BALANCE OF POWER
by
DAFYDD AB HUGH

POCKET BOOKS: London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

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LIEUTENANT COMMANDER Geordi La Forge strode quickly out of his temporary
quarters aboard the klingon scoutship Strange Legendary Klingon Fish
That Hides in Rocks and Spies on Enemies of the Warrior Gods--Geordi
could not pronounce the actual klingon name.

As he rounded a corner into the main, peak-roofed corridor, heading
toward the bridge, a meaty hand clamped on his shoulder: It was
Lieutenant Worf.  The pair were temporarily assigned to the klingon
ship, commanded by Worf's brother Kurn, until they finished retrofitting
the Hiding Fish's sensor to detect the subspace damage done by traveling
faster than warp five.

"Commander," said the klingon in his best approximation of a sympathetic
tone of voice, "I sorrow for your loss.  I know what it is like to lose
a comrade.  It is sad that he could not have died in battle as a true
warrior."

Geordi stared.  "Worf, what are you talking about?"

Now the Klingon was puzzled.  "Did you not read the message traffic from
Starfleet this morning?"

"Whoops.  No, I was running late and I skipped it.  Did somebody die?"

Worf took a deep, sympathetic breath.  "Yes, sir, your mentor from the
Starfleet Academy has died.  I sorrow for your loss.  I understand that
humans consider death a great tragedy.  I know what it is like to lose."

La Forge massaged his temples; his visor hurt even more than usual this
day.  "Worf, I didn't have any mentor at the Academy.  Whom are you
talking about?"

"Why, Doctor Zorka, of course.  He died two days ago, but nobody
discovered the body until yesterday."

Geordi shrugged.  "Thanks for the concern, but I barely knew Doctor
Zorka.  I took a couple of classes from him, but that's about it."

Worf nodded.  "I, too, have suffered the pain of seeing one of my
instructors from the Academy die in bed like a shopkeeper.  I understand
how you must feel."

Helplessly, Geordi tried to clarify.  "Worf, believe me; I didn't care
one way or the other about the guy.  He was a crank at the Academy, and
he's even more of a crank now--well, was a crank.  Come on, we're
supposed to meet Captain Kurn on the bridge."

They marched into the lift, and Worf called out "bridge" in Klingon.  As
they passed deck after deck, then headed out the long neck of the
scoutship toward the bubble section, Geordi could actually feel the
waves of sympathy emanating from Worf, discomforting the young
lieutenant commander.

The doors slid open with a whoosh.  Kurn lounged in his command chair,
legs crossed, staring at a tactical display of the historical battle of
Gamma Amar IV, in which the Klingons soundly routed the Federation
forces seventy-five years before.

"Captain," said Geordi, "we're a few hours ahead of schedule on the
retrofit.  So far, we've syncbed the Doppler on your sensors to the
tachyon emission belt frequencies of the new cloaking field; but we
still need to modulate your shield and disruptor projection points to
match the hole in the spectral..." La Forge paused, noticing that Kurn
stared blankly, not understanding a word Geordi had said.

"You said you are ahead of schedule, human?"

"Yes.  Three hours."

"Fine.  That is your report.  Now leave me alone; I have important
duties to attend."

Worf leaned close to Geordi and whispered, "Kurn has a commodore
examination to take in a few days.  He will not be disposed to listen to
details about anything."

The executive officer of the Hiding Fish, Commander Kurak, cleared her
throat.  When Kurn did not respond, she did so again.

"Oh, yes," Kurn said at last, "the Enterprise first officer is waiting
to speak to you."

"Shall I put it on screen?" suggested Kurak.  Kurn glared furiously at
her, then savagely gestured at the viewport.  The tactical map vanished,
replaced by a view of the Enterprise bridge.

Geordi felt peculiar, standing on the deck of a strange Klingon ship,
watching a communication from the Enterprise; he had so often seen the
reverse.

Commander Will Riker, first officer of the Enterprise, sat in the
command chair, Dr.  Beverly Crusher stood behind, leaning on the rail.
Commander Data noticed the transmission and turned back toward Riker.

"Sir, Commander La Forge has reached the bridge on the tlhlngan
blQDepHey Huj So'bogh naghmey 'ej yes qa"a' jaghpu' ghoqbogh 'oH."
Geordi was absurdly annoyed that Data, programmed with every known
language, pronounced the Klingon name perfectly.

Riker looked up.  "Geordi, have you heard the news yet?"

"Which news?"

"The news about Doctor Zorka."

"Oh.  Yes, sir.  Would you like a report on our progress so far?"

Riker raised his brows, somewhat surprised.  "No, that's all right.  If
you need some time off to deal with the loss, just let us know.  The
captain is resting right now, but he said if you needed to talk to
someone..  2'

"No, sir," said Geordi, trying not to look annoyed.  "It's really all
right.  I barely even knew--"

Beverly interrupted, looking into the viewscreen with a face that would
have broken the Devil's heart.  "Geordi, I...  I lost my residency
advisor just a year ago.  I know how much it hurts."

"It doesn't hurt, Commander.  Really.  I only took three classes from
Zorka, and he even gave me a B in one of them."

On the screen, Data did his best to make his face show concern. "Geordi,
you said much the same things when your mother vanished.  Most
therapists agree that it helps ease the pain to talk about it.  I do not
think it a good idea to hold your grief inside."

"This time I'm not holding anything in!" exclaimed Geordi, becoming
seriously annoyed.  Why does everyone keep offering me tea and sympathy?
Captain Kurn and Commander Kurak snickered, and La Forge felt his face
flush.  "I really don't care whether Doctor Zorka died.  I didn't wish
him in--well, maybe when I saw that B--but he was not my mentor!  He was
a lunatic."

"But..." began Riker, "but you always said you hated him."

Embarrassed, Geordi realized the commander was right.

"All right, I did say I hated him."

"You mean you really didn't like him?" Riker turned to Beverly as if to
ask how could this be?

"Yes!" admitted Geordi, exasperated into the honest truth.  "I confess!
I hated everything about him,' the old fraud.  I hated having to rewrite
papers to support his idiotic obsessions, and I hated answering
questions wrong just to get a good grade on his tests.  If it hadn't
been for tenure, the real engineers at Starfleet would have fired him
before I even arrived!"

Beverly answered, confused.  "I thought...  well, you joked about him so
much, about how crazy he was, that we all thought you really loved him."

Data cocked his head quizzically.  "Were you not being gruffly humorous
when you spoke of Doctor Zorka's mental imbalances?"

"No, Data, I was not being gruffly humorous.  I would have been
perfectly happy if he had, well, retired or something years ago.  I
didn't want him to die, but he had no business instructing at the
Academy or receiving Federation grants.

"He was always in the news, each time with some grand new invention he
was supposedly perfecting that he never quite finished, of course.  I
kept asking, 'Why does the Federation keep funding this doddering, old
mental patient?"

"But that wasn't my subtle way of saying, 'Gee, I sure wish I were back
in his Engines 313 class, slaving away over a hot warp coil and pulling
Bs again!'"

Kurn interrupted.  "The Klingon Empire does not have time to waste on
such frivolous banter!"

"But you chose him as your dissertation advisor," countered Data.

"No--he chose me. I wanted Crystal Estes.  I worked my whole senior year
at the Academy on that dissertation, and Zorka rejected it!  I didn't
take into account his new theory on mystical subspace nonsense.  He made
me rewrite it over the next five months."

Kurn leapt to his feet.  "Enough!  I have important tactics to consider
for the exammfor the greater good of the Klingon battle fleet!  I shall
not tolerate this foolishness any further!"

"Guys, please," said Geordi, "I'm not fooling.  I'm not broken up; I'm
not hiding any pain; I don't care!  His papers were garbage, his
discoveries nonexistent, and he was an irritating son of a...  son of a
bachelor.  Now will you please let me get back to work on the retrofit?"

Riker looked at Beverly, then Data; Dr.  Crusher pursed her lips; and
Data deliberately raised both eyebrows.  "Sorry, Geordi," said Commander
Riker, sounding distinctly miffed.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean it that way.  It was really nice of you
all to worry about me...  but I'm fine.  Really."

"Yes, right, fine!" snarled Kurn.  "Good-bye, good-bye; Commander,
terminate communication." The screen went blank; after a moment, it was
replaced by the tactical map again.  "Now get off the bridge, human, and
take that... take my brother with you back to the engine room.  Get busy
with that cloak detector!" Kurn turned back to the map, staring at it
with such intensity that Geordi would not have been surprised to see it
burst into flames.

"Um, maybe we'd better head back down to the engineering section, Worf."

"I think that is a good plan."

As soon as the doors closed behind them and they started back along the
neck of the Hiding Fish, Worf added, "After all, we would not want to
cause my brother's second attempt at the examination to go as badly as
his first."

When they arrived back in the bee-hive-like catacombs of the Klingon
engineering "department," Lieutenant Dakvas pointed at a small screen.
"Message for Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge from the Enterprise."

"Again?" Frustrated, Geordi jabbed the comm link button, activating the
screen.

Commander Deanna Troi, the ship's counselor, stared at him from the
viewscreen, her face dripping concern and understanding.  "Geordi," she
said, "I understand how you feel.  I can sense your stress.  We all feel
stress and apprehension when someone near and dear to us passes on.
Would you like to talk to someone about it?"

IT TOOK GEORDI A WHILE to shoo Counselor Troi off the comm link.  No,
Doctor Zorka was not my mentor; yes, I'm fine; yes, I know I'm agitated;
no, it's not because of Zorka's death, it's because of all the sympathy
I don't need.  At last, Deanna seemed eighty-five percent convinced and
signed off.

He shook his head in amazement.  "I never realized how much I must have
mentioned Zorka," he said to Worf.

"You brought him up more than you think, Commander."

"Did you think I really liked the guy?"

Worfgrunted, considering.  "I thought it was some strange human custom,
speaking in of absent comrades to ward off evil.  Some Klingon families
have taboos against excessive praise."

They had barely resumed working on the retrofit when Geordi received a
third transmission from the Enterprise.

This time, it was Captain Picard himself.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," said Picard.  "Doctor Zorka was a fine
man."

"Thank you, sir," said Geordi, striving not to allow a tone of
exasperation to enter his voice.

"I would like to speak with you, Mister La Forge, in private.  Please
contact me at your convenience."

"Urn, sir, if this is about Zorka, I'm fine.  I really am.  I don't need
to talk it out, sir.  But thank you for your

"I'm afraid you don't understand, Commander.  I need to speak to you
about Doctor Zorka.  When would be convenient?"

"Let me check, sir."

Geordi turned to Worf and spoke too quietly for Picard to hear over the
comm link.  "Did the captain sound urgent to you, or is it just me?"

Worf spoke quietly.  "All transmissions to and from Klingon ships are
monitored.  I believe the captain wants you to return to your quarters
and reestablish contact on a private channel."

"That's what I thought.  Can you take over, Worf?"

Worf nodded.  "I can finish remodulating the shields, but you will need
to return and help me tune the disruptors."

Geordi turned back to the viewscreen.  "Captain, I'm on my way back to
my quarters.  I'll contact you as soon as I get there."

"Thank you," said Picard.

"La Forge out."

Geordi looked around, trying to find the engineering watch-stander to
tell him he was leaving.  But the Klingon had vanished.

"Worf, what happened to Dakvas?"

"He hurried away abruptly as soon as Captain Picard said he needed to
speak to you privately.  He has probably gone around the corner to call
Kurn."

Geordi hurried back to his quarters, reluctant to leave the retrofit
project at such a critical phase.  However, the hardness in Picard's
voice had told Geordi more than the words themselves: The captain, and
probably the Enterprise, had some serious problem related to Zorka's
death; and Picard needed to pick Geordi's brain about the enigmatic
instructor and inventor.

Geordi and Worf's temporary quarters were decorated in old, "High
Klingon" style with various bladed weapons hanging from the walls amid
harshly representational paintings of socially useful activities. Geordi
quickly popped open the communications viewer.  He took several moments
to figure out the innards, then disconnected a particular fiber and
plugged it directly into his data-reader.  He connected the data-reader
output back into the viewscreen.

He sent the initial search string unencrypted to establish the link with
the Enterprise computer.  Then he shifted to scramble mode, encrypting
the transmission by a specific pair of 900-digit numbers.  After a
moment, Captain Pi-card's face appeared onscreen.

The captain's normally spotless desk was piled high with data clips
labeled "Zorka--moment trans beam,"

"Zorka --phasr I'll screen," and so forth...  all inventions that Geordi
remembered seeing announced in engineering and physics journals at one
time or another over the past ten years--and not a one of which he
recalled ever being actually demonstrated.

Captain Picard did not look up; he contemplated the pile of data clips
on his desk.  "Commander La Forge," he began at last, "I'm glad to hear
back from you so soon."

"This line is secure, sir."

"Good.  Geordi, Will has given me a brief report on the discussion of a
few minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, sir; I didn't mean to be rude.  I know they were all trying
to be helpful."

"That's not what worries me.  I need your unbiased judgment about a
matter related to Doctor Zorka, and I'm concerned you may have such
strongly negative feelings about the man that you cannot be impartial."

"Well...  I can try, sir.  But I can't guarantee anything.  I really
didn't like that old crank."

Picard finally looked up, fixing Geordi with his eyes.  "Are you aware
of what Zorka's son has done upon his father's death?"

"ImI didn't even know he had a son."

"You'll see it in tomorrow's message traffic.  Doctor Zorka's son is a
middle-aged artist who has never achieved the level of success to which
he believes himself entitled.  He has received three grants from the
Federation Arts Council, but the last one was on stardate" Picard
glanced at his screent2358."

"Twelve years ago."

Picard nodded.  "In short, he's broke."

"Why is Starfleet so interested in Zorka's son?"

"That, Geordi, is what I want you to tell me.  You told Will that Zorka
was a complete fraud...  I think that was the word you used.  However,
in reading his file, I find no doubts expressed by any Subcommittee
members or fellows of the Federation Association for the Advancement of
Science about Zorka's bonafides.  I cannot quite reconcile these two
views of the same man."

"Is there a particular reason you have to, sir?"

Picard nodded.  "Zorka's son, urn, Bradford Zorka, Jun-iort"

"Doctor Zorka's name was Bradford?  I thought it was Jaymi."

"It was Jaymi.  I don't know why his son calls himself 'junior,' but he
does.  Now Bradford Zorka, the son, has decided to raise funds for a new
art project by holding an auction of all of his father's notes,
inventions, and lab equipment.  Starfleet has instructed us to attend
this auction and bid on behalf of the Federation."

Geordi stared.  After a moment, he realized his mouth was open and shut
it quickly.  "Sir, I hope they didn't send us a list of things we must
bid on!"

The captain plucked another data clip from his desk and held it aloft.
"A complete list of lots that we must obtain, along with maximum prices
we're allowed to bid."

Geordi sighed, tilting his head and shaking it.  As he looked back at
his screen, he saw peculiar flickering around the edges.  He recognized
the particular interference pattern.

"Sir, the Klingons are running the transmission through a pattern-search
subroutine, trying to break the encryption.

Why are we keeping this secret in any case?"

"Let me know if you think it's been decrypted.  Commander La Forge, one
of the items we're particularly interested in is a photonic pulse
cannon.  Zorka claims to have developed it quite recently, about three
years ago.  His paper in the Journal of Plasma Extrusions claimed that
it would punch right through our best shields...  or anyone else's. Now,
I haven't actually seen this demonstrated--"

"Neither has anybody else.  It's 'vaporware,' another fantastic
invention he announced but never released."

"Nevertheless," continued the captain, undaunted, "there are still...
unresolved problems relating to the succession of Emperor Kahless, and
Starfleet is concerned that such a weapon not fall into the hands of
some of the more, ah, exuberant members of the Klingon High Council who
are having trouble accepting the new emperor."

"Well, you don't have anything to worry about, sir.  The photonic pulse
weapon is about as real as Rumpelstiltskin!"

"Geordi, if you can prove that, or if you can show good evidence that
Doctor Zorka was actually mentally disturbed or delusional, you would
make a lot of Federation scientists and Starfleet admirals sleep
easier."

Helplessly, Geordi spread his hands.  "I don't have any specific
evidence, if that's what you mean.  I had many discussionstwell, I guess
you'd call them argumentst with Zorka when I was in his class.  Every
week, he had a new master plan to save the universe: One time, he wanted
Starfleet disbanded, since it only encouraged violence.  He said the
only solution to violence was for all the good people, and he really
used the term 'good people,' to unilaterally disarm themselves so the
bad people wouldn't feel threatened anymore.

"Another day, he suggested we build an army ofandroids to do all our
fighting for us; then he proposed to the Starfleet Academic Council that
we no longer teach basic warp-field engineering principles because they
had all been developed from the phase-space equations of Professor
Vinge."

"Vinge?"

"The mathematician and philosopher who spent the last eleven years of
his life trying to prove that the universe is actually a hollow sphere
and you can get across the galaxy by moving in the opposite direction.
Zorka hated him for some reason.  Personally, I loved Vinge's classes;
he was crazy, but good crazy."

Picard raised his brows.  "Geordi, I hope your opinion isn't mere
ivory-tower political intrigue."

"You know me better than that, sir.  It's not that Zorka had weird
ideas; the problem is that he supported them with crackpot arguments,
like the disarmament theory.  He claimed there was secret, unpublished
research that showed that the Cardassian Empire was a peace-loving
utopia until they discovered us--and then they turned into a military
dictatorship in response!  He claimed there was a secret, Federation
warehouse on Deep Space Five, at the Car-dassian border, where Starfleet
had the remains of the first Cardassian ship we encountered: a peaceful
trading mission that we supposedly blew out of orbit for no reason."

The captain could not resist a smile.  "So, have you actually been to
Deep Space Five?"

"Yes, sir.  I surveyed their engineering systems on a ship's tour before
I joined the Enterprise.  There isn't room on Deep Space Five for a
warehouse to store a Cardassian ship!

It's a tiny outpost, nowhere near as big as the other deep-space
stations; about the size of the Enterprise's saucer section."

Picard looked back at his monitor and flipped through several screens.
"I don't find mention in Zorka's file of any adverse psychiatric
evaluation."

"You probably don't find any normal ones, either," predicted Geordi.

Picard nodded.  "You're right.  There are no medical records at all.  I
suspect they have been withheld in consideration of his son Bradford's
privacy."

"Captain," said La Forge, "Doctor Zorka may have been a crackpot, but he
was brilliant, at least when he was young.

He practically invented modern phasers, or at least the solid-state
phase amplification, and he cut his teeth developing half the modern
medical equipment that we use.

"It's just that when he got older, he couldn't distinguish between a
correct brilliant theory and a brilliantly worked out crank theory...
and frankly, neither can most of Starfleet, myself included.

"All the stuff that Zorka wrote about in the journals sounds workable,
until you actually start working with it.  His inventions are like
ingenious perpetual-motion machines...  the flaws are subtle, but
profound.  I can't prove he was delusional, certainly not at a sanity
hearing.  He probably wasn't, in the medical sense: He didn't crack eggs
on his head or think he was a potted plant, or anything like that.  Sir,
I think we've only got another minute or so before the Kilngens either
decrypt the transmission or give up and have a sudden equipment
failure."

Picard considered, glancing from Geordi to the screen and back again.
"Commander, you still leave me with my original problem: If I can't
prove that Zorka didn't invent a photonic pulse cannon, then I have no
choice but to head directly toward the auction and begin bidding.
"Because of the dangerous nature of some of his experiments, Zorka's
laboratory is located outside Federation space.  And Bradford junior has
made it very clear that we are not to be the only parties invited to the
auction.  We expect to see Klingons, Bajorans, Cardassians, Ferengi...
**skip**in fact, everybody but the Borg."

"I'm sorry, sir.  I can't tell you any more than I already said.  You've
trusted my gut feelings before; my gut feeling is that Zorka is a zilch.
There's no photonic pulse cannon, no momentum-transfer beam, and no
psi-directed transporter.

It's like antigravity paint or Vinge's hollow sphere...

makes a great story, but there's no such thing."

"Very well, Commander.  I have no choice.  You and Commander Worf shall
return to the Enterprise as soon as you finish the retrofit.  When will
that be?"

"Another day should do it, sir."

"Make it so.  Picard out."

Geordi reached for the comm switch; but just then, a burst of static
swamped the picture and sound, turning the viewscreen into nothing but
snow and white noise.  Geordi chuckled and turned it off.  I guess Kurn
got tired of ttying to crack the code, he thought.

He rose and returned to Worf in the engineering section, but the
Enterprise's security officer stood stiffly near the shields console
with his arms crossed, two beefy, Klingon "liaisons" at his sides.

"It seems that our retrofiting project has been terminated," growled
Worf.

"Temporarily," added the gorgeous Commander Kurak, stepping from the
shadows.  Geordi consciously noticed her for the first time: She looked
like she could bench-press Worf, if necessary.  Geordi sighed; what was
the chance that a beautiful Klingon warrior and commander of a scoutship
would be attracted to a short, human engineer with a peculiar VISOR?  He
decided the odds hovered somewhere between "Earth's moon is actually
made out of ice" and "every air molecule in the engineering deck
simultaneously decides to crowd into one corner of the room": slim and
quite a bit slimmer.

Kurak explained.  "We received emergency orders to journey to a
particular spot at maximum speed.  We cannot afford to shut down the
power grid while you two work on the shields and disruptors."

"How did you know we were going to have to shut down the power grid in a
few hours?"

She smiled, looking deadly and amused at the same time.

"I began in the engines section myself.  I have followed your project
from the beginning."

Mmm...  Geordi sighed for the second time in ten seconds.  "All right.
We have to return to the Enterprise anyway.  How soon can you rendezvous
with our ship so we can beam over?"

Worf snorted; "I already made that request, Commander.

It seems that a rendezvous is impossible."

"Ah," said Geordi, nodding.  "Did your navigational computer suddenly
break down?  How inconvenient and coincidental."

"Of course it did not break down," said Kurak, "we are not stupid, and
we do not think you are stupid either.  We simply do not have the time
to travel halfway across the sector to beam you back.  We have urgent
orders to report, and 'urgent' means no time for passenger service or
sightseeing."

"But we have to get back to our ship urgently, too!"

"Geordi--may I call you by your familiar?--let us not play games.  We
are both going to the same place: the auction of the estate of that
Federation scientist who just died.  Does it matter whether you go there
in our ship or yours?  We will beam you down with our negotiation team
and you can find your captain and join up with him then."

She stepped closer to the Enterprise engineer.  "Besides �..  is it
really that harsh a penalty to have to spend a few more days with me? It
is so rare that I meet anyone, human or Klingon, who knows enough about
engines to have an intelligent conversation."

Geordi gulped, glancing from Kurak to Worf.  His Klingon friend and
colleague stared in fascination at a piece of shield equipment that he
had taken apart and put back together a dozen times in different spots
along the hull.

Kurak grabbed Geordi's arm, dragging him next to her.

"Let me show you a little something in my quarters," she breathed.  "It
is a holomorphic model of an antique warp coil.  I made it myself."

"I...  I..." Geordi tried to lick dry lips.  "I--"

"Sir," barked Worf, "I need your help briefly before you depart. Perhaps
the commander can return to her quarters and you join her there in a few
minutes?"

She gazed speculatively at Worf.  "By all means," she said, "I would not
want anything to break because of a lack of preparation." She left them.

"Worf, what are you doing?" demanded Geordi.  "I think I really have a
chance with her!"

"Do you know what her job is on this ship?"

"Um, first officer?"

"No, Commander.  Kurak is the political officer.  She watches the rest
of the crew, including Kurn, and reports on any deviations from the
political orthodoxy of the homeworld.  She is most certainly a member of
the security service and a trained killer."

"I won't hold it against her that she's a state torturer," said Geordi,
trying for lighthearted banter.

"Klingons do not torture!" snapped Worf.  "It is not honorable."

"Sorry, I apologize.  Worf, I'll...  I'll see you back at the quarters
in a couple of hours."

He could not quite catch Worf's response, but he could swear the Klingon
muttered "not likely." Then the massive doors to the engines department
rolled shut behind Geordi.

CADET WESLEY CRUSHER stared in dismay at his dorm room at Starfleet
Academy.  The left half, his own, was spotless; it could have been a
stateroom aboard the U.S.S.  Enterprise.

The right half could have been a combined clothing store and electronics
warehouse that went bankrupt after a devastating earthquake.  Alas, some
of the junk from the messy side seemed to be creeping inexorably across
the line into Wesley's territory.

Cadet Crusher had just returned from morning chow, and despite the
lateness of the morning--nearly 0900--his roommate had not awakened, not
risen, not drawn the blinds to let in the dim morning light reflecting
off the blank wall of the dorm building next door.

He spent a few moments kicking things back across, then decided to
confront the owner/occupier, instead of simply going to the library and
forgetting about it, his usual non-response.

Somewhere among the heaping piles of uniforms, fiber-optic cables,
rolovision remote controllers, wind-up toys, half-finished inventions,
half-eaten food, and other bric-a-brac, lurked his roommate, Fred
Kimbal, dead to the world.

Or perhaps not; it was hard to tell.  Wesley heard no snores.  Fred was
generally early-to-bed, late-to-rise.

"Fred?" demanded Wes.  "Are you in here?  Are you under anything?"

One of the clothing heaps grunted.  Wishing he had a pair of radiation
gloves, Wesley began digging, finally unearthing KJmbal.

"I'm sleeping," grumbled the disheveled cadet, a year Wesley's junior.
KJmbal's hair was unkempt, he smelled of garlic, and he still wore his
cadet's uniform.  In fact, it was the same uniform he had worn the
previous day, and he had not even had it replicleaned.

"Not now you're not," observed Wesley.

"I'm trying."

"Very."

"Har-de-har-har.  So what if I missed a class?  I've got the top grade
in every class."

"Really?  Every class?"

Kimbal grinned, his chubby face looking distinctly babyish.

"Well, every class that counts." It was Fred Kimbal's running joke:
every class that counts, meaning all the classes that involved
mathematics.  In that sense, the statement was true; Kimbal was
frighteningly brilliant at any activity that involved mathematics,
physics, or engineering.  Even Wesley Crusher, no slouch in the math and
engineering department himself, could barely keep up with Kimbal in
full-yell, despite being a year ahead.

In the more complete sense, however, there were many classes that
"counted" toward graduation in which.  Kimbal was close to flunking...
notably the class in Starfleet Leadership--which most officers in the
fleet considered the most critical course at the Academy.

"Fred, do you remember when I painted that white line down the middle of
our room?  Do you remember what it means?"

"You must have been drunk, Wes."

"I don't drink."

"Then I must have been drunk."

"Don't be a jerk.  Do you remember what it means?"

Fred rolled his eyes.  "My side is the west side, and I'm not supposed
to cross the line.  Hey!  How come the bathroom's on your Side?"

"Fred, this isn't some stupid holovision situation comedy.

I just said you can't keep your junk on my side of the line."

Fred peeked out.  "I don't see anything on your side."

"That's because I just kicked it back!  Look, you're going to have to do
something about this; there's going to be an inspection tomorrow, and
the drill chief isn't going to care whose side this trap is on."

Fred sat up woozily, keeping the blankets tucked around his neck. Wesley
wondered what Kimbal did not want him to see.

"It's not erap," argued Fred, "and not junk either!  These � are
delicate experiments.  There's my latest one, on the counter."

Wesley stared at the shelf until he spotted the newest bundle of
fiberoptic cables and data clips.  It looked too small to be
particularly useful, including only five processors total.

"What does it do?" asked Wesley, intrigued despite himself.  Kimbal
built the most outrageous, tiny machines, advanced designs light-years
away from the simplistic projects assigned in even the upper-division
engineering courses.

Alas, Kimbal had a disturbing tendency to half-finish his inventions;
then, when he finished solving the tough parts in his head, he would
lose interest in the invention and leave it lying around as...  junk.

Fred thought for a moment.  "I don't know.  Honest.  I was playing
around with the properties of chaseum, which is very similar to
gold-pressed latinurn.  Very similar."

"Except you can replicate chaseum, so it's no good as a currency."

"Yes, yes, yes," said Fred, waving his hand dismissively.

"I don't care about the economics and all that nonsense," continued
Cadet Kimbal.  "But the properties are so much alike because the
molecules are the same except for leg orientation.  Did you know that
chaseum and latinum have two key sets of Balmer spectral lines that are
identical, just phase-shifted with respect to each other?"

"No.  What do you mean, key sets of spectral lines?  I didn't know they
came in sets."

"Oh, I forgot to mention.  I've been burning things in the lab and
reclassifying spectral signatures by my own system."

Wesley shrugged.  "So what does this thing do?"

"I told you, I don't know.  I had a problem and I solved it.

If you want to finish it off, it's yours." Kimbal yawned and pulled the
blankets tighter, despite the comfortable temperature of the dorm room.

"Thanks.  Hey, I almost forgot why I came in here to hunt you down.  I
got an invitation today.  La Fong invited me to the big game tomorrow
night."

"La Fong?"

"Yes," said Wesley, shaking his head in exasperation.

"Don't you remember?  Capital-L, small-a, capital-F--"

"Oh, you mean Carl La Fong?" For the first time in the conversation,
Fred Kimbal showed definite interest.  He wriggled out from under the
covers and sat up, rubbing his left eye vigorously.

Wesley cringed.  "Why?  Do you know another batch of La Fongs in the
next dorm?  Of course Carl, the guy who runs the big poker game every
term break." Wesley rolled his eyes.  "It's a gift, Fred."

Fred blinked, trying to bring his left eye back into focus.

"He's not all that bright, is he?"

"Yeah, well, he may not be able to solve partial differential equations
in his head, Fred, but he's a god, as far as the CO is concerned.  Even
Captain Wolfe leaves him alone.

Have you noticed there's not much relation between math ability and
success at the Academy?  This is Starfleet, Fred, not a technical
college."

Fred put up his hands in surrender.  "All right.  Don't bite my head
off."

Wesley gravitated to the shelf and began poking at the new device.  I'm
going to have to use a logic board on this thing to even figure out the
gateways.

Wes continued his lecture.  "La Fong is exactly the kind of guy they
like to see here.  Everybody trusts him--he's like Locarno, but he
started a year after I did.  Now we're the same class, and even though
I've been here for a year longer, he's the odds-on favorite to be class
leader at graduation."

"Year, but you had that little problem earlier."

"Thank you, Fred.  I'm sure I would have forgotten all about that if you
hadn't reminded me." As soon as Wesley said it, he felt guilty.  Fred
looked away, embarrassed, his face paling slightly.

"Hey, I'm sorry, Fred.  I didn't mean it like that.  I know what you
mean: If I hadn't been reprimanded and sent back, I'd be in contention
for class leader.  Tell the truth, at this point, I really could not
care less...  I've been treated like a prisoner here for the last three
years, and I'm sick of it.

"All right, it was a terrible mistake!  But it was one mistake.  You
know, I would never say this to anyone else, but if Joshua Albert hadn't
panicked, he'd still have had time to punch out."

Wesley stepped away from the shelf, angry...  mostly at himself for
being angry.  What right did Wesley Crusher have to object to anyone
reminding him of what he did?  He did inadvertently kill his wingmate.

His throat and stomach hurt suddenly, as if he had eaten a habanero
pepper straight.

Fred shrugged.  "Wes, nobody else will say it either--not publicly.  But
everybody knows it.  It wasn't your fault."

"They act like it was my fault!  Do you know it was a solid year before
anyone would work with me, ride with me, talk with me, or even stand
next to me?" Wesley felt himself losing control, as he had more and more
lately.  He stopped himself, took a deep breath.  When he let it out, he
still felt cold fury, but he knew he would not have another outburst.

The room was too dark.  It was too hot.  Fred should have gotten up two
hours before, and Wesley had no right telling anybody else when to get
up from bed.  Using his foot, Cadet Crusher nudged Fred's clutter even
farther west, aiming to get some of it under Kimbal's rack.

"Sito died on her shakedown cruise."

"Yeah, I heard."

"I think she took that Cardassian mission because she knew it was almost
the only way she could ever live down what happened here three years
ago.  You understand?  The only way for her to live it down was to die."

Fred opened his mouth, then closed it again.  Whatever he was about to
say, he had thought better of it.

Wesley smiled; a year ago, when they met, Fred would have simply blurted
out the first thing that popped into his head.  Maybe we are ready for
the next step in the socialization of Fred Kirnbal.  .  .  .

"Look, Fred, this thing is going to haunt me the rest of my life; I
accept that.  Even if I ever leave Starfleet, I'll still know that a
stupid decision I made cost a friend of mine his life.

But La Fong is the only cadet here in the directory, the inner circle,
who seems like he cares about me.

"Face it, the guy has really bent over backward to 'rehabilitate' me, so
to speak, and I know he's taken a lot of phaser fire over it from the
brass.  Captain Wolfe practically ordered him to stay away from me, but
La Fong stared him down and as much as dared Wolfe to make an issue out
of it.

La Fong's still here, so I guess Wolfe backed down."

Wesley sat on the bed, staring at the window.  The weak morning light
painted bright-gray streaks across the blackness of the venetian blinds.
The dingy light was depressing; not until afternoon would the sun shine
directly into the room.  Wesley hoped it would shine upon an awake Fred
Kimbal.

Crusher continued.  "Now La Fong's invited me to the big, end-of-term,
directory poker game.  Everyone will be there!

Nanci Lees, Cadet Axel, Cadet DuBois--that's Captain DuBois's
daughtermeven Lieutenant Allende, who graduated two years ago and just
got back from her first tour.

She's friends with Lieutenant La Fong, La Fong's brother, who just
rotated from the Lexington to the Constellation.

Some rich Ferengi kid studying economics over at Keynes; the son of
Ambassador Daxal from Betazed..."

"They let a telepath play poker?" Kimbal groped for the touchplate to
open the blinds, but failed to find it by blind touch.

"Hm.  The way he loses, everybody knows he's honest enough not to use
his advantage.  Or that's what La Fong says.  Anyway, the point is it's
a great honor to be invited...

and damn it, I'm going to go and not make an ass &myself if it kills me.
And I'll make sure I don't win too much, too.  If I lose a lot, that's
okay; but if I'm winning, I'll start throwing hands."

Wesley crossed the room to his own bed.  He lay hack, hands behind his
head.  "I can't believe I really said that.  It's the truth, though."

Kimbal finally found the touch plate.  He pressed it, letting in the
morning light, such as it was.

"Wouldn't that count as cheating?" Fred smirked.  "As in, 'I will not
lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those among us who do'?"

"Sometimes I feel like the directory has its own version: I will not
lie, cheat, or steal, except to advance my career or pump up the ego of
some aging admiral.  No, that's not fair', they don't really ask anyone
to lie.  It's more like the occasional 'judicious silence' when some
commissioned officer is acting like an ass."

"Um, Wes?  Buddy, pal?" Fred hesitated, not used to thinking in terms of
politicking.  He licked his lips and continued.  "You're going to think
I'm mental, after everything I said about the stupidity of gambling. But
do you think there's the slightest chance that I might be able to come
along?  I'd be willing to just watch if they won't let me play."

"I already got you a slot, Fred."

"I didn't think so.  All right, it was worth asking.  Thanks anyway."

Wesley turned his head, waiting for the token to drop.  One
hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, three hippopotamus, four hippopotamus,
five hipm

"What did you say?" Fred sat bolt upright, dropping the blankets and
staring at his roommate.

"I said I got you a slot.  When La Fong first mentioned it to me, I
didn't say anything about you.  I'm sorry, I didn't want to jeopardize
my chances because of guilt by association.

You're not exactly the most socialized cadet in the Academy, Fred."

"Well, I'm better than I used to be," he said defensively.

"True.  I thought of that.  I also thought about what it felt like to
always be the one they don't invite to the big poker game.  So I raised
the point with La Fong and managed to talk him into including you in the
invitation...  but I had to promise you would be on good behavior, which
in your case means on your best behavior.  You can manage, can't you?"

Fred raised his left hand and put his right across his heart.

"I won't be a weasel, Wes."

"No inappropriate laughter?  No stupid jokes?  No trying to look down
Nanci's shirt?"

"What if she doesn't catch me looking down her shirt?"

"Don't do it at all!"

"I swear," said Fred, nodding solemnly.

"I don't want you eating anything.  You get crumbs all over yourself and
greasy fingers.  You'll mess up the cards."

"Nothing?"

Wesley frowned, considering.  He stroked his chin, then stopped when he
realized it was an unconscious imitation of Commander Riker stroking his
beard.

"All right," he said, "you can eat a little; but use a fork, not your
hands."

"Even for pretzels?"

"Stay away from the pretzels!  You can't handle them.

How good are you at poker?"

Fred grinned.  "I'm perfect!  I know the exact odds of every possible
hand, with every possible variation."

"Draw?  Stud?  High-low?"

Fred nodded vigorously.  "I know exactly which cards to throw and how
much a hand is worth."

"Suppose I dealt you four jacks."

Fred's face lit up like a light panel; his eyes grew as big as saucers.

Wesley frowned.  "That's just what I was afraid of.  Have you ever met a
Vulcan?"

"Once, I think."

"Think Vulcan.  Think utter rationality and no emotion.

Be a Vulcan.  Fred, you can't show even the slightest hint of your hand
or they'll eat you for lunch in there.  I've seen the best: Commander
Riker on the Enterprise.  He could pick up a straight flush in one hand
and straight trash in the next, and you'd never be able to tell the
difference from looking at him.  It's not just a game of making the best
hand and placing bets; it's a psychological game.  Riker says he can
tell a person's officer potential just by playing poker with him one
night."

Fred grimaced.  "Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh' is right.  Here, try this: When you're not under the phaser
banksmthat means first to bet--watch the other players while they look
at their hands and make their bets.

Try to figure out what they have before you even pick up your own hand
to look at it."

"Okay, Wes.  I won't embarrass you."

"And don't be.afraid to take a break if you're porting out.

These games go on for hours."

"How much should I bring?"

Wesley blinked.  He suddenly realized he had forgotten to ask La Fong
that very question.  "I don't know.  I should have asked.  How much do
you have?"

"I already paid next term's dorm fees and food; we get paid again about
a month before graduation.  I guess I could afford to lose a bar of
latinurn, or maybe two."

"A bar!  Well, that's more than I'm taking.  If the game is that hot,
it's out of my price range anyway, Fred."

"Just don't lose; then it doesn't matter how hot the game is."

Wesley stood and folded his arms again, trying to look stem.  "Bad
attitude, Kimbal.  Are you sure you can afford to lose two bars of
latinurn?"

"What else have I got to spend it on?  Dancing girls?

Dinner at the Captain's Log?"

"Okay, Fred.  Get lots of sleep tonight, for tomorrow, we die."

Wesley need not have worried.  Within five minutes, deep snores emanated
from beneath the pile of bedclothes across the room.  Fred was out like
a discharged nacelle.

Instead, it was Wesley Crusher who could not sleep.  He lay on his own,
immaculate bed, which he carefully made each morning out of habit from
many years on the Enterprise (under his mother's critical gaze:
Starfleet tautness and hospital corners--the worst of both worlds).

Despite all his brave advice to Fred, Wesley was, in fact, terrified of
making the Big Mistake that would confirm what everyone knew all along:
He simply did not fit.  No matter what he did, he would never quite make
it into the inner circle, the directory, the invisible hand of
Starfleet.

I'm just not career material, he thought miserably.

Beverly Crusher, his mother, would have vigorously denied the charge;
but she did not quite fit, either.  It was different as a doctor: When a
person saved lives and made patients well, nobody really cared whether
she was.  "in" or "out." A doctor could get away with being anything,
even a slovenly, underdeveloped misanthrope, like Fred...  so long as
she or he brought people back from the afterlife.

God, I wish I were more like Dad.  Wesley's father had been the perfect
insider; had he not died, he would surely command his own vessel by now.
He was...  he was Will Riker.

Wesley scrunched up his face.  Was Riker his surrogate father?  It was a
disconcerting thought.  Certainly his father was not at all like
Picard...  unless it was Picard thirty years before Wes had ever met the
captain.  Today, Picard was too restrained, too serene.  Somehow, Wesley
could not imagine his fathermor Will Riker, for that matter--ever saying
"make it so."

Too many thoughts swirled around Wesley's head.  Aware that he was
violating the advice he had just given Fred, he rose from the bed and
padded over to Fred's workbench, stepping carefully in the dark to avoid
treading either on something sharp or something squishable.

Faint starlight filtered through the tightly packed rabbit warrens of
Garth Dormitory.  Directly opposite Wesley and Fred's room was the
ancient brick wall of Ionesco Dorm; but between the two buildings, when
Wesley craned his neck at just the right angle, he could see a small
piece of the sky with Ursa Major.

Gleaming in the faint light, as if lit by an inner glow, was Fred
Kimbal's newest invention.  I don't know what it does...  if you want to
finish it off, it's yours.

At this point in its birth, the toy was nothing more than a collection
of one main processor and two satellites, a dozen data clips, enough
fiberoptic cables to connect everything to everything else (twice), and
even a pair of copper wires...

though what Fred needed the last for, Wesley could not imagine, unless
the genius simply ran out of cable.

Wesley gingerly scooped up the collection of junk and moved it to his
own bed.  He could not work in the unrestrained clutter of Kimbal's side
of the white line; Wesley constantly had the feeling that the mess was
creeping up on him when he was not looking.

He set a directional lamp to shine onto the invention, making sure his
own body was between it and Fred, to minimize the chance of
high-intensity light reflecting into Fred's eyes and waking him...  as
if anything could stir the third-year cadet once he had stumbled into
the land of Nod.

Wesley attached an engineering trioorder to his full-size monitor and
drew out a pair of leads.  Systematically touching the tricorder leads
to paired cable junctures, he began mapping the logical pathways of the
main processor.

Four hours later, Wesley still mapped, sleep long forgotten.

He worked with feverish intensity--he was still unsure exactly what
Kimbal's device did; but whatever it was, it was the most astonishing
thing the boy had developed in a year of astonishing developments.

Fred had obviously ripped the two satellites from replicatots (Wesley
did not want to know from where!), but the main unit was custom-built,
negotiating between the other two.  The data clips simply stored data
bases that represented the Dirac numbers of the chaseum crystals, their
"quantum state."

With everything that Wesley now knew about the toy, however, he still
had not the faintest idea what it did...

except it rearranged the surface crystals (and some of the interior
structures) in a complicated, devious dance.

Sometimes, Wesley would have to give up in frustration trying to
understand or complete one of Fred's "puzzles," as he came to think of
them.  The basic principles may have been as clear as the skies of
Trillby 13 to Fred Kimbal, but they were clear as mud to Wesley Crusher.

This time, however, completion of the logic circuits and final assembly
were obvious, so clear they might even have been obvious to Carl I.a
Fong.

Without a second thought, the young cadet popped open his personal
computer (a present from his mother) and stripped it of fibers and a few
more processors.  He wrote a short sequence of routing instructions in
the processors, then connected them into the growing octopus on his bed.

The disorder offended him.  Without looking, he plucked an old
chronometer off his wall and plopped it down on the bed next to the mess
of clips and cabling.  He eyeballed them both and decided the clock case
was large enough.  Wesley opened the clock, scooped out its guts and
tossed them into a drawer, then carefully arranged the device into the
now empty case, tacking everything down with adhesion clamps.

When he finished, he had a pie-plate-size oblate spheroid with a knob
sticking out.

"Okay, Kimbal, let's see what you've gone and done."

