I almost lost it when Picard started playing with that cigarette lighter. My dad's old Zippo made the same noise, and then there was the smell of lighter fluid ..."

"And the past came rushing back," Troi said. Smells and sounds were potent memory stimuli. She wished the captain had consulted with her; she could have warned him that his effort to put Ralph Offenhouse at ease was risky.

Offenhouse nodded. "It was too much, Counselor. I felt like I was back home ... like I could walk out of that office and-and-"

"And take care of some unfinished business?" Deanna asked. She could sense how the question exacerbated his underlying sense of guilt. "There's something you'd like to change, isn't there?"

He nodded. "That's the trouble with dropping dead in your tracks. You don't get a chance to wrap things up." He sighed. "I figure that in time I'll get used to being where I am. If that's all-"

Deanna shook her head. "I'd also like to ask you about the Enterprise."

He shrugged. "Picard and I already had this talk. Your ship has a dumb design, but I can live with it."

"I don't mean this Enterprise," Troi said. "I mean the American aircraft carrier."

Offenhouse was silent for a long moment. "My son's ship," he said at last.

"Captain Picard checked the historical records," Troi told him. "Peter Linde Offenhouse was a pilot aboard the Enterprise when she was blown up in the Sea of j.a.pan."

"Two years after I died," Offenhouse said.

"Why is that the first thing that comes to your mind?" Troi asked.

"I don't know." He finished his drink, got up and called for two more.

To be polite, Troi finished her first drink and accepted a second. "Do you think you were better off dead?" Troi asked.

"Sometimes I think so," he said. "At least I wouldn't have to know that my only child died in a war that shouldn't have happened."

"The Battle of the Sea of j.a.pan was the turning point of the Eugenics War," Troi said. She had never cared much for Earth history, but its darker aspects had the hypnotic fascination of a good horror story. "It destroyed much of Khan Singh's military force and marked the beginning of the end for his superrace. After that battle, the Great Khanate splintered into a dozen factions which started fighting one another-"

"-and eventually their leaders were hunted down like rats," Offenhouse finished. "I know. My boy died saving the human race from tyranny, and all that. He still died."

There was a long moment of silence, during which Troi sipped her drink and Offenhouse's emotions in equal measure. To him, the Eugenics War and a centuries-old death were fresh, raw wounds. He had been conscious for several years, and he still had not come to grips with his loss. Perhaps it was because his son had died childless. Genetic continuity, carrying on the family line and name, meant a great deal to beings all across the known galaxy. Failure of this sort often led to suicide, and yes, she could sense that option shadowing the man's thoughts.

Troi put her empty gla.s.s down on the carpet; that seemed as good a place as any for it. Her head buzzed as she concentrated on the man's emotions. She sensed a raw current of guilt now. Survivor guilt, she guessed. He wonders why he lived when everyone else died. "I'm supposed to offer words of wisdom," she said. "So let me tell you that being alive is better than being dead."

Offenhouse grunted. "Why is that? Remember that you're talking to a man who's tried both."

"Well, Mr. Amba.s.sador, dying is suicidal, that is, it's certain death, it kills people all the time. If you die you won't be alive anymore. Your friends won't talk with you, you'll miss out on life and you won't be able to do anything. You, now ..." She leveled a finger at him; it wobbled as though not quite certain which way to point. "You're a man who wants to correct a mistake. You can't do that if you're dead."

"Interesting point," he conceded. "Anything else?"

"No, I don't want to press you today," she said.

"Okay, Counselor," Offenhouse said. Troi watched as he procured a third round of drinks. No doubt about it, her words were getting through to him. Her empathic sense was working with a magnificent clarity today, and she could tell that one fact-the inability of the dead to change the world-now pervaded his consciousness.

Troi toasted Offenhouse, finished the drink and left his quarters. She headed for the bridge, where she would tell Jean-Luc that something she had said to Ralph had given him an added measure of stability. The amba.s.sador had annoyed the captain, true, but he would feel pleased for the man. Like almost all the people Troi had ever met, the captain took pleasure in witnessing the good fortune of others. Perhaps that was one way to define decency.

Halfway to the turbolift, Deanna Troi noticed that the artificial gravity was oscillating badly. The deck wobbled under her feet as she went to the nearest comm panel. "Troi to La George, I mean Fordie, I mean-are you there?"

"Deanna?" Geordi La Forge sounded puzzled.

"There's trouble with the grabbing art, I mean the artigrav, on deck, uh, the deck where I am. Right here."

"Trouble?" the chief engineering officer asked. "Deanna, all my boards show nominal function."

"Oh, good, but the deck's having an awful time holding on to my feet." She giggled as she swayed into the bulkhead. "It's rather nice."

There were several recreation areas aboard the Enterprise, and each served identical food and drink. Despite this, Worf preferred to dine in the one on the engineering deck. It was located between the battle bridge and the torpedo bays. The armory, which contained the weapons used by away teams and his own security unit, was nearby. Sharp ears could hear the rush of coolant through the phaser banks. Somehow the ambience made the rokeg pie sweeter, the k'truyg tarter, the gagh livelier.

Worf entered the cafeteria with his son, Alexander. The replicator was delivering a roasted scrag haunch when Riker entered the cafeteria. "Are you going to complain if your superior officer joins you?" he asked Worf, in the rude manner affected by Klingon warriors.

