"It's an old movie-"

The transporter's hum interrupted the amba.s.sador's words. Picard and Offenhouse materialized in a courtyard surrounded by high stone walls.

"-that you'll have to watch sometime," Offenhouse concluded. He looked around the yard and scowled. "Charming."

"It's rather medieval," Picard agreed, surveying the castle's crenellations, posterns and allures. "And in excellent repair."

"Like it still holds off invaders and rioting peasants," Offenhouse said. He nudged Picard's elbow. "Company."

A tall, brown-skinned man in white and yellow robes emerged from a doorway in one stone wall. "Amba.s.sador Offenhouse, Captain Picard," he said, executing a minuscule bow. "I am Verden, pagus to the Vo Gatyn. In the Great Hall to the Vo I will introduce you. You will dine, and to you later she will talk. With me you will come, please."

Picard and Offenhouse followed the Megaran through the wall. The amba.s.sador's walking stick tapped the stone floor as they entered a hall. The chamber was crude and not very large, but Picard knew that it pressed the limits of stone blocks and wooden beams. Light came from luminescent panels set in the ceiling. They needed adjustment; the glare made it impossible for Picard to look at the ceiling.

There were long tables set against the main walls of the rectangular hall, and they were loaded with platters of wine and bowls of drinks. A score of people stood around the tables, serving themselves and eating. They were well dressed, but Picard saw a half-dozen servants in ill-fitting coveralls waiting in the corners of the hall. The only chair in sight was a throne at the far end of the room. A thin black woman with short gray hair sat on it. Aside from a red cloak and a gold circlet for a crown, she dressed simply, and Picard saw that she had both a knife and a sonic disrupter tucked into her waistband.

Offenhouse tipped his hat to her. "Vo Gatyn, I am Ralph Offenhouse, amba.s.sador plenipotentiary and extraordinaire of the United Federation of Planets ..." Picard stood silent during the droning protocol exchange. Offenhouse a.s.sured the woman of the Federation's good intentions and high principles; Gatyn spoke of her lawful authority over the entire Megaran people, as given to her by the Elder G.o.ds and demonstrated through her honorable conquest of all opponents, done without aid of any but herself and her n.o.ble lieges.

What nonsense! Picard thought with a polite smile. Simple logistics made it impossible to conquer and hold an entire planet with medieval technology. Gatyn sounded as though she was trying to a.s.sure herself that she was the true ruler of Megara, and not a Ferengi tool.

The introduction ended and Verden led the two humans away from the throne. "When to speak to you she is ready, return I will," he said, and walked out of the hall.

Offenhouse grunted. "C'mon, Picard, let's chow down before Chudak shows up."

Picard nodded. "What do you expect from Chudak?" he asked quietly. "Information on who's really in charge here?"

Offenhouse nodded back. "The more I think about it, the more I'm sure that Shrev and Peter were right about the Ferengi working for a third party. That means all this"-he nodded toward the Vo's throne, and the courtiers surrounding her-"is a sham, so lean back and enjoy the show."

Peter? the captain wondered. His son? That's an odd slip of the tongue.

Picard accompanied Offenhouse to one of the buffet tables. Beverly Crusher had a.s.sured him that it would be safe to eat Megaran foods; sensor a.n.a.lysis of the surface life had verified that the local proteins, carbohydrates and sundry other substances held no unpleasant surprises for the human metabolism. That had come as good news to the captain, who welcomed new gastronomic experiences.

Picard found himself reviewing his talk with Wesley. He wished he could have spoken at length with him, but that would have been unfair to the young man. Wesley needed guidance, yet too much of that would interfere with his ability to make his own decisions. The Prime Directive as applied to personal relationships, Picard mused. I want to help Wesley, but too much 'help' would deny him the right to choose his own future. Have confidence in him, Jean-Luc. He will discover his own answers.

The captain was spooning up a small plate of sauteed mushrooms when Chudak entered the hall. He wore black garments, tidy, well-tailored and trimmed in silver. A Ferengi with taste, Picard thought in surprise. Chudak had dressed in a style that emphasized his face and build, and his manner suggested he knew that, by his people's standards, he was quite handsome.

Chudak strode up to Offenhouse. "You're even uglier in person," Chudak snarled. "Who'd have thought?"

"Certainly not you." Offenhouse shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry to see that my compet.i.tion is so shabby."

"And I regret having no compet.i.tion!" A half-dozen Megarans gathered around; one handed Chudak a fresh gla.s.s of green punch. "Look at you! The G.o.ds made some heads perfect. The others, they hid beneath hair. Eh, Picard?"

"Hair is a marvelous substance," Picard said, stoutly resisting Chudak's effort to drive a wedge between him and Offenhouse.