Wesley opened the plastiglass face and deposited a commemorative medal
inside.  The medal was made of chaseum, replicated in honor of the
twenty-fifth anniversary of the development of the highly useful metal.
He twisted the knob that once had been used to set the hologrammatic
clock hands.

The medal rippled as if made of melted butter swirling in a pan.  The
bottom of the "pie plate" rapidly grew too hot to touch, and Wesley
dropped it onto his bed with a stifled yelp.  The plastiglass face
cracked loudly, but Fred did not stir.

Wesley gently touched the erstwhile clock; it had cooled considerably.
He opened the face again.

The chaseum now sparkled with a different, distinctly yellowish hue.
Wesley Crusher stared.  The medallion had turned into gold-pressed
latinurn.

"LAY IN A COURSE for Novus Alamogordus," said Commander Riker.  Zorka
had been granted half a planetoid for his laboratory; many of the items
he had been developingm allegedly developing, corrected Riker to
himself, recalling Geordi La Forge's skepticism--could be extremely
dangerous over a very wide area if experiments went awry.

Curiously, the opposite side of the planetoid, separated by a mid-size
ocean, contained a ritzy hotel and casino.

"Sir," said Commander Data, "that course will take us out of Federation
space."

A silly ritual, thought Riker.  He certainly knew Novus Alamogordus was
in neutral space; Data knew it; probably everybody on the bridge knew
it.  Captain Picard knew it, but he was in his cabin, studying the
specifications of Zorka's (alleged) inventions.  Still, the Federation
Space Training and Operating Procedures Standardization manual obliged
pilot and acting commander to speak the ritual aloud.  Thus, both
officers were clearly identified as responsible parties if the
Enterprise were destroyed outside Federation territory.

"Advisement acknowledged," said Riker, completing the magical formula.

"Course laid in, sir," said Data.

"Engage, warp factor..." Riker paused, scrolling through the mission
profile sent from Starfleet by subspace communications.

Commander Will Riker was silent a long time.

Data turned to face him, raising his brows quizzically.

"Sir?  What warp factor do you wish?"

Riker shook his head.  It must be in here somewherem must be!  No matter
how many times he scrolled back and forth, however, he could not find
the authorization to exceed warp five, the maximum allowable warp under
General Warp Speed Limitation Standing Order Number 44556-34.

Riker searched on the keywords warp, speed, the number 5, and 44556-34.

"Commander Riker?" asked Data.

"Stand by," said Riker.  "Computer: Search the most recent subspace
transmission from mission command.  Do we have authorization to exceed
warp five?"

"Negative," responded the computer voice immediately.

"Damn it," muttered the first officer, folding his arms and tilting his
head back in annoyance.  "How are we supposed to get to the auction if
we can't exceed warp five?"

Silence.  Riker tilted his head forward again, opened his eyes.  "How
the hell are we supposed to get there on time at warp five?"

Data continued to watch the commander placidly.

Annoyed, Riker snapped, "That was not a rhetorical question, Data!"

"It was not?  I am sorry, sir; I assumed it was another one of those
questions I am not supposed to answer." Data furrowed his brow, the
positronic pathways in his "brain" firing in all directions at once. "At
the maximum warp allowed by the general standing order, we shall arrive
at the auction on Novus Alamogordus in approximately six days, thirteen
hours.  The auction is not set to begin until three days from now; it is
possible it will still be in progress when we arrive, sir."

"It will have been going on for three and a half days.  Will anything be
left but the desks and chairs?"

"I do not know, sir.  Possibly Bradford junior will auction the chairs
first, leaving the important lots until the end.  In that case, we might
still be in time to bid on the photonic pulse cannon and other vital
technologies."

Riker stroked his beard.  "This is ridiculous.  Didn't the Federation
Council say this auction was of the highest priority?  Surely that
implies we should proceed with all deliberate speed!"

"I cannot advise that line of reasoning, sir.  Our orders come from
Starfleet, not the Federation Council; they are not in the chain of
command.  The council must advise Starfleet Command of the urgent
necessity of violating the general standing order, and Starfleet must
convey permission to us.  In my official opinion, sir, we cannot simply
take it upon ourselves to second-guess Starfleet's motives in not
including such permission in the subspace transmission."

"You're saying our ass will be hanging over the line if we just assume
that permission."

"I would not have used such a colorful expression; but you are
essentially correct, sir."

"Send a subspace transmission to Starfleet, Data.  Wake them up down
there.  I want that permission!  In the meantime, engage preset course,
warp factor five." Riker shook his head; he never ceased to be amazed at
the boneheaded lapses of bureaucracy.

"Riker to Picard."

"Picard here," said the captain's disembodied'voice.

"What is it, Number One?"

"Sir, we have a very delicate question."

"Come to my quarters, Will.  We'll discuss it here."

Will Riker sat across from Captain Picard while the latter pondered the
implications, frowning.  After a long silence, during which Riker
refrained from interrupting with more arguments for simply ignoring the
prohibition, Jean-Luc Picard finally spoke.

"Will, try as I might, I can find no reasonable argument around Data's
point.  We must presume that if Starfleet wanted us to exceed warp five,
they would have included permission."

"They probably forgot."

"Possibly.  But we cannot presume that."

"At this speed, there is an excellent chance we won't arrive at the
auction until the important lots are sold."

Picard grimaced.  "I know that, Will.  And I agree with you that this
situation merits an exception to the general standing order.  It's
absolutely critical to Federation peace efforts that the Cardassians--or
worse, the Romulans--not get their hands on the sort of weapon described
here...

presuming it works, of course.  This may well be the most important
mission underway by any vessel at the moment."

"Then surely it's worth a little risk."

"Exceeding the maximum safe warp speed is hardly a little risk, Number
One.  You saw what happened in that subspace corridor; imagine if the
mainstream of Federation space began to erupt into subspace
singularities...  we might have to give up the entire alliance."

"It's just one case!"

"Every case is 'just one case,' Number One.  But I agree �..  this time,
I think it's worth the risk."

Riker opened his mouth, but Picard continued.  "However, Will, it is not
our decision to make.  Only Starfleet Command can authorize an exception
to a general standing order." He smiled ruefully, picking up a data clip
and rolling it before his eyes.  "Let's wait until we hear back.  I'm
sure they'll tell us it was just a mistake and authorize maximum warp.
If even a tenth of these inventions actually work, then Novus
Alamogordus may turn out to be a latinum mine of scientific advances for
us...  or for whoever outbids the other interested parties."

Picard's annunciator chirped.

"Come," said the captain.  The door slid open and Commander Data
entered.

"Sir, we have received a response from Starfleet regarding our request
to exceed warp five." The android hesitated for a moment, then plunged
on.  "I am afraid permission is temporarily stayed, sir."

"Stayed?" exclaimed Riker, incredulous.  "You mean denied?"

"Starfleet says it is only a temporary stay.  They say they will give us
a final answer within twenty-four hours."

"Data," said Picard, "did they say what the problem was?"

Data nodded.  "According to Captain Blut, Admiral Vernor's aide, the
Federation Association for the Advancement of Science is not speaking to
the Federation �xo-Vironmental Research Council.  The latter was formed
specifically to study the effects of warp-field operations, and
apparently this decision was unpopular among the scientists of the FAAS.
They felt their own subcommittee which is studying the effect should
have been given policy responsibility.

Instead, they were made advisory only, and the FEVRC has complete
control of Federation policy-making."

Picard and Riker looked at each other, then back at Data.

The first officer spoke first.  "A turf war?  We're going to miss the
auction because of a stupid turf war between different groups of
scientists?"

Data nodded.  "That is the gist, sir.  The FAAS understands the immense
implications of this auction to peace throughout the quadrant, but they
have no power to grant an exception to the general standing order; they
also refuse to communicate with the FEVRC...  who have the power to
authorize high warp speed but know nothing about the importance of the
auction."

"Data," said Picard, "send an emergency subspace transmission to the
Exo-Vironmental Council apprising them of the urgency of this auction.
Include a copy of the FAAS

analysis of the strategic importance of the Novus Ala mogordus
development center."

"Aye, sir," said the android.

"Dismissed." Data went off to send the message.

For a long moment, neither captain nor first officer said a word.  Then
suddenly, both spoke at once.

"Geordi!" said Riker.

"La Forge," remembered Captain Picard.

"I'll contact him immediately, Captain.  The Klingons have agreed in
theory to the warp speed limitation, but they routinely violate it.  I'm
certain that Kurn will interpret his orders literally and run for Novns
Alamogordus at the scoutship's top speed, which is..." Riker thought for
a moment.  "Warp eight point three, I believe."

"Picard to Data."

"Data here, sir."

"Assume Captain Kurn heads for the auction at the maximum speed of his
vessel.  When will he arrive?"

After a moment, Data responded.  "I calculate he will arrive on Novus
Alamogordus nearly four hours before the auction is scheduled to begin."

"Perfect," said Riker, rising.  "I'll get Geordi on subspace
immediately."

Picard smiled.  "Assuming Kurn has fixed those 'faulty circuits' by now.
Make it so."

Moments later, the first officer stood on the bridge, talking to the
image of Worf and Geordi in their "cabin," a tiny room just two decks up
from the engineering department.

"You want me to what?" asked Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge.

"You heard me, Commander."

"Yes, sir, but I don't think Kurn is going to allow us to talk as long
as last time.  He's still pretty grumpy about being unable to decrypt
the transmission."

"We might not be able to arrive in time for the auction."

"Sir?  At warp nine, you should arrive at--"

"We can't go warp nine." Tersely, Riker explained the entire situation
to Geordi.

Geordi stared at Commander Riker.  "You can't be serious.

Me?  Bid on a bunch of Doctor Zorka's fictitious inventions?"

"Geordi, that was not a request." Riker held his breath;

Geordi could respond one of two ways.

"You're kidding!"

"It wasn't a joke, either.  I am serious--you're going to arrive three
days before we do.  You're the senior officer; you get to bid on the
photonic pulse device and anything else of note."

Geordi pursed his lips.  "I'm sorry, sir," he said at last, "but I can't
do that."

"What do you mean, you can't do that?  This is a direct order?

"All right; then I'll have to bid what I think the toys are worth:
nothing."

Will Riker clamped his mouth shut.  He silently counted to eight before
calming himself enough to respond.  "Mister La Forge, you will bid on
Zorka's experimental devices, and you will bid seriously enough to buy
them.  We cannot allow a photonic pulse cannon to fall into the wrong
hands--which means anybody's hands but ours!"

Geordi slowly shook his head.  "I'm sorry, sir.  I took my oath to the
Federation and Starfleet, not to any one person in particular; I have to
support and defend the protocols of the alliance...  which means in this
case I must bid what my best engineering opinion tells me these items
are worth: exactly zero.  Bidding anything higher than nothing would
violate my oath as an officer of Starfleet."

Riker stared, lip curling.  If Deanna were here, he thought, she wouM
have said I sense anger ....

"Very well, Lieutenant Commander.  You must bid as you see fit.  Riker
out." Without further ado, he severed the connection.

Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge began to respond, "Aye, sir," but
realized he was speaking to the Starfleet logo; Commander Riker had
faded into sudden existentialism with an irritated flick of his finger.

"La Forge out," finished Geordi lamely, gently clicking off the monitor.

Ooh, boy, he thought, there goes any chance at my own command this
millenium!  Still shaking, but subsumed by an overpowering sense of
righteousness, Geordi turned to his Klingon companion.

"Now what, Worf?" he asked.

"I cannot advise you, sir.  You must bid what you think the equipment is
worth."

"Yeah.  Easy for you to say...  you don't have to face Riker when this
thing is over and we end up with a fat lot of nothing."

"But if your assessment is correct, and the experimental designs are
actually worth nothing--"

"But how can I ever convince the commander of that?  For that matter,
how am I going to convince Starfleet?  If the Cardassians waltz away
with the photonic pulse cannon, do you think they're going to admit to
us that it's a piece of junk?  Worf, I'll never be able to prove to
anybody that I was right?

Worf frowned.  "Commander, you must perform your duty as best you know
how.  If you are unfairly blamed for a bad situation, you will still
know in your heart that you served your command with efficiency and
distinction.

"If a Klingon warrior is given an impossible task, he does not complain
about things he cannot change."

"Yes, yes, I know that...  but can't you think of any way I can perform
my duty without ending up busing tables in Ten-Forward for the rest of
the cruise?"

Just as Worf opened his mouth to respond, the harsh clang of the ship's
intercom shattered their thoughts.

"Lieutenant Worf will report to the bridge immediately," snapped the
curt voice of Commander Kurak.

Worf closed his mouth, put on the official Klingon warrior's scowl, and
departed smartly, leaving Geordi La Forge alone to brood.

Lieutenant Worf marched stolidly onto the bridge of the tlhlngan
blQDepHey Huj So'bogh naghmey 'ej yes ga"a' jaghint' ghogbogh 'oH.
"Lieutenant Worf, United Federation of Planets," he announced formally.

Kurn sat on his command chair in the posture of the human statue The
Thinker, leaning forward to rest his chin on one balled fist, elbow on
knee.

Worf waited but received no response; when he decided that his younger
brother had exceeded allowable familial rudeness, he shifted to Klingon.

"Must I call the Emperor Kahless himself to announce me?" he asked; it
was quite a snotty Klingon insult, since of course seniors did not
"announce" juniors.

The effect on Kurn was startling.  He leapt to his feet, staring wildly
at his brother.  "How did you know about that?  You were spying on me!"

"Know about what?  What are you talking about, you theoretician?"

Kurn bristled at the new insult; but it was within limits allowed by
their close relationship.  Kurn sneered, said, "I am too busy doing
warrior's work to explain horticulture to a nonreproducing minor." He
gestured at the commander.

"My female assistant will instruct you."

The frighteningly enticing political officer explained.

"The Klingon High Council has decided that Lieutenant Worf will
represent the Klingon Empire at the auction, bidding on all military
equipment and all scientific equipment of value."

Worf's eyes widened; but true to his heritage (and mindful what he had
just said to Commander La Forge), he did not complain or object.  Stoic
as the warrior he was, he bowed his head.  "I accept the great honor
which the Emperor Kahless has bestowed upon me through the High Council,
and I will faithfully represent the empire at the auction."

Worf snuck a glance at his brother; Kurn had resumed his statuesque
pose, obviously hurt and offended that the Council selected Worf rather
than Kurnwa Klingon who had joined the human Federation over a Klingon
who had faithfully risen through the ranks of the Klingon fleet itself.

Kurn ignored the fact, or deemed it irrelevant, that Worf was the elder
brother, and as such (since the restoration of his family's honor) was
obliged to represent his family at all formal occasions.

After a few moments, Worf diplomatically withdrew, not even offering a
parting shot.  He decided that in Kurn's present mood, he might forget
family obligation entirely and announce his brother to the airlock.

Back in their temporary "quarters," Worf and the engineering officer
stared glumly at each other.  "So, Worf...

what are you going to bid on the devices as they come up?"

"I shall observe the actions of the other participants and make my bid
accordingly."

"On the theory that if the Cardassians and Romulans throw latinurn down
a rat hole, it would be undiplomatic for the Klingons not to follow
suit?"

Woff rolled his eyes.

"Take my word for it," continued Geordi, "not a single thing that Doctor
Zorka ever built, if he even built any of it and didn't just make it up,
is even worth the time spent reading about it in the journals, let alone
hard latinurn.  I'd rather spend my time reading about real research,
not bidding on vaporware!"

"I am well aware of your opinions of Zorka's work, Commander.  But I
must make my own decision."

"All right!  Don't get touchy.  I was just offering a suggestion."

"Thank you, sir.  Now may I please get some sleep?  It is a long trip to
Novus Alamogordus, even at warp eight."

Geordi lay on the upper bunk.  "Lights," he said.

Nothing happened.  For a moment, he was confused; then he remembered
where he was.  Before he could rise, however, Worf's enormous hand
reached up from the lower bunk and pressed the touchplate, casting the
room into blackness.

After a moment, La Forge changed the subject.  "I, uh, guess I should
tell you what happened in Kurak's room."

"I have no wish to pry into your private affairs, sir."

"Affairs!  I only wish."

"Commander, I do not wish to intrude on your privacy."

The Klingon could not quite keep a slight tone of curiosity out of his
voice, though he never would have expressed it in words.  Geordi took-it
as an invitation to continue.

"You remember she said she wanted to show me a holomorphic model?"

"Of an antique warp coil.  Yes, I remember."

"Well, she did.  Showed me her model."

Worf said nothing.

"And that's it!" continued the lieutenant commander.

"She showed me her model.  It wasn't even that good."

Geordi heard a strange, rumbling cough from the lower bunk.  "Commander
Kurak may have too sharp a blade for you, sir."

"Too sharp a blade?  You mean she's not really interested?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not.  Now, please, may I sleep, sir?  We have much to
do tomorrow."

After a moment, Geordi began to chuckle.  He continued to chuckle
quietly for several minutes; then he suddenly became aware of a
monstrous figure looming over him, deeper black against the faint light
of the luminescent chronometer face.

It was Worf, rising up over Geordi's rack.

"Oops," said La Forge, "didn't mean to wake you."

"Will there be anything else, sir?" Worf's voice had more of a Klingon
edge than usual.

"Heh.  I was just thinking about Commander Riker, sitting in the command
chair and positively fuming about that damned speed limit."

"I fail to see the humor.  He is just following orders."

"Yeah...  but I'll bet he's so hot under the collar that he's creating
warp field vortexes all by himself!"

After a moment, Worf snorted.  Then he climbed back into his bunk and
began to snore, rasping like an old-fashioned, ion-drive engine.

WESLEY CRUSHER BLINKED to conscious awareness, realizing that the dorm
room had suddenly become as bright as the interior of a nova.

He sat up groggily.  Fred Kimbal stood before the east-facing window,
having just defiltered it to allow the brilliant sunrise to enter.

Wesley rolled over and stared at an empty spot on his wall.  Somebody
had stolen his clock!  Abruptly, the events of the previous night
flooded back.

"What time is it, Fred?" he asked, voice thick with the drunken slur of
sleep deprivation.

"Zero six thirty," answered Kimbal, sickeningly chipper and bright.
"Come on, Wes, daylight's a burnin'!"

"No classes.  No PT.  Break.  Remember?"

"Come on, sir.  Rise and shine!"

Wesley glared balefully.  "If you say up and at 'era, I'll bend your
nose back."

"Hey!  What happened to my toy?  I was going to show it to you.  Did you
find it last night?"

Wesley rubbed his face, waking fully.  "Fred, we've got to talk.  I
started fooling with your invention last night, and I kind of got caught
up in the excitement.  I, urn, I finished it.

It's in this clock case, here."

"Already?  What does it do?"

"How can you not know?"

Kimbal shrugged.  "I spent a few days mapping properties and matching
them between latinum and chaseum.  I tied a couple of replicator
processors together to morph from one to the other, just to slide the
Balmer lines back and forth.  I wanted to see if the ratios were really
the same, or if there were some subtle differences that threw everything
off.  Why, what does the thing do?"

Wordlessly, Wesley slid the commemorative medallion, now seemingly made
of latinurn, from his bedside table and tossed it to Kimbal.

"Heavy," Fred agreed.  "Is this part of your stake for the big game?"

"Look closely at it, Fred."

Fred glanced, then studied, then stared, eyes widening as big as
millstones.  "Jesus!" he yelped, "you've turned it into latinurn!"

"No, you've turned it into latinurn.  And not really; in theory, it's
still chaseum, though I'm damned if I can spot any deviation from
latinurn, even scanning with the tricorder.  It just looks and senses
like gold-pressed latinurn."

"So what do we do with it?"

"I've got a good idea.  Let's bury it, and I mean literally, Fred.
Phaser it out of existence.  Things like this are too dangerous for
young boys like us."

Kimbal looked up speculatively at Wesley.  "You 'don't suppose we might,
you know, test it a bit first?  I know a really sleazy joint on
Moneyshine Lane in the Ferengi Quarter that has the most gorgeous..."

The look in Wesley's eye shut Kimbal's mouth.

"Urn, I guess not, Wes."

"See?  I told you this thing was dangerous.  But I don't know if I can
zap it into limbo either, at least not until we test the limits of the
envelope.  How long does the chaseum stay altered?  Does it change the
specific gravity to match latinum?"

"It should; I vaguely remember playing with molecular separation in the
crystals...  density, you know."

"This is really amazing, Fred.  You know with this, a person--a
criminally minded kind of guy--could become as rich as the Trump
family."

"Wasn't he the one who turned everything he touched into latinurn?"

"I think so.  And basically, that's what we've got here.

Fred, don't you understand?  We can replicate any amount of chaseum and
turn it all into the finest ersatz latinurn ever counterfeited!  I
shudder to think what might happen if this were to fall into..."

"What?"

Wesley shook his head, annoyed with his flight of fancy.

"Skip it.  Let's just test it out then take it apart."

"Actually, we can't."

"Can't what?"

"Replicate any amount of chaseum we want.  Or any amount at all,
actually."

"Why not?"

Fred grinned, pointed at the clock device.  "Because there sit the guts
of the only two replicators in this entire dorm."

He laughed.  "I borrowed them last night after chow."

Wesley stared.  "You didn't.  You did./" Wesley grimaced, put his head
in his hands.  "Fred, did it ever occur to you that thirty-eight hungry
cadets are going to stagger out of their dorm rooms over to the
replimats, desperate for a cup of coffee?  Then thirty-eight bleary-eyed
cadets will discover that the replicators are worthless hunks of junk...
and they'll remember this peculiar, little habit of yours of borrowing
electronicsre"

Somebody began pounding furiously on the door.  Jenny DuBois's normally
dulcet voice rattled their windows.

"Kimbal, you little traitor, open this door!  Gimme my coffee, you sneak
thief!"

Frightened, Fred looked imploringly at Wesley.

"Don't expect me to get that, Kimbal.  I'm going back to sleep." Wesley
lay back in bed and pulled the pillow over his face.  "Wake me when it's
over," he mumbled faintly, as Fred lurched toward the door to try to
placate DuBois.

That night, Wesley insisted that Fred eat dinner, so he would not be
distracted by hunger during the big game, but eat lightly, so he would
not fall asleep.  Wesley fretted over Fred's clothing, his hair, his
mannerisms.  Wesley well remembered when he had first arrived at the
Academy (after finally passing the entrance exams).  He had been pretty
much of a geck himself, having grown up on the Enterprise with hardly
anyone his own age to talk to and no access to popular culture.

For many long years, Wesley studied the phenomenon of "pull," slowly
learning what to say, and more important, what not to say.  Most of his
acquaintances would have agreed he was a thousand times more ofcerlike
than when he blew onto campus.

The terrible accident at the end of his first year, however, killed any
idea of Wesley ever being considered part of the elite.  The best he
could ever achieve was to be tolerated, and that was all Wes expected
for Fred: So long as Fred did not embarrass him, Wesley would be
satisfied.

Somehow, Carl La Fong had arranged official private transportation from
the dorms to an eight-room apartment in the surrounding town.  The two
new kids were impressed.

Poker, like all gambling, was officially forbidden to cadets (unless
they played "for fun," not for money; and "playing for fun is no fun,"
as La Fong often remarked).

La Fong had a lot of pull, however.  Campus security, normally quite
industrious in ensuring that all cadets obeyed the curfew, even during
break, were strangely lax with those invited to the big game.  Wes and
Fred were stopped just outside Garth Dorms; they said they were going
"for a walk," and as soon as the security guard saw their name badges,
she let them pass unhindered.

The apartment was owned by Tunic, the Ferengi player--or rather, by his
father, Munk.  Munk apparently had no official position with the Ferengi
government; he was on the outs with the Grand Nagus.  He had enormous
power in the real world, however.  according to Pindog, the Ferengi
barber who cut Fred's hair, Munk was as close to an "outlaw" as any
Ferengi with latinurn could be.  There were dark stories about murders,
smuggling of contraband, secret deals with Cardassia and Romulus, armed
robberies, protection rackets, and some devious schemes that even Pindog
was unwilling to discuss.

When Munk decided to make another Ferengi an offer for some choice item
or service, it would be considered extremely unhealthy to refuse.

When the previous grand Nagus had died, Munk might have been able to
seize the position; however, he could not stomach the cut in income, and
the position instead went to Zek, the current officeholder.  The two had
been locked in a childish feud ever since.

Tunk, Munk's son, was studying human economics at Keynes College, and he
offered his apartment for the big game every term.  He also liked using
his own deck of cards.

Wesley felt distinctly uneasy; but backing out now would be a deathblow
to his attempts to inculturate himself and would probably result in a
severe blow to his student ranked "leadership" grade.  He resolved to be
Cadet Conservative in his betting, however.

Fred zoned out whenever they gathered information on the other players,
worrying Wesley.  It was almost as if Fred rebelled at the perceived
necessity of engaging in such logically flawed behavior as gambling on
cards, and his rebellion took the form of refusing to pay any attention
or prepare himself mentally for the night.

When their cab finally landed on Tunk's roof, Fred almost forgot to
greet the beautiful Caraq hat check girl who answered the door and took
their caps and coatswin fact, he could barely take his eyes off her.
Though not a Ferengi, she was "dressed" the way a Ferengi likes to see
women dressed...  stark naked.

With supreme willpower, Wesley forced himself to continue on past her
into the living room, where five large card tables had been placed.
Obvious bodyguards roamed the room, scrutinizing the guests and making
no effort to hide the fact that they were counting the silverware and
knickknacks.

A butler or valet silently ghosted around the room, taking drink orders
and bringing other refreshments as necessary.

Tunk's gigantic apartment was stuffed to the gills with all varieties of
knickknacks; they vied with each other to be the most offensive, the
poorest taste, the most vulgar.  A jeweled fan dangled from the ceiling,
and tinsel-bead curtains sectioned off rooms.  The coffee table in the
sunken living room was shaped like a kidney bean, and it sported a
fabulous collection of grotesquely rude toys, including a wizened old
Ferengi wearing a barrel: when the unsuspecting guest lifted the barrel,
he got an eye full of water from the old Ferengi's...

Wesley shuddered and wiped his eye.

The female guests were all clothed, of course; and if there were any
Ferengi females, they were kept carefully hidden in other rooms.  On the
one hand, Wesley was disappointed that he could not stay upstairs by the
Caraq greeter; but he also realized it would be impossible for him to
keep his mind on the cards with such distractions.

Rounding a corner, having abandoned Fred by the.punch bowl (was that
really alcoholic rum in the punch, or just the synthehol version?),
Wesley bumped into Ensign Nanci Lees, a senior about to begin her second
training tour who would almost certainly end up the valedictorian at
graduation, as La Fong would be class leader.  As usual, when not in
uniform, she wore a tight outfit that had barely more material than the
greeting girl wore, except for the flowing, ephemeral cape behind her.
She grew up on an earth colony where the ambient temperature ranged
around a mean of forty-six degrees Celsius: any clothes at all were a
concession, as far as Nanci was concerned.

"Wes, I didn't know you were invited."

"Yes, sir.  Last-minute invitation from La Fong.  I brought a friend
along; Carl said it was all right."

"Oh, I'm not upset; good to see you, kiddo.  And don't call me 'sir'
here; we're civilians until we're back in class, okay?"

"Sure, uh, Nanci."

"Nance."

"Nance.  So how does seating work?  There are five tables here, and I
have no idea which one I'm sitting at."

Nanci smiled, winked.  "If you're a newhie, you'll be sitting with Tunk.
Here's a hint for starship loyalty: Bet what you can afford to lose when
Tunk is dealing."

"Does he, um...  ?"

"Let's say he's very, very luckywwhen he deals."

"Let me introduce you to Fred, my dormmate.  He's over by the...  well,
he was by the punch." Wesley stared about helplessly, worried about what
Fred might have gotten into, aware that he was thinking of his
twenty-one-year-old roommate like an overgrown puppy.

"What does he look like?" asked Nanci, staring off' to Wesley's left.

"Oh, about one point eight meters, ninety-five or ninety-six kilos,
black hair a little long in the back, wearing a maroon, triple-breasted
shirt with..." Wesley paused; Nanci was already pointing in the
direction she had been looking.

Turning his gaze thither, Wesley discovered Fred sitting on a long couch
surrounded by four female cadets who were oohing and aahing as he
explained about his new invention: the device that disguised chaseum as
latinum.

Wesley rushed over, waving to attract Fred's attention.

"Hey, Wes!  I was just explaining to these lovely, young ofi/cers how
I--"

"Fred.  t Good to see you, pal!  Come over here, I want to introduce you
to someone."

"But I'm fine where I am with these three beautiful young off--"

Wesley darted his hand between the cadets, snagged Fred by his biceps,
and bodily dragged him from the cozy little quadrangle.  He pulled his
slack-jawed friend into a quiet corner.  "Cut it about the toy, Fred.  I
mean it."

"You think so?"

"You want to spend the next three weeks in a Federation interrogation
center, explaining to the nice security officers why you built a
latinurn-forging device?"

Fred rolled his eyes disgustedly.  "But I didn't build a latinum forger.
At least, I had no intention of ever using it to...  I mean, I know I
could counterfeit latinurn if I really wanted to, but why would I..."
Fred petered out, pursing his lips.

"Ah, you see what I mean, pal.  I'm sure you'd finally be able to
explain it to them--eventually."

"All right, Wes.  Your lead."

Suddenly, a heavy hand clamped across Wesley's shoulder.

He jumped, fearing it was one of Tunk's bodyguards asking him to kindly
leave the premises before the Federation Bureau of Investigation kicked
the door down.

It was Tunk himself, and he had a death grip around the shoulders of
both cadets.  "Friends!  My young friends!

Come, sit, play!  I insist you sit at my personal table...  to refuse me
would be quite rude, don't you agree?" The Ferengi grinned, his sharp,
crooked teeth lending a faint air of menace to his otherwise innocuous
words.

Tunk was surprisingly strong.  He wheeled them around, maneuvering them
expertly through the swarming mob, then plopped them down at a table at
the edge of the room.

Taking their cue from their host, the rest of the mob began finding
seats.  The bodyguards stood near Tunk, gently steering away all but the
most honored of the honored guests from the Ferengi's "personal table."
La Fong ended up at Tunk's table, along with Nanci Lees and a cadet that
Wesley vaguely remembered from his military history class last term,
Georges St.  Jean.

The Betazoid was carefully seated all the way on the other side of the
room, he noticed, despite La Fong's assurance that the man never used
his telepathic powers and always lost.  Tunk's probably afraid the guy
will spot his cheating, thought Wesley.

Cadet Crusher tried to sit next to Fred, but a bodyguard clumsily got in
his way, then stepped on his toe.  By the time Wes finished hopping
around and swearing softly, the only seat left was directly opposite
Kimbal.  Around the table clockwise were Tunk, Carl La Fong, Wesley,
Nanci, Georges, and Fred Kimbal.

Tunk spread the deck.  Each participant drew a card; Georges picked a
king, so he started the deal.

While Georges shuffled, Tunk brought out the bank of
professional-quality chips.  The Ferengi slapped a full bar of latinurn
on the table and drew himself a huge pile of black, silver, and yellow
chips.  In turn, each participant bought his way into the game.
Momentarily, Wesley thought of holding back some of his money, just in
case the bank mysteriously disappeared at payout time; but then he
realized that was silly ....  La Fong would certainly not return to the
game again and again if Tunk pulled such clumsy tricks.

Georges, who seemed to know what he was doing with the cards, laid them
on the blue felt tabletop.  Everyone stared at Fred, who simply played
with his pile of chips.

Nanci reached across the table, picked up a green, card-shaped piece of
plastic from in front of Fred, and cleared her throat loudly.  When
Kimbal looked up, she inserted the plastic into the deck around the
middle, and Georges cut the cards there, careful not to show the bottom
card.

Leaving the plastic cover over the bottom of the deck, he dealt out the
cards until each person had five.  "Five-card draw," he muttered, with a
noticeable accent.

The game progressed mechanically for the next hour and a half.  After
his initial faux pas, Fred found his groove, never forgetting to shuffle
or messing up the cut.  Wesley began to relax; at first, he had feared
that Fred would pick something completely inane, such as five-card stud,
deuces, treys, one-eyed jacks, and suicidal kings wild.  However, Fred
always announced the same game as the person two deals before his, and
nobody seemed offended or annoyed.

Wesley was proud of his own performance.  After innumerable hands of
play, he was only down by a few grams...

all lost while Tunk was the dealer.  The Ferengi was extraordinarily
lucky when he dealt, almost as if he knew everybody else's hand.  Nobody
said a word about it, of course; but Wesley noticed that nobody bet
heavily at those times, either.

Nobody, that is, except Fred Kimbal.  Wesley realized many hours into
the game that Fred's finances had dwindled almost to zero.  But then, a
few minutes later, they were back up to where they had begun.

Wesley did a double take.  He could not remember Fred winning any major
hands in the interim...  how had he suddenly gotten chips again?

On several more occasions, Wesley managed to miss some big upturn in
Fred's finances, or at least the stack of chips before him.  After the
third time, Cadet Crusher finally caught the transaction: Tunk, the
Ferengi, was actually pushing chips over to Fred.

Wesley stared, nonplussed.  A Ferengi finance a losing session at the
poker table?  It was impossible.  Sweating, Wesley suddenly understood:
Fred had talked Tunk (or perhaps the other way around) into running him
a tab.

Fred Kimbal was slowly accumulating a monstrous debt.

Judging from the piles of chips, Fred was already into the Ferengi for
at least three bars of gold-pressed latinurn, and the Academy cadet
showed no signs of slowing down.

Wesley signaled frantically to Fred, but the latter either did not see
him or pretended not to notice.  Wesley quickly wrote a note while Tunk
shuffled; but when Wes tried to pass it to Fred, one of Tunk's
bodyguards intercepted it.

"Now, now," said the Ferengi in polite tones that nevertheless spoke a
subtle threat; "wouldn't want the other players to think you're
conspiring, the two of you!" The note vanished; Fred did not catch the
exchange, staring intently at his two face-up cards.

After several more minutes, Tunk dealt again, five-card draw.  Wesley
picked up his hand and spread it...  and almost yelped aloud.

From every card, La Fong's smiling face beamed up at him.

The players all chortled, except for La Fong, whose face turned beet
redmand except for Fred, who howled with glee.  "Carl!" exclaimed Tunk,
"I had no idea you were so famous!"

"Hah-hah-hah, you contract jumper," said La Fong, more shaken than he
had a right to be.  "Now get rid of them."

"Oh, where's your sense of humor, human?  It's just a harmless little
phrank to break up the tension."

"You mean 'prank,'" corrected Wesley, too tired to be polite.

Tunk smiled dangerously, narrowing his eyes at Cadet Crusher.  "I call
"era phranks; any questions?"

"No.  Never mind."

Ensign Lees leaned over to Wesley, asking in a loud voice, "Wes, these
cards are all wet from certain people's sweaty hands."

He guiltily wiped his hands on his pants.

"Will you be a dear," continued Nanci, "and get me the rubber ones?"

"Sure," he mumbled, rising and heading toward the bar.

Halfway across the room, he heard more laughter from the Tunk table and
realized he had fallen for one of the oldest "phranks" in the world: the
"sleeveless errand." Face crimson, he returned to the table wide-awake
and dove into the game with vigor.

Wesley managed to regain the three grams he was down and even get ahead
by a gram; but he watched in horror as Fred's mountain of chips
diminished, disappeared, then magically stacked up again, over and over.

The game stretched into a seventh hour, then ten.  Wesley began taking
long breaks; but Fred, mesmerized by the quick flick of the cards, the
tick of the chips as they clattered together in the center of the felt,
the rapid-fire up-and-down flash of his finances, never left the table,
never sat out a hand.  He danced every dance, finished every course.
Fred ordered a drink whenever the waiter ghosted by; Wesley was quite
certain Tunk served drinks a bit harder than synthehol.

The guards found an infinite variety of subtle and blunt ways to keep
the two cadets apart, ranging from crowding around Fred to "watch his
hand" to taking Wesley by the elbow and escorting him out, saying
"spectators must wait in the billiards room."

After a time, Wesley slunk back to the table; so long as he was actually
playing--at his spot, on the opposite side of the table from Fred--he
was allowed in the game room.  He watched in morbid fascination as Fred
Kimbal gambled his entire future life away into Tunk's gnarled, pink
hands.

Fred's face grew paler with the sky; outside the window, night's black
gave way to dawn, and Fred finally collapsed.

He fell facedown onto the table, yet another wretched fistful of cards
dropping faceup on the felt.  Only Nanci expressed any real concern,
reaching over and feeling for Fred's carotid pulse.  Georges's only
comment was, "Damn, faceup...  we'll have to play the hand over."

"Is the human dead?" asked Tunk, alarmed--more likely at the possible
demise of his account receivable than because of any real concern for
Fred's welfare.

"No," said Nanci, "I think he needs some sleep.  And no alcohol for a
couple of weeks, until he dries out."

Wesley stared at Fred, unable to tear his eyes away.  After a moment,
his roommate began to snore faintly.

Wesley was somewhat relieved that Fred sounded all right, physically;
his relief was tempered by the realization that when Fred woke up, he
would find that his career plans had taken an abrupt left turn: Unless
he had very rich, very indulgent parents, Fred Kimbal now owed his soul
to a Ferengi gangster's son.

Wesley felt his stomach tighten and his throat clench.

There was no way Fred could ever pay such a debt, which amounted to at
least a dozen bars of gold-pressed latinurn, probably more money than
either of the two cadets had ever seen all in one place.  Tunk would
complain to the commanding officer of the Academy, and Admiral Boxx
would relay his embarrassment downstream to his commander.

Wolfe, of course, would gleefully dismiss Cadet Kimbal, probably with a
dishonorable discharge for"Conduet Unbecoming."

With a DD on his record, Fred's life was simply over.

Wesley, however, could comfort himself with the thought that the
troubles were not all Fred's fault.

At least fifty percent of the blame could be laid squarely at the feet
of Cadet Wesley Crusher.

Wesley tossed his hand into the center of the table, folding.  He rose.
"I think we had better be getting back," he said, not meaning for his
voice to squeak.  One of the bodyguards quickly cashed Wesley out.

Grinning nastily, as only a Ferengi can do, Tunic handed Wesley a data
clip.  "Please give the human this message when he wakes up; and tell
him he should come see me tomorrow at his earliest convenience...  say
not later than noon."

Noon.  He has six hours to live.  Wesley gulped, nodded.  He wrapped
Fred's arm around his shoulders and stood him up.

Someone took Fred's other arm: Nanci Lees.  She looked as if she were
just starting to realize what Wesley had already figured out.  "How much
did he lose?" she asked.

Wesley shook his head.  Between the two of them, they managed to
maneuver Fred up the stairs to the entry hall; the unclothed greeting
girl handed back caps, coats, and Nanci's leather jacket.  Wesley felt
embarrassed, standing next to the naked girl with Ensign Lees at his
side; watching Nanci, he saw her throw several dirty looks at the
typically crass, disrespectful symbol of Ferengi attitudes toward women
in general.

"I don't think this is the best place for Starfleet cadets," Nanci
suggested.

Right, thought Wesley.  Where was your Puritan ethic twelve hours ago?
"Guess we'd better call a taxi," he said aloud.  "Looks like the
limousine had a one-way contract."

WESLEY HEARD A TERRIBLE ROARING in his ears, like a Klingon snoring.  It
pulsed again and again, rhythmically, shattering the oblivion of his
sleep.

He blinked his eyes, slowly struggling back to consciousness.

The roar faded; it appeared to be his own pulse, pounding in his carotid
artery.

Opening his eyes fully, Cadet Wesley Crusher was blinded by a brilliant
flare; the sun had risen to find the crack between his own Garth Dorm
and Ionesco.

At first, the significance escaped him; then abruptly he realized and
sat bolt upright in bed.

Wesley's dorm-room window faced southwest, not southeast.

It was afternoon.

Intense pain lanced through his head.  He grabbed his temples, squeezed
at the agony.  After a few moments, the pressure receded, leaving him
with nothing worse than a queasy stomach and a serious (but normal)
headache.

He rose, poured himself a drink of water, then another.

After the third glass, he felt strong enough to try orange juice from
the newly repaired replimats in the passageway.  While there, he
replicated an Academy Standard Breakfast.

He returned to the room; as he feared, Fred's bed was rumpled but empty.
The space cadet had apparently left to keep his tryst with the Ferengi,
Tunk.

Wesley frowned, worried; Fred Kimbal slept like the dead...  once his
head hit the pillow, he was lost to mortal view for a minimum of nine
hours.  The only viable explanation was that Fred had not slept.

Must have swum back to consciousness in the middle of the night, Wesley
reasoned; then he remembered what happened or he read the note.  Either
way, he probably just lay there all night in shock.

Wesley had left the note propped up against Fred's chronometer.  Cadet
Crusher had intended to set a wake-up call with the computer to get up
in time to wake Fred but had fallen asleep instead, fully clothed.

Feeling an icy hand clutch at his stomach, he sat at the small breakfast
table, uninterested in the food, barely picking at his replicated bacon,
eggs, ham steak, pancakes, muffin, toast with peach preserves, coffee,
and soda.  There was absolutely nothing he could do until Fred
returned...

eventually, Cadet Kimbal had to learn to solve his own problems.

Besides, what help could Wesley offer anyway?  He did not have the kind
of money Fred owed.  He did not even know any good lawyers.  For good or
in, Fred Kimbal was on his own.

Footsteps approached.  Wesley quietly collected the dishes, all that was
left of the breakfast, and dumped them into the replicleaner, which
disposed of them.  The footsteps hesitated, then receded.  They
returned, pausing at the door.

Wesley waited, becoming increasingly annoyed.  It was obviously Fred;
Cadet Crusher recognized his roommate's lurching gait.  After another
long pair of minutes, Fred must have touched the fingerplate, because
the lock snicked back.

Still, Kimbal neither opened the door nor activated the annunciator.

Finally irritated beyond politeness, Wesley stalked to the door and
thumbed it open.

Fred jumped, then guiltily stared at Wesley's boots.  "Urn, hi, uh...
uh, Wesley."

"Right, I haven't changed my name recently.  What happened?  Did you see
Tunk?"

"Tunk?"

"The Ferengi!"

"Oh, that Tunk.  Well, yeah.  Yes.  Yes, I saw him."

"What did he say?"

"About what?"

"This is getting tedious, Fred.  Can't you just skip all the part where
I drag the story out of you, sentence by sentence, and just spill it?
You know you're going to eventually."

Fred fidgeted, clearing his throat and looking uncomfortable.

At last, he seemed to deflate like a punctured balloon.

Wesley stepped aside, and Fred Kimbal entered, plopping down on a chair
and staring at a fixed spot about a kilometer south of the south wall.

"Yeah, I saw Tunk.  He seemed, um, oddly insistent that I pay off that
ridiculous tab.  You know, heh-heh."

"Fred, you don't have that kind of money, unless you've forgotten to
tell me about some filthy rich uncle of yours."

"No, no uncle."

"You didn't tell Tunk that I would pay it off, did you?

Because I don't have anything like a dozen bars of latinurn, either."

"A dozen?  Oh, ah, actually closer to twenty.  No, I didn't try to shove
the debt off on you; you can rest easy."

"I didn't mean it that way.  Well, maybe I did; but I'm sorry.  So what
happened?  Do we have to ship you out of the sector?"

"Well, heh-heh, actually, you're not going to believe this.

We managed to, as it were, work it out."

"Work it out?  What, you got Tunk to set up payments?  A Ferengi? That's
amazing!"