"If you must," Worf grumbled. It pleased him to have this human around his son. Riker was a good influence; Alexander was a Klingon and needed those things which humans called "role models." Living among so many non-Klingons, the boy was exposed to such unwholesome concepts as etiquette and pacifism. Riker's only fault was that he bathed in water-almost every day, Worf suspected. The man's behavior wasn't totally Klingonese.

Riker ordered the same dinner as Worf and Alexander, and joined them at a table. He picked up his scrag with both hands and tore off a mouthful with his teeth. "Alexander," Riker said as he swallowed. "I saw your teacher today. She tells me there are no bullies in your cla.s.s."

"I've been behaving myself," Alexander said.

"So has everyone else," Riker said. "She credits that to you."

"There has been trouble?" Worf asked, honored by the compliment Riker was paying his son. A good Klingon enforced discipline.

Alexander shrugged. "Well, I saw Rajiv hit Nonong, once."

"And?" Worf asked.

"I told Rajiv that it looked like-fun." The boy grinned, showing a mouthful of jagged Klingonese teeth. "I was holding him upside down by his ankles when I said that."

Riker laughed in admiration. Alexander was small and delicate for his age, by both human and Klingon standards. But my son, Worf thought, more than makes up for his delicacy with his determination. He will conquer worlds!

"Sounds like you're doing well," Riker said, and shoveled some rokeg pie into his mouth.

"I like being around humans," Alexander said. He looked up at his father. "I'm glad we didn't annihilate them." Riker laughed, and Worf clapped his son on the shoulder in approval.

"Hey, Worf?" La Forge had entered the cafeteria. He sat down at the table, and looked away from the mug of squirming gagh on Riker's tray. "We may have a security problem."

Worf grunted. "Who needs to be killed?"

"It's not that bad," the engineer said. "But somebody smuggled some ethyl alcohol onto the ship. Now Deanna Troi's in sickbay with a bad case of alcohol poisoning."

Riker looked amazed. "Deanna is drunk?"

"She was doing about two warp factors more than the ship when I caught up with her," La Forge said. "Dr. Crusher is detoxifying her, but she's in no shape to say what happened."

"She had a talk with Offenhouse a while ago," Riker said. He grimaced as he saw the connection. "Worf, do you think-"

"I do." The cafeteria walls seemed to shake with Worf's growl. "I must leave this to the captain. Diplomats do have privileges."

"Better luck next time, Worf," Riker said, and took some more rokeg pie. He washed it down with prune juice.

"Yes," Worf muttered. He looked to La Forge. "Commander, might we discuss a technical matter?"

"Sure, Worf," La Forge said.

"I have been considering the problem of detecting cloaked ships," the Klingon security officer said. "Our techniques have not improved in several months. It would be shameful if we failed to detect a cloaked ship."

"So you want to keep ahead of the compet.i.tion," La Forge said. "What brings this on?"

Worf glanced at Alexander. Admit that he was concerned for his son's safety? Never. "It is just a thought."

"Well, it's an interesting thought," La Forge said. Even though the golden corrugations of his VISOR hid his eyes, Worf could see how the problem intrigued him. The human had a special interest in sensors, perhaps because of his dependence on artificial sight. "Right now our sensor technology pretty well pushes the limits. We'd have to look for something that current sensors aren't set up to detect. Trouble is, we already scan for all the things cloaked ships emit."

Riker finished his pie and picked up the scrag haunch. "What don't we look for now?" he asked.

"Lots of things," La Forge said. "Quarks, gravitinos, photinos, neutrinos, gravity waves-things that will pa.s.s through a cloak, but either are neutralized by other systems, or aren't easy to look for, or aren't emitted by ordinary matter."

Alexander looked up from his scrag. He had demolished most of it while the adults spoke. "Can you make another ship emit them?"

A smile slowly spread across La Forge's face. "Alexander, you're one smart kid. Maybe I can." He stood up. "I'm going to check a few things in engineering."

"Can I watch?" Alexander looked up to his father. "I already did my homework."

"So long as you do not annoy Commander La Forge," Worf said. He was still speaking when Alexander got up, grabbed the rest of his pie and followed the engineer out of the room.

Riker chuckled. "He's quite a kid."

"Yes-even though he bathes." Worf dug into his scrag. "Commander, I have examined the archives for more ancient films. I have found one that might interest you."

"Another comedy?" Riker asked.

"It is similar to your comedy, but it is more- glorious," the Klingon decided. "There are frequent, honorable displays of hand-to-hand combat. The villains are obvious. The hero never speaks. It is called Rambo V."

"And you say it's glorious?" Riker asked.

Worf nodded. "Everyone dies."

"Sounds promising." Riker swallowed a half-chewed bite of scrag. "And I've found another comedy."

Worf feigned annoyance. "You are determined to make me laugh."

"Yeah, even if it kills me... ." His face went pale and his lips twitched as his voice trailed off.

Worf looked at Riker in alarm. "Are you well?"

"Yeah, I just-uhn!" Riker gasped, clutched at his stomach and doubled over.

Worf sprang to Riker's side and slapped his communicator badge. "Transporter Room, emergency beam to sickbay!" he commanded.