Chudak looked disgruntled by Picard's indifference. "Try your song and dance, human," he told Offenhouse. "See if you can take away my clients."

The amba.s.sador smiled and shook his head. "The Federation can beat whatever deal you made with these people, but I'm in no hurry to take them away from you, you overdraft on the great checking account of life."

"You duck the issue," Chudak growled. "I have sold these people things they would never get from the Federation, with its selfish talk about the 'Prime Directive' and 'noninterference.' I help them to build a modern world. You would have left them grubbing in the dirt, human."

"And you'll leave 'em the same way." Offenhouse turned his back on Chudak and scooped himself a mug of punch. "This is a poor planet, Chudak. How do they pay you?"

"As of now, they don't," Chudak said. "I invest here. But when this planet is fully industrialized, I'll get a quarter of their industrial production. Power generators, warp units, computer systems-everything, fur-head, for the rest of my life."

"You should live so long," Offenhouse said quietly, and sipped his drink. Looking at the men and women who surrounded them, Picard saw that the amba.s.sador's words reflected the Megarans' sentiments. If they served Chudak, they did not do so willingly.

Chudak clearly knew he was hated here. "Do you think I would ignore my own safety?" he asked Offenhouse.

"Yes, if somebody paid you enough," Offenhouse said. "Speaking of payment, how are you financing this project?"

Chudak growled angrily. "What business of yours is that?"

Offenhouse shrugged. "Just morbid curiosity."

Picard turned back to the table. He set his plate down and picked up something that looked like a gla.s.s of red wine. It was, but it tasted far too sweet for his palate.

Chudak was lying, Picard thought suddenly. Intuition told Picard that the Daimon did not expect to collect anything from the Megaran factories. The only thing genuine here was the hatred.

A young woman in a yellow dress appeared at Picard's side. Her dark face was round and pretty, and had character. Picard guessed that she was sixty or so-no, thirty; these people lacked the Federation's extensive health care. Age would show quickly on them. "Our vintage your palate finds pleasing?" she asked.

"I seldom taste one like it," Picard said truthfully. He made himself smile as he sniffed its bouquet. "I come from a family of vintners."

"As well, myself," the woman said. There was something hesitant about her manner, as though she was not quite certain that speaking with Picard was a good idea, and her eyes looked haunted. "As a girl our vines and vats I tended. But when the rateyes came, a metallurgist I became, and now for industry alloys I supply."

"An honorable and worthwhile business," Picard said, "but of course, one always remains in love with the vineyards."

"To them a swift return I wish," she said. "Odovil Pardi I am named."

The captain bowed politely. "Jean-Luc Picard, at your service."

Odovil smiled, showing a charming gap between her front teeth, and then lowered her voice. "Your friend, of the rateyes not living long he spoke. Something he knows?"

"Wishful thinking," Picard said. "My friend and Chudak are bitter enemies."

" 'Enemies'? Yet from above the skies you have come," she said. "In the skies all evil dwells, or so it is said."

That sounds almost religious, the captain thought, yet religions in which evil comes from the heavens are very rare. Or has their experience with the Ferengi convinced these people that 'alien' and 'evil' are synonymous? "Good and evil can both come from the sky," Picard said. "Think of how rain can save or destroy a vineyard."

Odovil nodded, then glanced furtively around the hall. "Many here about the 'weather' are wondering."

"Perhaps it shall improve," Picard said, hoping that he understood her meaning. "May I ask about your steel production?"

"Good it is," she said, and launched herself into a description of alloying techniques, bulk moduli and tensile strengths. Picard wished that La Forge had been present to help make sense of what she said, but he knew enough about engineering technology to see that her foundries were producing tritanium-and with some sophisticated technology.

"Production every year quadruples," Odovil told him. "When first the rateyes came, equipment and plans for the foundries to us they gave. Now foundries by ourselves we make, and more. Every year more we learn."

Picard nodded at that. The Ferengi would have "seeded" Megara with equipment and advice-and almost certainly with an extensive educational system; ignorant peasants could not operate advanced technology-but the bulk of Megara's transformation would have been done by the natives themselves. Doing so would have required an enormous change in their lives; no one would call a slave world a paradise. "The changes must have been difficult," Picard suggested.

"Difficult and more," the woman agreed. "Much work, many deaths; now many poor there are, and lucky to do so well I am. Lucky ..." Her voice grew distant, and Picard saw something cold in her eyes. That made him wonder how much the Ferengi had truly changed this world.

Gul Verden remained in his native costume as he went down to the intelligence room. He hated the garb, but changing would inconvenience him now.

And there are already enough inconveniences, he thought as his hand touched his face. The implanted sixth fingers, the surgery that had smoothed and colored his face and body to resemble these weaklings, the drug that gave his flesh their bland odor-and, above all, the years of isolation on this backwater planet. He was tired of the inconveniences.