"No.  No payments.  I, ah, swapped him my m-most valuable possession."

Wesley stared at Fred, unable to parse what the chubby junior had just
said.  Crusher's brain shifted to warp drive as he quickly sorted
through, and discarded, every possession of Fred's he had ever seen.  He
could not see how Fred Kimbal could possibly be worth more than twenty
grams of latinurn--clothes, pocket change, blood chemicals, and all--let
alone twenty bars.

Then, aeons later in Wesley-time, but a bare instant later by the
standard chronometer, the most horrific thought occurred to him.

"Oh, no, Fred.  Don't tell me you...  you know!"

"Heh-heh-beh, funny world, eh?"

"Kimbal, you didn't.t"

"Didn't I?  I think I did.  I have a horrible memory of doing so.  He
liked it, said it was definitely worth tw-tw-twenty bars."

Wesley tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.

He licked his lips, but his tongue was sandpaper.  His words came out as
separate granules of sentence fragments: "Fred...  you--swapped--the
latinurn forging--device--to Tunk?"

Fred sunk lower into his chair, apparently trying to curl up into a
ball.  "Yup.  Brilliant, wasn't I?  Now, instead of a civil judgment
against me and possibly being expelled from the Academy, I can go to the
brig for fifty years!  Boy, when I crumble, you can hear the squish of
my spineless collapse all the way to the Delta Quadrant.  Well, it's
been nice knowing you, pal.  Try to drop by the prison colony once every
few years, when your ship is in the sector."

Wesley stared at Fred, having been stunned to silence since Kimbal
admitted his horrific gaffe.  Cadet Crusher backed up slowly until he
bumped into a bed--Fred's--and collapsed backward onto it.

He stared around the room, noticing the darkness, the stench of Fred's
clothes and sheets that he rarely rep-licleaned, the clutter. Everything
seemed to be inexorably marching inward toward Wesley, choking him.

Finally, he spoke, his voice cracking.  "Oh, I doubt you'll be lonely,
Fred.  No, you'll have at least one friend to chat with, there in the
Federation prison colony."

"Who?"

"Me, you brainless--.t I helped you build the damned thing, remember?
You're in this thing up to my neck ...

they're going to fry us both for counterfeiting!"

"You?"

"Yes, me.  Funny world.  Heh-heh."

Kimbal opened and closed his mouth like a grub fish.

"Wes, believe me, I never thought--"

"Oh, I have no trouble at all believing that."

"I never thought you'd get in trouble, too."

"But why not?  It's perfect, Fred.  Here, I put the finishing touches on
the working model of your invention; I didn't destroy it when I figured
out what it did; I dragged you into the poker game in the first place.
No reason I shouldn't share in the fruits of my own labors."

Fred shifted uncomfortably.  "Come on, Wes.  You didn't mean for this to
happen, and neither did I.  We're just vic--"

"I'll break your arm if you say we're victims of circumstance, Fred. I'm
not kidding."

"Well, what do you want me to say?"

"How about coming up with some way to get that thing back from Tunk
before he redlines it to his father, the gangster?"

"But then he'll say I still owe..." Fred faded into silence, seeing the
homicidal glare in Wesley's eyes.

"We're going to get that thing back if we have to break into Tunk's
apartment." Wesley stopped, rolling the idea around his head.  "Hey..."

"No good."

"Why not?  Are you worried about the ethics, for heaven's sake?  You
know he was cheating."

"How do you know he was cheating?  Did you see him?"

"He cheats every day and twice on Sundays.  He's a Ferengi and--"

"What, all Ferengi cheat?  That's not like you, Wes."

"and," continued Wesley, "the son of a Ferengi so crooked that even the
Grand Nagus avoids him.  In any case, didn't you notice that Tunk always
won when he dealt the hand?  Or nearly every time; he won much more when
he dealt than when any of the rest of us did?"

"All right, all right.  I wasn't worried about the ethics anyway.  I
meant it was no good to break into Tunk's apartment."

"Why not?  Wait, didn't we just go through this?"

"Because he's not there."

"All the better.  I hate burglarizing flats when the occupant is
present."

"He's moved out."

"What.t "To his yacht.  I heard him on the comm link transferring a
month's rent to the landlady in lieu of notice."

"How do you know he's moving to his yacht?"

"He called the garage and ordered it washed and fueled up.  I deduced
the rest."

"Why didn't you tell me this in the first place?  He could be off-planet
by now...  he could be halfway to...  to wherever Ferengi gangsters hang
out!"

"Not unless he can get there in a yacht whose fuel tanks have been
drained for garage storage.  I only left him half an hour ago."

"Of course, it would take..." Wesley made a quick mental calculation. "I
have at least another fifteen minutes, figure another ten to file a
flight planrobe has to file one even if he plans to deviate as soon as
he's out of controlled orbit--then if I'm lucky, he won't get immediate
departure permission."

"What are you going to do, run out onto the pad and flag him down.9" But
Fred was shouting out the open door after Wesley, who pelted toward the
turbolift enroute to the pad.

He whistled for a cab, waved his hands, and finally dashed out into the
right-of-way directly in front of one.  The alert driver pulled up and
over Wesley's head, the mag-lev field forcing the cadet's hair to stand
endwise.

"You crazy cadet son of a...  !" shouted the irate hackie.

She hopped out of the cab, intending to punctuate her ire by poking
Wesley in the chest.  When the woman got close enough, however, the
cadet held up a decigram coin, snapping it in her face.

She stopped, staring at the bill.  "Yes, sir," she amended, her entire
attitude undergoing an instantaneous sea change.

"Where would you like to go?"

"Hawking Field, the commercial pad complex.  There's another one of
these if you get me there in ten minutes."

The hackie's eyes widened like black umbrellas.  She smiled, darted a
hand out to snag Wesley's uniform jacket.

The cadet was pulled off his feet, fluttering along behind the woman
like a flag behind a pace vehicle.  She dragged him at a sprint to her
cab, flung him inside, and took off with an electromagnetic flare that
vibrated every hair on his body.

Wesley braced himself against both sides of the vehicle, staring at the
woman's license to avoid glancing out the windows and scaring himself:
S.  Muldowney.  S.  instantly swerved off the official right-of-way,
cutting directly across the Quadrangle as cadets scattered like fleeing
antelope.

She pulled hard to starboard, aiming for a walkway between Ionesco Dorm
and the Medical Science building.

The hack fit, practically scraping the walls on either side.

With supreme willpower, Wesley finally forced himself to blink, then
exhale.

S.  pushed her rig to redlined but missed the deadline by two minutes.
Wesley gave her the extra decimal anyway.  She dropped him just outside
the tower annex, and he dashed inside to check the hot board.

He touched the screen, bringing it to life, then said, "Tunk, Ferengi,
location."

After an instant of lookup, the screen displayed a schematic map to Slip
9.  Wesley ignored the map; he knew the field almost better than the
architect who had built it.

Cursing the lack of transporters under his breath, Wesley hopped the
slidewalk, shifting to the fast lane.  He did not bother to slow down as
he approached Slip 9, merely grabbing the rail and hopping over the
side.  He hit the sod, turning his fall into a forward roll back up to
his feet, then dashed to the slip.

At the door, Wesley paused, catching his breath.  He closed his eyes,
listening to the activity inside the garage.  The yacht was apparently
finished fueling, for he heard Tunk and his bodyguards loading his
possessions onto the cruiser.

When calmer, Wesley steeled himself to take a quick look around the
corner.  Tunk was only "helping" in the loosest possible definition of
the term; in fact, he stood in front of the ship with a clipboard,
barking incomprehensible orders that his bodyguards and a pair of
stevedore robots appeared to ignore as they performed the grunt work of
transferring Tunk's worldly goods into the cargo hold of the Write Off
Grunt work it was, for Tunk shunned the transporter pads on the loading
dock...  probably because the rather steep fees offended his miserly
soul; his bodyguards and the robots were cheaper.

Wesley stared in horrified fascination at the heaping pile of junk that
the crew was slowly injecting into the yacht.

Tunk apparently had more possessions than the Federation Museum of Earth
Artifacts; and those that Wesley could see made the Treasures of Inner
Mongolia and the Eugenics Wars Bas-Reliefs look pallid and sedate.
Ferengi ideas of good taste were frightening enough as it was, and
Tunk's collection was garish even by Ferengl standards...  which meant
any Ferengi who saw it would have been consumed by envy.

There were far more pieces than could possibly have tit into the
apartment where Wesley had played in the big game, as large (and
stuffed) as it had been.  He was certain, moreover, that he would have
noticed the two-meter-tall brass bird cage filled with some vile teal
fluid, through which bubbled rainbow-hued globules of glowing goo, the
whole surrounded by eight holovisions of dancing angels wearing skimpy,
two-piece swimsuits; it was the sort of objet d'art that was impossible
to miss even if it were in another room, covered by a drop cloth.

It sat between Wesley and Tunk's yacht now, and it was difficult to even
drag his attention past it to observe the proceedings.

Other items that would have been unmissable were a fluorescent yellow
chair with legs like a praying mantis; a jewel-encrusted leather jacket
with the words Boomba Jamak the Quadrant Tour emblazoned in neon; and a
woven-rattan suit, complete with cork tie, dangling from a chaseum "rib
bone" stand--an "original" (thank God, thought Wesley) by an artist
known only as "Huck."

The only explanation was that Tunk kept a warehouse nearby and swapped
the pieces he displayed in the apartment as they got old or were
replaced with some new monstrosity, even more hideous.

Tunk began howling in outrage that one of his bodyguards had broken some
priceless gewgaw.  The huge man fled down the corridor leading to the
moving van, frantically searching for the missing tusk, and Tunk
followed, shouting imprecations that curled Wesley's ears.

It was an opportunity he could not afford to miss.

Wesley Crusher slipped from his hiding place and dashed to the goo lamp.
He peeked between a pair of nearly naked angels, assuring himself that
nobody stood between him and the cabin door.  The remaining bodyguard
crawled among a pile of fathomless stuff in the corner, toe-tagging the
crock-ely.

Heart pounding, Wesley stood and strode casually toward the yacht.  His
knees shook, and it was all he could do to keep from breaking into a
panicked run, either toward the cabin door or (more likely) back the way
he had come.

There was no option of fleeing, however;, he had to steal back the
Kimbal Clock!

Wesley almost whistled casually, but stopped himself, realizing this
would surely attract the bodyguard.  He heard Tunk's voice grow in
volume as the Ferengi verbally lashed his lackey back toward the task at
hand.  Wesley swallowed his fear--now or not at all.t--ducked his head,
and meed up the gangplank.

He paused just inside the door, crouching in the shadows;

he was in a cabin that resembled a living room, with fold-down couches,
chairs, and a card table.  A miniature Dabo machine crouched menacingly
against the inner bulkhead.

The room was in-lit, but a harsh light filtered down a corridor from a
room beyond...  presumably the treasure room where the Ferengi packed
his priceless, or unpriceable, toys.

Now what?  Where would that damned Ferengi hide the clock?

Wesley blinked his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the darkness.  He
was not worried about being spotted in the living room; the light
difference between the bright cargo slip and the dim room meant the
guards and even Tunk himself would cruise through the living room and
head directly toward the light, like moths, without a sideways glance.

This brief interval might be Wesley's only chance to hunt for the clock,
however, when Tunk and his clumsy bodyguard returned, there would be too
much activity for much of a search.

The robots would probably ignore the cadet, if they were simple
stevedores; the Ferengi might have hired one or two "watchdogs,"
however, which would sound an alarm and attempt to apprehend Wesley.

He rose from his place, scanning quickly.  Boxes filled the living room,
shoved into the darkness in lieu of actually stowing them away.

Would Tunk have dumped the clock in his treasure room?

Wesley stared down the corridor, aware that he would be finely
silhouetted all the way down the ten-meter, long passageway, ultimately
entering a room so brilliantly lit that he could not be missed.  He
dreaded the attempt; if he were caught, Tunk would still have the clock,
and Wesley would have a trespassing charge on his record.

A thought occurred: All the tasteless gimcrackery that Tunk was
transferring to the treasure hold was undoubtedly old stuff, toys of
which he had long ago grown tired.

The clock was his newest acquisition...  and almost certainly the
overriding reason for his sudden departure.

Surely he would keep it in a special place!  Wesley began scanning the
walls for a "hidden" safe.

There were four ugly pictures on the walls: two holo-visions of Ferengi
women, suitably unclad (and posed in most unsavory positions that Wesley
found repellent), an oddly out-of-place seascape, and a view of the
purple sands and violet setting (or rising) sun of a world Wesley did
not recognize.

One of the girlie paintings looked suspiciously thick.

The voices had stopped outside the door; Tunk found it a convenient
moment to chew out his bodyguards and one of the stevedores--though what
he expected the mute robot to answer was unclear.

"Lift it, don't drag it!  Lift it!  These are priceless works of high
art ....  I could replace any of you three for a tenth the cost of even
one of these pieces!"

"Sorry, boss." The guard did not sound sorry; he sounded weary, as if he
had been through it all before.

Wesley pondered for an instant: I wonder what the Ferengi pays them to
take such abuse from a man they could pound into the deck with a single
blow from their ham fists?  He moved to the suspicious pornography,
trying not to look at it while he inspected it--a difficult task.

With no tricorder, Wesley could not tell for certain whether it was just
a holoimage with an extra-thick frame or whether it hid a wall safe.  He
hesitated to touch; it might have a pressure- or heat-sensitive alarm
trigger.

The air smelled stale, exactly as he would have expected from an
unrecirculated enviro system that had remained dormant for many months,
while Tunk studied (and partied and gambled and womanized) at his own
university.  Did this mean the security systems were likewise disabled,
perhaps not having been activated yet?

"Oh, what the hell have I got to lose?" he whispered to himself.  Wesley
touched the frame, then ran his fingers around it.  At the top, right
corner, he felt a tiny, anomalous bump; it did not feel like an
imperfection in the wood (which was probably replicated anyway, and
would not have any imperfections unless specifically ordered).

Holding the frame steady with his left hand, he gingerly pressed down on
the bump, simultaneously pulling the holoimage away from the wall.  It
swung open noiselessly, revealing a titanium safe with a touchplate.

Okay, Wes...  got any bright ideas?  The touchplate undoubted wanted the
pawprint of Tunk himself to open, presuming Ferengi even had
"fingerprints" in the normal sense of the word.  Wesley examined it
visually, switching between staring at the safe and peering anxiously
back toward the open cabin door.  The argument still raged outside,
though now the bodyguard was responding a bit peevishly himself.  Wesley
decided he might have a few minutes, but he would have to close the safe
instantly and shrink back into the shadows at the first hint of a
footfall on the gangplank, which, fortunately, was metallic and would
clank when trodden on.

He closed his eyes to think...  and remembered a data clip he had read
ages ago about the life and exploits of Bophut the Unholdable, the most
famous escape artist of the 2350s.  He once saw Bophur, in the last year
of the Unholdable's professional career, Wesley was so astonished at age
nine that he rushed to his data library and downloaded the only text
ever written about the man.

Bophut used to pick thumbprint locks.  His technique depended upon a
"wire," an ancient term of unknown origin for a miniature paraware
generator.  Apparently, thumbprint locks used positronic circuitry;
parawaves, with a short enough wavelength to pass through the metal
exterior, which played merry hell with the circuits, often triggering
the unlock program.

Wesley opened his eyes, grinning; replicators used para-waves to monitor
the replication process.

He took two quick sidesteps to the kitchenette and found the replicator.
"Uh...  uh...  a chaseum disk, smooth on one side to an accuracy of ten
microns," he ordered.  In a moment, a dull, lusterless "mirror"
materialized.  He replicated a second mirror, but left it in the
machine, angled outward.

Wesley Crusher held the second chaseum mirror to catch the parawaves
reflected off the first, reflecting them a second time onto the
thumblock safe; chaseum was one of the few metals whose semicrystalline
structure actually reflected parawaves.  Gold-pressed latinurn was
another, but he could not replicate that.

"Self-diagnosis," he commanded.  As the monitoring equipment sprayed
parawaves around the interior of the replicator, Wesley fooled with the
chaseum mirror in his hands, playing the waves across the safe.  After
two seconds, the safe clicked and slowly opened.

He had done it!  He saw the clock inside, unharmed and ready to be
returned to nowhere.

As he reached for it, he heard three people burst into applause behind
him.

Wesley spun around, aghast.  Watching the performance with obvious
appreciation were Tunk and his two bodyguards.

The Ferengi shook his head.  "I never knew you could open a safe that
way," he said in amazement.

"Ah--ahmTunk!  You're probably wondering what I'm d-doing in your..."

"In my safe?  No, not at all.  I'm merely surprised at your ingenuity
and audacity; most humans are so fatalistic about property they don't
own."

"Well, sir," Wesley began.

"You aren't going to tell me you were returning that clock to its
rightful owner?"

"No, sir.  You are in possession of an illegal device ...."

"Rule of Acquisition number two hundred nineteen: Possession is
eleven-tenths of the law.  And as I seem to have possession, you, human,
would appear to be the other tenth: a burglar."

"Tunk, you've got me all wrong?"

"Hah!  I have you dead to rights, human.  Alas, I'm in a bit of a hurry
now, so I think I'll have to take this up with th0 highest tribunal."

Wesley frowned.  "The disciplinary committee?"

Tunk smiled nastily.  "My father.  He'll know what to do with you, I'm
sure."

"Buttyour father is int"

"Sector delta-alpha-hotel, about four days from here."

Wesley had edged close to the safe during the dialog; snakelike, he
darted his hand into the open cavity and seized the clock.  He tucked it
under his arm and charged toward the open cabin door.

Tunk skipped nimbly out of the way while his two bodyguards set their
legs and spread their arms.  Wesley charged directly toward the man on
the left, then head-faked to the right.  The younger man was fooled,
diving to intercept the new course.

Unfortunately, the older man, a squat, muscular human with a
"d'Artaguan" mustache and goatee, spotted the fake.

He slapped his comrade out of the way, knocking the half-Klingon,
half-human headfirst into a bulkhead; then d'Artagnan caught Wesley
about the waist.

Cadet Crusher tried to elbow d'Artaguan in the face, but the man ducked
his head behind Wesley's back, hooking his left arm around the cadet in
a half nelson wrestling hold.

After a moment's struggle, Wesley realized he was going nowhere.

Tunk stood to one side, capering and clapping his hands like a gleeful
goblin.  The half-Klingon bodyguard climbed to his feet, smacking his
head to clear the stars.  Soon, each of the pair held one of Crusher's
arms, turuing him to face Tunk.

"You can't..." Wesley faded into silence; he had been about to say "You
can't get away with this," but he realized after two words that it was
silly bravura: Of course Tunk could get away with kidnapping; who would
search the yacht of the rich, politically powerful son of a Ferengi
crime boss?

Tunk held out his pink paw.  Without warning, Wesley let go of the
clock, hoping it would drop to the floor and smash itself into a hundred
pieces against the deckplates.  However, d'Artagnan, with his
lightning-quick reflexes, caught it without trouble and returned it to
the Ferengi.  "All yours," said the mustachioed guard smoothly; he had
definitely not been the oaf that Tunk chewed out about dropping pieces
of kitsch in the corridor.

Wesley opened his mouth to protesttthen shut it without a sound.  A
Ferengi who would kidnap a Starfleet cadet might not draw the line at
murder.

The yacht shuddered, lifted from its pad, and glided along the launch
bay, the front door still hanging wide open.

Wesley Crusher watched the tarmac slide past the portal, accelerating
faster.  He swallowed; this was no run on the Enterprise, and there was
no Captain Picard, Commander Riker, or Lieutenant Commander Data to
rescue them when plans went sour.

One leg of Tunk's yacht knocked over a pile of boxes still neatly
stacked in the bay.  The ship tumbled the glowing-globule lamp, sending
it spinning into a corner where it shattered, spraying noxious teal
liquid across the Ferengi's remaining objets d'art.

Tunk shrugged.  "It's of no matter, human.  Everything's carefully
catalogued; some slow afternoon, I'll replicate it all again." He leaned
close, his fetid breath gagging Wesley.

"I've more important cargo.  Heh!  HEM"

One of Tunk's ragged teeth was loose; it swiveled when he shook his
head.

Oh, brave, new world, thought the cadet, that hath such Ferengi in it.

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER DEANNA TROy sat in Ten-Forward, desultorily picking
at a chocolate truffle.  Like every other officer aboard the Enterprise,
she was simultaneously outraged that the ship had been reduced to a
crawl because of bureaucratic infighting and resigned to a future of
such plodding.  After all, when the survival of the universe itself was
at issue...

Still, strange as it seemed to her...  she missed it; she missed the
derring-do, the carefree way they once had charted a course toward the
Unknown at warp nine.  Warp five seemed so pedestrian, almost "walking
speed."

A strange sense of unease pervaded her, haunting the Betazoid corridors
of Deanna's mind.  Something about a dog, a child in the water.  She
shook her head, remembering the time her mother, Ambassador Lwaxana
Troi, was "lost" inside her own head, fleeing the memory of the little
sister that Deanna had once had.

"Now why, of all people, am I thinking of Mother?" she asked of all
people; no one heard her.

Ouinan, the enigmatic bartender in Ten-Forward, was experimenting with
variants on her infamous Sommerian Sunrise, the clear drink that
suddenly flushed crimson when the imbiber sharply rapped the rim of the
glass.  The monk-cowled bartender looked up from her task, gazing
speculatively at the counselor.

Guinan rose, bearing one of the drinks.  "A Gray Dawn," she explained.
She tinged the glass with her fingernail, and it swirled with sudden
clouds, gloomy and overcast.  "For patrons who are morose and brooding."

"Thanks anyway," said Deanna, "the chocolate is fine."

Deanna's comm badge beeped.

"You'd better answer it, Deanna."

"Answer what?"

Her communicator beeped again; the impersonal voice of the computer
announced, "Communication for Commander Troi from Ambassador Troi."

Deanna sighed.  The bartender shrugged, a comical expression of
exagerated, don't-blame-me innocence.  "I'll take it in my quarters,"
said Deanna, clipping the words carefully.

She rose.  Guinan glanced down at the Gray Dawn; clouds still rolled
through the drink, but they were beginning to dissipate, the gloom
fading toward invisibility again as the ripples damped.

"Mother," muttered Deanna Troi.  She plucked the glass from the table,
swirled it to restore the thick fog, and downed it quickly.  It burned
her throat; she was not used to such strong drinks.  Then her stomach
caught fire, and she blinked tears from her eyes.  A sickly, syrupy tang
stung her mouth, and she swayed slightly as the synthehol was quickly
absorbed into her system; it would fade in a few minutes.

Fortified, she left the truffle mostly untouched on her plate, trooping
into the corridor to head for her quarters.

Smiling, Deanna realized that her mother was undoubtedly pacing in
annoyance at the wait.

Deanna sat at her desk, waited one last delicious moment to allow
Lwaxana Trois fuse to burn down another centimeter, then stabbed the
link touchplate to accept the communication.

Mother stared at daughter, raising her brows.  "Well!  Did you finish
redecorating the bridge?  Playing a game of chess?

Reading a Yulean philosophy book?"

"I don't know what you mean, Mother," said Deanna in as neutral a voice
as she could manage.  She tried to hold her thoughts proof against
Lwaxana's prying, but it was no avail.

"Don't give me that innocent air, young lady; you haven't been able to
hide your emotions from me since the day you were boiTl."

"All right.  What do you want?"

"Is that any way to talk to your mother?  Here I spend some last,
precious moments of my diminishing life contacting my only daughter,
just to inquire about her life, since she hasn't seen tit to communicate
with me in weeks and weeks, and instantly she assumes I must be up to
something!  What did that Federation poet write?  'Oh, sharper than a
brief candle it is to bury a thankless child!'"

Deanna felt a wave of guilt; as soon as Lwaxana sensed it, she allowed a
smile to flicker across her lips for an instant.

"I'm sorry, Mother.  I should be a better daughter, I know.

I should communicate with you more often...  but my duties can be
overwhelming."

"If you had listened to me and found yourself a nice man, you would have
a helpmate to turn to who would comfort you.  You'd bear up much better,
you know.  Oh, how I remember the days when my own imzadi and Ira"

"Mother, I can't get married right now.  I'm simply too busy!  Besides,
there have been some...  ala, complications."

Flushing, Deanna realized her mother would never understand about
Will--and how he had returned as his "transporter twin," Thomas Riker.
All her old feelings had surfaced once again; yet the new Riker was as
exasperating as the old.

And then there's Worf .  .  .

Lately, she had begun to suspect that the ever-efficient, growling-bear
Worf had designs on her, designs she was not completely averse to
exploring.  It was all too confusing; and the last thing, the very last
thing Deanna needed at that precise moment was for her mother to start
dropping hints about how constricting her clothes were, and was it not
about time she shed them for a small, tasteful, little wedding?

"What complications?" demanded Lwaxana, rolling her eyes; "you find a
man, find your darling captain--" "Mother, what did you call about?"

"Can't a mother simply call to pass the time pleasantly with her
daughter?"

"Not when you're the mother.  Now come on, you want something."

Lwaxana Troi sighed.  "Oh, it's such a little thing.  Hardly even worth
bringing up.  Not that I don't think you're not up to it, not exactly."

"Not up to what?"

"Well, the senior plenipotentiary suggested...  no, it's silly."

"What's silly?  Mother!"

"Oh, he just thought that since I'm rather, er, tied down here on
Adelphus-B, and since you are related to me..."

Deanna Troi closed her eyes and counted slowly to eleven.

"Mother, what did the senior plenipotentiary suggest?"

"He suggested that you might turn out to be a petal off the old flower."

Deanna let her mouth fall open.  "Doraxi wants me to be an ambassador?."

"Never mind, dear.  I told her it was impossible.  Not that I don't
think you can do it; it's just not exactly...  well, we each have our
own talents and directions."

"Mother, I am a trained diplomat.  What makes you think I can't do it?!
Ira" Deanna suddenly stopped.

Lwaxana shrank from the outburst, blinking rapidly.  "Oh dear, I never
meant that you weren't capable of it!  I'm sure you would be just as
good as your mother--even betted--if only you were interested in
trying."

"You, urn, do you want me to do it?  Oh, Mother, I'm sorry I snapped at
you."

"It's all sand along the seashore.  If you're sure you want to try, I'll
call Doraxi back and tell her you've changed your mind."

"Well, I didn't refuse in the first place!  You did it for me without
even asking."

"Well, I didn't mean to insult you."

Suddenly, the enormity of her mother's trickery burst upon Deanna.  With
a flash, she realized that once again, Lwaxana Troi had managed to trick
her daughter into volunteering for some unpleasant and distracting task!

Unfortunately, Deanna had volunteered; she could not deny it or go back
on her word, not after giving it to her own mother.

Astonished at the ease with which Lwaxana could still wrap her around
the dinner spoon, Deanna could only stare in amazement at the
viewscreen.

Lwaxana smiled, magnanimous in victory, now that she realized Deanna
understood what had happened.  "Don't fret, dear, it's a lovely little
assignment that won't even take you afield.  You're already on your way
to that silly auction, right?  Well, all you have to do for Mother is
bid on behalf of Betazed.  But you're not doing it for me, really;
you're doing it for Doraxi, for Betazed, for the Federation itself.

"We must keep those inventions away from anyone else, even Starfleet.
Just think of the damage those immature races could do!  You don't let
children play with' guns, Deanna!  Must protect them from themselves!"

Lwaxana spoke urgently.  "Do you really think that humans and especially
Klingons are emotionally stable enough to handle such a treasure trove
of powerful devices?  Perhaps the Vulcans would be, but they're not
interested."

"Well, now that you mention it, I guess not." Deanna remembered when
Captain Picard had discovered just such a device.  The result was not
inspiring.

Deanna fumed, grasping at straws; she definitely did not want to become
involved in another of her mother's schemes.  "But...  but, Mother, I'm
a Starfleet officer.  I can't bid against Starfleet!"

"You may be a Starfleet officer now, but you've been a Betazed ever
since you were born."

"But they won't even let me bid against Starfleet--I'm sure that it
would be considered a violation of...  of something!"

Lwaxana smiled, brightening considerably.  "Actually, dear, I already
had a chat with Admiral Boom.  He seemed most anxious to please me... of
course, considering the circumstances, that's quite understandable.  We
were hiding in the bushes outside his son's apartment, watching the most
shameful exploits--"

"Mother/"

"I was only going to say that he was hardly in a position to object to
anything reasonable I might ask.  He didn't seem to think it such an odd
request that Betazed be represented by a Betazoid; and since I couldn't
possibly make it to the auction on time, you're nominated."

"I...  I ..." Deanna gulped.  "I'11 have to ask the cap-rain."

"Of course, dear.  You just tell that gorgeous hunk of man, Jean-Luc, to
send a subspace message to Admiral Boom of the Starfleet Diplomatic
Corps.  I'm sure Bucky will explain everything."

Numbly, Deanna grunted her way through the remainder of the
conversation; when Lwaxana finally signed off, Deanna could not remember
a thing after she had been drafted, completely against her will, into
volunteering to bid for Betazed at the auction.

She had only one faint hope: Perhaps Captain Picard would be completely
unreasonable and refuse to allow her to bid against Starfleet.  And if
he would not, perhaps a long, quiet appeal would persuade him to be
completely unreasonable.

Soon Deanna Troi sat in Captain Picard's quarters.  The captain looked
right at her; but she could sense that he was a dozen sectors away,
already at the auction, in spirit.

"Captain, I just had the most disturbing communication from my mother."

He nodded distractedly.  "Yes, Counselor, I know."

"You know?  Did you know she wants me to represent Betazed in the
bidding?"

Picard raised his brows.  "I just received a subspace communication
myself, Deanna, from Buckminster Boom.

His brother Phillip was my department head on my shakedown cruise at the
Academy."

"Captain I think I would make a terrible representative for Betazed.  I
don't know what any of Zorka's inventions are worth; I'm not even an
engineer!  How could I bid against you, anyway?"

"I won't be bidding, Deanna."

She looked puzzled, and Picard continued.

"There will be Romulans and Cardassians at the auction."

He smiled weakly.  "Standing orders require me to remain on the bridge
in full command when in the same sector as either one of them.  I'm
sending Will down to the auction."

"Oh.  Well, I can't bid against Will, either.  I can't bid against
Starfleet.  I'm more Starfleet than I am Betazoid."

Captain Picard shrugged.  "I'm sorry, Deanna, but there is no.t a single
admiral in Starfleet who is proof against Ambassador Troi when she's on
a crusade.  Whatever Lwaxana Troi wants, Lwaxana Troi gets.  But you
know that, don't you?" He smiled at the memories.

All too well, she agreed; but she said nothing aloud.

"There is another point," said the captain.  "I was very pleased
recently to put you in for promotion to full commander.

You worked very hard; Will worked you very hard...  and all to learn the
most important part of command: You must accept your duty, no matter how
unprepared you may feel, no matter that you have a personal repugnance
to perform it."

"Captain, with all due respect, it's not the same thing.

This isn't an order from you or from Starfleet...  this is my mother
pulling strings, as usual, sticking me with some unpleasant assignment
because she doesn't want to do it!"

Picard shook his head.  "Duty is found in many places.

You owe a duty to your home planet, which is as much a part of the
Federation as Starfleet or this ship.  You cannot put your duty on and
take it off like an overcoat; you must wear it always, on watch, on the
ship, or even on leave.

"Anything less is unacceptable in an officer under my command."

Deanna looked down at the deck.  She knew in her heart that Picard was
right.  She took a deep breath and looked up.

"I understand, sir.  I'll coordinate with Will; he'll have to help me
decide what to bid."

"Ask Ambassador Troi for a wish list, Deanna.  Betazed owes you that.
You have to know the maximum they can afford in order to allocate your
resources."

"Thank you, Captain.  I hadn't thought that far ahead yet." Counselor
Troi was glad Picard was not a Betazoid.

She would not have wanted him to read what was on her mind at that
moment.

Captain Picard smiled.  "I do not envy your task, Deanna.

I doubt I would be any better at it than you, and my pride might suffer
a mortal blow.  Good luck."

She stirred restlessly; taking the hint, the captain said, "Dismissed,
Commander."

"Thank you, sir," she said, rising.  Deflated, Deanna exited as politely
as she could, returning to her otfice.  There she discovered that she
had mistakenly scheduled two different crew members for the same time
slot.  This was not going to be her week.

FOR TWO DAYS, Tunk's small yacht chugged along at warp two, its fastest
speed.  Wesley Crusher spent the time scouring every surface on the
ship, despite the presence of two scrub-bots who could have done the job
more effectively and a dozen times faster.

The Klingon bodyguard towered over the cadet, arms folded, wearing a
scowl that might have been truly terrifying --but not to a boy who had
practically grown up tripping over Lieutenant Worf on the Enterprise.
Wesley scrubbed with an air of resignation, knowing that if Worf were
present, he could roll the bodyguard into a ball and pitch him out a
porthole.

Several times each day, Tunk strolled over to gloat over his "citizen's
arrest," as he insisted upon calling Wesley.

The only other thing Tunk called him was "human," indicating that he did
not remember Wesley's name.  Cadet Crusher chose not to enlighten the
Ferengi, and Tunk did not ask.

At last, the Write Off hove into view of his father's cruiser, whose
one-word Ferengi name translated, as best Wesley could make out, as "A
Ferengi Indulging in All Possible Vices Simultaneously With Tremendous
Satisfaction"; he decided to call it The Glutton, which conveyed a
similar feeling but was less of a mouthful.  The Write Off matched
orbits and docked with The Glutton.

The Glutton was a bipolar, impluse/warp-coil light cruiser of the
Madison-class, Starfleet surplus.  A dead one orbited Earth and was used
for early phases of Academy training; forty years earlier, it had been a
top-of-the-line resupply ship, capable of long hauls at a maximum of
warp five.

Cadets and pilots called the Madison-class ship a "tuning fork," which
it resembled: two side-by-side "tines," 250 meters long, which
eventually joined into a point (the bow).

The tines contained antimatter and impulse-fusion fuel.

Theoretically, the ship could operate for fifteen years without docking
anywhere...  twenty years, if the captain were anal-retentive about
rationing.

The Write Off docked near the aft end of the starboard tine, but Munk,
Tunk's piratical father, insisted upon receiving them in his cabin, just
abaft the bridge.  The four of them trooped the entire distance, almost
three hundred strides, despite the monorail track to their left.  At
Munk's quarters, they finally found the monorail itself, which seemed in
perfect working order.  Munk had simply not thought of sending it, or
had considered and rejected the option.

Munk himself sat behind a pagodalike desk that looked like the person
who designed it had gone mad from eating too much replicated
Earth-Chinese cuisine; it was mahogany laced with bamboo, completely
covered with jade has-reliefs, carved ivory "pilgrimage" scenes, and
whalebone scrimshaw.  A yin yang symbol assembled from obsidian and
ivory dominated the front of the desk.  On the opposite side of the
cabin lurked a jade statue of the chubby, laughing, Ferengi-god Roqadox,
fully four meters tall.  Every wall of the cabin was hung with
tapestries, menaced by martial weapons and shields, glittered with
gold-pressed latinurn, and graced with explicit paintings and holoimages
of unclad Ferengi women, along with females of other species.

Yet Munk himself dominated the room.

The squat Ferengi was barely a meter tall and looked older than the
Grand Nagns; Wesley would not have been surprised to learn that Munk was
older than Guinan, despite the fact that Ferengi do not measure their
life spans in centuries, as Guinan's people did.

Munk was quite literally wider than he was tall, the most enormously fat
Ferengi Wesley Crusher had ever seen.  His warty, hairy skin, mottled
pink and orange, looked like a Bajoran Vedek's warning of the dangers of
excess.  His ears twitched and flapped as he cackled obscenely, the
laugh emerging as a hoarse wheeze that would not stop.

Wesley could not move; he was mesmerized by the sight and sound of the
man.  Then the cadet remembered to breathe for the first time since
entering the room and discovered the incense.

Pungent smoke swirled through the room.  Clearly a Ferengi scent, it
smelled partly like bananas, like rotting flowers, like sweat-soaked
running shoes, and partly like nothing Wesley ever smelled before.  The
cadet clenched his teeth and talked himself out of gagging, forcing a
near-smile onto his lips.

He swam through the cloying aroma to stand before Munk's desk, Tunk and
the human guard at his back.  Tunk bowed and cringed in a truly
obsequious manner.

After a moment, iron fingers gripped the back of Wesley's neck; the
short, powerful guard with the "d'Artagnan" mustache forced the cadet to
his knees, then pulled him back to his feet.

"Certes, m'boy," squeaked Munk, "what have ye brought nigh?"

What a tiny voice to come out of such a monstrous personaget wondered
Wesley.

Munk hopped down from his chair and wobbled toward the human cadet,
clutching a small, gnarled walking stick in his spiderlike fist.  He
raised the shillelagh and without warning, bopped Wesley in the head
with the weighty brass knob.

"Don't do that!" Wesley rubbed his stinging brow, wondering how far
respect for alternative cultures had to extend...  and how Ferengi
treated stowaways and burglars.

"So, it boasts a salty tongue in its noggin?  Splinter me mainmast! I'll
warrant it's a strong back and brave right arm, too."

Munk spoke as if he had learned Federation Standard from watching pirate
adventures on holovision.

From his cringing position, Tunk called out, "This human burgled my ship
and stowed away, Cap'n Munk, Chairman of All Sectors.  We only
discovered him a day into the journey."

"That's a lie," retorted Wesley.  "Tunk kidnapped me, and you're going
to be in pretty severe trouble with Starfleet if you don't return me
immediately."

"Eh?  What?  'Zounds, but which lubber to believe?" Munk turned to the
human guard; Tunk rose slightly from his cringe and fixed his
calculating eye on the man.

"Stowaway," lied the guard without a moment's hesitation.

Wesley Crusher rolled his eyes; had he actually expected honesty from
one of Tunk's own employees?

"But a beastly liar," added Tunk, "as you saw yourself, venerable one.
Very dangerous.  Talks too much."

"But anon, the Philosopher's Stone!  The sacred alchemy, the marriage of
heaven and hell...  bring me out my Djinn lamp!"

Tunk leapt to his feet, dancing and capering.  He clapped his hands;
from the corridor, the Klingon guard appeared with the Kimbal Clock.

Wesley chewed his lip.  He tensed, waiting for an opportunity to dash
forward and slap it from the Klingon's sweaty hands.  Once on the floor,
a single, quick stomp with his flight boots and the latinum
counterfeiter would be history.

The mustache-guard clamped a hand on either one of Wesley's shoulders,
however; the man must have sensed Wesley's intention, or else he simply
thought it prudent.

D'Artagnan hauled the cadet back out of range as the Klingon brought the
clock forward and handed it to Tunk.

Tunk opened the cracked clock face and dropped a small, chaseum wrench
inside; he closed the case then twisted the stem.

"Let me see!" screamed Munk, snatching the clock from his son.

The bright light lit both their faces to a sickly, fiendish yellow.
After a moment, Munk yelped and dropped the burning hot clock on the
floor.  It did not break.

Gingerly, Munk opened the clock face; he reached inside and pulled out
what appeared to be a wrench made of solid latinurn.

He frowned, shaking his head.  "Nay, nay, but 'tis a mistruth.  Ye
cannot replicate latinurn; we've kenned that for ages."

"It's not replicated latinurn," whispered Tunk reverently; he was in the
presence of his god...  the greatest fraud in history.  "It's all an
illusion, a counterfeit."

"Fairy gold!" declared Munk in triumph.

"Fairy gold; that's perfect, Father!  That's exactly what it is."

"And that be exactly what we shall use at yon sales auction--with this
witchery shall we lord it over that pox-fiddled, wizened, putrescent
knave, the m-called Grand Nagus.  Avast, exeunt!  Leave me to mine own
company and drag this sack of dung with thee--" Munk suddenly walloped
Wesley with the knobkerrie again, producing yet another startled outcry
and very unofiScerlike oath--"I would fain be alone with my Djinn."

The guards dragged Wesley Crusher behind Tunk, depositing the cadet in a
holding cell in the brig.

Wesley fidgeted, pacing back and forth for a time.  Then he finally
shrugged and climbed onto the single bunk, exhausted from two days of
crawling on hands and knees, scrubbing at years of accumulated Ferengi
grime.

I'll just rest here for a moment, he thought, then devote my full
attention to figuring a way out of this mess...  and a way to warn
Starfleet that a pair of Ferengi have a latinum-counterfeiting device.

He closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, waking himself
up twice with his own snores.

Cadet Crusher was washed awake by a bucket of ice water splattered
across him.  He flew up off his rack, sputtering, and promptly slipped
in the water puddle.  While he regained his balance and his temper,
d'Artagnan placed the bucket back on the replicator pad, where it
promptly vanished.

"The boss wants to see you, mister."

"Great.  I want to see him."

"After you." D'Artagnan politely flourished, and Wesley walked through
the empty space that had been a force shield a few moments before.

Munk received the cadet in the same room as last time, dashing Wesley's
hopes that the room was ceremonial, and Munk did his real work in a
small, tasteful office.  The cadet sighed, looking for a chair.

"Ye won't find one," cracked the ancient Ferengi.

Wesley jumped; had Munk read his mind or his actions?

"I can stand."

"I see three bonny reasons to fling yer out the airlock and none to hold
ye.  Primo, ye're evidence; secundo, ye can talk and might cast a
subspace signal to yet friends; tertio, me own kith and kin tells me
ye're an altruistic little philanthropist, and ye make me nervous for I
nae can fathom ye."

Cadet Crusher licked his dry lips; the first step in resolving the
problem was to avoid sucking vacuum.  Dead cadets tell no tales.

"First," said Wesley, "you need me to fix the clock when it breaks down
....  I...  uh...  I built it, and I'm the only one who can fix it.
Second, ah..." He thought furiously.

"Second, if you're worried about me contacting anyone, I'll...  I'll
sign a contract saying I won't.  Third, I'm a realist, not an altruist;
I don't buy into Federation propaganda; I don't even belong in
Starfleet!"

come out so positive, so forceful?  I'm just dancing, he thought, saying
whatever the Ferengi might want to hear; that's all.

Munk smiled, a horrible, vicious sneer.  "Heh!  Me own brand
o'scallawag!  Come, boy; take me hand; lend me yet word on't?"

Munk extended a frail paw.  Wesley gently took it, not wanting to damage
the Ferengi (not yet).  Then Munk squeezed with an unexpected grip of
iron, crushing Wesley's hand like an eggshell.

The cadet managed to stifle his yelp this time, biting his teeth
together so hard his jaw nearly locked.  Off balance, he was easy prey
for Munk to yank over to his desk.

"Now sign, boy!  It's a standard, Ferengi nondisclosure agreement,
binding ye and yer future generations, agents, employees, handlers,
lawyers, accountants, assocfiates, acquaintances, relatives, and
nonorganic recording or broadcasting media to silence 'pon whatever
issues be raised in the scope of yer employment by meself."

"Employment?"

Munk let go Wesley's hand and slapped him on the shoulder, staggering
him.  "Ye're the new cabin boy, human!"

Stunned, but seeing no alternative, Wesley quickly signed the document,
affixing his thumbprint to the ID box.

"All right, ye swabbie, uh"--Munk scowled at the signature--"Fred
Kimbal...  say, be that in sooth yer name?  I recall a different moniker
betimes...  are ye not Westlake Kimbal?"

Fred Kimbal?  Wesley blinked; he had not consciously taken the
pseudonym, but it was a good move nonetheless: Fred had, as usual,
encoded his name all through the programming of the device; if Tunk or
Munk bothered to check, it would reaffirm Wesley as the "designer" of
the clock.

Then, too, perhaps he would be able to weasel out of the contract later
by having signed a false name; it clearly showed he had no intent to
make a contract.  Of course, since the matter would necessarily be heard
in a Ferengi court before Ferengi jurors, it was highly unlikely that
anything Wesley Crusher said in his own defense would carry much weight.

"No," he answered, "that was the other guy."

"The other human?"

Wesley nodded.  "That's the one."

Munk stared hard at Wesley Crusher.  "Ye speak sooth?"

"Sooth."

"Well, for a certain, we Ferengi can tell none of ye humans apart; ye
look all of a kind to us.  This other Kimbal; be ye related?"

"He's my brother--my cousin--my brother!"

"Which?" Munk's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Well, both, actually.  My, ah, my father's brother married my morn when
my father was--arrested for trading a cargo of Cardassian relics." Ladle
it on thick, he told himself; may as well be hanged for a sheep as a
goat.

Munk grinned even more broadly, exposing his mangled, pointy, yellowing
teeth.  "There's the lad!  Ye're after me ain heart, and no mistake."

They were the last friendly words that Wesley Crusher ever heard from
Munk, for in the next breath, the Ferengi shouted his new cabin boy
below for "sech duties and urgencies as may betimes be commanded by the
ship's master," which presumably was Tunk, second in command.

In addition to Cap'n Munk and Master Tunk, the other three crew members
were Lotriati who managed to imply that they had come with the
cruiser--and would disappear with it if Munk ever sold out.  This "crew"
comprised a female engineer, a female chef, and a male navigator.

Wesley discovered that Munk's Lotriani crew treated their cap'n the way
Tunk's bodyguards treated Tunk: They took their destination from Munk,
then aye-aye-cap'ned his subsequent orders and did whatever they planned
to do in the first place.

Unfortunately, this left Munk and Tunk quite free of responsibility and
starved for personal contact, which to a Ferengi meant personal abuse�
They followed Wesley around or summoned him to their respective quarters
and gave him what-for.

After a few hours of not seeing d'Artagnan or the Klingon around for a
while, Cadet Crusher decided to make a run for the subspace transceiver.

There he found the guards.  They sat comfortably between Wesley and the
equipment, lips curled in an identical pair of nasty grins.  Wesley made
as if he were counting transceiver coils, tapping the answer into a
notepad.  The guards were not fooled, but they let him continue
unmolested.

A few minutes later, as Wesley replicated dish after dish for the chef,
Charteris, who rejected each offering and suggested something different,
he felt a presence loom behind him.

Master Tunk gloated.  "I guess you haven't read your contract, Kimbal!
Don't you know this is a Ferengi-fiagged vessel?"

"So?" Wesley was annoyed by Charteris's punctiliousness mwas there
really a difference between mashed or whipped mookatatoes?--and he
allowed the irritation to creep into his tone.

The slip bought him a kick in the shins from Tunk.

"Insolent human!  By the treaty of your own Federation, Ferengi-flagged
vessels operate under Ferengi law.  That means that any breach of your
contract will be adjudicated by a Ferengi court on the nearest Ferengi
outpost." He leaned close, breathing his fetid breath on Wesley.  ,Have
you ever seen a Ferengi prison?"

The point was clear: If he entertained any hopes of simply waiting until
the guards fell asleep or slugging them to have at the subspace
communicator, he might bear in mind that regardless of how grateful the
Federation and Starfleet might be for his information, they could not
extricate him from the Ferengi injustice system.

In fact, Wesley was in just a cynical enough mood to brood that if he
did escape, Starfleet would undoubtedly return him to the Ferengi...  in
the interest of diplomatic relations, of course.

Proforma threats out of the way, Tunk seemed anxious to talk to somebody
other than his pompous father and the taciturn guards.  Wesley drew the
ship's master out, desiring to learn the plan.  Tunk was only too
willing to be drawn.

"In case you haven't heard about it, human"--Wesley had not--"one of
your own great scientists has died and specified that his inventions are
to be auctioned to the highest bidder.  Everybody is turned against his
neighbor �..  it's the first sensible thing we've ever seen your people
do!"

"Yes, of course," said Wesley, being agreeable, "Rule of Acquisition
number, ah, now what was that number again?"

Tunk's eyes widened.  "You must be thinking of the Sixtieth Rule of
Acquisition: Let's you and him fight.  I'm astonished that you know our
culture so well."

Wesley shrugged nonchalantly.  "I try to keep up.  I take it you intend
to...  well, you know.  Let's not dwell on your successful schemes."

"Why not?  I mean, we ought to at least examine them for flaws, right?"
Drawn to his favorite subject, Ferengi cleverness, Tunk became
impossible to turn off.  He needed no more prompting.  His face lit up,
and he rubbed his bands as if washing them under an old-fashioned
faucet.

"We'll replicate hundreds and hundreds of bars of gold-pressed
latinurn--only it won't really be latinurn!  It'll

"Chaseum."

Tunk glared reproachfully, and Wesley shut up; he did not enjoy being
kicked, punched, bopped on the head, or any other examples of Ferengi
annoyance.

"They'll be chaseum.  Then we use your device, and radrabat!  We have
more latinurn than anyone has ever seen...  more than enough to
steal--to snap up every lot at the auction.  The only dress on the
female is that Hatheby's, the human firm running the auction, might
subject our latinurn to some sort of test.  Everybody's so suspicious of
Ferengi these days!  It's just not fair...  they don't go around calling
other races crooks and thieves, just because they use aggressive and
inspired sales pitches.  Everybody always picks on us!

"But I suppose it doesn't matter, unless they subjected the bars to a
replicator--and who would think to put latinurn in a replicator?--your
accomplice tells me they won't be able to tell the difference...  you
saw to that, eh, Kimbal?  Heh!

Heh!"

Wesley smiled.  He had a photon torpedo to deliver.  "Well, there's one
tiny detail you all may have overlooked."

"What?  Don't be impertinent!  There are no details that we've
overlooked."

After a long pause, during which Tunk hummed and whistled and stared at
his fingernails as if inspecting for graffiti, his iron resolve broke
down.  "All right, Kimbal;

what have we overlooked?  The plan is perfect!"

"If you say so."

"No, really, it is.  What's the problem?"

"If your plan is perfect, there's no problem.  I guess I was mistaken."

Tunk stared hard at Wesley, obviously not convinced.

Something still bothered the Ferengi; but he could not quite bring
himself to believe that a mere human might see a possible loss in a
venture before a Ferengi did.  After a typical Ferengi sneer, Tunk
stormed off, grumbling below his breath.

The point that Wesley had seen at once, with his Starfleet navigational
training, was that of propinquity, or the lack thereof: The Glutton was
so far away that at its maximum speed, warp five, it would not even
reach the auction site until the auction was nearly over.

The Lotriati navigator and engineer (and probably even the chef)
obviously knew this; but since neither Tunk nor Munk had bothered asking
them, they chose not to volunteer the information.

There was, however, a ship patrolling in the sector that could easily
reach the auction in time, a Galaxy-class vessel that could travel at
warp nine, several times the rate of The Glutton.

If Wesley remembered his assignment schedule correctly, that ship was
the U.S.$.  Enterprise, under the command of one Jean-Luc Picard.

Cadet Crusher waited patiently; sooner or later, the Ferengi's stubborn,
monkeylike curiosity would get the better of his pride, and he would
come back and demand to know the "flaw" in the plan.  The longer Wesley
delayed, the later it would get...  and the more likely that Munk would
grow desperate enough to throw caution to the winds and try to hitch a
ride.

Wesley was not sure what he would do, or even could do, under the
circumstances; he was still bound by the Ferengi contract, and it would
still be judged by Ferengi law.  But at the very least, he would be
among friends; and due to his "farsightedness" in giving the name Fred
Kimbal instead of his own, neither Munk nor Tunk would realize that
everybody on the Enterprise crew knew Wesley.

Whoops...  He suddenly realized the flaw in his own plan: He would have
to make quite sure that he introduced himself as Fred Kimbal (nod, wink)
before anyone saw him and called out, "Hey, Wes, how's the boy?"

Tunk managed to hold fast to his pride for two hours; then, just as
Wesley predicted, he sidled back.  After several minutes of
tooth-pulling, Crusher allowed the Ferengi to "drag" the point out of
the cadet.

In a moment, Tunk raced off to his father as fast as he could waddle
(the young Ferengi was well on his way to developing the spherical look
popularized by Munk).  Unsupervised in the excitement, Wesley strolled
to the bridge in time to hear the hurried orders to find the Enterprise
and rendezvous.

When Tunk had given the orders, in the absence of Munk (who was annoyed
at being interrupted while counting his collection of bona fide
latinum--itself quite impressive), he turned to find Wesley Crusher
sitting on an instrument panel.

"You lazy, good-for-nought, human dog!  Get back to work!"

"You didn't order me to do anything."

"Well, find something.  Then do it!"

"If you insist.  Except...  there might be one, teensy, tiny flaw in
your plan.  How do you plan to..." Wesley shook his head.  "No, I'm sure
you have it under control."

If Ferengi could make smoke come out their enormous ears, Wesley decided
it would have happened right there and then.

Tunk sucked in a huge lungful of air and held it, his face slowly
turning whitish pink.  He looked ready to explode if someone would only
poke him with a fork.  Then he slowly expelled the breath, regaining his
cold composure.

"All right, Kimbal; you win.  What is the flaw this time?"

"Once you catch up with the Enterprise..."

"Yes?"

"How do you intend to get aboard?"

"Why, I presumed we'd just...  ask..." Tunk trailed into silence.  It
was hardly likely that the Enterprise would cheerfully contract herself
out as an interstellar taxi service for itinerant Ferengi, especially
taking them to an auction where they would bid against Federation
interests.

"Fine, human.  I presume you have a plan for getting us aboard?"

"Haven't a clue.  Sorry."

To his credit, Tunk did not fly into a rage.  Ferengi were not
fairy-tale goblins.  Instead, he pondered deeply, pacing up and down,
his Klingon bodyguard loyally if absurdly shadowing his every step.

At last he looked up with the air of a man who had solved a difficult
puzzle, but did not like the solution.

"The only way I can figure is if we're in distress.  Starfleet ships
must stop for distress calls--it's one of their rules of acquisition, or
altruism, or whatever they call them.  All we have to do is send a
distress call."

"Don't you think they'll scan you?  They'll find out you're not really
in distress."

"I know, I thought of that," admitted Tunk ruefully.  "The solution, of
course, is to really be in distress.  Which means in imminent danger of
total destruction, since I doubt your precious Starfleet would stop for
anything less for us Ferengi."

"Don't tell me you're going to blow up your own father's ship!"

Tunk glared sourly, curling his upper lip in a frightening display of
sharp, jagged teeth.  Then the snarl turned into a grin as Tunk thought
of his father's ship vanishing into a white-hot ball of superheated
gases.  Wesley knew the meaning of that grin; the Ferengi was thinking
yeah, the oM philanthropist has it coming to him!

Tunk stared at his father's cabin.  Having just disturbed the Great Man
a moment before to persuade him to rendezvous with the Enterprise, Tunk
was a bit nervous about trying to persuade Cap'n Munk to blow up The
Glutton.  But the payoff was so hugetthe greatest "phrank" of allmthat
Tunk finally resolved himself to do it.

Calming himself, he slowly began to walk toward the door, practicing
various degrees of cringing along the way.

Wesley tried hard not to laugh, which would have given the game away.

At the very least, once aboard the Enterprise, all the abuse he had
suffered would cease.  The contract he had signed might still be
adjudicated under Ferengi law; but treatment of employees, including
cabin boys, fell under the jurisdiction of the Federation aboard a
Federation ship.

And maybe, just maybe, he could goad the Klingon guard into giving some
sort of offense to Lieutenant Worf.  Wesley was not above wanting to see
the brutal guard knocked onto his hard-as-chaseum Klingon posterior.

THE BRIDGE WAS SILENT for a few moments.  Then an explosion of
unintelligible imprecations burst from the captain's quarters.  Wesley
recognized Munk's high-pitched voice, but the walls mercifully muffled
the actual words.

Mercy did not last long on the Ferengi ship.  The door to the captain's
quarters slid open and Munk stormed through, waving his knobkerrie over
his head in utter outrage.  He spied Wesley and beetled directly toward
the cabin boy.

Cadet Crusher stood his ground, refusing to be bullied by a Ferengi.  He
kept a sharp eye on Munk's walking stick, however.

"What suggest you, you pox-ridden, deal-breaking, earless
philanthropist?  Think you I'll cast me ship into yon star for yer
amusement?"

Wesley folded his arms.  "All I did was point out that the Enterprise
won't stop for you unless you claim your ship is breaking up; and they
won't believe your ship is breaking up unless it really is...  they've
got sensors, you know.  These are the facts; if you don't like them,
then limp along to your auction at warp five--/don't care!"

Munk's face turned as dark red as a Russet potato; then he held his
breath.  After half a minute, his breath exploded out in a rasping
cough.

Deflated, Munk lowered his head but maintained his cold, reptillian gaze
at Wesley.  "If this be unworking, human, the cost of ye Glutton'll be
added to yer already considerable debt: faulty consultation fee."

"Debt!  What debt do I have?  I haven't bought anything!"

Munk looked up again, smiling to show his rotting, pointed teeth.
"Certes, and ye have!  Mass, air, water, food, transportation,
tour-guide services"

"Tour guide/"

Tunk responded.  "I led you on a tour of the entire ship from the stern
to the bow when we first docked.  I remember it distinctly."

Wesley Crusher threw his head back, exasperated.  "Fine.

Whatever you want.  Rack it up." He realized he could never work off the
Ferengi debt legitimately anyway; he would have to think of something.

Three more hours passed as they drove along the path charted by the
Lotriani navigator that led to rendezvous with the Enterprise.

At last, she reported the starship within hail; a few minutes more and
they could see it on their forward monitors.

Munk wandered helplessly back and forth on the bridge, mumbling, "Alas,
alack!" and "Woe is met", gripping his ears in anguish.  He approached
the communications station twice, each time veering off into yet another
useless orbit around the bridge.

Wesley watched, worried that the Ferengi had walked the mental plank
into the drink.  Nervously, the cadet tried to edge away from Munk, in
case the cap'n decided to run amok, or whatever it was the Ferengi did
when they went loopy.

Tunk, however, could not care less about The Glutton.

After all, it was not his ship.  He stomped purposefully to the station,
composed himself, and hailed the starship.

"Enterprise," responded Commander Data.

"Ah...  ah...  U.S.S.  Enterprise?  This is, um, Captain Tunk of the
Ferengi trading vessel Glutton.  We're having some difficulty with our
antimatter flow control.  Stand by; we're sending a--" Tunk grinned.
"Our human engineer is attempting to correct the problem, but we may
need assistance."

Wesley opened his mouth, then shut it, realizing that Data would surely
recognize the cadet's voice patterns and might accidentally alert the
Ferengi.  Cadet Crusher slid into the shadows, hoping that his image
would not be broadcast on the Enterprise's viewscreen.

Data's voice responded without hesitation.  "Captain Tunk, we suggest
you do not attempt to adjust your own antimatter flow control.  We shall
be happy to beam a technical crew to your vessel to--"

Tunk abruptly interrupted with a blood-curdling shriek: "Gods of
profit!"

He quickly yanked the sliding control circuit panel out of the subspace
transponder; it would produce pure static on Data's end of the channel.

"Hurry, you lazy swine!" shouted Tunk at the Lotriani engineer.  "Set
those antimatter pods to overload in twenty seconds...  if they haven't
beamed us aboard in ten seconds, eject the pods!"

"Ten seconds!" shouted both Wesley and Munk simultaneously, though the
latter added an "arr."

Wesley was paralyzed; he would have been fine had there been anything
for him to do...  but he was depending on Ferengi, Lotriani, and how
fast the Enterprise crew might react, not his own considerable
abilities.

The engineer said not a word; she bustled around the bridge from one
station to another, overriding fail-safe circuitry, then finally
announced, "Ship detonation in twenty seconds...  nineteen...
eighteen..."

All of a sudden, Wesley wondered whether it had been such a brilliant
scheme of his after all.  What if the Enterprise were not prepared to
beam them out?  What if Data were distracted or had left his console?
What if the Lotriani could not eject the pod?

As the engineer passed twelve seconds heading for ten, sweat began to
drip into Wesley's eyes.  At ten, she began fiddling with the console.

At six seconds, she turned back to Tunk and shrugged, fatalistically.
She was unable to eject the pod.

Wesley Crusher felt his knees buckle; he gripped a railing, staring at
the clock countdown on the screen.  He had five seconds to live.

Four...

Three...

Two.  He blinked.  He had been so fascinated by the dock, he had not
even noticed the telltale fuzzing of the transporter.

He silently counted two, one, and boom!  in his head while standing in
the transporter room aboard the Enterprise.

The beautiful, musical voice of the Enterprise computer announced,
"Ferengi ship has detonated; all personnel accounted for."

Wesley looked around; indeed, Munk, Tunk, three Lotriani, two
bodyguards, and one Cadet Crusher were all crowded around the
transporter pad.  Tunk had grabbed hold of his father in utter panic,
and Munk struggled to extract himself from his son's grip.  D'Artagnan's
face was as pale as Earth's moon, while the Klingon's pupils had
contracted to pinpoints and he looked distinctly dazed.

Only the Lotriani appeared unrnffied; perhaps their race was incapable
of feeling fear.

Wesley stared at the transporter chief.  Did he know the man?  The man
stared back, as if he were about to shout out a, "Hey, Wes!" Or, it
might have been Wesley's imagination.

The cadet decided not to chance it.  "Fred Kimbal!" he sputtered, racing
across the room to stick his hand out.

Startled, the man took it as one would grab a squirming fish that had
just been yanked from the stream.

"Uh, Senior Chief Heavenly," he stammered.

To cover his odd behavior, Wesley began pointing out the other crew
members from The Glutton.

"Cap'n Munk, Master Tunk--no, the taller one--Engineer Jina Kef,
Navigator Rolt something-or-other, Chef Ming, d'Artagn--" The cadet
paused, embarrassed; he realized he had not the slightest idea what the
bodyguards' names were.

It made no difference; the Ferengi glared suspiciously at Heavenly, the
Lotriani talked quietly among themselves and ignored everyone else, and
d'Artagnan and the Klingon watched Wesley like vultures but said
nothing.

"Oh," said Heavenly.  "Hi."

The transporter doors slid open with a hiss.  Commander Data entered
with Dr.  Beverly Crusher, Wesley's mother.

They barely crossed the threshold before stopping to stare at the
familiar face.

"red Kimbal!" shouted Wesley, lunging past the Ferengi to jab a hand at
Data.  "My name is Fred Kimbal!  I'm with these fine, honest, Ferengi
traders!  We're on our way to the auction!  The ship exploded!  I don't
know any of you!  Tell me who you are!"

Dr.  Crusher looked at Data, who raised his eyebrows and spoke first.
"We are very pleased to meet you, Mister...

Kimbal.  I am Commander Data of the Starship Enterprise.

This is Doctor Beverly Crusher, the ship's medical officer.

Who are your friends?"

Wesley pointed the rounds again.  "Cap'n Munk, his son Tunk, his
employees Jina Kef, Rolt something, Ming something--they're the crew of
The Glutton--and two bodyguards."

Engineer Kef looked up sharply.  "We're not crew or employees," she
snapped, "there's no ship left, so we're released from our contracts."

"All right, they used to be the crew of The Glutton."

"We've talked it over, and we've decided to allow you to convey us to
the auction.  We'll bid for Lotri."

"Are you all right?" asked Dr.  Crusher breathlessly.  She stared
straight at Wesley, as the cadet flicked his eyes at the Ferengi, trying
to get his mother to act a little more natural.

Again, the door slid open, this time disgorging Corn mander Riker and a
pair of security guards disguised as a welcoming committee.

"Fred Kimbal," said Wesley nervously.

Data pointed at Wesley.  "This is Fred Kimbal," he said.

"Kimbal," said Beverly simultaneously, "here with a couple of Ferengi."

Riker looked from Data to Beverly to Wesley, the last holding his
breath.  "Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Mister Kimbal," said Riker in
as supercilious a voice as he could manage.  The left corner of his
mouth turned up as he labored to suppress a laugh.

Great!  thought Wesley, Riker is never going to let me forget this.

"Who are your friends, Mister Kimbal?"

Sighing, Wesley pointed the round again.  "Munk, Tunic, Kef, Rolt, Ming,
Thing Number One and Thing Number Two.  The Ferengi own the ship that
just blew up, and the Lotriani used to crew the ship."

"Who are they?" asked Riker, indicating the bodyguards.

"Muscle," said Tunk proudly.

"Speaking of which," added Wesley, "where is the security officer of
this ship...  the Enterprise, isn't it?"

"It is," said Riker, having a harder and harder time hiding his grin.
"Lieutenant Worf, the security officer, and the chief engineer,
Lieutenant Commander La Forge, are on another ship; they'll join us for
the auction.  Am I to understand that's where you're all headed, too?"

"Yes," declared Tunk, "our ship developed mechanical problems, as you
saw.  Well, what are we waiting around for?

Ahead, human!  Warp factor twelve!  We must arrive before the bidding
begins!"

Riker immediately lost his smirk.  "We're moving at top speed already,
Mister Tunk."

"What?  Nonsense!  Kimbal, how fast are we going?"

Wesley stared at Riker, trying to figure out the first officer's game.
"When we were beamed aboard, the Enterprise was making warp five."

Riker drew himself up to look as "Starfleet" as possible.

He yanked down on his uniform jacket, straightening out a couple of
proto-wrinkles.  "Perhaps you're not aware of current Starfleet
regulations, Cadet Kirnbal, but warp five is the maximum allowable speed
inside Federation space."

Wesley waited for the punchline.  After a moment, during which nobody
said a word, he broke the silence.  "You're serious?  You don't have
authorization to exceed the environmental limit?"

In his huffiest voice, Riker said, "Starfleet considers the damage
caused by excessive warp speed to be of the highest priority; I presume
the Starfleet Academy still teaches respect for the environment and the
Prime Directive?"

"Yes, of course it does!  I just meant--"

"If we casually exceeded the maximum limit every time some mission of
the moment seemed important, we may as well not even have the limit."

"That's not what I meant.  You're taking it all wrong, sir!  I just--"

"This ship is proceeding with all allowable speed toward the auction...
at warp five.  If you have a problem with that, we can put you off on
Starbase Thirty-Eight and you can arrange your own transport."

Wesley shut up; if he kept babbling, he would undoubtedly say something
like "hooray," and the Ferengi would deduce that he still sought to
thwart their plans.

Munk had been sputtering and squawking throughout the entire exchange;
he finally managed to put his outrage into words.

"Blackguards!  Villains!  Ye'11 bankrupt me, tear me beard out by the
roots!  See here, me fine bucko, ye'r obliged to ferry us to the auction
in all fairness by the Federation-Ferengi Treaty

"By that treaty," interrupted Data, "the Ferengi also promised to obey
Federation law in Federation space.  That includes the law against
sending false distress signals and deliberately endangering Federation
passengers by sabotaging a ship."

Munk clamped his mouth tight, putting out his cheeks as his good sense
won out over the desire to defend himself against such an outrageous
attack, particularly a truthful one.  Tunk stepped between the Ferengi
and android, oiling over the acrimony.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!  What use are recriminations and
might-have-beens?  So the ship is going to drag its feet--ah, you know
what I mean--getting to the auction, delaying us until nearly everything
is gone.  So what?  We're used to such treatment from the Federation.
It's nothing to get upset about.

"It's no problem...  you say your other two crew members are going to
meet you at the auction?"

"Yes," admitted Riker, somewhat reluctantly.  He scowled at Tunk, trying
to figure out the Ferengi's angle.

"I take it they're already enroute, on this other ship you mentioned?"

"A Kilnson vessel," clarified Data.

"As I recall," continued Tunk, "the Klingon empire has not yet achieved
final agreement on this, what did you call it?  Environmental maximum
warp limitation?"

"That is correct," said Data, "we are still in the process of
negotiating with Emperor Kahless.  The emperor's spokesman Dagragas Nai
indicates that the main sticking point

"Yes, yes, yes." Tunk waved his hands impatiently.  "My point is that
your men will arrive at the auction before the bidding begins, I'm
sure."

"So?" Commander Riker still did not see the Ferengi's point.

"So, my dear human, they can maintain subspace contact, can they not,
relaying a complete description of every item and receiving and entering
our own bids on each...  right?"

"I suppose so." Riker still sounded dubious; but he could think of no
good reason to refuse Tunk's request.  "It might get confusing," he
added.  "La Forge is bidding for the Federation, while Lieutenant Worf
is bidding for the Klingon Empire."

"Who's running the auction?" asked Tunk.

"Hatheby's of Earth and CisLunar," said Data, "quite a venerable firm,
actually.  They have been in existence for over five hundred years."

"There, you see?  They should have no trouble distinguishing between
your La Forge and Worf bidding for the Federation, the Klingons, or us
Ferengi.  All they have to say is, 'The Federation bids thus-and-so,' or
"Cap'n Munk bids thing-a-ma-bob." Simple as making book!"

Riker still did not like the suggestion, but there were no valid grounds
to refuse.  Tunk was right about one point: By the various
Ferengi-Federation treaties, the Enterprise was required to render any
reasonable assistance requested by the victims of a disaster out in
space...  unless Data could prove his implication that the Ferengi had
deliberately blown up their own ship.

Until then, however, the Enterprise and Commander Riker had to play
along.

"All right," he agreed, flashing an ersatz smile.  "So long as we remain
obligated to render reasonable assistance, you can transmit your bids to
Commander La Forge, who will bid for the Ferengi."

Tunk turned a deep pink.  "Ah,.  our bids are for Cap'n Munk and son
only...  not for the Ferengi or the Grand Nagus."

"Whatever.  Arrange the details with Commander Data."

"Thank you so much," oiled Tunk.

"Bless ye and keep ye," growled his father, still glowering.

"In the meantime, Data will escort you to your spacious quarters
directly next to the security office."

"Er...  thank you, Master Riker." Stiffly, Tunk and Munk followed Riker
toward the door.  Wesley felt a meaty hand on his shoulder, and
d'Artagnan propelled him along behind the Ferengi.

They reached the door, which obediently slid open to reveal Captain
Jean-Luc Picard just entering.

For an instant, Wesley stared.  Picard saw him, opened his month to
greet the cadet.

Wesley beat Picard to the introduction.  "Kimbal, Fred Kimball" he
exclaimed.

"Captain," said Riker, "say hello to Cadet Kimbal."

"Yes," said Beverly, "Mister Kirnbal is traveling with these two, fine
Ferengi to the auction."

Simultaneously, Data said, "Sir, have you met Cadet Fred Kimbal?"

Picard looked from one to the other ruefully.  "Really.

Well, I hope Mister Kimbal and his friends have a pleasant stay here
aboard the Enterprise.  I'm sorry I could not be here sooner, but duties
were pressing.  Mister Kimbal, will you please introduce me to the rest
of the crew of this unfortunate starship?"

Groaning, Wesley ran through the introductions once more; again, the
bodyguards did not offer names.

"Am I to understand," queried the captain, "that you are all on your way
to the auction as well?" Everyone nodded or grunted agreement.

"The Ferengi want us to relay their bids to Geordi and Worf," said Riker
unhappily.  "It doesn't seem unreasonable �..  is it?"

"Not unreasonable," said Picard, "but impossible.  We just received a
subspace communication from Hatheby's outlining the bidding procedure.
The only atypical wrinkle is that Hatheby's, having had problems in the
past, has dictated that there is to be, quote, no electronic bidding.

"They specifically barred any bids sent in remotely by subspace
communication.  Unfortunately, that means we shall not be able to convey
bids from the Ferengi.  I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause
you; but I assure you, barring unforseen trouble, we shall arrive before
the auction ends."

Riker turned from Picard to the Ferengi; he did not appear overly
disappointed.  "Hard luck," he said, patting Tunk on the shoulder.
"Well, I wouldn't worry too much...

Ferengi interests will be represented."

Tunk stared dazedly at Riker.  "They will?"

"Absolutely!  We received word earlier today that the Grand Nagus
himself has already arrived at Novus Alamogordus."

Once again, Munk puffed up as if he were about to explode more violently
than had The Glutton.  Tunk clapped his hand over his father's mouth,
preventing the stream of invective from spraying all over their only
hope for getting to the auction at all.  He hustled Munk down the
corridor behind Data, and the bodyguards ensured that Wesley followed.
The Lotriani remained behind.

As they rounded the curve, Riker called out with an innocent smile, "I'm
sure the Nagus will be pleased as punch to see you two!"

Tunk shuddered, muttering dark Ferengi curses about bankruptcy and bad
credit.

"COMMANDER," SAID LIEUTENANT WORF, with an amazing amount of patience
for a warrior, "if you have information about Doctor Zorka's state of
mind, I request that you share it."

"I don't have any information, Worf."

"The Klingon Empire should have access to all the relevant information
required to make informed decisions on how much to bid."

"You mean you want to know how much to bid." Geordi La Forge looked up
from the data clip reader, displaying years of back issues of dozens of
technical journals.  "Wolf, I made a copy of the clip for you.  Didn't
you read it?"

"I am not enough of an engineer to make tooth or claw of it, Commander."

Geordi shrugged.  "I'm a damn good engineer, and they're all gibberish
to me, too!  There are two possibilities from where I sit.  First, maybe
it's all so advanced and erudite that it's just beyond me; maybe I'm
being stupidly blind to Zorka's genius, prejudiced against him because
of his mega-1omaniac tendencies.  Or else I'm right, and it's all a
bunch of pseudoscientific hand-waving that isn't worth the electronic
storage space necessary to publish it.

"How can I say which it is?  If it's beyond me, then it's beyond my
ability to say that it's beyond me."

"But what do mean, his 'megalomaniac tendencies'?"

demanded Worf.  "What makes you think he is insane?"

"I never said he was insane; that's too strong.  I said he was
peculiar."

"But what evidence makes you say that, sir?"

Geordi leaned back, rubbing his temples.  He removed his visor for a few
moments of blessed darkness and freedom from pain.  The engineering
section was quiet, only a single young Klingon watching a few dials
across the room.

"A good scientist always has a touch of monomania about himintends to
focus on a single idea and follow it much further than anyone else ever
did.  Albert Einstein's theories about special relativity came from his
almost religious obsession with the speed of light being constant
everywhere, for everybody.  In exactly the same way, Zcfrim Cochrane
invented the warp field a hundred and fifty years later by following the
opposite idea beyond all reasonable bounds: He wondered what the
universe would look like if light-speed were not a constant in normal
space."

"But what about Zorka?  What makes you think he is...  a crank?"

"Eventually, the scientist has to put up or shut up.  It's like poker,
Worf: You have to either fold or lay the cards on the table.  Zorka has
kept his hand hidden for his entire life!  He's written up dozens,
scores of inventions; yet he's never demonstrated a single one of them.
He claims to have reworked everything from relativity to Cochran�'s
equations to the Photonic Theorem; but nobody's ever seen the math.  But
there's more to it..."

"Perhaps he is merely secretive."

"Paranoid is more like it.  Delusions of persecution; when 1 was in his
class, he accused me of being a spy."

"What?  For whom?"

"For the executive otficer of the Academy."

Woff growled deep in his throat.  I do not tike this, hi thought to
himself.  Bidding on unknown scientific equipment was bad enough... but
now, his commander had cas doubt on the trustworthiness of Dr.  Zorka's
"inventions."

There was nothing Worf hated more than being corn, pelled by honor to
undertake an impossible task, knowinI he would doubtless fail; but there
was nothing he could do He had been selected by the Klingon High
Council, and the duty of a warrior and representative of the House of
Mogl was to obey when commanded.  The Council acted for th~e emperor
himself.

"Thank you, sir," he said, politely, "you have been a grea help to me."
You have been no help at all/It was not the commander's fault; Worf knew
his own ambivalence was mirrored by that of his friend--the more so,
since La Forge might even doubt his own perceptions.

The lieutenant commander cleared his throat, lookinl stern.  He found
his visor and reattached it: back to business he resumed reading the
publications.

Worf did not envy his department head; the Klingon, a least, was not
expected to know whether an item offered a the auction actually worked.
But La Forge was considered� an "expert," and would probably be held
subtlely responsi able if he bid on something that turned out to be
junk...  or did not bid on something that actually worked.

Worf rose silently and returned to their quarters, leavin1 Geordi La
Forge to read Zorka's gibberish for the rest ofthl night.  For his own
part, Worf dimmed the lights and sat quietly, imagining himself as
Captain Picard; if he could( figure out what the captain would do in
this situation, Wor might be able to think his way through.

On the bridge of the Hiding Fish, Worf's brother Kurn paced nervously.
He had to phrase his request exactly right for the last thing he would
want to do was dishonor Worf before the Council...  first, because to
dishonor Worf would mean to dishonor the House of Mogh, thus Kurn
himself!  second, because if Worf found out, brother or not, he would
tear Kurn's ship (and Kurn) apart with his bare hands.

Kurn honestly believed, however, that he would make a better
representative of the Klingon Empire than his older brother; he could
not ignore his duty to the homeworld.

He composed himself as best he could.  He had donned black leather of
the special "Mogh cut," and also the armor of an admiral.  The last was
a difficult call: Technically, Worf should have been the only one to
wear an admiral's rank, being the elder; but Worf was no longer a member
of the KlJngon Defense Force, having rejoined Starfleet.

Kurn had decided on a bold statement of his central theme: Worf had been
absent from the culture for so long, there was no way he could bid with
the heart of a Klingon.

"All right, Commander, open the channel."

The viewscreen flickered, then displayed the ensign of the empire while
ComSec inspected the transmission for dangerous frequencies or hidden
key sequences that might trigger a remote bomb.

Captain Kurn slouched, hands flapping behind his back, waiting for the
secretary of the Council to answer the communication.

"Is this how you greet your emperor?" boomed an enormous voice.

Kurn snapped to attention, astonished to see Emperor Kahless himself on
the viewscreen!  The captain swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.  To date, he
had seen the returned emperor only at the convocation and at special
speeches.

Normally, Kahless greeted the full Council, then retired with the
representatives of the ruling factions.

Despite knowing the peculiar history of the entity who called himself
the emperor, Kurn could not help thinking of him as the real, actual
Kahless.  In a very real sense, he was Kahless: He had Kahless's entire
genetic code and all of Kahless's memories...  the body and soul of a
man dead for centuries.

Almost paralyzed with anxiety, lest he speak rudely and bring dishonor
and discommodation upon the family of Mogh (again), Captain Kurn coughed
a few times and unconsciously adopted the "inspection stance" he had
learned at the Turn War College.

"Your Highness, Emperor Kahless.  I must make an application that
appears to be against my own brother.  But it is not, not really."

Kurn paused, allowing the.emperor a chance to cut in if he chose; but
Kahless was silent.

"I have great respect for Worf of the House of Mogh Had he remained in
the Defense Force, he would surely be an admiral by now, serving in the
High Council instead of me.

If that were the case, we would not be having this conversation!

"But it is not the case; instead, Worfhas chosen a different path.  He
has not turned his back on our people and the homeworld; let me not
suggest that he has.  He has taken an oath to a foreign power, however,
and that limits his effectiveness as a representative of the empire.
Sire."

"Good point."

"I would not dream to insult Your Highness by...  what did you say,
Sire?"

"I said good point, Kurn of the House of Mogh.  I have been thinking
about this ever since I appointed him our representative in the
auction."

Kurn waited, making sure Kahless was not merely drawing a breath. Damned
strange, thought the young captain, I can face death at the hands of a
hundred without fear; yet one old man who is not even what he thinks he
is causes me to break out in a sweat.

"My brother is a warrior to make any house proud.  He helped put, ah,
restore Your Highness himself to the legendary throne of the empire. But
he has little experience with the delicate negotiations that are
required to adequately represent the homeworld at an event of this
magnitude."

Emperor Kahless nodded.  "Yes, I have worried about that, too.  Worf has
great honor, and he honors the House of Mogh.  Is it fair, I wondered to
myself, to ask Worf to bid on unknown equipment invented by a human, a
scientist working for Starfleet, with which your brother has only a few
years experience?"

Kurn brightened; his plan was rolling along much more smoothly than he
had dared hope!  "Such an appointment requires a diplomat's touch; it
requires the touch of a man who has sat in the highest councils,
advising the makers of empires of the delicate nuances of the
Federation.  The representative of the empire must surely be a warrior!
But not only a warrior."

"You show surprising wisdom for one so young, Captain Kurn.  I shall
eagerly await the results of your commodore examination; if you gain the
score I expect, I shall take personal pleasure in placing you in command
of a true warrior's craft."

"And you will consider my proposal, Your Highness?

About the Klingon representative at the auction?"

"I shall do more than consider it, Captain Kurn; I have decided to
accept your recommendation in its entirety.  This task is beyond Worf of
the House of Mogh, though I cast no dishonor upon Worf's house and your
own by saying that.

One does not use a Bat'telh to perform surgery."

Kurn nodded.  "You prove yet again, Your Highness, our own wisdom in
restoring you to the imperial throne.  Your arm is strong and your head
is full."

Kahless smiled slightly.  "I shall shortly have a new set of orders for
you and your brother, Kurn of the House of Mogh.  Until then, continue
upon your present course."

"I obey, Your Highness."

"Kahless, out."

"May you reign a thousand years, Sire."

Kurn maintained his aplomb until the screen faded back into the forward
view from the Hiding Fish.  Then he let out a war whoop that brought
raised eyebrows from Commander Kurak.

"I did it!" exulted Kurn, stalking up and down his bridge with a
clenched fist.  "I have the appointment!"

"Make sure you do not mount your enemies' heads before you cut them
loose," said Kurak.  She smiled faintly, amused by the dirty look Kurn
cast in her direction.

"Summon my brother," ordered Kurn, resuming his command chair.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard sat uneasily in his own command chair.  All day,
as the Enterprise crawled toward Novus Alamogordus like a Ryan-class
slowboat, he had had the most appalling sense of impending doom.

He sipped his tea, Earl Grey, hot, running over a mental checklist of
everything that could possibly go wrong on a starship.  He had kept the
junior engineers busy performing level-one diagnostics on everything he
could think of...

"just for training," he insisted.  But in reality, he sorely missed
Geordi La Forge's gut-level instincts.

Will Riker sat beside him, making up duty rosters for the next six
months...  something he only did when he, too, was anxious.

So it's not just me, thought Picard.  What catastrophe can be just about
to hap�en?

Commander Data turned around in his seat.  "Sir?" he prompted.

"Yes, Data?"

"A subspace communication has arrived from the Klingon homeworld.  I
believe it is from the Emperor Kahless himself."

Picard perked up.  A message from Kahless?  It could be the disaster he
had expected.

For a moment, he considered sneaking off to his quarters to receive it.
Then he realized that was silly; he would eventually have to tell
everyone whatever Kahless had to say anyway, and whether or not he
planned to act upon it.

"Put him through," said the captain.

"Aye, sir."

The views of stars vanished abruptly to be replaced by the Klingon coat
of arms.  Then that, too, faded and the ferocious aspect of Emperor
Kahless (the once and future emperor) dominated the bridge.

"Captain Picard, it has been long since we last met."

"Yes, it has, Your Highness; too long.  I hope we can meet soon in
person, so you can continue the tale of The Warrior Taruf Sadan and the
Autocrat in Green."

Kahless blinked in surprise; Picard's unaccented Klingon startled the
old emperor.

Kahless grinned appreciatively.  "You have a remarkable memory,
Jean-Luc.  If I do not complete the tale for twice a hundred years, I
will not repeat the part you already heard, for you shall still remember
it then.

"I have thought long and hard about choosing a representative of the
empire for the auction; the obvious choices were Captain Kurn and your
own Lieutenant Worf.  I sought advice."

"I shall be most pleased to advise Your Highness in any way you wish."

"As this decision affects the both of them, I shall include them in the
conversation."

Kahless signaled to an off-screen technician; after a moment, a small
window appeared in the screen.  Inside this window was an image of the
bridge of the Hiding Fish.  Worf and Kurta could clearly be seen; Geordi
was off to the side, barely visible.

Even across the subspace link, Picard could tell that Kurn was gloating
and Worf was trying to be stoic in the face of humiliation; the captain
did not even have to ask Counselor Troi.

"I have thought long and hard about this decision," explained Kahless.
No matter how peaceful the content of his words were, he somehow managed
to make each a declaration of war.  Kahless was a born warrior.

"In the end, I accepted the analysis that Worf of the House of Mogh has
lost touch with the Klingon mainstream ...  however, Kurn, the younger
brother, is simply too inexperienced.

"Thus I have decided, Jean-Luc Picard, to name you the official
representative of the Klingon Empire in this bidding."

For an instant, Picard, Worf, and Kurn merely stared at one another.
Then pandemonium broke loose.

Picard nearly leapt out of his command chair.  Will stared at Pieard, at
Kahless, then back at Picard.

Worf turned sadly to Kurn.  "My own brother has plotted to dishonor me
before the emperor himself?."

At the same time, Kurn was shouting frantically at first officer.  "You
told me I would gain the honormI willre"

His last words were difficult to make out as he turned away from Worf's
accusing look.  Then Kahless gestured, and the window vanished from the
viewscreen.

Kahless continued.  "I recall, of course, your delicate negotiations to
put me onto the throne; as well, I read of your expert mediation between
Gowron and the sisters of Duras, Lursa and Betor."

"Your Highness," began Captain Picard, "this is indeed a great honor and
privilege.  But I'm afraid I really must decline.  I must remain on the
bridge of the Enterprise during the entire auction, due to the presence
of Cardassians and Romulans.  I thank you for your most generous offer,
however."

Kahless grinned.  "You do not understand my words, Jean-Luc.  I did not
ask whether you wanted to lead the Klingon bidding delegation."

"Your confidence in me is overwhelming; but I must respectfully
decline."

Kahless shook his head.  "Oh, no, you decline not.  I sent a subspace
communication to the Federation Council before I contacted you.  They
were reluctant at first, but then they agreed to order you to
immediately begin making preparations; you will bid for the Klingon
Empire."

"But...  but Your Highness!  Surely there are other representatives.

Are there no Klingon council members more qualified than I to bid for
the empire?"

Kahless smiled.  Then he began to laugh, a booming, warrior's laugh.
"Captain Picard, you have such a wicked sense of humor!  Are you quite
sure you do not have a trace of Klingon blood?

"Which council member would you suggest?  Dorak Halfhand?  He would
suffer a fatal 'accident' from some partisan of the House of Namal.
Tivanazt?  House Duras would make its objections known most eloquently.
Or perhaps we should hunt down Duras's sisters?

"Any Klingon hero who sits on the High Council or owns a ship or two has
a dozen other heros who would as soon see him dead!  Even Worf was a
choice of expediency: There are many on the homeworld who think your
lieutenant would look much prettier with a sicat knife in his chest."

Picard made a glum face.  "Klingons have tried to kill me as well."

Kahless shrugged.  "All men have enemies, great and small.  You are safe
aboard your own ship, however, which is more than many council members
and generals can boast."

Kahless dismissed the conversation with a hand wave.