But he would endure them. This a.s.signment was not as satisfying as a fleet command, but it was important. Megara represented one of many moves in the maneuverings against the Federation, a p.a.w.n pushed across a chessboard to a strategic square. It would give the Carda.s.sian Empire a slight advantage when the next war began, and enough such advantages would let the Empire win that war. Disguising himself as a native seemed as cowardly as it was humiliating, but it was necessary. There were times when the Carda.s.sian monitors had to move among the Megarans, and the plan might fail if the Megarans learned that other aliens were involved here.

At least I am not hiding from warriors, Verden told himself, salvaging a sc.r.a.p of pride. And this wretched a.s.signment is almost over. The factories are ready; the natives are trained and primed for their role. We need only give them a few proper nudges to complete the mission. We could be on our way home in a month.

The job was not yet finished, however. Gatyn, the nominal ruler of this planet, had disobeyed Verden by granting the humans an audience. The woman had a contrary nature, and she had decided to exercise her independence this way. All was not lost; spying on the humans now might uncover something important.

Verden walked up to his second-in-command's station. "Report," he ordered.

"The human amba.s.sador is speaking to the Ferengi, Gul Verden," Ubinew said. He had a spy-eye fixed on Chudak and the human amba.s.sador, and a unit in his control console transcribed their words into a written summary. Verden read Offenhouse's questions to Chudak, which proved that the human was suspicious. Around the intelligence room, other officers monitored the humans in the city. The Federation presence strained their resources to the limits, but the team was coping with them. The visitors were talking and spending a lot of money, but otherwise doing no harm.

The visual scanner looked down from the Great Hall's ceiling, where it was hidden in the glare of electric bulbs. Verden studied Offenhouse's image on the console display, but he could read no information into the expression on the pink alien face. "Can't you get a mindscan on that amba.s.sador?" he asked Ubinew.

"No. The coward has a jammer against active probes. It's all I can do to get voice and image."

Verden climbed the steps to the command platform and sat down. "Give me the order book," he told his aide.

Obediently, Bwolst handed the electronic padd to Verden. The chief-of-mission already knew the orders for this situation, but Ubinew and the others in the room had to know that Verden followed the orders of his own leaders. Otherwise Verden might lose their obedience.

Verden sifted through the padd's memory bank and found that the orders remained as he had recalled them. "How many humans are in the city?" he asked Hrakin.

The surveillance officer was prompt. "Eighteen humans, sir. I also report one Zhuik and one Vulcan in the city. This is in addition to the two humans in the Great Hall."

"Excellent!" Verden smiled in approval. "You obey well, Hrakin. Kill all the Federation people in the city. Take all the men you will need."

Hrakin hesitated. "Sir, leaving the complex may expose us to the starship's sensors."

That gave Verden pause. It was tempting to face up to the humans now-but one did not spring an ambush prematurely, and Megara was an enormous ambush. "We must risk it," he decided. "They will not be looking for us-and we can improve the odds of escaping detection. Have the 'Prophet' stir up riots. That should keep the ship too occupied to scan us."

"I obey," Hrakin said.

"Excellent," Verden said. The riots would help persuade the Federation intruders that they were not welcome here. A little diplomatic prompting would seal the matter; their own Prime Directive would force the humans to withdraw.

But what if that doesn't work? Verden asked himself. More drastic measures might be required. He summoned a squad of guards-his own people, not the natives-and went with them to the Great Hall.

Chapter Eight.

"LA FORGE TO BRIDGE," Geordi said. "Worf, I'm ready to test the detector now."

There was a momentary silence. "Proceed," Worf said.

"Okay, people," Geordi called to the engine-room crew. "By the numbers. Gravity-wave oscillator to oh-point-oh-one percent power."

The oscillator was a basic artigrav unit, stripped of its damping circuits and mounted near the primary power generator. Instead of producing a smooth and constant distortion in the curvature of s.p.a.ce-time, the artigrav unit would now emit gravity waves at a frequency of twenty cycles per second.

The unit came to life. And I'd hate to be around it at full power, Geordi thought as he felt its pulsations. It came across as a waspish buzzing, too low-pitched to hear but potent enough to set his teeth on edge. The engineer's VISOR let him see how the oscillator's sh.e.l.l vibrated under the load. "How're the readings?" he called out.

"Steady," Ensign Gakor said from the computer terminal. He sniffed loudly; rare for a Tellarite, he had a sharp sense of humor. "And no circuits are burning-yet."

"That's always a good sign," Geordi said. He liked working with Gakor. Most people thought of Tellarites as quarrelsome, and it was true that they liked to argue. Tellarites made an art out of debate, and they could be as maddeningly logical as a Vulcan. That was a useful talent when you needed to work the bugs out of some new design. "Okay, give me the neutrino readings."

"No deviation," Gakor said in annoyance. He kicked the terminal with a hoof. The readouts remained rock-steady. "Still no deviation."

"Rats," Geordi muttered. He looked toward the reactor. His VISOR could detect neutrinos, but just barely; if the experiment was working, he couldn't see the expected difference in the neutrinos. "Oscillator off," he said, and the annoying buzz ended.

"What's wrong?" Alexander asked. He had been sitting quietly, watching the preparations for the test of "his" detector.

"I'm not sure, Al," Geordi said. He sat down, removed his VISOR and ma.s.saged the bridge of his nose. Sometimes a little temporary blindness helped Geordi think; it was as though the entire universe had ceased to exist, leaving him alone with his problem. "I'm following a long, thin chain of logic here. Maybe I missed a link in the chain."

Blind without his VISOR, he heard the boy shift around on his chair. "What's the chain?" Alexander asked.

"Well ..." Geordi gestured toward the metal plating around the containment field. "We mix matter and antimatter in there. In theory, they interact perfectly and turn into pure energy. In practice, they don't. We get every kind of particle you could name in there."

"Which is why you have all the shielding," Alexander said.

"Right," Geordi said. "Anyway, we have a lot of neutrons in the soup. Free neutrons are unstable, with a half-life of thirteen minutes. Most of them are annihilated or absorbed before they can decay, but not all of them. Those neutrons decay into a proton, an electron and a certain kind of neutrino."

"And it's the neutrinos that slip through the cloaking device," Alexander said. "Hardly anything can stop them, because they don't usually interact with normal matter. But that makes them hard to detect, too."

Geordi nodded. The kid had definitely paid attention in his science cla.s.s. "Ordinarily it's not worth looking for neutrinos. The universe is flooded with them, and detecting the neutrinos from a starship's main power plant is like looking for a candle flame at noon on Vulcan. So we change the rules a bit. The gravity waves from our oscillator should change the way the neutrons decay, by compressing s.p.a.ce and adding a bit of energy to the process. We should get neutrinos that are twice as energetic as normal, which would make them easier to detect."

"Sort of like seeing a blowtorch at Vulcan high noon," Alexander suggested.

Gakor joined them as Geordi snapped his VISOR back over his eyes. "All of this a.s.sumes that we understand the physical theory," the Tellarite engineer said.

"And that I configured the detector right," Geordi said. He wondered what he was doing wrong. Probably displaying my ignorance, he thought ruefully. He wasn't a physicist, even though a starship engineer had to have a grasp of that field. This whole concept was based on the idea that one type of nuclear decay would act as he expected. The universe was stubbornly doing things as it saw fit. What had he overlooked?

Geordi looked at the matter-antimatter containment field, as if he could see the answer swirling in its energies. The gravity waves should add energy to the neutron decay, and the energy should turn up in the neutrinos. Of course, neutrinos were peculiar even by the laws of quantum physics. They had ma.s.s-about a tenth of an electron volt, according to the latest experiments-but they also moved at the speed of light. It was supposed to be impossible for an object with nonzero rest ma.s.s to travel at light-speed in Einsteinian s.p.a.ce, but there it was. Most of the theoretical explanations centered on the relationship between matter and energy, suggesting that the ma.s.s somehow redefined itself as energy... .

"Gakor," Geordi said, "let's reconfigure the detector. We've been looking at energy levels; maybe we should look at ma.s.s instead. The extra energy could be showing up as increased neutrino ma.s.s."

Gakor's pink snout wrinkled thoughtfully. "Weighing neutrinos is not the easiest task. We'll need several hours to reconfigure."

"We've got the time," Geordi said. He remembered Alexander. "This is going to drag, Al, and I definitely don't want your dad telling me I kept you up late on a school night."

"Okay." Alexander hopped off the chair. "I've got to take a bath now anyway. Bye, Geordi."

A bath, Geordi thought. He knew that some kids liked to get their parents' attention by annoying them, but Alexander found some pretty weird ways to do that.

This was the seventh shop Shrev and Wesley had visited, and Shrev had already seen a pattern. First, each shop sold items that were useful, but not necessary to life. Next, each vendor had at least one physical problem, either a birth defect or an injury. When they left one shop, somebody-usually a young child-could be spotted running ahead of them to the next. Shrev decided there was a network of shopkeepers, linked by their deformities and determined to absorb all the gold they could from two free-spending aliens. The arrangement had its advantages; these people obviously let one another know that talking with the aliens would bring more money, and that aided Shrev and Wesley in their a.s.signment.