"Enough.  It is decided, and your own council agrees.  From now until
the auction ends, Picard, you shall consider yourself my representative,
bidding for the greater glory of your friend and ally, the Klingon
Empire."

Picard said nothing for a moment.  When he spoke at last, he did not
exactly acknowledge the situation.  "Emperor Kahless...  if you do have
some influence with the Federation Council, and even with Starfleet, I
must ask a favor of yOU."

"Anything within the bounds of honor and reason," said Kahless.

"We are hampered by General Order 44556-34, which enacts the
warp-speed-limitation treaty.  There is a provision to bypass this order
in a sufficient emergency, but we cannot seem to get the right hand to
stop wrestling the left long enough to issue the necessary
authorization."

Kahless's shaggy eyebrows shot up into his lion's mane of hair.  "You
are reduced to crawling along at warp five?  This is intolerable!  As
the official Klingon representatives, I order you to proceed at your
greatest speed."

A voice whispered inaudibly in the background.  Kahless turned away,
listening for a moment.  He interjected angrily re"No!" and "Find a
way!"--then turned back to Pieard.

"It appears I spoke in haste.  Belay that last command."

Picard smiled.  "I thought it a bit curious for the commander in chief
of the Klingon Defense Force to issue orders to a Starfleet captain."

"I shall speak to your council; I am sure we can correct this ridiculous
oversight.  Kahless out."

"May you reign another five hundred years.  Picard out."

Captain Pieard sat heavily in his command chair, ruefully stirring his
tea, which had long since cooled unacceptably.

"Number One, get me Secretary Corrigon, Federation Diplomatic Corps.  I
think it's time to call in a nice, big favor."

Deanna Troi, who had remained silent during the entire conversation with
Kahless, now turned on the captain.

"Captain," she said, clipping her words, "may I see you in your
quarters?  It's a delicate matter of crew morale."

Captain Picard looked at her, surprised by her evident annoyance; it did
not take a Betazoid to see that the ship's counselor was ready to chew
nails.

They adjourned to Picard's quarters, just off the bridge.

Before he could ask her what was on her mind, Deanna fixed him with an
icy glare.

"May I speak frankly here, Captain?"

"Of course."

"Then let me quote a well-known philosopher on the dictates of duty."
She folded her arms, reciting.  "You must accept your duty, despite lack
of preparation or personal repugnance.  Duty is found in many places.
It's not like an overcoat; you wear it always.

"Do you recognize those words, Captain?  They are from the speech you
gave me just three days ago in this very cabin?

Picard frowned, recognizing his own words.  He turned his head to the
side, embarrassed at being caught out.  "Any thing less is unacceptable
in an officer under my command," he remembered.  "Well, I'm afraid my
pride is about to suffer that mortal blow I talked about before."

Deanna hesitated, thrown off balance by Picard's sudden yielding. "Well,
I...  well, all fight, then.  Now what?"

"Now I suppose I must bid on behalf of the Klingon Empire, while you
must bid for Betazed."

"So who bids for the Federation?  Or is it for Earth?" She did not mean
the word to come out with such vehemence.

"I hope it has not come to that, Deanna.  I can understand Betazoids
bidding on behalf of Betazed; but I'll be damned if I'll stand by and
see the entire Federation tear itself apart over this foolish auction."

"Then somebody bids on behalf of the Federation."

"I had planned to send Will, but the new Hatheby's rules present an
extra wrinkle.  With Cardassians and Romulans present, a senior command
officer must remain on the bridge at all times.  I had planned to
perform that task myself."

"But now you have to beam down and bid for the Klingons."

"Which means Commander Riker must stay up here."

"Can't he participate by a comm link?"

Picard shook his head.  "No electronic bidding, Counselor.

Whoever bids must actually be physically present and present
identification...  presumably to avoid the situation where a participant
overbids then claims it was someone else impersonating him."

The captain sighed.  "I suppose the next in line is Commander Data.  I
hope he's up to it."

Captain Picard touched his corem badge.  "Picard to Riker.  Number One,
will you come in here, please?"

A moment later, Commander Will Riker sat across from Picard and Troi.
"Number One, it appears I shall be down on Novus Alamogordus bidding for
the Klingon Empire."

"That means I'll have to stay on the bridge," said Riker with a
noticeable lack of sympathy; in fact, he sounded positively gleeful.
"Should we just leave Geordi in charge?"

"That is an unacceptable solution, Will.  Geordi is convinced, or has
convinced himself, I'm not sure which, that none of Dr.  Zorka's
inventions has any value whatsoever.  I cannot order him to make certain
bids and simultaneously expect him to take responsibility.  If he bids,
he must bid as his conscience dictates--which means he'll bid nothing."

"The next logical choice is Data."

"Yes.  It will be an interesting experience for him...  very human.
"Picard smiled briefly.  "Now, on to another subject that concerns me
greatly.  What in the world is young Wesley doing in'the company of an
unsavory pair of Ferengi when he ought to be back at the Academy?"

"Wesley?" asked Riker, pretending puzzlement.  "I don't know about any
Wesley, sir.  The only cadet attached to two Ferengi that I've met is
someone named Fred Kimbal."

"Very funny, Will.  How did Cadet Crusher end up traveling under an
alias to this sector?  Why is he attending this auction?"

Riker scratched his beard, considering his answer.  "Captain, I've tried
to get him alone, but one of those two, either Tunk or Munk, sticks to
him like a magnet."

"You can't separate them?"

"Well, there's another problem.  I can't swear to it, but I think Fred
is deliberately avoiding me.  He seems afraid to be caught alone with
any members of the crew--even his mother."

"I don't like strange, inexplicable events on my ship, Number One.
Deanna...  what emotions have you detected in him?"

"Anxiety, naturally, and a lot of frustration.  But there's another
emotion hidden beneath the others.  Jean-Luc, I would swear FredmI mean
Wesley--is actually enjoying the game.  I detect a disturbing sense
of..."

"Yes?  Please continue, Counselor."

"Superiority.  Fred is enjoying fooling the Ferengi, even while he's
anxious about being with them."

"Wesley," corrected Picard, annoyed.

"Wesley.  What did I say, 'Fred'?" She shook her head.

"He's so different from the last time I saw him.  I suppose three years
at the Academy can do that; but I would almost believe he is Fred
Kimbal, not Wesley Crusher."

.  "Will, I'd like you to run a records check for Fred KJmbal;

I don't remember any such person aboard the Enterprise."

"Not while I've been first officer."

"Try the Academy.  I want to know what's going on between our young
cadet's ears.  While you're at it, find out who this Munk is; what
Ferengi do we know who might give us some information?"

Riker thought for a moment.  "The Grand Nagus.  He makes it his business
to know anyone with enough substance to show up at the Novus Alamogordus
auction.  I'll contact him and pump him for information.  I don't know
how much he'll be willing to give, or whether we can trust him...  he is
a Ferengi."

"In the meantime, Number One, I think the safest thing is to play along;
continue to interact with Wesley as if he were Fred Kimbal, particularly
around the Ferengi.  Let's assume he knows what he's doing and hasn't
merely gotten himself into serious trouble."

"That's not necessarily a safe assumption," grumbled Riker.

"He's generally been able to extricate himself, Will.  I have confidence
in Wesley...  rather, in Fred.  Counselor?."

Deanna nodded.  "I agree.  Whether it's for a good reason or some
strange reaction to the stress of his studies, it's best we not break
the illusion until we understand what's happening."

"Then it's agreed," said the captain.  "From now into the forseeable
future, the gentleman is Fred Kimbal, a cadet on loan from the Academy
who is helping Munk with his bid."

"Data to Captain Picard," said a voice from the ether.

"Picard," said the captain.

"Excellent news, sir.  Emperor Kahless seems to have used his influence
to good effect."

"We've got the green light?"

"Yes, sir; the green light.  Admiral Boom has just sent a BALANCE OF
POW�R

message by subspace: The Enterprise is authorized to violate the maximum
warp speed limitation."

Picard and Riker exchanged a glance; the captain spoke.

"I suppose there are some advantages to being the avatar of an emperor."

"Mister Data," Riker said triumphantly, "increase speed to warp factor
nine.  Let's arrive in Novus Alamogordus before all the good stuff is
gone?

WHEN THE ENTERPRISE finally entered orbit around Novus Alamogordus, the
auction had already been in progress for two days.  Just as Captain
Picard and Commander Data prepared to beam down, Riker opened a corem
link from the bridge.

"Yes, Will; what is it?"

"Priority-one message from Starfloet, Captain."

"Proceed."

"The Federation Exo-Vironmental Research Council has just given final
approval to your request to exceed warp five."

"Excellent news, Number One.  Drop by Ten-Forward and have a celebratory
drink for me."

"I've plotted a warp-nine orbit around the planet0id, sir.

Shall I engage?"

Picard chuckled; despite serving decades in Starfleet, the glacial speed
of the Federation bureaucracy, hobbled by having to weigh the competing
interests of literally tens of thousands of planets, never failed to
move him to sardonic amusement.

"Keep the corem link open during the bidding; there's no rule against
electronically following the action."

"RAker out."

Data turned to the captain.  "Sir, I presume Commander RAker was joking
about a warp-nine orbit.  Despite the apparent seriousness of his tone
of voice, the suggestion is incongruous enough that he can not have
meant it in earnest."

"It's a special form of dark humor called sarcasm."

"I have several examples of sarcasm in my memory banks.  I am working on
a program to respond to such humor, but it is not yet ready for
testing."

Just then, the transporter door slid open.  Beverly Crusher hurried into
the room.

"Good, you haven't left yet.  I'm coming down."

"Certainly, Beverly.  Is there a particular reason?  I thought with your
son aboard, you would prefer..."

Dr.  Crusher rolled her eyes.  "Oh, you mean Fred Kimbal?

He doesn't seem to have time for me.  He's too busy with his new Ferengi
friends.  Jean-Luc, I'm not sure I entirely approve of those two."

"Why are you beaming down to the planetoid?"

"Medical equipment." Dr.  Crusher stepped aboard the transporter
platform.  "I spoke to Admiral Dyreal, who authorized a small budget at
my discretion.  But you caught me: I'm less interested in bidding in the
auction than seeing the Chateau Hotel Casino...  especially with such a
charming pair of guides."

"Energize," ordered Captain Picard.  When they materialized in the
antechamber of the great hall on Novus Alamogordus, he resumed the
discussion.  "I have Will checking on Munk and Tunk; so far, however,
there seems to be no record of either of them...  anywhere."

"The most likely explanation," offered Data, "is that someone has purged
all records of their existence.  It is a common practice among the more
affluent Ferengi."

"We may get some answers from the Grand Nagus, Beverly.  He'll be at the
auction, according to Hatheby's.  In the meantime, we did discover that
Fred Kimbal is the name of Wesley's roommate in the dormitory at the
Academy."

"That's where I heard the name before!"

The great hall was aptly named.  Large enough to swallow the Enterprise,
it included thousands of offices, a dozen recreational facilities,
hydroponic farms, its own power plant (an old spiked-antimatter reactor
built forty years earlier), two gambling casinos running every game from
Dabo to the ancient game of craps, three separate dining hails--one
"small" banquet hall that seated a mere three hundred--and two meeting
and dining rooms that could accommodate over a thousand each.

The hall was originally built as an actual chateau back when the
artificial planetoid of Novus Alamogordus was still called Nouveau
Yvelines and was the administrative center of a six-system mining
colony.  Just twenty years later, with the twenty-three-company
dilithium consortium in financial ruin, the "governor" of the
system--Viscomte Nicholas Fouquet XI--fled with most of the treasury.
The planetoid was abandoned when the colony was withdrawn; four years
later, the Federation Association for the Advancement of Science, having
inherited the artificial planetoid, granted it to Dr.  Zorka, who
renamed it Novus Alamogordus, then sold the northern hemisphere
(including the chateau) to Novus Business Ventures, a resort consortium.

Fouquet had decorated the chateau in conscious homage to the Louis XIV
chateau of Versailles on Earth, in the district of France.  Zorka
himself never came near the buildings, preferring the desolate southern
hemisphere, which had been designed for factories to produce mining
equipment.  Dr.  Zorka turned the factories into laboratories.

Bradford junior, however, lived in the chateau and demanded that NBV
retain him as interior designer.  He not only kept the original
furnishings, he added to them along the same lines.

Jean-Luc Picard strolled happily through the antecham her into the main
building, observing the white, wooden furniture with gilt edges,
overindulgent mirrors, bejeweled boxes, and full-length portraits framed
by velvet curtains.

The floor was a good replication of marble tiles, while the walls were
white with gold-leaf trim, and appeared to support numerous "hidden"
doors.

Beverly continued the conversation.  "Wesley has mentioned Fred Kimbal
in several of the letters he occasionally sends.  Apparently, the boy is
a math and engineering genius, but is a little, how does Wes put it?
Unsocialized.  Wes said he planned to try to get Fred more involved in
things."

"He has chosen an odd way to proceed," Data remarked.

Picard looked up, distracted.  "Eh?  Did you say something, Beverly?"

"No, nothing, Jean-Luc.  Go back to your Louis the Fourteenth love
seat."

"I'm sorry, Beverly.  It's such a treat for me to see perfect replicas
of the most important historical artifacts of my own district.  Have you
ever seen the reconstruction of the real Versailles, about twenty
kilometers from Paris?"

"No, actually.  But I would love for you to show me someday."

"Consider it a date, Doctor."

"I will."

The auction itself was in progress, according to the agenda handed them
when they arrived; however, as far as Data could tell, nobody was
actually present bidding.  At least, there were 814 people present in
the largest ballroom and only eleven physically present in the main
dining hall, where the auction actually occurred.

Poking his head into the dining hall, Data saw the auctioneer standing
at a podium.  Data watched, perplexed; at last, the android decided he
had figured out the system: the auctioneer indicated particular lots
then harangued the bidders until they became so unhinged that they
twitched or made some involuntary squawk, which the auctioneer took as
assent to his current figure.

"It seems a peculiar method of negotiating a fair market value,"
remarked Data; then he noticed that Captain Picard and Dr.  Crusher had
vanished.

Raising his brows, Data entered the auction chamber and took a seat.

An extremely large forefinger poked his shoulder.  "You're sitting on
the Bajoran ambassador," rumbled a gigantic Elphasian.

Data quickly stood and looked back at his chair, concerned that he would
find a squashed Bajoran.  "Sir," he said, "I do not understand what you
mean.  There is no one sitting in this chair."

"Sure he is," argued the Elphasian.  "He's in the lounge chatting up the
Grand Nagus."

Data looked at the chair, at the lounge, then back at his
conversationalist.  "If the Bajoran ambassador is in the lounge talking
with the Grand Nagus, how can he be sitting here?"

"You've never been to one of these before, have you?"

Data admitted the charge, and the man continued.  "It's pre-bid.
Understand?  This is short stuff; nobody cares much."

"The...  desks and chairs?" asked Data, remembering his earlier
conversation with Commander Riker.

"Exactly.  They're bidding on the lighting fixtures now.

They were designed by Art/Dexo Studios.  I suppose they're worth
something, now that Core Bellorus is dead.  Anyway, anybody who's
interested has already submitted a maximum bid to the bid-boss; then
they disappear to schmooze with the other bidders to sound them out for
the hot lots."

"Then if the bids are present, why is the auctioneer still calling out
prices?"

The Elphasian shrugged, looking like a mountain shaking in an
earthquake.  "A few folks stay, those that just like the game.  Nobody
knows when the pre-bids kick in; if nobody submitted a bid on a certain
item, you might get it for cheap."

"Are you here to bid on any of the 'short stuff'?"

"Me?  Nah.  I just needed a quiet place to balance my accounts.  I'm an
agent; I bid for clients.  Say...  would you like me to bid for you,
too?  Takes all the worry and trouble out of the transaction!"

"No, thank you.  How do I find out when certain lots are being
auctioned?"

"They're all on display.  Holosuits upstairs; you find the pieces you
want, check the time and the minimum, and submit a written bid if you
want.  Then be sure to show up at least an hour early; all times are
approximate."

Data rose, strode to the door.  He paused, looked back: all but two
people had left the room, the Elphasian and a young Romulan girl, no
more than seventeen.  Yet the auctioneer still carried on at full howl.

There is a lesson about biological people to be learned here, thought
Data.  He stored a complete record in his special memory file where he
kept all the pieces of the puzzle so far identifiedwthe puzzle that
assembled into a "human being."

Outside, Data wormed through the crowd toward the huge stairway, nearly
twenty meters wide at the base.

A long, boisterous line snaked along the upper corridor to the second
ballroom, which had been subdivided into a number of holovision rooms by
Hatheby's.  Data was about to join the end of the line when he spotted
Dr.  Crusher and the captain two bends ahead of him.

For a moment, Data was unsure of the etiquette; then Captain Picard
spotted him and waved him over.  Data joined the pair.

"We thought you'd been caught and auctioned off," said Beverly Crusher.

Recognizing the joke, Data decided it was time to test his new program.
He opened his mouth and expelled air in a simulation of human laughter.

The captain and Dr.  Crusher turned to stare--as did everybody within a
four-meter radius.

"Data," said the doctor, concerned, "another laughing program?"

"Yes, Doctor...  I was laughing at your joke."

Captain Picard leaned close, speaking quietly.  "I think you had better
work on this one a little longer, Data; it sounds a little like a
braying donkey."

"Thank you, sir.  I will attempt to modulate the sound to make it more
natural."

"Where did you go?" asked Dr.  Crusher.

"I thought you were headed to the auction room.  I was unaware that one
must inspect the merchandise before bidding.  It does make sense,
though."

They waited more or less patiently for another hour before they finally
entered the holovision inspection suites.

The Hatheby's employee directed them into a single-file line.

As soon as Data passed through the door, he found himself floating in
spacerexcept he could feel his feet still firmly planted on the chateau
floor.  Dr.  Crusher hesitated momentarily, eausing the captain, busy
gawking at the sudden stars, to fetch up against her.  They both laughed
then moved away slowly, and Data recorded the sound for later analysis
and correction of his own laughter program.

A peculiar object floated before them.  It was shaped like a tubular
isosceles triangle, colored white.  Data took another step forward,
studying the object to determine what it did, when he abruptly realized
he was moving slowly, apparently on an automated treadmill.

A vocal narration focused on his precise location, describing the first
major lot: "This subspace acceleration prototype draws energy from
subspace to accelerate mass to near light-speed without drawing any
energy from the surrounding continuum.  This device, which uses
previously unknown properties of protomatter, can completely eliminate
the need for costly impulse engines for intrasystem trans In
illustration, the separate rods of the triangle began to rotate, finally
shimmering into an inner red ring and an outer blue ring as the tubes
neared light-speed themselves.

Then a coordinate representation of subspace appeared, superimposed over
the statview; it warped as it passed through the center of the triangle.

A ship appeared, entered the triangle, and promptly vanished in a flash
of blue Cherenkov radiation.

Data stared, puzzled.  If the invention really worked, it would require
a complete rewriting of the universal field equations.  I begin to see
what Geordi means, he thought.

The tour continued past twenty-two more lots that were shown in great
detail, with animation, narration, and frequent, three-dimensional
diagrams.  Data was treated to miniaturization and injected into a human
body; he was sent forward in time to observe a bifurcated race of
industrious workers below and playful children above; he saw a device
that visually projected a person's life as a long, wormlike image,
allowing the user to determine the exact future date of death of each
person.

At last, the holovision display showed the final lot to be auctioned:
the photonic pulse cannon.  It was an impressive weapon: a small,
artificial planetoid, not quite the size of Novus Alamogordus, but still
some two hundred kilometers in diameter, with a gigantic antenna
sticking out.  Photonic beams of protomatter particles fired from
several origin points, joining at the antenna.  From there, they burst
forth as a single pulse that (in the simulation) punched through the
shields of a starship, carefully crafted to match no known ship designs
but to be strongly reminiscent of ships operated by the Federation, the
Klingons, Romulans, Cardassians, and many other races.

After seeing the holovision animation, Data's feet bumped against the
stationary floor again.  He stepped off the sliding ramp and exited.

The final room in the suite was bare except for static,
three-dimensional holoplates of the inventions he had just "seen," along
with many others that had had no animation.

Beside each plate was an information sheet showing the name of the
invention, the time of auction, the minimum bid, and any bids already
entered by other participants.

Each of the "hot lots" already had bids entered far above the minimums,
so it appeared the auction would be successful.

Data did not enter any written bids; neither did Captain Picard, he
noticed.

Along one wall were viewscreens showing the "short stuff," divided into
categories, such as power storage, na-celle architecture, and
propulsion.  Dr.  Crusher found the "medical technologies" viewscreen
and entered a few small bids on items that did not appear very popular.

Data approached the captain.  "Sir, I would like to return to the
auction room and practice bidding on some small items.  Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Data," said Captain Picard; in fact, Data noted with some
surprise that the captain sounded quite pleased at the possibility.  He
smiled indulgently at Dr. Crusher.

"Jean-Luc," the doctor said, "will you show me around?

There are so many fascinating pieces in the chateau that I'd like to
understand better."

Without a backward glance at the android, the captain took the doctor's
arm and strolled away.  Mentally shrugging, Data headed back down the
stairs and returned to the dining hall.

The auctioneer had been replaced by another, but he used the same style:
rapid patter coupled with exortations to "up the holding a bit" and
"keep it going, lads, keep it going."

Data sat in a chair far away from anybody else, hoping it was not
already "occupied," and waited for an opportunity to bid.

Ten minutes later, the auctioneer offered a small improvement to nacelle
architecture.  The bidding began.

Waiting for a propitious moment, Data caught the auctioneer's eye and
raised his hand, finger pointing toward the ceiling.  The auctioneer
accepted the bid, and Data felt pleased.

If one accepted the auctioneer's banter, Data was bidding against one
person physically present and three others who had submitted maximum
lines on the nacelle but were not in the room.  It was disconcerting to
say the least.

"Who will make it ten bars?  Who will make it ten?  Thank you, sir, in
the front row!  Ten is the bid, ten is holding..  2' Of course, there
was no one in the front row; it was an absent bidder.

Strangest of all was when two absent bidders would begin a bid war
between each other!  The auctioneer took all three voices--the two
bidders and himseft mediating--and found it curious that anyone without
his positronic brain could follow the bidding.

Data won a bid at three bars of latinurn for a force-shield projection
tool.  The auctioneer called him forward to record his identification.

"Name, client, and race, please," said the bid-boss.

"Commander Data, bidding for the United Federation of Planets."

"Race?  Hatheby's follows a policy of full disclosure of all winning
bids except in closed, private auctions."

"Android," he said.

The auctioneer paused, stared intently at Data.  "Am I to understand
that you are an artificial construct, sir?"

"Yes.  I was built by Doctor Soong and activated thirty-two standard
years ago."

The bid-boss pondered for several moments, then activated a comm link in
his podium.  "Rules committee to the block," he said.

Several other participants gathered around, curious at the disruption.
Word spread, and within two minutes, the room was half full.

"I do not understand this delay," said Data.  "I believe I won the bid.
What is the problem?"

The auctioneer said nothing, however.  A few minutes later, the room was
full.  The "rules committee" arrived--three senior employees of
Hatheby's.

The auctioneer indicated Data.  "It says it's an android, artificially
constructed thirty years ago."

"Strictly speaking, that is not true," said Data.  "I was activated
thirty-two years ago, but I was constructed some time before that."

"Can you show that you're an android?" asked the oldest of the three
members of the rules committee.

Surprised, Data opened his head plate, displaying the positronic
circuitry.  The members peered inside, then whispered among themselves.
Out of deference for their privacy, Data did not increase the gain on
his auditory receptors.

At last, they nodded and returned their attention to Data.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to disallow your bids, sir," said the
senior member.

"I do not understand.  Why am I disallowed from bidding?"

"The rules explicitly stated that no electronic bidding was to be
allowed."

Data waited, still not understanding.

"You are an electronic construct," explained the auctioneer.

"My brains use positronic pathways, not electronic."

"It's the same thing; a positron is just an electron with a positive
instead of negative charge.  I'm sorry, but the decision of the rules
committee is final: rule five.  You are declared an electronic device,
and since electronic bidding is disallowed by principle at this auction,
I'm afraid you shall not be allowed to bid."

Scant moments later, Data was "escorted" back to the antechamber by two
husky security guards and placed upon the transporter pad.  A moment
later, Data was summarily beamed back to the Enterprise.  He did not
even have time to contact the captain until he returned to the bridge.

Commander William Riker sat in the command chair, pondering the
situation.  "Riker to Picard," he said.

After a moment, the captain responded.  "Picard here.

What the situation, Number One?"

"You may be interested to know that Data is back at the helm."

What.  Why?

Wearily, Riker filled the captain in on the situation.

"I certainly intend to file a protest about this, Will.  They have no
right to bar a Starfleet officer from bidding, android or no!"

"I agree, sir; but at the moment, we have a serious problem.  The
protest will take days--particularly given recent experience with the
blazing speed of the Federation bureaucracy."

"Yes, I see your point, Number One.  Who is to represent the Federation
right here and now?"

"Is there any chance that you could?  No, I guess you can't bid against
yourself."

"Emperor Kahless would not be pleased."

"I can't leave the bridge; Data is considered an electronic device and
isn't allowed to bid; Geordi is convinced that the devices are all
worthless and refuses to bid on them.  Deanna would be a great choice...
except she's already been tapped to bid for Betazed!  Even 'Fred Kimbal'
is busy agenting for our Ferengi churns, Munk and Tunk.  What about
Beverly?"

Dr.  Crusher's voice chimed in.  "Absolutely not, Will!  I don't have
anywhere near enough engineering knowledge to know what works and what's
just plain silly.  Would you send Geordi down here to bid on
microsurgery disphasic forceps?"

Riker grunted; Beverly Crusher had made her point.

"Will, there is only one choice left."

Riker rubbed his beard.  "Lieutenant Worf?"

"It's your call, Will.  I'm out of the loop on this; I represent the
Klingon Empire at this moment."

"Captain, don't you find something a bit bizarre about bidding for the
Klingons while Worf bids for the Federation?"

"Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,' Number One."

"Shakespeare?"

"The Tempest, Act two, scene two."

Will nodded slowly, then realized that Captain Picard could not see him
over his comm badge.  "We have no choice.  Worf bids for the
Federation."

"I'm certain he'll make an excellent representative, Will.

Picard out."

The communications link closed.  For a moment, Riker sat silent,
contemplating the unpredictable turn of events that had eliminated each
possible representative, one by one.  "Data," he asked, "what do you
suppose the odds are that you have just been selected to represent the
Borg?"

Data looked up.  "I do not think that is a likely possibility, sir.  Or
were you making a joke?"

"Joke, Data."

"Ah." Without warning the android threw his head back and barked with
hysterical laughter for four seconds; then he ceased, as if turning off
a faucet.  When he finished, every officer on the bridge stared in
stunned silence.

"How realistic was my response, sir?" asked Data, back to his usual
polite tone.

"You sounded like a homicidal maniac about to massacre the entire crew!"

"Hm." The android wore his puzzled expression.  "I suppose I still need
to work on the program.  Thank you, sir."

His heart rate just getting back to normal, Riker added, "Locate
Lieutenant Worf and inform him of his new status, Data."

"Aye, sir."

Lieutenant Worf had already located the upstairs holo-suite, the only
interesting ride on the planetold.  He found the weapons animation
amusing, but the rest of the techo-marvels were over his bead.  He
exulted that it no longer made any difference whether he understood the
devices or not, as he did not have to bid on them.

Worf had never been comfortable with the duty, mainly because he had no
idea how to carry it out properly.  How did one go about setting a fair
price for some item...  and what should a proper warrior do when the
bidding exceeds the price--but only by a little bit?

At what point should one cease bidding?  At any moment, bidding a single
extra bar of latinurn might win the day.  On the other hand, one could
easily find oneself bidding two hundred bars on an item whose fair price
was one hundred bars, without even remembering how one got to that
point!

Worf was just congratulating his good fortune that Kahless had decided
instead upon Captain Pieard--a much better choice, Worf believed, far
more experienced with this sort of abstract gamesmauship--when his corem
badge beeped.  It was Commander Data, back on the Enterprise for some
mysterious reason.

Three minutes later, Worf sat in stony silence, onex again the
"designated buyer"...  but this time for the Federation --bidding
against his own captain!

He was still sitting and steaming when Geordi La Forge found him; Worf's
friend had just finished his fifth trip through the holosuites.

"Man, what a ride!" cried Geordi, as excited as a young boy after his
first Rite of Ascension.

"I thought you said these inventions were all...

"vaporware,'" grumbled the Klingon, annoyed by Geordi's exuberance.

"They are!  But they make wonderful science-fiction stories!"

CADET WEsts' CRusmm sat on his rack, worn-out both physically and
emotionally.  Physically, he had spent several hours replicating bar
after bar of chaseum in the shape of standard, gold-pressed latinurn
bars in various denominations: dekabars, hectobars, and even some
kilobars; the last astonished and frightened him...  he had never before
even seen a latinurn kilobar.

Emotionally, he had ninety percent convinced himself that he was going
to spend the next sixty years either at a Federation prison colony or a
Ferengi Acquisitional Educational facility.

Shaping the bars was difficult, exacting work.  Ordinarily, to copy some
item, one merely popped the original into the replicator and activated
the "lead object" program; the replicator took the original apart,
subatomic particle by subatomic particle, then reassembled it exactly,
incidentally determining all the data required to replicate it.
Thereafter, infinite copies could be assembled, limited only by the
total amount of mass available to the replicator system, the total
energy, and the amount of time one was willing to spend.

However, the normal technique was impossible in this case, for
gold-pressed latinurn could not be replicated...

hence, the replicatot could not take apart the gpl to determine the
pattern.  Instead, Wesley had to command a chaseum bar replicated,
remove it from the replicator nook, visually compare it to a real bar of
gpl, then return the chaseum to the replicatot with instructions to make
the stamp indentation deeper or the starburst insignia crisper, to
rework the outer frill or move the portrait to the left a bit.

For the first few minutes, Wesley was afraid that someone would notice
that the Ferengi (and "Fred Kimbal") were replicating chaseum bars over
and over', then, he began to hope someone would notice.

"But why would they?" explained Tunk with a shrug.

"What would make them even think to check?"

Wesley had no answer, for of course Tunk was correct: There was no
generic "suspicious characters" program that automatically monitored
passengers on the Enterprise and tattled about anything out of the
ordinary.  Unless Data or Riker or someone thought to actually ask the
computer, "Have the Ferengi been replicating anything?", no one would
know.  Chaseum was neither dangerous nor restricted.

Of course, chaseum that was altered to look just like latinurn was both
dangerous and restricted.  The Federation even had a fancy name for it:
counterfeit currency.

While Wesley hunched over the machine, wiping sweat from his forehead
with the sleeve of his shirt, a gigantic pair of boots suddenly stepped
to either side of his head.

He looked up; it was the Klingon guard, feet widespread, arms akimbo.
D'Artaguan stood at the Klingon's side, arms folded across his chest.
Wesley noted with infinite relief that they glowered at Tunk, not at the
cadet.

"Ahem," coughed d'Artaguan.

"What-what-what?" stammered Tunk, distracted.

"It's stardate 47283.7, sir."

"The first of the month."

"So where's our latinum?"

Tunk blinked, then grinned slyly.  "Why, here you are!

Here's a hectogram to split between you...  that's six months' wages in
advance."

D'Artagnan leaned over and spit upon the ersatz bar.

"Our contract says latinum, not painted chaseum."

"Well, then, maybe we don't even need you anymore!"

shouted the Ferengi in a fury.  "Go play in the turboshaft, Simon, and
take your cheese-headed partner with you...

why, with our new means, we can buy a dozen like you!"

D'Artagnan smiled, exposing sharp, inhuman teeth.  Wesley startedmhe had
simply assumed the man was a human; but unless he filed his teeth to
points like a cannibal, he was from some race Wesley didn't know.
"Thanks for releasing us, Ferengi worm.  We've accumulated a tidy sum...
which we're about to multiply in that casino downstairs.  Have a
wretched life...  I hope you end up in a jail cell."

Tunk snarled right back.  "You'd better remember that nondisclosure
agreement you signed, if you don't want to be hauled into a Ferengi
courtroom!"

Now where have I heard that before?  thought the cadet, smiling to
himself.

"There's still a little matter of last month's wages...  in real
latinurn, you bent little gnome, or we'll kill you both."

Grumbling, Tunk rose and padded into the adjoining quarters.  While he
rummaged, d'Artagnan turned to Wesley.

"Hey, kid, no hard feelings, right?  I mean, I was just doing my job."

"Yeah, sure.  No problem.  I get kidnapped and threatened all the time."

"Look, ah, I've never gambled before.  Any hot tips?"

Wesley considered.  On the one hand, they were simply hired guns; on the
other hand, they had given Tunk the muscle he needed to kidnap Wesley.
On the third hand, the cadet decided he simply did not like the pair of
"bodyguards."

Enforcers is a better description, he thought angrily.

"Sure," he said, "the best game around is old-fashioned Dabo.  And
remember...  always bet on double-circles after every run of three
blues, and always triple-down whenever all the edges fill with bets." In
fact, so far as Wesley knew from reading books on the subject, he had
just given d'Artagnan the worst possible bets to take in Dabo.  The
enforcers would be broke in a matter of hours.

Tunk finally ShuCk back into the room, grumbling anew when he discovered
that the muscle was still waiting for him.  He paid off their wages with
in-grace, complaining all the while about how they had cheated him by
actually demanding their latinurn be paid.

As soon as d'Artagnan had counted both sums, he pocketed them and
chugged away, followed by the Klingon.  The door whooshed shut behind
the enforcers, apparently wiping them from Tunk's consciousness at the
same time.

"All right, show's over," snarled the Ferengi.  "Back to work, or I'll
rouse my father to demonstrate some sharp shillelagh work!"

Just before they departed, Tunk elbowed Wesley aside from the
replicator, winking at the cadet.  "Just a moment, Kimbal; I have to
make something." Tunk leaned close and said, "I want a two-inch diameter
ball of pure sodium."

The soft, metal ball materialized; making sure his hands were dry, Tunk
picked it up and pocketed it.  He grinned at Wesley.  "Just a little
phrank," he said, as if that explained his mysterious doings.  "All
right, Kimbal--break's overm hop back to it."

By the time Munk was ready to descend to Novus Alamogordus, Wesley
struggled under the back-breaking, guilty burden of fifty-six bars of
"gold-pressed latinurn," carried in a shoulder bag that caused the cadet
to list to the right.  The denominations added up to a counterfeit total
of 14,060 bars.

"Tools," explained Tunk to the transporter chief who asked what was in
the bag; "must examine the merchandise to make sure it's genuine,
heh-heh." When Tunk laughed, making it too blatant, the clerk placed
four bars of latinurn on the counter.  Tunk quickly pocketed all but one
bar, then signed in, leaving the bar on the counter.

Wesley scowled, noticing that Tunk signed the name "Brubrak & party."
Why did he do that?  wondered the cadet.  Probably just Ferengi
eussedness, he decided; why tell the truth when a lie, plausible or imp,
would do?

"Say," said the Ferengi, staring at the clerk and toying with the
remaining bar, "do you have a half-gram piece?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" exclaimed the clerk, wringing his hands obsequiously.

"Really?  Then I guess you don't need this!" Tunk quickly swept the last
bar into his pocket along with the rest of the change.

He turned and suddenly began hacking, as if he had something caught in
his throat.

Spying a huge water fountain in the center of the lobby, surrounded by
dozens of representatives, Tunk hurried over.  Wesley trailed along
behind.  Should I do something?  he wondered, then realized he had no
idea how to perform first aid on a Ferengi.

Tunk bulled his way through the crowd with incredible rudeness, then
hopped upon a bench.  Clearing his throat loudly a few times, Wesley saw
him surreptitiously palm something from his pocket.

Tunic hacked one, last, monster time, then spat into the trickling
waters; at the same time, he dropped the object, which Wesley recognized
as the sodium pellet he had replicated back on the Enterprise.

The sodium exploded violently, exactly where Tunk had spat.
Yellow-orange flames shot up for a moment, and the water frothed as if
it had become a lake of fire.  A wave of water erupted from the
fountain, drenching the front row of spectators, and, incidentally,
Wesley Crusher.

Several persons in the crowd screamed, and the mob surged away from the
fountain.  They stared in stunned silence as Tunk, ignoring their
stunned faces, patted his stomach with his fist.

"Ach, human cooking!" he cried at last.

Wesley tensed, checking himself by main force from planting his foot on
Tunk's fundament and launching the wretched "phranker" into the
fountain; it probably violates some term of my contract, he decided
ruefully.

"What the hell you mean, pulling something like that?"

demanded a chubby, squeaking representative of some race Wesley had
never seen before.

"Oh, it was just a phrank!  Where's your sense of humor?"

"I haven't got one!"

"Really.  Well, you should at least have a sense of self-preservation."

The long-shouted heckler drew himself up to his full height, a head
taller than Tunk.  "Are you insinuating that I have anything to fear
from you?"

Tunk curled his lip.  "See this fountain?  Why, if I'd a mind to, I
could throw you all the way across it!"

Wesley renewed speculation about Tunk flying through the air into the
center of the pool; the Ferengi seemed determined to embarrass and
humiliate the cadet beyond all rational levels.

But this time, it seemed Tunk had boasted more than he could eschew.

The snouted one stared incredulously; the circular fountain had a
diameter of at least twenty meters.  "Utter rot!" he exclaimed.

"Can too!"

"Cannot!"

"Can too!"

"Nonsense/"

Tunk stood belly-to-belly with the man.  "Oh, yeah?  Well, I'll bet you
two bars of latinurn that I can!"

"You're on!" The man pointed at all the people standing around, who had
been gawking at the exchange.  "You're all witnesses!  He bet me two
bars of latinurn that he could fling me all the way across this
fountain!"

Wesley stared, fascinated; he knew it was some sort of "phrank," but he
had no idea what was in Tunk's mind.  He did, however, begin to notice a
pattern.  In each case, Tunk's "phrank" critically depended upon full
participation by the victim.  The crowd, and Wesley himself, had
followed dose behind Tunk as he approached the fountain, retching in
obvious distress...  they had not turned away to give the Ferengi
privacy, and they were drenched.

Now, the ShOuted representative had talked himself into a preposterous
bet, one that he could not possibly lose...

thus his greed had propelled him into certain victimhood.

Wesley stepped back, fascinated by his sudden revelation.

The Ferengi pushed his sleeves up, spat on his hands, and asked, "Are
you ready to fly like a bird?"

The heckler squatted, hands on knees, facing the fountain.

"Let her go," he said.

Tunk grabbed the man by collar and seat; and with a mighty heave and an
even mightier yowl, he hurled the man through the air...  all of one
meter, right into the fountain pool.

In spite of Cadet Crusher's resolve, he smiled; it was all he could do
to avoid laughing out loud as the heckler sputtered and floundered in
the water, cursing Tunk in between sucking gasps of air.  Before the
snout could scramble out, Tunk grabbed him a second time.

"I said I could fling you across the fountain," shouted the Ferengi like
a wild man; "but I didn't say I wouM do it on the first try/Ready, aim,
fire/"

Once again, Tunic hurled the heckler into the water, face first.  Then
he reached in and caught him once again by scruff and pant-seat.  "Third
time's the charm/" he hollered.

But the heckler had had enough.  "Wait," he cried, strug-giing in Tunk's
grasp; "I concede!  I give up!  Here!" Dripping water from every square
centimeter, the man fumbled into his pocket, extracting two latinurn
one-gram coins.  Hand shaking, he dropped them into Tunk's palm; then he
splashed his way across the pool to the other side, climbed out, and
bolted into the mob.

Wesley stroked his chin, seeing the pattern clearly.  With out the
sanction of the victim, none of Tunk's pranks would work.

A thought began to churn in the cadet's mind; if the universe was a huge
phrank, was the secret to offer one's opponents the opportunity to
become victims of their own greed, vanity, or arrogant pride?

Wesley Crusher filed the subroutine away for further processing.

Tunk turned and strolled back toward Munk, cackling like a dirty young
man.  He forked over one of the keys; Munk said nothing about the two
"phranks."

"Och, "Lisa fine and noble public house in sooth!" agreed Munk when he
heard about the holosuites with the complete Ferengi program section.
"Anon, young lads, hie ye to yon mummer show, where the barkers hath
laid before us all ye prizes we may capture at bid."

"Us?  Why, what do you plan to do, Father?"

"Meself?  Why, this poor, aged relative shall lay to rest his weary
bones upon yon feathery nest."

"You're hieing yourself to the holosuite!" snarled Tunk, pointing an
accusatory finger at Munk.

"Hold thy tongue, vatlet!  Fly, fly!  Get thee hence!  Parting is such a
brief candle.  Anon, we shall walk again, hand in hand; but for the
nonce, get thine arse into yon demo suite/" Munk spoke the last with
such vehemence and brimstone that Tunk and Wesley both shrank from the
old Ferengi's wrath.  They hurried away to the animated holosuite to
study the lots that would be offered later in the auction.

After passing through the exhibit, Wesley found himself dizzy and
confused.  Virtually everything he had seen was completely impossible by
everything he had learned in his engineering classes at the Academy;
what's more, it all seemed like exactly the sort of wish-fulfillment
fantasies he would daydream to avoid schoolwork.

Constant exposure to the real Fred Kimbal, however, had made Wesley
chary of any fiat statement "it cannot be done." After all, a week ago,
he would have sworn it was impossible to turn chaseum into gold-pressed
latinum, or at least into a counterfeit good enough to fool anyone who
did not have sensor arrays as good as a starship science lab's.

He shook his head.  Who was Wesley Crusher to pass judgment on whether
Dr.  Zorka, who might well be the greatest scientist of the modern age,
was in fact a kook?

As Tunk and Wesley came out of the demo suite, the Ferengi decided he
was weary and plopped himself down on one of the numerous benches.  He
grunted and pointed to the seat next to him with a scowl that clearly
said sit.

Wesley sat, though he was not particularly tired.  He waited impatiently
while the Ferengi calculated the anticipated sums required to pick up
all the important devices.

For the first time, Wesley began to wonder just what, exactly, Munk and
Tunk wanted with such powerful inventions.

Having just witnessed a "photonic pulse cannon" as big as a small
planetoid blowing apart some sort of starship with a single shot, the
cadet's brow began to sweat.

Just how livable would be the Alpha Quadrant if the Ferengi were all
armed with shield-puncturing pulse cannons?

Cadet Crusher became aware of a huge Klingon sitting next to him.  He
edged away, worried about jostling the fellow and getting a
demonstration of the traditionally bad temper of Klingons.

"Look, Kimbal," demanded Tunk, shoving his hand-calc in front of
Wesley's face.  The cadet stared at the gigantic number, and Tunk
continued.  "That's how many bars of gold-pressed latinurn we're likely
to need.  How long?"

Wesley stared; the number was so phenomenally huge that he had trouble
even grasping it...  three hundred and fifty thousand bars of
gold-pressed latinurn!

His mouth fell open.  For an instant, he imagined replicating bar after
bar for years to try to amass that staggering amount.  There was not
enough matter in the entire replication system to produce it!

Then he blinked and realized he was being stupid.  They would replicate
large denominations, of course, kilobars and hectobars...  not
individual bars.

"How long, human?" insisted Tunk.  He apparently wanted an actual
estimate.

"Well..." Wesley translated his sum into three thousand hectobars and
fifty kilobars of chasemn that would be transformed in Kimbal's clock: a
total of 3,050 bars.  Considering the size, only three could fit at once
in the clock case; that meant about a thousand separate transmutations.

"There must be a logical, rational way to set the price," growled the
Klingon.  Wesley tried to drown out the man's booming voice and
concentrate on his estimate.

Each transmutation took approximately ten seconds; but there was also
the time spent getting the bars into and out of the case...  say,
another ten seconds.  Thus they could make no more than three
transmutations per minute, probably closer to two.

A human on the other side of the Klingon said something, and the Klingon
again boomed his reply: "Intuition is fine for shopkeepers and
moneyqenders!  How is a warrior to know when to drop out of the
bidding?"

Something sounded quite familiar about the Klingon, but Wesley continued
to ponder his calculation.  A thousand bars meant between six and eight
hours, assuming continuous work.

He cleared his throat.  "I'd guess about twelve hours, if we don't take
a single break.  But of course we'll have to--" "Can't you make it
eight?"

"Tunk, you don't understand.  That estimate is not counting rest breaks,
sleeping, eating, or anything else."

"Perfect.  Eight hours it is, then.  Let's see, if you begin
immediately, you ought to have the full amount by morning, yes?"

Wesley sighed.  "Sure.  No problem."

The Klingon spoke again, drowning out Wesley's thoughts.  "Can you at
least help me come up with some reasonable estimates if the inventions
were real, sir?"

Wesley froze in horror; he suddenly realized who sat next to him.
Lieutenant Worf gestured expansively with one arm, knocking the cadet
forward into Tunk.

"I beg your pardon," rumbled Worf, turning and noticing the boy for the
first time.  He stared in surprise.  An instant later, Geordi La Forge's
head peeked around the bulk of his Klingon friend to also stare.

"Wesley Crusher!" declared Worf, "what are you doing so far from the
Academy, Cadet?"

"You know my new cabin boy?" asked Tunk in surprise.

"Of course I know Wesley Crusher!" snapped Worf.  "He was on board thet"

"The orbital ship!" interjected Cadet Crusher in a rush.

"We met aboard the Academy training vessel.  Lieutenant Worf was the
security instructor my sophomore year."

Tunk sized up the Klingon with evident distaste.  "Yes, yes, how nice.
We really must be going, however.  Very nice to meet you, Lieutenant
Whif."

"Worf!"

"But you really must learn to distinguish between different humans if
you're going to get along in this quadrant.

This is Fred Kimbal, not Wesley Crusher; Crusher is the other one.  I
know they all look alike to you, and truth to tell, to me, too.  But if
you go around mistaking one human for another, they get very
unreasonably annoyed." Tunk jabbed Wesley in the ribs.  "Come on,
Kimbal; you've got a good eight hours of work ahead of you, if you know
what I mean, eh?  Heh-heh!"

"Fred Kimbal," said Wesley, staring Worf in the eye and enunciating
carefully.

"Fred Kimbal?"

Wesley nodded vigorously.  "Kimbal!  Please remember, sir."

Worf said nothing as Tunk dragged "Fred Kimbal" away by his elbow.

When the Ferengi and the cadet were out of sight and possible earshot,
Geordi spoke.  "What in the world was that all about?"

"I do not know, Commander.  But one of these days, that boy is going to
get himself into a lot of trouble."

For a fellow with short legs, Tunk charged so rapidly across the lobby
to the turbolift that Wesley could barely keep up.  The Ferengi bobbed
through the mobile vulgus with consumate grace, leaving Cadet Crusher
trailing futilely in his wake.

Up in their room on deck thirty-eighttthe thirty-eighth floor, Wesley
corrected himself--the cadet barely had time to toss his kit on the bed
before Tunk announced, "Ah, here's the replicator!  Hurry, human; we've
already wasted several valuable minutes."

Wesley moved west to poke at the replicatot, an ancient model dating
nearly from his own birth; at the same moment, the Ferengi swept
Wesley's kit onto the floor with a casual flip and stretched out on the
bed.

"Why don't you set up a program to automatically replicate chaseumn
bars?" suggested Tunk sleepily.  "Then you can busy yourself with the
tranzT~...  muuu..." The words slurred off into snores; worn-out from a
long day of issuing orders, Tunk had fallen asleep.

Well, this is the moment of truth, thought Wesley.  Up to now, I've been
at worst a passive accessory.  But if I actually start replicating
chaseum and disguising it as gold-pressed latinum, I cross the line and
become an active collaborator.  t It may not have been a vital
distinction, but it was important to Wesley: It was the sin of omission
versus the sin of commission.  He had allowed himself to be dragged,
reluctantly, halfway across the cosmos; he had not resisted
sufficiently, perhaps, not been willing to simply accept accountability
for his own part in the lark.  Now, he could choose to begin actively
furthering the crime or else slink out, find a law-enforcement official
(probably a Hatheby's employee), and turn himself in.

However, try as he might, he still could not see any way to turn nose,
yet emerge with skin intact.  The Ferengi could still point the finger
at Wesley Crusher, and how could he deny it?

Yet the moment they began to spend any of the counterfeit in large
numbers, they would implicate themselves as thoroughly as if they signed
a confession.  If they got caught, Wesley would at least have the
satisfaction of knowing that Tunic and Munk were in the very next rock
pile, slaving away.

Besides, if he just fed their greed sufficiently, perhaps they would
make a serious mistake; Ferengi were well known for losing all
rationality in the shadow of limitless wealth.

Swallowing hard, Wesley programmed the replicator to produce three
hectobars of chaseum in the exact configuration of latinurn every thirty
seconds; after a few minutes, he settled into a routine, scooping the
bars out of the replicator nook, arranging them under the clock face,
and activating the transmutation field.

After thirty-five minutes, Wesley had a pile of two hundred hectobars
of"gold-pressed latinurn," or a near enough fake that they would pass
even the closest scrutiny--except a sensor sweep in a well-equipped
starship science lab.  He also had a sweat-soaked tunic and a pair of
aching, numb shoulders.

"Pause program!" he gasped as hectobars 201 through 203 materialized on
the plate.  He forced his hands to transfer them to the clock, nearly
dropping the bars onto the device.

For a solid minute, he contemplated the Kimbal Clock without twisting
the setting stem.  Do I have the guts to stand up and stomp it out of
existence?  he wondered.

Feeling the back of his neck creeping, Wesley looked over at Tunk.  The
Ferengi regarded him with glittering, lizard eyes.  "In case you were
thinking of destroying the machine, boy, I'd try to remember everything
I'd ever read or heard about Ferengi consolidation camps." Tunk grinned
as only a Ferengi could.  "The descriptions don't even begin to do them
justice."

"I couldn't even if I wanted to, Tunk.  The explosion would probably
blow my foot off...  and I'm too exhausted to even drop a bar on it
right now."

Tunk's roving gaze caught the pile of ersatz latinum, and he gasped. His
eyes widened until Wesley wondered whether they would actually telescope
out like in a holotoon.  A moth to candle flame, the Ferengi floated up
out of bed, across the room, to the pile.  He stared, awestruck, then
gingerly reached out a paw to touch the glittering dragoh's hoard.

"By all the Rules of Acquisition," he breathed.  It was not an oath; it
sounded more like prayer.

Just then, the lock snicked, and the door slid open, disgorging Munk.
The wizened, old goblin looked startled to see them there; then he
cringed for an instant in reflexive guilt, presumably having come from
the holosuite, not a nap in the adjoining room.  Then he remembered who
and what he was and strode lustily into the room, waving his walking
stick theatrically.

"Anon come I, me hearties!  Sure and 'tis a..." He squeaked into
silence, staring at the pile of latinurn.  Were it real, it would be
equal to twenty thousand, three hundred bars of gold-pressed
latinurn--enough to buy a Miranda-class starship sans weaponry and
instrument package.  It was the most dizzying hoard Wesley had ever seen
by far, even Munk was affected.

"Buh-buh-buh-buh-blow me down.t" he managed.

Tunk and Munk stood over the pile of loot, rubbing their hands as if
warming them over a campfire.  They looked like such twins of larceny
that Wesley recoiled in revulsion before remembering that he, too, was a
nephew in the larcenous family.

"B'dad!" Munk ejaculated.  "Sure and 'tis a raw, fresh treasure fit for
a space buccaneer, lads!  But that ye've seen yet wee rest, 'tis time to
strive anew and four-times-double yon heap afore the light of dawn!"

"Aye--I mean Yes, it is," agreed Tunk.  Grabbing Wesley's biceps without
tearing his gaze from the fraudulent latinurn, Tunk dragged the cadet
back to his position.  "Break time's over, cabin boy.  Back to work!"
The Ferengi whirled to face the cadet and grinned like a loon.  "I'11
bet you never thought, when you signed up for Starfleet, that you'd be
making ten thousand bars of latinum per hour, did you?"

The two Ferengi brayed with laughter at the beau jest, while Wesley
wearily reactivated the replicatot program and returned to his wretched
task.

WESLEY TUMBLED INTO BED, utterly drained.  The grumbling Munk had
graciously allowed the cadet two hours sleep...

two hours during which Wesley Crusher need not make any "latinurn."
Naturally, Munk directed Tunk to continue the process; and naturally,
Tunk objected strenuously (objecting was one of the few activities Tunk
ever did perform strenuously).

Munk and Tunic had a terrific row while Wesley held a pillow over his
face, blocking out about thirty percent of the noise.  In the end, Munk
seemed to prevail: When last seen through Wesley's bleary, red eyes, the
younger Ferengi knelt hunched over the Kimbal Clock.

However, when Munk prodded the cadet awake with the walking stick in his
ribs, the pile of counterfeit had barely grown.  Tunk had managed to
discover so many "technical problems" that he passive-resisted his way
into not actually replicating anything.

Thus, the total amount the Ferengi had was the hoard of bars Wesley
crafted: Twelve hundred and fifteen hectobars and one hundred and two
kilobars, or two hundred and twenty-three thousand, five hundred bars
gpl.

Nearly enough to buy a fully armed scoutship, thought Wesley with a
shudder, fortunately, none was on the block.

The cadet stacked the treasure trove into a pile with a base of half a
meter by about half a meter, not quite a full meter high.  "Are we
taking it down with us?" he asked, thinking about the staggering weight
of more than two-and-a-half metric tonnes.

"To the auction?" demanded Tunk, incredulous.  "Don't you think that
would look a bit suspicious, human?  We'll leave most of it here and
take only a couple of hundred hectos and ten kilos in a satchel."

Wesley gulped; two hundred and ten bars weighed four hundred and twenty
kilograms, and he had no illusions about who would be required to
wrestle with the satchel.

Even with a zero-g pallet, it would still mass the same.  It'll be merry
hell dragging it around corners and stopping and starting it!

"Aye, but what be the scheme for guising it in our absence?"

"Why, we just..." Tunk opened and closed his mouth a few times, staring
at the pile.  It was an awfully big pile.

Wesley rolled his eyes.  "For a bunch of brilliant merchants, you sure
don't know much about hiding things."

The cadet scooped off the two hundred hectobars and ten kilobars; then
he removed a flat, two-dimensional picture of a meter square from the
wall, balancing it atop the "latinurn." He replicated a white tablecloth
and spread it over the picture; it hung to the floor.  Then he
replicated a Japanese tea service and placed it on the tablecloth.

"There," he said, "a worthless table."

Tunk walked all the way around it, nodding sagely.  The table stood
three quarters of a meter high and, with the addition of the painting, a
meter square...  perfect for Ferengi.

Tunk's father stood where he was and cackled.  "Aye, that be parlay!
What villain or blackguard should squint even twice 'pon such a
commonplace stand?"

Munk jabbed Wesley in the back with the knobkettle again, driving him
toward the door.  Tunk followed the old Ferengl, carefully setting the
locks.

Down the stairs they marched, terminating in the main auction room.  The
first of the big-ticket items would be offered in a very few minutes,
and the room was fffiing rapidly.  Munk hunted until he found two empty
seats next to a frazzled Coroustai.  The old Ferengi poked Cadet Crusher
into one and Tunk into the other, then jabbed and thumped the disheveled
Coroustai in the third seat, berating the gentleman and venting his
outrage at having "his" seat stolen, until the Coroustai fled to another
spot in exasperation.

Munk sat down in the liberated seat.

The pair of Ferengi proceeded to ignore Wesley, which suited the cadet
fine: It allowed him to concentrate on the curious bidding system.

He was momentarily confused when he realized that the auctioneer was
steadily decreasing the numbers he called �..  and that nobody was
bidding.  Eventually, the auctioneer hit a particular point, and a
Cardassian toward the front flourished his hand.

"Sold to Gul Fuhar, bidding for...  ?"

"For myself," said the Cardassian.

"Bidding for himself; twelve bars gpl."

For himself--hah!  Wesley leaned over to Tnnk.  "Don't bids usually
start low and go up?"

The Ferengi glared as if Wesley's question had been covered in the last
lecture.  "It's a crutch auction," he sneered, "you start high and keep
lowering until someone accepts the bid.  After a day or two, the
auctioneers get restive and begin playing games to keep everyone
interested."

"Why a 'crutch' auction?"

"It's because the auctioneer's own bidding is a crutch for new players,
of course!"

For the next fifteen minutes, Hatheby's ran a "crutch auction" for seven
different lenses that one of Dr.  Zorka's assistants had designed to
better focus phaser energy.

On the fifth lens, Wesley jumped when he heard Lieutenant Woff's voice
boom out to accept a bid.

"What a dolt!" exclaimed Tunk.  "Klingons have no patience...  he could
have saved twenty bars of latinurn by waiting another minute."

Wesley looked back and scanned the crowd, spotting not only Woff and
Geordi, but also Counselor Troi and the captain himself.  Neither
bothered bidding on any of the lenses...  but perhaps they simply
thought the price was too high.

At last, the final lens was offered, not moving until its price was down
to nine bars of gpl.  The auctioneer announced a two-hour recess, alter
which bidding would return to the "default mode."

"Dinner break," said Tunk.  "Come on, human...  I've just thought of a
wonderful phrank!"

Abandoning Munk in the seats--the old Ferengi seemed asleep--Tunk
dragged Wesley off to the lobby.  They found their way to the banquet
hall that was actually serving food.

"Stick close to me," cautioned Tunk.

Wesley determined to observe dispassionately, not allowing his own
embarrassment to interfere with checking his hypothesis: If the cadet
was right, then Tunk's victim would, in essence, make a fool of himself
by eagerly stepping into the "victim" role.

The Ferengi strolled through the hall and began following a waiter
around, with Wesley immediately behind, playing tail of the dragon.  The
young waiter finally headed into the kitchen, uhaware that he was the
front man of a circus parade.

Tunk tapped the waiter's shoulder.  "Here, Bud," offered the Ferengi,
holding up a decigram, "gimmie the jacket."

"What?" asked the boy, confused.

"Your jacket, human!  Hand me your jacket, just for a moment.  Here,
take this for your trouble!" Tunk shoved the coin at the boy, who
suddenly parsed the situation and stripped off his waiter's jacket.

"What--what are you going to do?" asked the cadet; Tunk merely plucked
the jacket from the waiter's hand, winking at Wesley.

Tunk struggled into the jacket, but it hung past his knees.

Ignoring the incongruous look, he strode pompously back into the dining
hall, followed at a discreet distance by a nervous Cadet Crusher.

Tunk wandered among the tables until he found a particularly large
party, all dressed in grand, sober style.  Tunk gestured Wesley close,
whispering in his ear, "Rule of Acquisition number three hundred and
three: The sheep want to be fleeced!"

Wesley frowned.  "Ferengi have sheep?"

"Actually, I just now made it up.  Maybe I'll propose it at the next
Trade Council meeting?  Tunk wiggled his eye ridges and elbowed Wesley
in the gut, doubling the cadet over.  Then the Ferengi ambled forward
and parked himself at the head of the table.

The host was a venerable, old president of a merchants' corporation.
Tunk stood behind the gentleman, eyeing his every move with displeasure.

It did not take long for the rest of the table, followed by the
president himself, to notice the frowning gargoyle at the man's side.

Wesley shifted for a better view.  What the hell is he do'rag?

he wondered, nervously watching for approaching security guards.

Instead, a real waiter approached, bringing the salads; he distributed
them around the table according to a complex ritual.

All right, thought the cadet; now at some point, the target has to give
control over to Tunk.

The president reached for his fork, and the "fun" began.

Tunk loomed over the man, loudly clucking his tongue and wagging his
finger disapprovingly.

Chastened, the man yanked his hand back, then reached out to take a
different fork; he was nonplussed, having four to choose from.

When he touched one, Tunk snarled, "Not that one, you mannerless dolt!"
It was almost under Tunk's breath; but in fact, everyone at the table
could hear it.

Wesley jumped; why doesn't he just turn around and smack him one?  Even
as old as he was, the president had a great advantage of height, reach,
and weight over the Ferengi...  but Tunk had one attribute that was
apparently decisive: He wore the white coat of a waiter, thus gaining
the sanction of "authority."

"Here!" snapped the Ferengi in apparent exasperation, snatching a fork
at random and handing it to the poor gentleman.  "This one!  Everybody
is watching!"

Conversation resumed with relief, and the president tried to ignore
Tunk; but it was like trying to ignore the Angel of Death hovering at
his elbow; the man kept sneaking worried glances back at the supposed
waiter.  At irregular intervals, Tunk would cluck his tongue, shake his
head, roll his eyes, or snort loudly, while Wesley Crusher's face
reddened in embarrassment.  Once, when the old man reached for his roll,
the Ferengi reached over and slapped his hand!

At first, the cadet gasped at the audacity; surely now the entire table
would rise up in wrath and bean the Ferengi with a soup tureen!  But the
president cringed, meekly accepting his repuke; and all at once, Wesley
understood the true humor of the situation: The president of a mighty
company, head of a bidding delegation, was allowing himself to be bossed
and insulted by a hotel restaurant waiter �..  just to avoid making a
scene!

Despite the cadet's stern self-admonition, he had to clap his hand over
his mouth, barely suppressing a hoot of laughter.

By the time dessert was wheeled in, the old man was in a frenzy.  He
shook with terror, afraid to touch a single implement for fear of
offending the "waiter" and eliciting another sarcastic comment.

The pastry chef rolled a large dessert cart to the table, piled high
with lucious-looking chocolate cakes that made Cadet Crusher's mouth
water.  The chef and a waiter served the dessert reverently.

Tunk went into a spasm of exasperation, critiquing everything the poor
old president did from his posture to his choice of clothing.  "Really,
sir?  exclaimed the Ferengi, "one would think you'd have the decency to
change out of your gardening clothes before coming to such a fine
restaurant as this!"

Wesley shook helplessly with silent laughter, embarrassment forgotten in
the beauty of Tunk's performance.  He almost began to like the nasty
little Ferengi.

At last, in desperation, having been warned away from every other fork
or spoon, the president seized the final tool, a cocktail fork,
clutching it with both hands.  "But--but I must use it!  I beg of you...
it's the last utensil I have!"

Tunk fell silent, staring at the president with the eyes of a madman.
The table fell utterly silent as twenty-eight eyes stared at the
Ferengi, Wesley's among them.  The cadet realized this was the climax.

The Ferengi elbowed past the old president, snatched up his dessert, and
loudly slammed it down onto the floor.

"Fine!" he cried, a contemptuous grimace on his face.

"Then if you're going to act like a pig, you may as well eat like one,
too/"

Tunk delivered the last line in a shrieking falsetto that turned every
head in the banquet hall and stopped conversation from one end of the
room to the other�

In the stunned silence that followed, the Ferengi grabbed Wesley by the
arm, shoving him toward the exit.  Snapping out of his stupor, the cadet
motored for the door, Tunk storming along at his heels, walking with a
stately, stuffy gait.

They made their escape, and Tunk ditched the coat in the concierge's
kiosk.  Minutes later, still barely a sound emanated from the hall.

Wesley Crusher nodded to himself; his thesis was amply proved... without
the full participation and sanction by the victim, the president, Tunk's
entire elaborate phrank would have blown apart like a alepressurized
shuttlecraft.  I must remember that, thought the cadet; the rule was
wider than simply a guide to "phranking" people--as Tunk had hinted with
his phony rule of acquisition, there was a deep, general principle
involved.

Cadet Crusher tucked it away in his backbrain; he had a feeling he would
need it before his adventure was ended.

After the two-hour break elapsed, Tunk and Wesley rejoined Munk in the
auction room, waking up the old Ferengi.  A new auctioneer entered, a
much older human; and the crowd fell silent.

"Lot fifty-seven is a subspace acceleration prototype; you have all seen
the demonstration in the exhibit hall." The last was a statement, not a
question.

The auctioneer fiddled with the controls on his dais and a holoimage of
the glowing, isosceles tube-triangle materialized over the audience,
rotating slowly.

"The minimum bid was established at one hundred hectobars of gpl by Gul
Fubar, bidding for the Cardassian Empire.  One hundred and ten.  One
hundred and fifteen.

One hundred seventeen?wI'm sorry, madam, we cannot accept increments
smaller than five hectobars."

Wesley stared wildly about the room, trying to catch a bidder in the act
of bidding.  He did not succeed: Whatever they were all doing to attract
the auctioneer's attention and convey the magnitude of their bid, for
quite some time, Cadet Crusher could not spot it.

At last, the bidding narrowed to the same four principals; after several
rounds, Wesley finally spotted them: Woff, Gul Fubar, Deanna Troi, and
Captain Picard.

The Klingon signaled by quickly pumping his fist, Counselor Troi by
catching the auctioneer's eye and nodding, GUl Fubar by snorting
derisively, and the captain by elegantly holding up one finger for "up
five hectobars" and two for "up ten."

The auctioneer noticed quickly that the rest of the bidders had turned
into an audience; he shifted into a pattern, one to the other in order.
The tactic worked; each person raised every time his turn came.

Finally, Worf hesitated when his "turn" came around; with a snarl, he
shook his head, having presumably exceeded his authority.  Deanna was
next to fall; it seemed to upset her considerably.  Only the Gul and the
captain remained in the bid.

The pair shot bids back and forth against each other, driving the price
up to thirty-seven thousand, five hundred bars; still, Munk had not
opened his mouth.

Then Captain Picard hesitated.

"The bid is held by GUl Fubar, bidding for the Cardassian Empire,"
warned the auctioneer, "one time, two times--"

A crash grabbed everyone's attention, including the auctioneer.

"Is that four, sir?" he asked.

"Four hundred hectobars.t" shouted a gnarled old Ferengi in the corner;
he looked as old and wrinkled as a bristlecone pine tree.  He had
produced his explosive bid by flicking a tray of glasses from a waiter's
hands.

"Ach!" exclaimed Munk quietly.  "A bonny new voice sings a verse?

Tunk elbowed Wesley in his side, which was already sore from Munk's
shillelagh.  "The Grand Nagus," sneered the Ferengi.  "A Ferengi waits
to bid until his opponents have exhausted themselves--Rule of
Acquisition number one hundred ninety-one."

"One hundred, fourscore and fort," corrected Munk.

Tunk slunk low, humiliated by his error.

Wesley Crusher had only heard of the Grand Nagus in his political
structures class, and he strained for a peek at the infamous leader, or
"chief negotiator," of the Ferengi.

"The Grand Nagus raises the bid to four hundred hectobars," intoned the
auctioneer.  "Mister Picard?"

After a pause, the captain said, "And ten," irritation and worry nagging
his voice.

"Four-ten from Mister Picard for the Klingon Empire."

Wesley jumped; had he heard right?  If the captain was bidding for the
Klingons, for whom was Worf bidding?

The bidding caught fire once more; apparently, sanguine as Picard and
the Cardassian may have been about the mass accelerator falling into one
of their "superpower" hands, neither was willing to see it go to the
Ferengi.  They nearly stumbled over each other in their haste to deny
the Grand Nagus his toy.

Tunk chuckled.  "The Nagus has no interest in that thing," he declared.

"How can you tell?"

"He only bids quickly in between the Klingon and Cardassian bids, never
allowing himself to hold the bid for long."

"Well, if he doesn't want it, why is he bidding at all?"

Tunk stared incredulously.  "Do you know nothing about these sorts of
auctions?  He cares about one lot and one only--the photonic cannon."

"So why is he bidding for a simple mass accelerator?"

Tunk shook his head, frustrated by Wesley's inability to understand.
"The Grand Nagus bids to bankrupt his opponents before the photonic
cannon is offered, of course!

Every hectobat spent today is one fewer for tomorrow."

"Oh.  Of course." It still made little sense to the cadet; it sounded
like an incredibly dangerous game for uncertain benefit.

But the bidding suddenly stalled again; this time, the Cardassian Gul
Fubar held at four hundred and eighty hectobars...  so apparently, the
Grand Nagus's scheme had worked.

"One time, two times..." The auctioneer hesitated, giving plenty of
opportunity for anyone insane enough to take the bidding higher.

"Five hundred!" The voice was loud and shrill; Munk raised his
knobkerrie and waved it until the auctioneer noticed him.

The man stood a little straighter, squinting at the only other Ferengi
camp in the room.  "Five hundred hectobars is bid by...  may I have your
name and principal, sir?"

"Bidding for meself, certes: Cap'n Munk, Chairman of Universal Exports!"

"I,What!" The Grand Nagus leapt to his feat, then climbed upon his chair
for a better look.  He shook his own walking stick furiously, his ears
fluttering in agitation.  Half a dozen Ferengi surrounded the Nagus;
each one echoed and amplified their leader's consternation, shouting
outraged condemnations and demands to "see the color" of Munk's latinum.

"Now, human!" whispered Tunk, pushing a key into the cadet's hand, "dash
upstairs and bring down fifty bars deposit." Fifty hectobars; ten
percent as surety against the full amount.  Wesley rose, squirmed past
the tightly packed bidders and exited the room.

He dodged across the empty, cavernous lobby--the guests were all
watching the show in the dining hall--found the concierge, and borrowed
an antigravity cargo pad.

He rushed it up to the room, loaded fifty bars onto the pallet, and
maneuvered it down the stairs.  Wesley had little experience with the
antigravity pallets; they nullified gravity but not mass, of course,
which meant the bars weighed nothing...  but still had their full
momentum.  They did not corner well.

When Wesley returned to the dining hall, he could hear the argument in
progress as far away as the reservations desk: the Grand Nagus's Ferengi
advisors against Tunk.

Apparently, both the Nagus himself and Munk considered such an argument
beneath their dignities.

When Wesley entered the room, everyone fell silent.  The cadet swallowed
as he realized six hundred pairs of eyes stared at him...  including
those ofWorf, Geordi La Forge, Deanna Troi, and Jean-Luc Picard.

"Give it to the rules committee," instructed Tunk, pointing at another
official who had entered while Wesley was upstairs; but the cadet had a
different plan.

"No, no, Kimbal!  Give it to him, that man standing there!"

Implacable, Wesley Crusher pushed the floating pad at the Ferengi again.
The reason was simple: Wesley intended to ensure that it was Tunk, not
himself, who committed the more serious crime of actually passing the
counterfeit.  It might mitigate my sentence at the court-martial, he
thought.

Angrily, Tunk grabbed the pallet, wrestled it around, and shoved it over
the heads of the front-row bidders to the low table by the side of the
podium.

The rules committee representative deactivated the anti-gravity field,
spilled the bars onto the table, and began to count.  He counted the
fifty, then extracted a mini-data-reader from a coat pocket.  He scanned
the small pile, scrutinizing the readout.

After an instant, he looked up.  "Fifty hectobars of gold-pressed
latinurn," he confirmed.

Wesley sagged back into his seat, simultaneously relieved, proud, and
disappointed that an official from Hatheby's, the quadrant's premier
brokerage house and estate disposal firm, failed to detect the
counterfeit.

"The challenge is refuted," said the auctioneer pointedly.

After a lengthy pause, during which the Ferengi huddled and whispered
among themselves, the Grand Nagus turned back to the auctioneer.  "All
right, all right," he grumbled, "we accept the debt."

"The Grand Nagus is hereby fined fifty hectobars of gold-pressed
latinum."

"Put it on my account."

"Your account is quite steep, sir."

"It is?"

"We require participants to pay off all sums in excess of fifty
hectobars within twelve hours."

"It slipped my mind.  I must be getting old."

The Grand Nagus and the auctioneer continued back and forth; in the end,
the Ferengi's arguments came to nought, and he had to pay down his
account.  However, the Grand Nagus used even this indignity to his
advantage.

"I need to send to my ship for latinurn, which may take some time. Since
I'm one of the principals here, I demand a two-hour recess."

The auctioneer conferred with the man from the rules committee, and they
agreed to the delay.

The Grand Nagus waddied over to his rivals, carefully putting on his
"wounded dignity" facade.  Tunk and Munk were a dangerous pair, mostly
because of their unpredictability; the Nagus did not want to make the
mistake of underestimating them...  but he had to discover where they
were getting all that beautiful latinurn.

He fetched up before Munk, and the two glared at each other like a pair
of undead zombies.

"Munk, you old mendicant," greeted the Nagus in a whiny, nasal voice
that reeked of threat, "I thought you died in the sack of the Rubilator
colony." He grinned, exposing sharp, Ferengi teeth...  the teeth are the
windows of the soul, taught the great sage Ligwas.

The Nagus, of course, had engineered the sack of the Rubilator colony;
and Munk knew that very well.  He understood the threat.

"Perchance you dream, Nagus.  I be very much hale and hearty, me
heartier."

Translation, thought the Nagus; I ducked you, I ducked you, now I'm
going to shuck you!  "Still talking like a holovision buccaneer, I see.
All right, we have to talk, Cap'n Munk of Universal Exports.  Shall we
say my room in ten minutes?"

"Nay, shall we not!  Shiver me bones, but I've a strong tremor about
staying in your cabin; I've heard tales."

"Lies," objected the Grand Nagus, "spread by people who owe me money...
which is just about everybody?The Nagus cackled with laughter.

"Shall we say our room in ten minutes?" offered Tunk.

The Grand Nagus shrugged.  "As you wish," he said, disappointed but not
surprised.  Anyone who could survive the sack of Rubilator would not
stupidly stroll into the Nagus's web.

Fifteen minutes later, Munk's human cabin boy answered the room-door
annunciator, the Grand Nagus and a passel of Ferengi breezed into the
room.

Although the human Federation recognized the Grand Nagus as a leader of
sorts for Ferengi everywhere, in fact he was nothing more nor less than
the chief executive officer for a "company" that comprised the entire
Ferengi race.

Munk is attempting to buy sufficient powerre for instance, the photonic
pulse cannon--to depose me, thought the Nagus.  He wondered whether he
could make the charge stick in a Ferengi arbitration council; if so, it
would be treason...  or worse, a contract violation!

Alas, Munk was undoubtedly too smart to leave an easy trail.  "Why,
Munk," said the Grand Nagus, "it's so nice to see you again, after all
these years!  What's it been...  ten to twenty?"

"You misbegotten scion of a barrow-boy, 'tis merry-met, me bucko; 'tis a
rare pleasure me take ship once again side by side."

"So," said the Nagus, coming straight to the point in an effort to
startle Munk, "you're trying to muscle into my territory, eh?  Trying to
buy power?" The Nagns waited a moment for the words to sink in.  "We
need to have a little discussion."

Munk curled his lip...  definitely not the requisite cringe expected
when one dealt with the Grand Nagus himself.  "Be warned, ye scurvy
knave, against whom ye cast such accusatory harpoons.  That still be
actionable causes for damage to reputation in our law."

Acknowledging the riposte, the Nagus retreated slightly.

"I've had reliable reports that you have not been paying the proper
percentage of your deals to me.  Have you no patriotism?  I'm a feeble
old man; I need my fair cut?

Tunk interjected smoothly.  "Why, Nagus, you wrong us!

We've never stinted you of a single bar of gold-pressed latinurn that
you were actually entitled to."

What audacity!  The Nagus almost lashed out with his walking stick,
noticing at the last moment that Munk had one as well: the "Ferengi
emphasizer," they called such shillelaghs.

"Aaaah," said the Nagus, "and I suppose you think I'm not entitled to
the same cut from you that all the other Ferengi pay me?"

"Of course not," said Tunk in his snortlest voice, "we don't need you to
control our every deal, like you do for all the other Ferengi.  Our
operation is completely independent from yours.  We don't ask your
blessing, and we don't pay any worthless protection money!"

"Oh, really!" exclaimed the Grand Nagus, his eyes wide.

"And I suppose you won't mind a bit when you find all your bank accounts
frozen, your assets seized, and your credit records accidentally
erased!"

The direct threat to the competitor's bank accounts.  Very effective...

"Certes, but we shall not!"

Well--unless the competitor owns his own latinum mine!

"Of course we won't?  Tunk did a double take, staring at last at his
father.  "Uh...  we won't?"

"Nay, ye scurvy wretch, we be unruffled and sailing at full yards.  We
are men of clinkurn honor, who settle all charges with cold, hard
latinurn!"

"Latinum, eh?" mocked the Nagus.  "And I suppose you just happened to
have a quarter-million bars stashed here in your hotel room?" The Nagus
peered around, pretending to mock, but in reality quite anxious to
discover whether Munk did, indeed, have a latinum mine.

Munk gestured expansively at the new "table."

"Sit ye down, lads; give us a bit of sea room.  Would ye crave yon tea,
or something with a touch more hair?"

"Ah," said the Nagus, licking his lips, "if you could just replicate us
a nice bottle of Ferengi spunk, I think the deal would go infinitely
smoother."

The Grand Nagus and his chief financial officer sat at the table.  Munk
and Tunk seized the opposite seats, though Tunk looked a touch nervous
and pink around the gills; the younger Ferengi allowed his gaze to roam
everywhere but toward the Nagus.

Oddly enough, even the human, Fred Something, seemed to grow distinctly
more nervous when they sat down.

"Look, be reasonable," said the Nagus.  "Let's do this all legal and
proper, according to our law.  How much of a bribe do you want in order
to take a hike?" He glanced quickly from Tunk to the cabin boy; alas,
neither gave him a clue as to the source of their anxiety.

Munk smiled.  "What makest ye think we'll depart for any number of
Doubloons?  We've a pretty wench here, and her name be firepower."

"You're planning to bid on the photonic pulse cannon?

Hoo-hoo!  This'11 be the funniest sight of the whole auction!"

Munk said nothing, merely smiling quietly.  Tunk tried to imitate his
father but could only manage a weak, sickly smirk.  The Grand Nagus
continued, squinting and trying to smile menacingly.  I'll let him know
whom he's dealing with, he decided.

"Listen, you old philanthropist; if you think that mass accelerator was
expensive, just wait'll you see what the real stuff goes for!  That's
where we'll separate the marks from the Ferengi.

"You're no threat to me, Munk; you never have been.  I was Nagus before
you breached your first contract, and I'll be Nagus when death reposes
your rotting carcass!

"But you are a bit of an annoyance to me just now; these are delicate
negotiations, and I don't want any amateurs floating around and queering
my percentages.  I'm willing to buy out your options.  How much do you
want?"

Munk's nervous son sweated, squirming uncomfortably.

He definitely wants to grab the fast cash and make his exit.

When Munk said nothing, Tunk began to stammer.  "Wha-wha-what exactly
are you offer...  offering, Grand Nagus?"

"Spoken like a true Ferengi!" congratulated the Nagus.

"How about--"

"Not enough by half," interjected Munk.

"You haven't even heard my offer yet!"

"Aye, but I know that black heart of yours, ye lubber.  I have it in me
noggin that whatever ye're gang to offer, it's worth less than yet
corrupt empire...  and that's what I'm firing for: all that ye call
yours."

The Nagus jumped up and pounded his fists on the table.

The painting and tea set leapt alarmingly.

"That does it!  That tears it!  From now on, you're my sworn
latinum-enemy!" The Nagus narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice.  "If
you try to withdraw money from any of your thirty-eight accounts at
banks in Ferengi, Cardassian, or Federation space, you'll find them
frozen because of 'pending litigation." If you try to borrow money,
you'll find your credit history full of creditors, bad debts, and
unproductive little ventures that bankrupted everyone involved.

"If you try trading on the mercantile floor, you'll find your license is
revoked.  Your current loans are all due and payable immediately!  And
you can just tear up that letter of recommendation I wrote for your
snivelling, little son for Acquisition University because I'll disavow
all knowledge of its existence!"

The Grand Nagus suddenly leaned across the table, baring the windows of
his soul.  Tunk, who had been frozen in terror, his eyes gigantic, since
the beginning of the outburst, cried out in terror and tumbled backward
off his chair.

Munk, however, neither moved nor blinked; he faced the Nagus with the
same faint half-smile he had worn since the conversation began and
calmly adjusted the tablecloth, which the Nagus's outburst had skewed.

The Grand Nagus raised his walking stick, lowered his voice still
further, and spoke in portentious tones.  "The mark of my cane is upon
you, Munk.  Feel it forever morel"

Without another word, he turned and stalked out of the room, followed by
his minions.  He kept a brave exterior, but inside he knew he had lost
the negotiation.

Oh well, he thought, I win six and lose two...  it's a good percentage
overall.t Cadet Wesley Crusher collapsed backward, letting his breath
out in a rush.  When the Nagus had slammed the table, a corner of the
cloth had shifted, exposing one entire side of ersatz latinurn!
Fortunately, Munk had had the presence of mind to adjust it without
giving away the show.

Munk burst forth in hearty, derisive laughter.  He grabbed the picture
frame and flung it, the cloth, and the tea set off the treasure hoard of
glittering heetobars.

"We come not to praise the Nagus," he cackled, "but to bury him!  Avast,
ye scurvy knave!"

"Yes, cap'n?" said both Wesley and Tunic at the same time.

"Not you, ye addle-pated swabbie!" Munk grabbed his knobkerrie, but this
time he thumped Tunk.  "You there, Fried Kibble--sit ye down and hop to
those knots, boy!  I command another heap as grand as yon treasure trove
before next the sun dawns."

WITH A STERN ADMONITION to stay and "keep yer eyeballs on the rigging,"
Munk sailed forth on yet another odyssey to the holosuites.  Wesley
silently counted to himself; he had reached thirteen when Tunk departed,
calling over his shoulder, "You stay right there!" Munk had journeyed
left to the north-going suites; being creative and independent, Tunk
headed right for the south-going suites.

Wesley immediately left off his felonious activities to think for a
minute.

During the argument with the Grand Nagus, Munk had inadvertently
revealed his grand plan: He intended to use the counterfeit latinum to
buy every useful item offered at the auction--in particular, the
photonic pulse cannon--using them to seize the Grand Nagus's power, if
not his title.

In fact, if even half the items worked as well as advertised, not to
mention the balance of payments, in the two explored quadrants of the
galaxy.  Either Munk would completely take over the Ferengi sphere of
influence, or else there would be another major player to consider
besides the Federation, the Klingon and Cardassian empires, the
Tholians, and the Ferengi...  or there would be civil war among the
Ferengi.

Either way, Wesley could not allow Munk's scheme to succeed.
Participating would be worse than counterfeiting." It would be treason.
Whatever doubts Wesley Crusher felt about the entire rationale and moral
legitimacy behind Starfleet, he was certainly not prepared to immolate
his career on the altar of a supreme dictator, Ferengi courts or no.

I wonder whether the Ferengi courts would still rule in Munk's favor
after he was denounced by the Grand Nagus?

He shook his head.  More than likely, the Ferengi would jail Munk and
Wesley both, perhaps in the same cage.  Either Wesley was an active
collaborator or he was a contract-jumper; Ferengi authorities would
consider both deserving of confinement at hard servitude.

He fished from his pocket the data clip containing his contract, popped
it into a hotel reader, and perused it as closely as he could.

Cadet Crusher thought he had seen the summit of bureaucratic obfuscation
when he memorized the Federation Space Training and Operating Procedures
and Standardization technical manuals for eight increasingly complex
fleet ships.  Yet this theoretically simple Ferengi contract (to be
hired as a cabin boy) was twice as long as the longest F-STOPS book!

One sentence in particular caught his attention:

INDEPENDENT CONTRACTOR(S) convenants and agrees that he, she, it, or
they shall not disclose to third parties, including INDEPENDENT
CONTRACTOR himself, herself, itself, or themselves, for use for its or
their own benefit or for the benefit of others, wheresoever situated in
physical space-time, whether normal space or subspace, and shall not set
down or otherwise record any verbal or pictogrammatic description in any
electronic or positronic device or mechanical storage device, any of
CAPTAIN'S or CAPTAIN customer developments, confidential information,
know-how, discoveries, production methods, hardware designs, software
source code, software designs, technical goals or timetables, economic
circumstances or plans, military schedules or armaments, philosophical
inclinations, religious affiliations, business contacts, confidential
conversations whether or not so-designated by CAPTAIN or CAPTAIN'S
agents as confidential, notwithstanding or excepting any matedhal in the
public domain, which shall be deemed by this agreement to likewise be
confidential unless specifically released by CAPTAIN as
material-for-release, related matedhals, or the like that may be
disclosed to INDEPENDENT CONTRACTOR or which INDEPENDENT CONTRACTOR may
learn in connection with work to be performed under this agreement,
including in particular and specific this agreement itself, including
this nondisclosure clause; and further, INDEPENDENT CONTRACTOR agrees
that any and all inventions, discoveries, developments, improvements,
descriptions, or modifications that may be made by INDEPENDENT
CONTRACTOR in performance of the work under this agreement or in respect
to the specific subject matter thereof, shall be and remain the property
of CAPTAIN and in connection therewith, INDEPENDENT CONTRACTOR agrees to
execute and assign to CAPTAIN any and all rights and patent
applications, copyrights, voting rights, mineral dhghts, action options,
or privileges pertaining to or covering such inventions, discoveries,
developments, improvements, modifications, descriptions, or any other
creation, destruction, or alteration of existing or not-yet-existing
materials, forces, space-time coordinates, whether normal space or
subspace, involving matter or protomatter, energy in any format
whatsoever therein mentioned.

Appended to the clause was an asterisk.  Looking to the end of the
contract, Wesley found a "rider" attached to the clause:

This clause shall remain active in all cases where it is not superceded
by any clause mutually agreed upon which shall in legal effect render
null and void any changes, emendations, iterations, alterations, or
other adjustments to this or any other clause that is not so superceded.

He gave up perusing and took to skimming, trying to get a sense of what
he might be able to do.  After an hour, he began to understand the broad
format of the contract he had been forced to sign.

First, the contract itself was considered confidential; according to the
contract, it was a violation of the contract for Wesley to read the
contract!  Showing it to an attorney would probably be grounds for a
firing squad.

Second, he was explicitly enjoined from relaying any information about
Munk, Tunk, or their plans, including Wesley's own speculations (as an
agent of Munk, anything Wesley Crusher did, said, or thought was covered
by the nondisclosure clause), to anyone else.

The cadet's head ached.  He had to talk to someone; but everyone he
could think of was so wrapped up in the auction that he could spare no
concentration for a befuddled, desperate Academy cadet.

What about Riker?  Commander Riker was even more occupied captaining the
Enterprise with Romulans, Car-dassians, Tholians, and hundreds of other
races.  drifting around in various orbits around a single, small
planetoid, than he would have been bidding in the auction.

Well, then what about Data?  The android was one of the few people
Wesley knew with whom he truly felt comfortable.

Data knew as much about technical subjects as Wesley, almost by
definition; yet he was not constantly challenging the cadet to solve
various technical "puzzles," as Geordi La Forge tended to do.  Data did
not respond emotionally, did not treat Wesley like a kid (everyone on
the Enterprise remembered him from when he was a kid!), and Data never
judged the cadet...  in fact, the android was incapable of judging.

Wesley tapped his shirt; then he smiled.  He had fallen so much back
into the habit of thinking of himself as a member of the Enterprise crew
that he forgot he no longer wore a comm badge.  He sat at the desk and
used the hotel communicator instead.

"Wesley Crusher to Starship Enterprise, Commander Data."

After a moment, Data responded.

"Can you get a fix on my coordinates, sir?"

"I have your coordinates now.  Do you wish to be beamed aboard the
Enterprise?"

"Would that be against regulations?"

"A literal reading of the appropriate Starfleet orders regarding
visitors would preclude my taking such authority.

But I shall request permission from Commander Riker." A moment passed.
"Commander Riker has given his permission; prepare to beam aboard, and
welcome home."

"Thanks." Wesley felt a little uncomfortable about the "welcome home"
greeting.  He had not felt "home" on the Enterprise ever since he was
admitted to the Academy; actually, the feeling was older than that; he
had not felt comfortable on the Enterprise since he met the Traveler.

Then he felt his body begin to disassociate; the room became fuzzy, and
intense vibrations rattled his brain.

Feeling the chair disappear from beneath him, Wesley stood to avoid
falling on his posterior when he appeared on the transporter pad.

Wesley waited in the transporter room, unsure of the etiquette.
Technically, he was an ensign assigned TDS to the Academy--which meant
that technically, he was AWOL.

He had not applied for actual leave between semesters; he only had the
limited liberty that all the students had, which did not extend to
leaving the planet.

On the other hand, he was also the son of the chief medical officer; as
a civilian, he would have the run of the ship except for certain places,
such as the bridge.

It was too confusing; everything about Starfleet was confusing lately.
Wesley waited in the transporter room, and Data strode through the doors
momentarily.

They chatted pleasantly about nothing while heading for Ten-Forward;
Data had been rewriting his "smalltalk" subroutines.

"So how come you're not down on Novus Alamogordus bidding for the
Android Empire?"

Without warning, Data laughed insanely for two seconds, then cut off the
awful racket abruptly.  Another laughing program, Wesley realized.

"I am still refining the details, Wesley.  Do you like the program?"

"Data, I think laughing would be more effective if you changed your
facial expression.  If you laugh hysterically while wearing the same
expression you'd use to compute a navigational vector, people will think
you're a homicidal maniac."

"How odd," observed Data, "Commander Riker used the identical term. This
program is not working out as well as I had hoped; rather than set
humans at ease, it appears to have the opposite effect."

"But seriously, folks, why aren't you down on the planetoid bidding,
Data?  I'd have thought you'd want to watch something so human as an
auction."

"I was originally to bid for the Federation; however, Hatheby's rules
committee decided that I was a piece of electronic equipment, not a
person, and I was barred from participating."

"Data, that's terrible!"

"I found it quite objectionable, and I have already filed a strong
protest with the Federation Chamber of Commerce.  I have judicial
precedent that contradicts Hatheby's."

Data's phrase rebounded through Wesley's brain: elee tronic equipment,
electronic equipment.  Not a porson.  It struck a responsive chord, but
he could not quite...

Cadet Crusher halted in the middle of a corridor, struck by a sudden
realization.  By the nondisclosure clause of his Ferengi contract, he
could not disclose to any person, by any means, his confidential
knowledge; this strong prohibition would prevent any means of conveying
information--but it only applied to persona.

On the other hand, regarding electronic devices, he was only forbidden
from setting down the knowledge.

Wesley was stunned into awed s'fience: Data's entirely innocent
recounting of a petty humiliation visited upon him by reactionary
officials of a venerable, stuffy, old brokerage firm had accidentally
revealed a loophole in a Ferengi contract!

Wesley was barred from using any verbal or graphic means of telling Data
the information.  But there was no rule stopping him from manufacturing
circumstances under which Data would guess the situation all by himself.

There was also nothing at all in Wesley's contract forbidding him from
using the Kimbal Clock himself; after all, he was the inventor, "Fred
Kimbal."

"Data," he said, too quickly, "could you please teach me to play poker?"

Data cocked his head, looking puzzled.  "Did you mean to ask me to teach
you poker?"

"Yes.  Can't you?"

"I can certainly do so.  But this seems an odd moment for a sudden urge
to play cards.  Perhaps some other time would be more appropriate."

Cadet Crusher grabbed Data's arms, forgetting their respective
differences in rank in his excitement.  "No, you have to teach me poker,
and you have to teach me tonight!"

Bidding on the next major-ticket item would commence at 2030 that
night...  and Wesley suddenly had a great deal to do.

"If it is that important to you, Wesley, I shall make time and do so.
Shall we meet at twenty hundred?"

"Nineteen hundred would be better."

"I will meet you in my quarters at nineteen hundred."

"Thanks, Datawyou won't regret it!"

He started to dash away, but Data called after him.

"Wesley, were we not on our way to Ten-Forward for a visit?"

"No time, gotta go!" He bolted back to the transporter room, leaving
Data as nonplusseal as it was possible for an android to be.

"Can you transport me back to the same coordinates I beamed up from?"
Wesley asked the transporter chief.

The man looked up.  "Did you forget something, sir?"

"Yes; I just remembered a sudden appointment.  Can you beam me back up
to the Enterprise at, uh, eighteen fifty-five?"

"Sure.  Just contact me and let me know you're ready."

Wesley thought for a moment.  The Ferengi would certainly be back by
then, and just as certainly would be cracking the whip over his back to
produce more "latinurn." He considered asking Munk, excuse me, you don't
mind if I call the Enterprise and have them beam me back up, do you?
l'll just be a moment...  I promise not to tell anyone about the
counterfeiting ring while I'm up there.t The image brought a smile. "No,
I won't have access to a communicator."

"Would you like me to replicate one?"

"Sure!  Thanks.  He thought for a moment.  "Can you make me one that's
completely generic?"

"Eh?  Sure.  Why?"

"Oh...  uh, I actually wasn't supposed to come back alone, but I had
something to show Commander Data.  I'm with those Ferengi you picked
up."

"Yeah, I heard about that.  Wasn't on watch then.  Heard you guys got
out just before your ship blew up, sir."

"Well, it wasn't all that exciting.  Hey, is that the corem badge? Looks
sharp.  Thanks!" Wesley reached over and plucked the badge from the
replicatot.  "Well, gotta dash.

Nice talking with you, Chief, ah..."

"Otto."

Wesley stared curiously at the badge.  "You wouldn't happen to know what
this thing is made out of, would you?

It looks more silvery than the standards."

"Let me see, sir." Otto scrutinized the Bajoran corem badge.  "Don't
know.  Could be titanium, could be chaseum."

"Thanks." Wesley retrieved the badge and stepped to the transporter pad.
He pinned the badge on his loose clothing, behind a fold in the cloth
where it would not be visible.

"Energize."

A moment later, he was back in the room.  He had just stepped over to
the replicator when he heard the lock click back.

He abruptly realized he would have some fancy explaining to do: Where
was the new pile of counterfeit he should have been producing while Tunk
and Munk were in the holosuites?

He stood, looking guilty, as the door slid back.  The minute the seal
was cracked, he heard Munk and his son in the midst of a terrible
hullabaloo.  He listened in confusion, finally deducing that Munk and
Tunk each tried to run the same holosuite program in opposite
holosuites...  but since the program was the most lavish, expensive, and
disgusting Ferengi program available in the library, running it in two
holosuites simultaneously overloaded the system memory and crashed the
system.

Both Munk and Tunk found themselves in the middle of blank holosuites in
a rather embarrassing condition of undress.  Naturally, technicians
immediately opened a comm link with the holosuites to ask if they were
all right and apologize for the crash.

The teeh for Munk's holosuite was female; the old Ferengi decided rather
unreasonably that it was all a plot on Tunk's part.

From the way Tunk rubbed his head and cringed, Wesley figured Munk had
been punctuating his diatribe with his usual shillelagh-work.

"Back!  Back, ye sluggard, back to yer toil!  Square the yards, furl the
sheets!" commanded Munk, seemingly unaware that he had just issued
contradictory orders.

"Aye, sir!" shouted Tunk, dashing Wesley out of the way in his haste to
reach the replieator.  Tunk reinitiated the chaseum-replication program
and began shoveling the bars across to Cadet Crusher as fast as they
materialized.  Nobody remembered to ask Wesley what he had been doing
for the past thirty minutes and why he had made no more counterfeit in
the interim.

The cadet bided his time, falling into the routine of opening the face
of the Kimbal Clock, inserting the newly minted hectobars of chaseum,
twisting the dial, and dumping out the "latinurn." Within moments, he
felt his brain numbing as it always did when forced to perform boring,
repetitive, and essentially mindless tasks at Starfleet Academy--which
had happened more and more recently.

Or maybe the tasks aren't any more repetitive...  I've just done them
all so many times they seem mindless.  Wes's threshold of boredom had
unquestionably sunk during the last term; routine watches that used to
excite or at least interest him now bored him so thoroughly that it was
all he could do to not fall asleep.  More than once, Wesley had
disassembled and reassembled critical pieces of equipment or
reprogrammed computers or sensors while on duty, just for something to
do--knowing that if he got caught, he would be punished.  Fortunately,
he had not been caught.

Again and again, the forbidden thought rolled around and around his
brain: Maybe it's not for me, maybe I made a mistake, maybe I should
just resign my com- Cadet Ensign Wesley Crusher clenched his teeth,'
wrenching his thoughts in another direction, any other direction.

There are some verities cadets were not meant to question.

"Are you questioning Federation policy?" Wesley blinked; the words were
so clear, he could swear he had actually heard them spoken.

Then he remembered he had, more than once: Instructors asked variations
of that same question over and over in his classes: department heads and
executive officers asked it aboard training ships; he had even heard
Starfleet admirals ask The Question of Captain Picard!

That, it seemed, was another Starfleet general order, one that perhaps
even preceded "General Order Number One," the Prime Directive, in
importance: Thou shalt not question the policy of the Federation!

Lately, however, Wesley had found himself questioning it a great deal.
How could he continue on the path to being a Starfleet officer if he
were not sure Starfleet, or even the Federation, had the right answers?

From history classes, he knew there were over seventy intersystem
treaties, more than seven thousand intrasystem treaties, seven hundred
thousand cultural, scientific, and economic pacts, programs, tontines,
contracts, and general agreements, and surely at least seventy million
private agreements in the two explored quadrants; nobody could even
hazard a guess how many there might be in the Gamma and Delta Quadrants.

One small chain of those agreements, programs, and treaties made up "the
Federation"; more than a third of all known species were involved, one
way or another, in the Federation "treaty-chain."

But every single race, without exception--even human beings--were also
involved in millions of other arrangements, agreements, and treaties
that were not considered part of "the Federation."

Who could say, among all those interconnections between the hundreds of
known races and millions of discovered planets, that there was not a
better system for interlinking creative intelligence throughout the
galaxy?

Lately, even while going through the motions of being a Starfleet
Academy cadet, Wesley Crusher had developed a distinctly creepy feeling
that the Federation, and Starfleet in particular, might actually be
impeding the natural development of everyone.  Perhaps by its very
existence and by enunciating the Prime Directive, the Federation broke
the Prime Directire.

Beyond all the politics, the threat of military force, the economic
interlink; beyond the posturing, the threats, the great, charitable
works; beyond the inevitable "crisis-of-the-moment," there waited the
Traveler, the spiritual, almost mystic direct connection between the
brain and universe.

For one brief moment, Wesley had actually known that direct connection.
What he suddenly knew about himself and his destiny miniaturized the
"Starfleet mystique" and the glorious Federation from a bright, floating
palace in the sky to a child's sand castle on a crowded beach...  even
though he could not yet articulate what he knew of his destiny.  There
were no words; ultimately, there were no words.

Maybe I made a mistake.  Maybe I should just resign my...

Cadet Ensign Crusher shut down the thoughts with such brutality that he
actually made himself dizzy for a moment.

He blinked and returned to the present time.

He waited, watchful for Tunk's inevitable loss of attention.

It happened sooner than Wesley thought it would, but he was ready.  He
removed his chaseum Academy ring from his finger and slipped it in with
the next batch of hectobars.

A chaseum stylus followed; then he slipped his chaseurn belt buckle off
his belt and turned it into ersatz latinurn.

It was not hard to find chaseum; since its invention, it had become one
of the most popular metals throughout the Federation...  all the
metallic properties of latinum except color, density, and the fact that
one could replicate chaseum.

The comm badge was trickier, since he could not afford to let the
Ferengi know he had one.  But Tunk soon wandered away to make himself
some refreshments, and Wesley unpinncd the badge and transmuted it.

Feeling unusually morbid, Wesley decided to simply explain to Tunk that
what he was doing was illegal.  The cadet did not expect it would do any
good, but he was curious to hear what rationalization Tunk would use.

"You know this is out-and-out counterfeiting," he said.

"I'm not doing anything," whined the Ferengi.  "All I'm doing is
creating chaseum sculptures of hectobars of gpl.  It's you--you're the
one turning them into counterfeit latinum?

Wesley rolled his eyes.  "Do you really expect the authorities to buy
that?"

"We won't ever have to find out," Tunk pointed out, "because you're in
this up to your neck.  If you get all legal about it, you'll go to
prison yourself...  and when you get out, if you get out, you'll
immediately stand trial for contract violations in Ferengi court...  and
you'll wish you hadn't ever gotten out."

"Don't you think there's anything wrong with passing bad latinum in a
deal?  Isn't there something in the Rules of Acquisition about this?"

"Certainly there is!" sneered the Ferengi.  "The sixty-ninth Rule of
Acquisition states: Ferengi are not responsible for the stupidity of
other races.  We just drop your hectobars on the table...  it's not our
fault that Hatheby's stupidly mistakes them for latinurn!  No Ferengi
would ever make such an elementary mistake."

"You're utterly devious," said Wesley, shaking his head.

"Why, thank you, human.  Apology accepted."

Fairy gold, thought Wesley; that's what this is.  In fairy tales, people
always grabbed at the fairy gold because they were so insanely greedy
that they did not stop to ask how such a person--a beggar or a
peddler--came by such a hoard.

Then, when the first rays of the sun struck the fairy gold, it turned
back into leaves...  leaving the greedy recipient utterly ruined.

How permanent was the Kimbal effect?  Six months from now, would all the
fairy latinum revert to chaseum?

Amazed at the depths of human greed and how thoroughly the glint of gold
can blind the most astute businessman, Wesley kept at his task, slipping
the hectobars of chaseum (and the occasional chaseum screwdriver or
pocket knife) inside the clock face and twisting the dial.

With both Crusher and Tunk working, both more experienced than the
previous night, the second pile of valueless specie grew more quickly
than the first.  At last, even Munk was satisfied that they had enough
for that evening's game.

Just as well; Wesley noted by his watch, now apparently made of
gold-pressed latinum, that the time was 1855.

While Munk and Tunk gloated over the trove, dancing around the
glistening pile like evil viziers around a magic lamp, Wesley casually
rose and stepped into the bathroom.

He closed and locked the door, then touched his comm badge, now also
made of "latinurn."

"Crusher," he whispered, "beam me up immediately, please!"

Munk and Tunk were so busy capering and singing little Ferengl
nonsense-songs about limitless wealth, doubtless learned in Ferengi
nurseddes, that they heard neither Wesley's conversation nor his
subsequent departure, not even with their sensitive Ferengl ears.

Materializing on the transporter pad, Cadet Crusher barely had time to
notice that it was a different transporter chief, not Otto; he waved and
mumbled thanks as he dashed off the platform and jogged along the
corridors to the turbolift.

Data admitted him as soon as he touched the annunciator.

"You are very punctual," observed the android.  "My memory banks list
two hundred and seven varieties of card game filed under the general
heading 'poker." Which particular variation interests you?"

"Oh, anything Pick one, please, sir."

Data's quarters were inhumanly spotless, of course, despite the presence
of Spot.  The cat approached cautiously, not remembering Wesley at
first.  He inspected the human gravely, sniffing Wesley's ankles; then,
either remembering Wesley Crusher at last or simply deciding that the
cadet was not dangerous, Spot walked around one of Wesley's feet and in
between his legs.  Spot rubbed his fur against the cadet's trousers,
meowing plaintively.

"Geez, don't you ever pet him, Data?"

"I give Spot much attention, Wesley.  He tells everyone that he is
starved for both attention and food.  Spot is a very deceitful cat."

Data removed a pack of playing cards from a drawer.  He shuffled them so
quickly that Wesley could not even follow the motions.  "The simplest
game is five-card draw, and it demonstrates the four basic elements of
most poker games: dealing, drawing, betting, and comparing.  Let us
start with five-card draw poker.  Let us adjourn to the card table."

Data led Wesley to a small, green felt table, hexagonal.  He sat down in
one chair and Wesley took the opposite.

"The first step is to buy into the game, receiving chips equal to the
amount of money you paid.  I will simply give you some chips; we may
pretend that you purchased them."

The commander slid small stacks of blue, red, and white chips across the
felt.  "Thanks," said Wesley.

"Before playing, you must ante up.  This means place a chip out as your
initial bet, before receiving any cards."

Data slid a pair of white chips into the center of the table.

But Wesley, instead of sliding out two of his own white chips, placed
the "latinurn" stylus on the table instead.

Data scrutinized the bet.  "This is most unusual, Wesley.

Generally, players use their chips to represent their bets.

May I look at that item?"

"You mean to verify the bet?" asked Wesley, hope showing through.  I
won't deliberately hand over counterfeits, thought the cadet, still
annoyed at the absurd Federation treaty chain that recognized the
kangaroo courts of the Ferengi.  But can I help it if he wants to
inspect my bet?

"Sure," said Wesley, gesturing at the stylus.

Data picked it up and examined it closely.  "Wesley, this stylus appears
to be made of pure gold-pressed latinum."

"Sure looks that way."

"Its value far exceeds that of the required ante."

"Are you saying you won't accept it as a bet?"

Data raised his eyebrows.  "Making such a large ante is unproductive,
because you are betting a large amount against a small amount at equal
odds.  But I will teach you a lesson by accepting it."

Wesley sighed in frustration.  Data was so entranced by the absurdity of
the bet that he failed to notice how incongruous was the stylus itself.
Who would have a computer stylus made entirely of latinum, anyway?

The android continued.  "Now we deal five cards to each player, all
facedown." Data preceded to deal out all ten cards in less than one
second.  "You may pick up your cards and examine them.  The possible
hands are 'one pair,' which consists of two cards of the same
denomination; 'two pair,' which consists--"

"Data, I know the hands.  It's all right.  I'll bet this."

Wesley removed a "latinum" key from his pocket and tossed it on the
table.

"We are not yet ready to bet again, Wesley," said Data, sliding the key
back across the table to the cadet.  "First, we must discard and draw
cards.  You may discard up to four of your five cards and draw an equal
number', how many new cards do you want?"

Wesley stared at his hand.  He had a pair of jacks--and three sevens.

"Ah, VII take three," he declared, tossing one jack and two of the
sevens on the table, keeping only the jack and seven of hearts.  It was
only the second time he had ever been dealt a pat, five-card hand in his
"lengthy" poker career...  and he had to throw it back into the ocean!

Data counted out three cards in a blur of motion.  Wesley picked them up
slowly, one by one: three of hearts, six of hearts, two of hearts.

Disgusted, he slapped the hand on the table.  How was he going to get
Data to examine the items unless he lost?  And how could he lose when he
threw out a full house, only to draw into a flush?

Data stared at the hand.  "Wesley, I don't think you quite understand
the goal.  That is actually a very good hand."

"Is it?"

"Yes.  In fact, the odds against drawing three cards to a flush are--"

"Ah, it's my deal, isn't it?"

Data nodded.

This time, Wesley removed his watch, now solid gold-pressed latinurn,
and placed it on the table.

"Wesley, once again your ante is much larger than the amount called for.
Why do you not use your chips?  You have plenty."

"Is there a rule against betting more than required?" Data looked aside
for a moment.  "I do not find any specific rule against placing
too-large an ante on the table.

But it is not good form, and you reduce your expected payout."

Wesley reached out and nudged the solid-latinum watch.

"Is this worth more than the ante?" he asked innocently.

Data stared; for the first time, he seemed to notice something odd. "May
I examine the watch?"

"You need to verify its value for the record?"

The android picked up the watch and turned it forward and back, studying
it.  "Where did you get this watch?  If this is gold-pressed latinum, it
is worth considerably more than the ante...  in fact, considerably more
than all of these chips added together."

"I can't tell you where I got the watch," said Wesley Crusher,
deliberately sounding as mysterious as possible.

"Do you mean you do not know where you got it, or you are not allowed to
tell me?"

Wesley shook his head.  "I can't tell you where I got it.

Starfleet cadets are honest, trustworthy, brave, and true."

Data raised his brows in puzzlement, one of the few expressions he had
mastered completely.  He slid two white chips to the center of the felt
table.

Wesley shuffled the cards experfly by splitting the deck and riffling
the corners together, a shuffle he had practiced assiduously before the
big game with Carl La Fong, Tunk, and the rest of the Academy riverboat
gamblers.  He dealt a pair of cards, one facedown and the second faceup.
"Seven-card stud," he announced.

"I have a jack showing," said Data, "but you have only a six; therefore,
I shall bet." He peeked at his hole card, then slid a red chip into the
center.

Wesley kept a poker face; he actually had a pair of sixes.  If he got
extraordinarily unlucky, he would win the hand again.  Should have
picked draw poker, he berated himself; I could have guaranteed a loss.t
Then he remembered the last hand.

"I'll see that," said Wesley, matching the chip, "and raise youmuh,
whatever this is worth." He plucked the comm badge, now seemingly made
of latinum, from his shirt and dropped it onto the table with a muffled
thunk.

This time, Data did not ask permission; he simply picked up the comm
badge and inspected it.  "Wesley, I must ask you where you got all this
gold-pressed latinurn."

"I'm sure you must."

"You did not answer the question."

"You noticed that.  I can't tell you where I got the latinurn comm
badge."

"I have the feeling you are trying to tell me something without telling
me something, Wesley."

"Me?  I'm just playing poker."

"I do not have sufficient chips to call that bet, and it is probably
above the table limit of most legal poker games."

"I'll take five blues as a call."

Data slid a small stack of blue chips into the center.

Wesley dealt the next two cards.

"You received a queen, but I now have a king," said Data.

Again, he bet a red chip; this time Wesley "called" with a solid
"latinurn" commemorative coin ("Zephram Cochrane --Three Hundred Years
of Warp Drive--2361").

By the time the seventh card was dealt, facedown, Wesley had bet
everything from "latinurn" pliers to "latinurn"

bootlace tips.  He had also accumulated another six along the way.  Data
had a pair of tens showing.

Wesley sweated the last round of betting; he had exhausted his supply of
chaseum objects enchanted by fairies to resemble gold-pressed latinum
and shoveled over a double-handful of chips instead.  Data called.

"What have you got?" asked the cadet, anxiously.

Data turned over his hole card; it was a king, giving him two pairs:
tens and kings.

Wesley swallowed.  He looked down at his own hand and said, "Well, two
pair beats a pair of sixes." Then he flipped his five faceup cards over
and slid all seven at Data.

For an instant, Wesley was afraid the android would look at the hand.
Instead, after a moment's hesitation, Data slid the pot to his own side.

"Whoops," said Wesley, "look at the time!  Gotta dash.

Thanks for the lesson, sir; I learned a lot."

Data frowned.  "I think you need a few more lessons, Wesley.  Here." He
shoved all the ersatz latinurn back toward Wesley.

"What?  Are you calling me a welcher?" Wesley stood indignantly, folding
his arms across his chest.  "An Academy cadet never refuses a debt of
honor or accepts undeserved charity."

"Wesley, this was just a lesson, not a real game.  You may take back
your property without dishonor."

"Nonsense!  In a real poker game, wouldn't it have all been lost?"

"Yes, it would have.  You played very erratically."

"Then since this is supposed to be a lesson, you should follow the rules
and keep the property."

Data pondered for a moment.  "All right, if you insist, Cadet.  But I
think it is an odd position to take." He thought for a moment.  "Do you
mind if I examine these items more closely, Wesley?"

The cadet shrugged.  "I would never dream of telling a superior officer
what to do with his personal property.

Uh-oh, I'll be late if I don't get out of here.  It's been a real...
learning experience, Data.  We'll have to do it again sometime."

Wesley jumped up and motored toward the transporter room before Data
could change his positronic mind and force the "latinum" back on the
cadet.

As soon AS CAdette Crusher had left the ship, Commander Data scooped all
of the metal tools and objects, apparently and rather incongruously made
of latinurn, and brought them up to the bridge.

"Sir," he said to Commander Riker, "I just had a very strange encounter
with Wesley."

"Ah, good old Fred Kimbal!  How is young Kimbal getting on these days?"

Data calculated that this was a jest on Commander Riker's part, but a
minor one; thus, the android confined his laugh program to a relatively
short outburst of two seconds duration, rising to a peak volume of only
twenty decibels.

"You're getting pretty good at that, Data; it's starting to sound
natural."

"Thank you, sir.  I am trying."

"Well?  How strange was your encounter with Cadet Kimbal?"

"I was teaching him the rudiments of poker, sir."

Data was treated to a rather frosty silence, after which Commander Riker
remarked, "Why didn't he come to me for that request?"

"You would have been a more logical choice, sir', I am sure Cadet
Crusher was reluctant to disturb you when you had command of the ship.
To continue, he played erratically, as if he were trying to lose.  And
he did lose; he lost these six items, which he insisted I keep, despite
my offer to return them."

Data spread the items onto a clipboard, which he passed to Commander
Riker.  The first officer pondered them for a moment.

"Data, this is...  these are..." He looked up, his thick eyebrows
lowering in suspicion.  "Data, I've been in Starfleet for seventeen
years, and I have never seen a corem badge made of gold-pressed latinurn
before.  Something is very wrong, and for some reason, this is the only
way Wesley can tell us about it."

Data nodded.  "That matches my hypothesis, sir.  He clearly intended me
to win these items; when I requested permission to examine them, he said
he could not control what I did with my 'own property." He was quite
insistent that they were now my property."

"Well, hadn't we better take them to the science lab and begin examining
them, Data?"

"Aye, sir."

Riker and Data rode down the turbolift in silence; Data simulated
thousands of possible scenarios in his positronic brain, trying to find
one that resulted in Wesley Crusher ending up with latinurn copies of
several common artifacts.

None had a probability higher than background noise.

"You know," said Commander Riker as they entered the lab, "we've been
assuming that these things are really made of latinurn."

"Yes, sir.  I performed a full visible-spectrum, pseudo-Balmer-line scan
on them when Wesley first bet them.  They have all the gross
characteristics of gold-pressed latinum."

"Appearances can be deceiving," said Will Riker.  He picked up the
commemorative medal, pretended to place it into his left hand; Data,
however, saw him actually retain it in his right.  "Here, Data, blow on
this hand."

Humoring the commander, Data leaned over and expelled air over Riker's
left hand, all the while keeping an eye on the other.

"Voila," said the commander, opening his left hand.

"Sir, you must practice that trick more assiduously; I saw you retain
the coin in your other hand."

"You mean this one?" slyly asked Riker, opening his right hand; it was
as empty as the left.

Data stared, replaying the scene several times through his visual
circuitry.  Try as he might, he could not see where his analysis had
gone wrong.

"Are you looking for this, Data?" Commander Riker gestured casually at
the specimen tray; there, sitting securely among the rest of the alleged
latinurn, was the medal.

"The point is well taken, sir," said Data.  "Let us run a complete scan
on the items using the positronal spectral scanners."

The positronal scanners were the most accurate in the lab, even more
precise than the subspace scanners that ringed the Enterprise itself.
Data placed the medal in the gravitic clamps and programmed the scan.
"This will take approximately four minutes," he announced.

Even before the scan completed, Data already knew that the medal was not
made of gold-pressed latinum.  "Sir, please observe at this sequence
here."

"Latinum," said Riker.

"That is the sequence of absorption lines commonly associated with
gold-pressed latinum; but do you see the other pattern behind it?"

Faint "ghost-lines" appeared in the positronal spectrum.

Data visually enhanced the image, increasing the contrast.

"What is that?" asked Riker.  "I don't recognize the sequence."

"Perhaps it would look more familiar if I blue-shifted it back where it
came from." He typed at the console, and the absorption sequence slid to
the left.

"Chaseum?" asked the commander.

"Indeed, sir.  It is my guess that these items are actually made of
chaseum which has somehow been overlayer by the image of gold-pressed
latinurn."

"Fairy gold," breathed Riker.

"An apt description, sir.  The counterfeit is excellent; there are only
three positronal spectral scanners in this entire sector...  and two of
them are aboard the Enterprise.

There is undoubtedly no other piece of equipment that would be capable
of detecting the difference between this metal and latinurn."

Riker stared at the display, rubbing his beard in agitation.

"Data, do you understand the implication of this?  You know why latinurn
is the standard currency of all three known quadrants, don't you?"

Data nodded.  "Yes, sir; it is because it is one of only a few materials
that cannot be replicated.  The molecules of gold-pressed latinurn are
arranged in a nearly crystalinc pattern that depends upon the precise
orientation of eighty-eight 'fractal legs' of atoms.  When the
replicator attempts to duplicate the pattern, the second fractal leg
induces a spontaneous reorientation of the first.  Thus, each fractal
leg recursively reorients its predecessor--"

"And you end up with chaseum, not latinurn, in the replicator,"
concluded Riker.  "It's like squaring a positive or negative number,
either way, you end up with a positive square.  But if you can alter the
appearance of common chaseum to make it pass perfectly as latinurn, then
you hold the fate of the galaxy in your hand.  Without latinum, there's
no trade; and without trade, there is nothing to hold together the
fragile alliances that prevent total war from breaking out."

Data turned off the scanner.  The rest of the spectral absorbtion lines
showed the same pattern: a strong latinurn sequence in the foreground
with the ghost of a chaseum sequence in deep background.

"Sir, if we are indeed dealing with a nearly perfect latinum
counterfeit, it is most urgent that we identify the perpetrator at
once."

"Hopefully before he gets away with the photonic pulse cannon.  Look,
whoever is doing this needs a constant supply of chaseum.  If we could
tie into the chateau's computer system, we could see who is replicating
chaseum by the ton."

Data tapped his corem badge.  "Computer; establish a communications link
with the Chateau Hotel Casino."

After a moment, they heard the voice of the chateau switchboard
operator.  "Good evening thank you for calling the Chateau H6tel Casino
located on scenic Novus Alamorgordus reservations are appreciated my
name is Alison Swain may I help you sir?."

"This is Commander William Riker, first officer of the U.S.S.
Enterprise.  May I speak to the manager, please?"

"Certainly sir I'll connect you enjoy your stay here on scenic Novus
Alamogordus thank you."

"Yes, Commander Reicheft," boomed a boisterous voice with a distinct New
Anglican accent, "Hugh Akston, Chief Concierge of the casino.  I am at
your service."

Riker hesitated a moment, then surprised Data by offering the manager a
story: "We have reason to believe a known criminal is among your guests.
We need to scan your replicator logs for the past three days to locate
him."

The manager's pause was quite long.  "I'm sorry, sir," he responded
stiffly, "that information is private.  Our guests do not come to the
Chateau Hotel Casino in order to have their privacy violated."

"You don't understand.  The Federation needs to examine your logs; this
is an official request."

"No.  No, it's quite out of the question.  And we are outside the
jurisdiction of the Federation, in free space; there is no Federation
tribunal that has the authority to order us to hand over our logs."

"No, sir, you're right.  I can't order you to hand them over.

But if you do not, you will be aiding a very serious criminal
enterprise, one that will almost certainly harm the very clients you're
protecting."

"Commander Riker, this conversation is not getting us anywhere.  You are
welcome to beam down and try our nearly limitless diversions...
Double-Dabo, a leafy-vine lottery, triple-odds craps tables, and the
most beautiful Dabo girls in the quadrant.  But we simply cannot
authorize any computer link between the chateau computers and your ship.
And if you try to take them by force, you'll activate a poison-pill
virus that will overwrite them with random noise.

"I'm sorry, sir.  Please do come down and join us, though, and please
accept a free coupon good for six grams' worth of identichips, good in
any restaurant or casino."

"Thank you." Commander Riker sighed.  "Enterprise out."

When the corem link terminated, Data turned to the commander.  "Sir, if
you don't mind my asking, why did you not tell the manager about the
counterfeit latinurn?"

"The last thing we need right now is a specie-panic, particularly when
we don't have much evidence to back up the charge.  Hm...  I wonder
whether the counterfeiters were stupid enough to...  ?"

Data caught on immediately.  "Computer," he said, "has any crew member
or passenger aboard the Enterprise replicated any items made of chaseum
in the past one hundred and sixty-eight hours?"

"Affirmative," the computer replied.  "Two Ferengi and Cadet Wesley
Crusher have all replicated bars of chaseum within the past one hundred
and sixty-eight hours."

"Bars?  Did these bars happen to resemble bars of gold-pressed
latinurn?"

"Unknown; the bar designs of gold-pressed latinurn are not contained
within my memory banks."

"Of course not," muttered Riker.  He turned to Data.  "I was afraid of
that," he said.  "It seems our old friend, Cadet Fred Kimbal, is up to
his earlobes in trouble with his two Ferengi friends, Munk and Tunk."

"He does have a remarkable propensity for getting into situations, sir."

Riker paced slowly to the spectral scanner.  "So Munk is counterfeiting
gold-pressed latinurn.  Aside from typical Ferengi greed, why?  Why
right here and now?."

"The most logical conclusion is the one you mentioned earlier, sir.  He
wishes to purchase items at the auction."

"The photonic pulse cannon?  But why?  That's what we need to determine,
Data.  That, and how we stop him."

"Perhaps if we informed the officials of Hatheby's about the deception?"

Riker shook his head.  "Data, you've spent your entire life in
Starfleet.  You haven't lived until you've sat through a court trial...
especially where a Ferengi is one of the litigants."

Riker held up fingers as he counted.  "First, we're not disinterested
parties; we're involved in the auction itself representing not only
ourselves, but Betazed, the medical community, and the Klingon Empire.

"Second, Wesley--I mean Fredmused to be an officer of this very ship; he
could claim that we breached crew privacy by reporting that he
replicated the chaseum."

"Would Cadet Crusher make such a claim?"

"Of course not; but Munk or Tunk might make it for him.

Third, we have no solid evidence linking any of them to the counterfeit
latinurn."

"I obtained it from Mister Crusher, sir."

"You won it in a poker game.  And that doesn't indicate that he produced
it, or that he even knows who produced it.

He replicated chaseum, but so what?  It's no crime to replicate
chaseum."

"It might be considered probable cause to obtain a warrant to search the
Ferengi's rooms."

Riker shrugged.  "Fourth, whom do we petition for a warrant?  As Akston
said, we have no jurisdiction here.  What should we do, beam the Ferengi
up to the Enterprise and arrest them?"

"I see what you mean," said Data, raising his brows.  "If we cannot warn
the other bidders without initiating a lawsuit against Starfleet, and we
cannot arrest the suspects without starting an interquadrant incident,
what actions should we take?"

Riker's smile was grim, mirthless.  "We simply have to stop them
ourselves, Mister Data."

Data nodded, distracted by the test-procedures daemon he initiated.  "I
will attempt to devise a method of neutralizing the deception,
Commander."

"Keep me informed.  In the meantime, I think I'll put in a call to
Captain Picard, Counselor Troi, and Lieutenant Worf.  Always nice to
keep in touch, eh, Data?" He smiled, indicating a mild jest; but Data's
positronic brain was at maximum utilization and he had no room to
initiate his "laughter" program.

In fact, he did not even notice when Commander Riker left the room.  At
a lull in the processing, he noticed that he was alone in the lab,
standing near the display console, frozen nearly into physical paralysis
by intense mental activity.

Data's problem was that he knew what had been done to make the chaseum
look like latinum, but he did not know how it was done.  The strong
latinurn absorption lines showed that chemically, it was gold-pressed
latinurn; but the residual chaseum ghost-lines showed that it was not.

Perplexed, he began to review all known chemical properties of the
chaseum-class metals that could be checked.

Back on the bridge, Commander Riker opened a comm link with Captain
Picard.

From long experience with the captain, Riker 'could tell that Picard was
quite agitated, though few others could have detected the annoyance
beneath the captain's calm voice.

"Commander Riker, I am in the midst of a critical series of bids.  What
is it?"

Riker took a deep breath; the captain never called him "Commander Riker"
unless he was very displeased.  Tersely, he brought Captain Picard up to
speed on the suspected Ferengi counterfeiting ring.

The change in the captain's mood was swift and gratifying "This is grave
news indeed, Will.  Chairman Munk has taken to bidding silently with
hectobars of latinurn.  Do you think they are all counterfeit?"

"Sir, I can't say for sure that any of it is.  What does he say when he
pulls out each hectobar?."

"Nothing, Number One; he simply drops them onto the table with a
resounding thunk.  In his twisted, criminal mind, he has probably
convinced himself that this mitigates the crime, since he is not
actually stating that he's bidding latinurn."

"Would that work in a courtroom?"

Picard snorted.  "I doubt it, unless it were a Ferengi courtroom.  In
this case, however, there is no place to try him anyway; Novus
Alamogordus is outside Federation jurisdiction, yet not quite inside the
territory claimed by the Cardassians.  There is a Federation-Cardassian
peace treaty currently being negotiated that may resolve this sector,
but nothing has been finalized yet."

"Data is trying to find a way to reverse the illusion; I'll keep you
informed, sir.  In the meantime, I've got to contact Deanna, Beverly,
and Worf."

"I must sign off, Number One; Gul Fubar has engaged the Grand Nagus in
hectobar to hectobar combat over the plans for a stereographic sensor
array, and I must enter the fray on behalf of Kahless the Unforgettable
before he's forgotten.

Picard out."

The warning to Dr.  Beverly Crusher took only a minute; she was in her
room, perusing catalogs of hospital equipment.

"It doesn't make any difference," she said, "he's not bidding on any
medical lots, anyway."

Deanna took the information with typical steady calm.

Lieutenant Worf's reaction was typical.

"I will kill that earlobed Ferengi!" snarled Worf, forgetting himself
for a moment.  "He has insulted and dishonored..

Worf caught himself.

Worf and Geordi were not in the auction hall.  They were in a corridor
when they received Riker's call, and Geordi transferred the comm link to
a public communicator with a viewscreen.

"Lieutenant," Riker said sharply, "you're not representing the Klingon
Empire.  You're representing the Federation, and we do not kill people
for counterfeiting."

For an instant, Worf's anger flared so bright that Riker half-expected
the gigantic Klingon to leap right through the comm link screen.  Then
it ebbed, and Worf was himself once again.  "You are right, of course. I
am sorry I lost my temper, sir." But his lip still curled in a dark
}Clingon snarl.

"Just keep bidding as if you don't suspect anything, Worf.

We don't want to spook them just yet."

"But, Commander, surely we are not going to just let him outbid us on
every item!  Even without killing him, I can frighten him into fleeing
Novus Alamogordus."

Riker shook his head.  "That's the last thing we want.

Worf, as important as this auction is, it's far more terrifying to think
that a Ferengi has the means to counterfeit gold-pressed latinurn."

"I understand, sir.  I shall try not to spook him, though it will be
difficult."

"Have you won any bids, yet, Worf?"

The Klingon frowned like a hired mourner at a skinflint's funeral.
"There has been only one bid at the 'Senior-level' auction; Munk won it
by dropping seventy-five hectobars of his fraudulent latinurn on the
table."

The commander chuckled.  "Keep your eyes Open, Lieutenant; Riker out."

Commander William Riker leaned back in the command chair and scratched
his beard.  Needs a trim, he thought, starting to itch.  He tapped his
corem badge.  "Riker to Data."

Data had not moved at all since attacking the problem except for the
"involuntary" functions such as blinking and simulating breathing that
occurred on their own timetables.

Now, he seemed to wake up and answer the commander's call.

"Data here, sir."

"I know it's only been a half hour, but do you have any ideas?"

"Yes, sir."

"You do?"

"I am unable to deduce how the Ferengi are disguising chaseum as
latinum; but I believe I have thought of a method that in theory, at
least, will remove the disguise.  I might be able to adapt the ship's
phasers to produce a disphasic field which I can set to one hundred
eighty degrees out of phase with the illusory latinurn spectrum."

"You're saying that would cancel out the illusion?"

"I do not know for certain; but it is logical.  In theory, the disphasic
field should create an interference pattern where every wave is mapped
to a trough and every trough to a wave.  That should flatten the wave
function, causing the illusion to vanish."

"How long would it take, Data?"

"I do not know.  I would guess at least sixteen hours; and during that
time, we would not have the use of the phaser banks."

"Let me think about this.  Riker out."

The first officer thought of the danger posed by Munk and his fairy
gold; then he thought of the Romulans, the Cardassians, and even the
Tholians, all in various orbits around Novus Alamogordus.  By a strict
interpretation of Starfleet regulations, Riker had no choice whatsoever:
Under no circumstances could a starship disarm itself in the presence of
the three most aggressive empires in the quadrant.

He smiled tightly.  I guess I was never a one to follow regulations to
the letter.  "Riker to Data."

"Data here, sir."

"Start working on that disphasic field and keep me posted.  Riker out."

First Officer William Riker leaned forward, forearms on knees,
pretending to study the viewscreen; but behind his eyes, he wondered
whether he had just placed the Enterprise in deadly danger.

WESLEY ARRIVED BACK in the Munk-Tunk suite at a few minutes after 2100.
He stepped out of the bathroom, shooting for "nonchalant."

He may as well have marched out with a brass band; the two Ferengi
stared at him with curled lips, bared teeth, and suspiciously wrinkled
noses.  "Where were you, human?

Answer me!"

"Aye, and see that yet tongue be not flapping with the falsehood, or
faith, but we'll lop it off!"

"What do you mean?  I just--"

"You just transported out of the room for the last hour!

The toilet was empty!"

"Th-that's what I was sayings" improvised Wesley, feeling his face
redden.  Would the Ferengi notice his guilty expression, or were they
telling the truth that all humans look the same to them?  "I was just...
uh...  beamed aboard the Enterprise, entirely against my will, I assure
you." The best lie sticks closest to the truth, he remembered reading
somewhere.

"It's that Commander Riker, you know, the second in command?  It turns
out, ah..."

Wesley's mouth was dry, and he felt his pulse leap along at warp speed.
Then, sudden inspiration.  "There...  there was apparently a
transportation tax we didn't pay."

The Ferengi, who until that moment had been advancing menacingly,
stopped as if hitting a force shield.  "Er...

tax?" asked Tunk.

"Yes!  It's the, ah, Federation Council on Emergency Service Response
Inter-Sector Revenue Enhancement Opportunity Tax.  We were supposed to
pay, urn, a couple hundred bars of latinurn.  This Riker guy demanded
that I pay for us."

"Hold, lad," said Munk, eyes narrowing again.  "Why forsooth would yon
admiralty make tae wring the tithe from me crew, not their skipper?"

"They...  they...  they knew they'd never get a gram from a Ferengi,
that's why!  They knew you'd be able to talk your way out of the tax. So
they went aftermpoor Fred Kimbal instead, since I'm merely a human and
unable to successfully negotiate my way out of this blatant piracy!"

"Ahhh!" said both Ferengi in unison, nodding sagely.

"Scupper me, but that tings sooth," said Munk.

"So what happened, human?  Speak up, stop stammering!"

"Faith and the Profits!" cried Munk, "ye didn't fire a canister of our
latinurn at the lubber!"

Wesley blinked.  "I would have if I'd had one with me.  But I didn't."
It was the simple truth; the Ferengi watched their fairy gold like
paranoid leprechauns.

"Fray me ratlines!" swore Munk.  "We canna east yon bars adrift aboard
ye Enterprise--they're spyglasses aplenty to prise the secret from our
horde!"

"So how did you pay them?" demanded Tunk "You haven't got two hundred
bars of latinurn!"

"I, uh..." Wesley looked from one unftiendly Ferengi face to the other.
He realized he was rubbing his wrist, which felt quite odd without the
chronometer he normally WOuld.

The chronometer...  "I didn't have any latinum on.  my person, so they,
ah, they took my chronometer, my ting, my pendant, and entered a debt
against me for the remaining amount."

Tunk reared back, face a caricature of astonishment.

"They did?  By the Profits, I didn't realize the humans had such
ingenuity!"

"Sink me, but 'tis an ambitious Ferengi solution!  I'd not have sought
it from the Federation landlubbers.  Decency"-he spat the wordm"clings
to them like barnacles on a whale's belly."

Munk's hand lashed out, catching Wesley's wrist.  He reeled it in like a
fish on a line, then pointed to the paler, untanned spot left behind by
Wesley's wrist-chronometer; at the Academy on Earth, the cadet found
himself outside often enough to tan slightly...  a side effect he
silently thanked.

"Kimbal, 'tis a fine service ye hath rendered to yer maties," beamed
Munk.

"Oh, yes," added his son, "very big of you.  We're very proud." He
smacked Wesley on the shoulder, bruising the cadet's arm.  "Your
generosity is a credit to your race."

"Certes, and of a surity, we sh'11 gladly make it up to ye."

"With latinurn and all the fine things money can buy...

Dabo girls, holosuites..."

"Just as soon as we sail into safe harbor once begin."

"Aye--I mean, yes, just as soon as this little adventure is over!  You
have my personal guarantee on it."

"Now cease yer dancing and let's ship this booty to yon auction cabin."

Chortling, the two "supervised" while Wesley sweated and grunted the
rest of the fairy latinum aboard an antigravity luggage pallet.  While
he worked, he noticed Munk sidle up to Tunk and mutter, "Sure as yet me
ship's master, I've a task for your blade."

"My...  blade?  Sir?" Tunk cringed slightly, indicating reluctance to
serve in any capacity requiting a blade.

"Aye.  This'd be a deed for our two young scalawags, but they be
searpered.  So 'tisa' up to ye.  We needs make a scheme to vouchsafe yon
clock, if the cannons loose their charges and it's every man for
hisself."

"A plan?  To protect the clock?"

"Aye..." Munk turned a suspicious eye on Wesley, who resumed loading.
Leaning close, the old Ferengi whispered for several minutes into his
son's ears; the cadet could not hear another word.

When he finally finished loading the latinurn, he followed the Ferengi
down the wide marble stairs into the main dining area.

The table, which ordinarly seated and fed two hundred, was reworked into
a conference table that seated a mere eighty bidders who had posted a
sufficient bond to qualify for the major-lot auction.  Munk sat at his
accustomed chair, Tunk behind him as advisor, two seats away from
Lieutenant Worf, who was himself advised by Geordi La Forge.

Further around the table, Wesley recognized Deanna Troi and Captain
Picard, and at the far end, the Grand Nagus of the Ferengi, with about
twenty advisors conveying messages in relays.

As the Hatheby's auctioneer explained the rules in tedious detail, rules
that Wesley had heard explained in exactly the same tedious detail three
times previously, he found himself nodding off.  Small wonder: He had
gotten virtually no sleep in the past forty-eight hours, unlike the
Ferengi.  He had not even "relaxed" in a rolosuite or read for pleasure.
All Wesley had done for two days, it seemed, was toil over a hot Kimbal
Clock for hours on end, cranking out hectobar after hectobar of fake
latinum, then attend Munk in auctions and feed him the hectobars ten at
a time so he could toss them on the table and steal the show.

Dully, Wesley felt eyes boring into the back of his head.

He turned around and finally spotted Counselor Deanna Troi observing
him.  If she's reading my emotional state, he thought, I'll bet all
she's picking up is exhaustion, frustration, and a hell of a strong
desire to just go back to the Academy.

Or better yet, ditch the Academy, the Enterprise, Starfleet, even the
Federation.

What Wesley Crusher really wanted was to leave everything behind and
actually see the universe--not as a "representative" of the Federation
or Starfleet, not in a starship bound by rules and regulations, even
Standing Order Number One...  not as "Cadet Crusher" or "Ensign
Crusher," but simply as Wesley.

Once in his life, he had touched that sort of freedom, had felt
liberated from decades of tradition and formalism: the few moments he
had spent with the Traveler, where he actually touched universe, cosmos
the known and chaos the unknown together, were the brightest points of
his life.

Those memories were the bright, hot flame at the tip of a long, gray
candle.

I want those moments back; he thought.  Someday, he knew, he would
condemn everything else to hell and run away to join the Traveler.  When
he touched subspace and guided the Enterprise halfway across the
quadrant, Wesley Crusher knew he had heard his true call; someday, he
would answer it.

But not today, he added sadly.  The bidding had begun.

Counselor Deanna Troi tried to look serenely confident as the bidding
began; she managed only calmness, but it was safer than openly
displaying the emotions that raged within her.

The bids began slowly at first; the auctioneer, Dmitri Smythe, had to
coax each bid out of his reluctant suitors.

The first item was a personal force shield that supposedly absorbed and
reemitted phaser blasts with near-perfect efficiency; the net effect,
according to Dr.  Zorka's abstract, which he published in lieu of an
actual paper (he claimed he was too busy to write the paper itself), was
as if phaser blasts were perfectly reflected.

Nobody could mistake the value of such an item; if it could be extended
to a ship, the vessel would be invulnerable to phasers.

Even so, the mob seemed reluctant to even open the bidding.  Mr.  Smythe
did not help matters by exercising his prerogative as "conductor" to
issue a new ukase: In all bidding at the "senior level," which included
every truly interesting lot, not only would the winner have to fork over
the latinurn...  but so would the runner-up.

That is, if a Bajoran bid ten hectobars, and a Cardassian bid eleven and
won the bid, then the Cardassian paid eleven hundred and got the item
...  and the Bajoran paid the thousand he had bid and got nothing!

At first, Deanna did not understand why anyone would enunciate such a
weird rule; she had never before participated in an auction for anything
but artwork and had never run across such peculiarities.

After she began to bid, however, she suddenly caught on.

Having bid as much as she thought Betazed could afford, if another
participant, such as the Grand Nagus, topped her, and no one else seemed
likely to outbid--then Deanna was reduced to the quite enviable position
of either overbidding the Nagus and at least getting something for her
latinum or else sitting silent...  and spending Betazed's latinurn for
nothing!

Needless to say, the bidding which began slow quickly escalated to
wilder and wilder levels, as every participant caught on to the
conundrum: Better to overpay for something than to pay and get nothing.

When at last Captain Picard topped Deanna's last bid, and GUl Fubar
topped that, Deanna collapsed back into her seat in relief; Betazed (and
Deanna Troi) had wriggled off the hook.

Don't use your epathy--don't use it!  It's not fair.t Deanna used her
epathy in every round; she could not help herself.

She could not turn it off except by drugs.  Hatheby's was right to
refuse to allow full Betazoids, she thought, then felt ashamed for
thinking it...  the rule virtually prevented her own home planet,
telepathy-rich but latinum-poor compared to the mighty empires and the
Federation, from effectively bidding.

She snuck another glance at her data-reader crib-clip, searching
carefully one more time.  The results were as negative as the last six
times she had searched; there was no personal force shield listed in the
catalog her mother had transmitted, and Betazed had not supplied her
with any instructions on how much to bid for one.  She was flying solo.

Across the table, Lieutenant Worf searched his own crib-clip to equally
negative results.  He leaned back to La Forge and spoke in what only a
Klingon would call a whisper.  "Sir, I find this entire affair immensely
frustrating Not a single one of the items which Starfleet particularly
desired has come up yet, and not one of the lots that has been auctioned
is on my list."

"Of course not, Worf...  Starfleet probably assembled the list from the
journal articles and abstracts that Zorka published.  He claimed more
basic inventions than Zephram Cochrane."

"Then where are they?"

The lieutenant commander chuckled.  "They don't exist, Worf!  That's
what I've been trying to tell you all.  It's illusor3r, Doctor Zorka
never really invented anything worthwhile."

Worf rolled his eyes.  "You told me he had invented several useful
items.  You said he developed a coupling shield for the nacelles."

"Oh, sure, twenty-five years ago."

"And he produced the first working model of a phaser attenuation lens."

"That was a long time ago, too."

"Doctor Zorka developed it after you graduated from the Academy."

"All right, so even a broken clock is right twice a day."

Worf turned his attention to the auction; the Ferengi called the "Grand
Nagus" and the Cardassian, Gul Fubar, were slowly one-upping each other
for the personal force shield.  Then the Klingon furrowed his brow and
turned back to Geordi La Forge.  "How is a malfunctioning chronometer
correct twice a day?"

"Well, when the...  if the numbers...  you know, I have no idea, Worf.
I've just always heard it, that's all.  Anyway, you know what I mean."

"Commander, I am not sure that you know what you mean.  I am positive
that I do not." Feeling especially haughty at having finally won an
argument from Geordi La Forge, Worfinterjected a loud bid, topping the
Grand Nagus by more than two heetobars.  The Klingon decided that list
or no list, he could not allow such a useful item to fall to the
Cardassians because of simple, bureaucratic bungling.

The bidding paused; the Nagus and the Cardassian had gotten into a back
and forth progression, and it was the Grand Nagus's "turn." Instead of
bidding, he leaned forward and leered drunkenly at Worf.

At least, that is how the Klingon took the look.  He stared back,
vaguely repulsed by the Ferengi, but aware that his best response was
not to respond.

"Eaww, looks like we have a newhie in the game.  A virgin!"

Woff drew himself up.  The "virgin" crack had struck home; it was, in
fact, Worf's first bid on any of the important equipment.  In awful
tones, the lieutenant said, "I am bidding on behalf of the United
Federation of Planets."

The Nagus stage-whispered to his cronies: "I am bidding on behalf of the
United Federation of Planets!" in an annoying imitation of Worf's voice.

"Are you mocking me?" demanded Worf.

"Never let it be said that I mocked a Klingon," said the Ferengi with
wildly exaggerated deference.  His cohorts hooted with derisive
laughter.

"Mister ah..." The Hatheby's conductor stared expectantly at Worf.

"Lieutenant Worf."

"Lieutenant Worf bids forty-eight hundred bars of gold-pressed latinurn
for the Federation."

After an embarrassing silence, the duel between the Ferengi and the
Cardassian continued.  Worf did not venture another bid.

At last, Gul Fubar's bids came slower and slower.  He hesitated a long
moment at sixty-three hectobars; at sixty-five, he opened and closed his
mouth as if gulping air, staring wildly.

Worf smiled; clearly, Gul Fubar had exceeded whatever amount he had
alotted for the personal force shield, and now he was about to pay that
amount and not get it after all.

The Klingon understood the vicious beauty of the double-pay rule.

The conductor, Dmitri Smythe, nodded.  "Then if there are no further
bids, the lot will be purchased by the Grand Nagus for the Ferengi High
Command for sixty-five hundred bars of gold-pressed latinum.  One time,
two times--"

A loud thud startled everyone at the table.  Worf whirled, half-reaching
for the phaser that he was not wearing.

It was the other Ferengi at the opposite end of the room, Munk.  He had
just dropped a huge stack oflatinum onto the table--seven kilobars and
five hectobars: seventy-five hundred bars.  It was the largest amount of
latinurn Lieutenant Worf had ever seen in one place.

Gasps and astonished exclamations echoed around the conference table.
The Cardassian looked stricken, but the Grand Nagus allowed his mouth to
fall open in shock.

Munk said nothing, merely smiling.

The Hatheby's conductor frowned and nodded in appreciation.

"The bid is now seventy-five hundred from Chairman Munk."

"Seventy-seven," bid the Nagus, only slightly recovered.

Munk slid the five hectobars back and dropped another kilobar.

"Eight thousand," intoned Smythe.

Worf half-stood, craning his neck to see from where the little, wizened,
old Ferengi was pulling his kilobars.  The Klingon saw a large, black
satchel, but could not see how full it might be.  It sat on a
zero-gravity pallet partially behind Munk, next to the other Ferengi and
the Enterprise's own Wesley Crusher, who had taken to calling himself
"Fred Kimbal" for some peculiar reason.

"Where did you get that?" demanded the Grand Nagus, a bit too jumpy.
Munk's only response was to grab an earlobe and flap it at his nemesis,
the Ferengi version of a universal gesture inviting an act that was
anatomically possible for only six species in the quadrant (Ferengi not
among them).

The conductor waited patiently, but nobody rose to challenge Munk's bid.
Even the Grand Nagus, having by now recovered from his startlement, sat
quietly with a grim smile frozen on his face while Smythe called for a
bid once, twice, and finally gaveled the bidding closed.  The Nagus paid
seven thousand, seven hundred for the privilege of watching Munk pay
eight kilobars for the personal force shield.

A sudden crack caused as big a reaction as Munk's thunk: The Grand
Nagus, still smiling, held one broken piece of his walking stick in each
hand.

Commander La Forge leaned forward and whispered to Worf, "It couldn't
happen to a nicer pair."

"At least neither the Cardassians nor the Romulans got it," growled the
lieutenant.

"Yeah," commiserated the lieutenant commander, "too bad.  They could use
a useless drain on their weapons budget."

Smythe unveiled the next lot, a stereographic sensor array that
purported to be able to detect even cloaked vessels by the Doppler
effect they produced in the subspace continuum.

Once again, Lieutenant Worf scanned through his list, then searched more
slowly, line by line.  "Sir," he announced, "it is not on the list
again."

"Worf, you're really getting worried about this, aren't you?"

"What if we have been fooled, and this is not the real auction?"

"What do you mean, not the real auction?  They just auctioned off a
personal force shield."

Worf quickly looked left and right, checking to make sure no one was
listening; everyone seemed engrossed in the bidding war between Gul
Fubar and the Romulan representative, Legate Chirok.

"What if this is only a cover auction, and the real auction, where they
are offering the items on my list, is happening somewhere else...  where
we have not been invited?"

"You're paranoid, Worf."

"Perhaps so; still, I wonder.  Nothing matches the list I was given by
Starfleet."

"Well...  if you feel that strongly about it, Worf, why don't you
investigate?"

The K!ingon pondered for a moment.  If he left, his place at the table
might be taken by one of the alternates.  On the other hand, he could
certainly claim it back again at the next meal break; most of the
bidders seemed like the types who would yield to a meaty forefinger
tapping on the shoulder and a polite, but menacing, "pardon me."

"That is an excellent suggestion, sir.  I think I shall take it."

Rumbling an evasive explanation, Worf rose and bulled his way to the
door of the room, La Forge immediately following.  The Klingon noticed
Captain Picard watching him curiously, puzzled and concerned about his
sudden departure; but it could not be helped.

As soon as they exited the room, WorPs comm badge beeped.  "Worf here,"
he said.

"Riker," announced the voice.

La Forge joined the conversation.  "Sir, we're right next to a public
communicator; would you like visual?"

"All right; I'll wait."

A minute later, they continued with full audio-visual contact. Commander
Riker brought Worf and La Forge up-to-date on the forged latinum, then
signed off.

Worf breathed deeply for several seconds, regaining his warrior's calm.
"I should have suspected them from the beginning," he berated.

"Oh, come on, Worf.  Don't be so hard on yourself.  How could you have
known the latinurn was counterfeit?"

Worf turned slowly to his friend, eyes cold and angry.

"Because they are Ferengi!"

"You know, we don't know for sure that's fake latinum.

It's all just based on Data's deduction."

"They are Ferengi!"

"l know how we could prove it, though."

Lieutenant Worf blinked twice and finally heard the comment.  "How,
sir?"

"Well, chaseum doesn't just fall out of the sky, Worf.  You have to
replicate it...  which means there will be a record of the replication
somewhere--somewhere in the casino's computer system."

The Klingon considered for a moment, then turned to La Forge.
"Commander, can you access the memory banks?"

"If I can't, I'll demote myself back to ensign."

Geordi La Forge strolled down the corridor, hands behind his back
flapping.  He whistled a tuneless sequence of notes.

Worf frowned.  "Sir," he said as quietly as possible, "you may be the
best engineer in Starfleet...  but as a burglar, I believe you leave
much to be desired."

"What's wrong?"

"You are whistling."

"I was trying to be inconspicuous, Worf."

"You are about as inconspicuous as a spiked brazillizard in a
gymnasium."

"I'm not acting like a successful intersector spy?"

"No, sir."

"Ah, then no one will suspect me at all, right?"

Worf rolled his eyes.  Human logic, he told himself as they hurried
along the corridor toward the turbolift.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard, bidding for the greater glory of Emperor
Kahless, realized abruptly that he had slipped upward into the danger
zone with his last bid.  From that point on, each bid would be
reluctant, fretful, for ending up the bidding as number two, thus paying
but receiving nothing, would seriously weaken the Klingon finances.

At once, Counselor Deanna Troi of Betazed signaled her first bid on the
warp coil redux damper; until that moment, she had sat silently while
Picard and the Cardassian, Gul Fubar, one-upped each other.

It was the third time in a row that Deanna had suddenly begun to bid
just at the moment that Picard started worrying, as if...

As if she's reading my emotional state, he thought, grimly.

It was ridiculous, unfair!  How could he bid against an opponent who
always knew when he was close to his upper limit?  Immediately, Picard
caught the irony.  It was for precisely this advantage that Starfleet so
often assigned Betazoids to starships.

If she didn't use her abilities, she wouM be failing in her duty to
Betazed.  Rough on me, though...

However much he might understand her motives, Picard was not about to
allow his own clients to be "cheated" that way!  Time for a showdown, he
decided.

Captain Picard closed his eyes and let all the tension flow out of his
neck and shoulders.  He relaxed his face and imagined the cool vineyards
of his native Labarre.

He felt his pulse and respirations slow; a soft, memory-breeze blew
across his face, cooling him.

Picard opened his eyes, careful to maintain the feeling, and stared at
Deanna until he caught her attention.  She blinked, confused by the
sudden change in Pieard's emotions.

He smiled blandly.  Deanna grew flustered, stammering out her next bid,
"Seventy--seventy-eight!" she cried.

The captain sighed in relief; Deanna was so startled by the unexpected
mood swing that she topped Gul Fubar's last bid by twenty hectobars. The
gap was so wide that Picard found no temptation to follow...  and
neither did anyone else.  Just as well, he thought; I really didn't want
the damned thing anyway.

Deanna's face turned the color of a red giant star as she slowly
realized her serious mistake.  She was terribly overbid for such a minor
improvement on warp field technology] The only thing that could possibly
make it worse was...

Thud.  Thud.  "Eighty-three hundred is bid by Chairman Munk," intoned
the conductor.  In the Ferengi corner, loud guffaws spoiled the
solemnity of the occasion.

Deanna turned white, and she clenched her jaw so tight that Picard
winced in sympathetic pain.  Now it was the counselor's turn to play
number two with a hyperinflated bid.

The Hatheby's conductor counted Munk's bid out three times.  Twice,
Deanna opened her mouth to outbid the Ferengi; but she was obviously way
over the line already with her bid of seventy-eight hectobars.  Bidding
higher would not ensure she got the warp damper; instead, Munk might
merely top her again with latinurn from his omnipresent sachel.

At last, she accepted defeat bitterly.  Munk cackled, enjoying the
consternation of the crowd.  Deanna's debt was laid against Betazeal.

For some peculiar reason, however, Jean-Luc Picard felt no joy or
elation at having so tricked the Betazoid representative; no matter how
minutely he examined the situation, it still added up to having defeated
a friend.

In any event, the real problem was Lieutenant Worf, who despite
representing the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the auction, the
Federation, had failed to capture even a single lot.  In fact, the
Klingon had offered virtually no bids at all.

Despite his own temporary loyalty to the Klingon Empire, Captain Picard
fretted that the Federation did not have adequate representation in the
auction.

The captain sighed; it made little difference.  The Ferengi Munk and his
cronies--including.  for reasons he had yet to fathom, young Wesley
Crusher--had won every bid anyway.

He simply plopped down more and more "latinum" until each person had met
and exceded his price ceiling.  The only excitement came from the race
not to be second place.

While the conductor droned on about the next lot to be auctioned--a
transporter subspace relay that allegedly boosted and repeated a
transporter beam up to a thousand parsees, abstract only, no working
model--Picard leaned back out of the mainstream of conversation and
tapped his comm badge.

"Picard to Riker," he said, speaking quietly enough that no one would
likely notice or hear.

The voice response could only be heard by Picard, so the entire
conversation was private.  "Riker here."

"The situation is grim, Number One.  Munk has won every single bid so
far.  He simply drops hectobar after hectobar onto the table until
everyone else drops out.  Has Commander Data readied his method of
removing the latinum disguise?"

"I wish I could say he has."

"Then have we any other evidence we can present to Hatheby's?  I'm sure
if we could present a plausible case that Munk is bidding counterfeit
latinum, he would be removed from the auction until his specie could be
verified."

Picard could almost hear his Number One shrugging.  "We could try to
show that he's replicated a holdful ofchaseum."

"Circumstantial evidence; it's suggestive but not conclusive.

But if we coupled that with evidence indicating that Munk hasn't such
resources on deposit anywhere, then at least we could force him to
concoct an explanation of where he is supposed to have gotten it."

"I'll get right on it, sir...  though I don't have any idea how we could
tap into Ferengi bank records.  They're not exactly forthcoming in that
area."

"Hm.  Keep me posted, Will.  We have to do something fast...  the
photonic pulse cannon comes up for auction in a couple of hours, and I
feel certain that as soon as Munk wins that bid, he'll disappear. Picard
out."

The comm link severed.  Jean-Luc Picard leaned forward, wearily resuming
the frustrating game of "Who's on first, What's on second."

Geordi La Forge rested his fingers on the computer console, trying to
remember how to hack a Vingegys-666.

"Haven't seen one of these things in ten years," he grumbled.

"Worf, watch my back, will you?"

The K!ingon muttered under his breath in Klingon; he did not seem to
enjoy "black-bag" work.  He did turn around and scan the lobby, his
giant frame effectively hiding La Forge's unauthorized presence in the
concierge's kiosk.

"Uh-oh," said Geordi, "there's a guard dog."

"Where?  I will neutralize it."

"No, Worf, I mean a program designed to alert the management if
someone's trying a forcible entry to the instruction segment."

"Are you able to bypass it?"

"Let me try a little trick I picked up from...  never mind; you wouldn't
know her."

Geordi wrote a small program in native code that wandered over to a main
memory register, stored a particular, carefully chosen number, then
left-shifted it two hundred and fifty-seven characters.

This pushed the original number far enough that it overflowed the
register.  In the 680-series VingeSys, such left-shifted overflows
simply truncated, disappearing into nothingness.  But in the older,
660-series, nobody had thought of leftward overflows.  The numbers
simply migrated to the left into a "system instruction" register
normally inaccessible to data input.

Once there, the number was read as if it were a system program placed
there by an administrator.  The particular number Geordi had selected
decoded into the instructions to give him access as a level-three
administrator.

He instantly logged in and was then able to access all confidential
records of the casino, including the replicator usage of the guests.

"Commander," rumbled Worf, "two Ferengi are approaching the kiosk."

"Uh-oh.  Munk and Tunk?"

Worf squinted; they were a hundred yards away, and Ferengi all looked
the same to him, anyway.  "I do not believe so.  No, definitely not. But
they are headed directly toward us."

"Give me just one minute..." Licking his lips, Geordi typed as fast as
he could, having to backspace and correct every few keystrokes.  First,
he searched the replicator records and found one room that had made
massive use of the replicator in the past twenty-four hours--a hundred
times more usage than the next closest.

Alas, the data base did not bother to record exactly what was
replicated; for that, he would need to service the machine itself.  The
data base did, however, list the room number.

Geordi quickly backed out, then entered the casino registry.  He looked
up the room and discovered that it had been rented to one "Brubrak &
Party, 3 persons, 2 beds."

The casino had also levied steep charges for heavy use of both
holosuites on the same floor.

"Your minute is rapidly expiring," said Worf.  "I suggest we leave
immediately to avoid having to answer humiliating questions."

"Damn!  They must have used an assumed name.  Have you ever heard of a
Ferengi named Brubrak?"

"No.  Sir, we must leave now."

"Wait, maybe I can access the holosuite records and see what programs
they used.  Wait..." Geordi La Forge looked back over his shoulder and
realized that Worf had not been an alarmist.  The two Ferengi were
almost across the lobby...  and they still headed directly toward the
concierge kiosk.

They were arguing vehemently.

"Wo1'fl.  Duck down here." Geordi dropped to his hands and knees, hiding
behind the counter.

"I am not going to hide from a pair of Ferengi!"

"Worf, get down!  We might hear what they're arguing about!"

"A Klingon warrior does not crawl.  ." It.  Worf's last comment was
gargled as Geordi reached up and pulled him down onto his posterior. The
Klingon warrior gritted his teeth and snarled; but Geordi hissed,
holding a finger to his lips.

Fuming, Worf sat silently as the Ferengi approached.

They paused on the other side of the counter.

"Where is that pig getting it?" demanded a Ferengi voice, high-pitched
and reedy.

"Well, you've got about...  eighteen minutes to find out, or he's going
to slice your lobes." The second voice was deep for a Ferengi, dripping
with menace and a sarcastic sneer that among Ferengi passed for command
tone.  He was obviously the senior.

"It's not my fault?

"You were responsible for freezing them."

"But I did!" whined Reedy.

"Oh, really?  And I suppose fifty kilobars of latinurn just dropped from
the sky into Munk's satchel.  Just think it through logically, if you
can," coaxed Sneery.  "What are his resources?"

"Well, he had a couple of thousand."

"Where?"

"Fort Nagus."

Sneery laughed scornfully.  "I'm pretty sure he didn't withdraw that in
the last six months!  Second guess."

"He must've sold his ship, what is it, the Ferengi Indulging in all
Possible Vices Simultaneously With Tremendous Satisfaction/He arrived in
that Federation ship, the Business Venture."

"Hm.  I hadn't thought of that.  Well, I can check it with the Nagus's
sources.  Can't imagine he could get fifty keys for that heap of junk."

"Unless he sold it to a human.  Maybe that' Captain Picard." Reedy's
voice dropped to a whisper; Geordi could barely hear it.  "They say he's
a...  a philanthropist."

"Shh!  Even other races have ears.  We don't want to start a war with
the Federation!"

"Can I get back to the auction, Daimon?  Please?" wheedled Reedy.

"Get your lobes out of earshot.  Tell the Grand Nagus I'm checking
maritime records for a ship sale...  but if it doesn't turn a profit,
you'd better be back out here in record time, licking my boots!  And
you'd better start thinking of somewhere else Munk could be pulling that
kind oflatinum, just in case."

Footsteps pounded away in a panic.  After a moment, Sneery cursed and
stalked away, muttering about a corem link.

Geordi looked across at Worf; the Klingon was glaring at him with blood
red eyes.  "Are we through hiding like Ferengi digfish, Commander La
Forge?" His voice was nearly as sarcastic as Sneery's.

"Just simmer down, Lieutenant.  Sometimes...  mis-direction is the
better part of valor."

Worf stood, straightening his uniform and rotating his metallic sash
back to the normal position.  "We have a slightly different version of
that expression on the home-world."

"I'm not surprised."

"Better twelve days of valor than twelve years of bowing."

Geordi tapped his corem badge and informed Commander Riker of the
conversation they accidentally overheard.

"Geordi," said the first officer, "if we could get the Grand Nagus to
give us a statement saying that he knows for a fact that Munk doesn't
have access to that much latinurn, then that plus the information you
dug up about the heavy replicator use and 'Fred's' latinurn watch and
comm badge might just be enough for Hatheby's to haul that Ferengi in
for questioning."

"Should we drop a hint to the Nagus?"

"I think you'd better.  I'll inform the captain.  Riker out."

Geordi smiled and spread his hands, as if to say I told you so; but Worf
merely sighed and rolled his eyes.  "On the homeworld, we could have
resolved this entire problem hours ago."

"But think of all the fun we'd miss!"

WESLEY CRUSHER SAT next to Tunk, behind Munk, sweating and tugging at
his collar.  The room seemed infernally hot, as if the enviros were out
of adjustment.

Or maybe I'm just feeling a preview of the penal mines on Abednego, he
thought.

Munk's fairy gold had been so far sufficient to win him every bid; at
the moment, the sly Ferengi owned title to every astonishing invention
of Dr.  Zorka, an arsenal of engineering and weaponry marvels that would
probably buy him the entire Ferengi sphere of influence.

Wesley began to regret his bitter decision to strictly abide by all
Ferengi laws, a decision which still kept his mouth taped firmly shut.
He did not know whether or not Data had figured out that Munk's latinum
was phony or what the android could do about it in any case.

The cadet made himself a promise: If the auction passed peacefully with
no one discovering Munk's deception, then Wesley would turn himself in
and confess ...  no matter what the consequencesmend they would be
severe.  Ferengi courts did not distinguish between breaching a contract
out of greed and breaching a contract because it was illegal; both led
to swift and severe punishment, not limited to demerits or loss of
leave-time, as at the Academy.

Still, Cadet Crusher could not sit idly by and watch Munk stroll off
with a laboratory full of exotic propulsion systems, personal shields,
and a photonic pulse cannon.

The next lot was announced, and Wesley jumped: It was, in fact, the
photonic pulse cannon.

The one saving grace was that Munk had only thirteen hundred hectobars,
one hundred and thirty thousand, left in the satchel, and that might not
be enough.  At least, Wesley could only hope it would not be enough.

Or was that all he could do?  The cadet hawk-watched the Ferengi,
waiting for an opportunity to sabotage his patron's bidding without
actually breaching any terms of the labyrinthian contract he had signed
(as Fred Kimbal).

WouM they let me off just because I used a pseudonym?  He shook his
head: not in a Ferengi court, that was for certain!

Yeah, there's probably a clause in there that says if I use an alias,
I'm legally applying to change my name to the new one.

Worf looked brighter than he had during the entire previous part of the
auction.  He began the bidding confidently by announcing "ten
hectobars."

Several of the other participants chuckled; the Grand Nagus snorted
loudly.  "Twenty kilobars!" he cried in a thin, avaricious voice.

"Twenty-two," declared Gul Fubar with finality, as if expecting the
bidding to cease at once as a sign of respect.

"Twenty-three," said Captain Picard, his quiet voice cutting through the
tumult.

The Cardassian glared at Picard.  "Twenty-four."

The captain nodded at the conductor, who translated: "Twenty-five
thousand from Captain Picard, representing the Klingon Empire."

"Six!"

Picard nodded again, but before Dmitri Smythe could translate, Gul Fubar
overbid to twenty-eight.

Worf slapped the table so hard it rang.  "Ten!"

Everybody stared.  Smythe cleared his throat.  "The bidding stood at
twenty-eight thousand; does the Klingon gentleman from the Federation
mean to bid thirty thousand, or raise the bid by ten kilobars to
thirty-eight thousand?"

His face reddening, Worf clarified: "I will bid thirty-eight."

Deanna Troi, who was following the drama intently, let her breath out in
a sigh of relief.  It just passed Betazed's threshold, thought Wesley.
Smiling weakly, Deanna sat back and folded her arms.

"Forty!" commanded Gul Fubar.

The Grand Nagus leaned forward, both hands on the table.  He stared
directly at Munk.  "Fifty," he said, curling his lip.

Wesley swallowed hard.  In a matter of moments, the bid had risen to
fifty thousand bars of gold-pressed latinurn.

An instant later, the Cardassian Gul Fubar gasped as he suddenly
realized he was committed to paying forty thousand bars for nothing if
the Nagus won his bid...  but he could not quite bring himself to utter
a bid in excess of fifty thousand.

Captain Picard, however, seemed to have a spine made of chaseum.  He
nodded, raising a single finger to the conductor, who translated it as
"fifty-one thousand."

Lieutenant Worf and the captain proceeded to one-up each other until the
price stood at an even eighty thousand with Worf holding.  Gul Fubar sat
without bidding, cracking his knuckles loudly.  Picard and Worf, who sat
right next to each other, had leaned forward almost imperceptibly with
every bid, and they were now almost eyeball to eyeball.

The pair fell silent.  The conductor intoned, "The bid is eighty
thousand bars, one time, two times..."

Everyone turned expectantly to Munk.  With an exasperated expression, as
if much put-upon, he reached into his bag and hauled out an armload of
latinum hectobars.  He repeated the process over and over.  When he
finished, he had twenty piles of fifty hectobars each arrayed in front
of him.

The crowd gasped; no one, apparently, had ever before seen one hundred
thousand bars of latinum in one place.

Drymouthed, Wesley snuck a surreptitious peek at Tunk to see whether it
was safe to flash a signal to Captain Picard.

The Ferengi was gone.

Startled, the cadet stared at Picard until he caught the captain's eye.
Wesley gave him a tiny, microscopic head-shake: He's got more.  Captain
Pieard turned away, nodding slowly.

"And ten," announced the captain.  Even without Counselor Troi's Betazed
powers, Wesley could tell that Picard had stepped far out on a limb with
the bid.

Munk pretended to start backward, cringing as if he had just been
trumped.

The conductor counted it out.  Just before he said "three times," Munk
coughed in obvious glee.

As everyone watched, the Ferengi dug into his satchel and stacked the
remaining hundred hectobars and twenty kilo-bars on the table.

Gul Fubar stared, glassy-eyed.  Worf looked intense.  Pi-card turned his
head aside...  but his eyes shifted directly to Wesley.

The cadet nodded faintly, just enough to convey the message: That's it.t
Munk is broke.

Picard's head glistened with sweat.  He rubbed his chin, staring at the
pile of one hundred and thirty kilobars of gold-pressed latinum.

Gul Fubar half rose to his feet.  Reluctantly, as if regretting every
syllable, he said, "One...  one hundred and fifty!" He sat down hard.

Wesley stared around the table.  Deanna Troi still stared at the pile of
latinurn, unable to tear her gaze away; Geordi stared at the Cardassian;
Lieutenant Worf gripped the tabletop with both hands, squeezing so
tightly Wesley wondered why the presumed wood of the table did not
splinter.

Picard stared expectantly at Munk, then glared angrily at the
Cardassian; he obviously did not want to see the cannon go to Gul Fubar.
For his part, the Cardassian gritted his teeth, shaking like a dust mote
in turbulence; the Grand Nagus seemed inordinantly jubilant, apparently
relishing the thought of Munk being forced to pay out a planetary ransom
for absolutely nothing.

Only Munk seemed calm and serene.  Wesley watched him narrowly, knowing
there was not another bar in the satchel; the cadet had packed it
himself.

"Going one time," intoned Smythe graysly, "going two times..."

Gul Fubar leapt up, pounding his fists on the table, his face a
caricature of glee.

Then, out of nowhere, Tunk loomed.  The Ferengi pranced up to the table
with yet another piece of luggage, upending it.  Another fifty kilobars
of ersatz latinurn spilled out, making one hundred and eighty thousand
in all.

"What!" cried Wesley, involuntarily.

With a sick expression, Gul Fubar sank slowly back into his seat,
looking as if he had just tried Klingon food for the first time.

"One time." Long pause.  "Two times." Dmitri Smythe glanced around the
table, then raised his brows.  "Three times.  The lot is sold to
Chairman Munk for one hundred eighty thousand; Gul Fubar of Cardassia is
forfeit one hundred fifty thousand bars.

"Thank you very much; I declare this auction ended."

Smythe produced a gavel and hammered on the table like the drumbeat of
doom.

At once, Gul Fubar loosed a howl of despair as the situation finally
parsed through his brain: The Cardassian Empire now owed Hatheby's one
hundred and fifty thousand bars of gpl--for a handful of vacuum; and it
was all Gul Fubar's fault!

With a sharky grin, the Grand Nagus rose from his own seat.  "Moment
please," he said, his quiet voice commanding instant attention.  He
turned his gaze directly upon Wesley Crusher...  at least, so it seemed
to the cadet.  The Nagus might have been looking at Munk.

"Yes, Grand Nagus?" queried the conductor.

"Regarding the last bid by Chairman Munk." The Grand Nagus emphasized
the word chairman, turning it into a snide insult, emphasizing that the
only thing Munk was chairman of was his own son and bodyguards.

"Yes, sir, one hundred eighty thousand bars of latinurn."

"I formally charge"--the Nagus paused dramatically--"that Munk's last
bid is a fraud.t" His voice rose to a falsetto squeal, and he jabbed his
walking stick at his fellow Ferengi as if it were a dueling sword.  "He
has no more ability to make good that debt than does his human servant!"

With these words, the Nagus did turn on Wesley, jabbing at him with the
stick and making the cadet flinch.

Smythe stared in confusion.  "But...  Grand Nagus, sir, he has placed
his bid in hectobars of gold-pressed latinurn upon the table, in plain
view of us all."

"Charity?" swore the aged Ferengi leader.  "In my official capacity, I
maintain reoords of every single Ferengi bank account.  Chairman Munk
has never had that much latinurn on deposit in his life!"

"Perhaps in a non-Ferengi financial institution..."

"Philanthropic charity!  I sent subspace messages to every
financial-reporting center in the Alpha and Beta quadrants.

Munk hasn't a gram more than ten kilobars anywhere in the galaxy!" The
Grand Nagus nimbly hopped upon his chair, thence to the table.  He
strode its length, rushing Munk while the latter flapped his arms and
squawked.  "If that Ferengi now has one hundred eighty thousand, then
he's trafficking in stolen latinum...  and if you accept it, you're
knowingly receiving stolen merchandise.  If you take even one gram of
that latinurn, Smythe, then I swear by all the Profits I'll shut down
your entire operation, quadrant-wide!"

"Moment please," said another soft voice.  Wesley whipped his head
around so quickly he pulled a muscle in his neck.  The new speaker was
Commander La Forge, standing at his own place.

"S-sir?" gaped the stunned conductor.

"We examined the replicatot data base records of the Enterprise, and
while we were transporting Munk and Tunk, they made extensive use of our
ship's replicators...

replicating these." Geordi reached down under the table, grabbed a
metallic object, and threw it with a resounding thud onto the table.
"Blocks of easily replicated chaseum designed to closely resemble
hectobars of gold-pressed latinurn."

Wesley felt an abyss open in his stomach; he recognized one of the
chaseum hectobars he came to know and loathe over the last forty-eight
hours.

The mob around the table began to get ugly as they saw the silvery bar
of chaseum that, aside from its color, was an exact duplicate of the
mountain of"latinum" in front of the Ferengi.

At last, Munk found his wits.  "Avast, ye scurvy knaves!"

he hollered, "but what witchery be this?  I've east me pearls before ye,
and what giveth ye back?  Libel and con-turnely!"

Tunk stood on his own chair;, he started to step onto the table, but the
Grand Nagus gave him such a ferocious scowl that he leapt back to his
chair.  "Yeah," said Tunk, echoing his father, "what ties are these?
Sore losers, that's what you all are!  Look--do these things look like
that bar of chaseum?  Are they the same color?  Scan them!  Use the best
portable scanners you have...  the scanners will all report that these
hectobars are latinurn!"

Captain Picard rose to his feet, awesome as a judge.  "I offer the
services of the Enterprise science lab; we have much better scanners
than any portable machines you may have with you."

"Never and nay!" cried Munk.  "An' we ship yon bullion back to yer ship,
what should we gamble?  Certes, your scanners will say 'tis not
genuine--yer entire crew fronts for some foreign power or other that
savors the goods we've bought by the sweat of our forebrows!"

His son clarified, for those who did not speak pirate.  "Of course the
Enterprise scanners will back up the captain...

he's obviously rigged them to report false information."

"Perhaps I can help illuminate the situation," said the uninflected,
unemotional voice of Commander Data from the doorway.

"Foul!" shrieked Tunk.  "That's a foul!  Hatheby's formally ruled that
this electronic android shall not be allowed to participate in any way
in the auction...  get him out of here!"

Data raised his eyebrows.  "As I understand the rules, once the
conductor has declared the auction ended, it is ended.  Thus, there is
no longer any reason I cannot transport into a public room in this
public casino."

"He's got a point," said Dmitri Smythe, nodding vigorously, pleased to
be able to make at least one ruling.

"You were saying, Data?" prodded Captain Picard.

"Allow me to activate this device.  I assure you that it is not
physically harmful to any beings present here."

The Cardassian, Gul Fubar, jumped to his feet again and fumbled at the
holster where he usually kept his sidearm; he grabbed a handful of air,
since Hatheby's had disarmed each participant before the auction began.

Before anyone else could react, Data pressed a touchplate; Wesley's hair
stood straight up off his head and he felt "phantom ants" crawling up
and down his skin.

The enormous pile of fairy gold in front of Wesley shimmered blue, along
with the single bar of untransmuted chaseum.  Data released the
touchplate, and the blue glow stopped.

The hundred and fifty participants leaned forward and sucked in a breath
as one organism: Every single bar of "latinurn" had reverted to its
original appearance.  Eighteen hundred bars of worthless chaseum hulked
in front of two pink Ferengi and one green Academy cadet.

The entire room sat in paralyzed silence--except for the conductor.
Dmitri Smythe raised his hand and gestured a genteel "come-hither." From
the shadows where they had lurked, a pair of massive, reptilian Skamis
approached.  One grabbed the back of Munk's neck, the other captured the
upper arms of both Tunk and Wesley.

An enormous ham-fist clamped around Cadet Crusher's biceps, squeezing
like a vise.  Clenching his teeth to stifle a yelp, Wesley bounced to
his feet and hustled along next to the creature; his alternative was to
allow his arm to be pulled from its socket.

The sauroid Simaks stood a mere eight feet tall, but they must have
massed a metric tonne each.  They wore brightly colored feather outfits
and carried meat cleaver cutlasses that could carve a young cadet in
twain with a single blow; Wesley decided not to test the hypothesis.

He stared frantically at Captain Picard, willing him to look up and
notice what was happening; the captain was still contemplating the
treasure hoard of fairy gold that had turned, in the wink of an eye,
into scrap chaseum.

"Hatheby's has sustained the Grand Nagus's motion to reopen the
bidding," said the conductor.  "We declare Chairman Munk's last bid of
one hundred eighty thousand bars of gold-pressed latinurn to be null and
void.  Bidding will resume where we left off..." Smythe glanced down at
his data reader.  "The bid is held by Gul Fubar for the Cardassians at
one hundred fifty thousand."

Wesley still stared at Picard, but the captain was busy huddling with
Lieutenant Worf.  Worf shook his head vehemently; then Geordi joined in
the discussion.  It looked quite animated, but Wesley could not hear a
word.

"Come on," he muttered, "glance up, notice this monster holding my arm,
put in a word with Smythe..." But the captain's telepathic powers were
at a low ebb, and he did not glance at Wesley.

"One time..." Dmitri Smythe glanced around the room; the bidders seemed
more interested in the metal mountain ofchaseum on the table or their
three orstwhile competitors in custody than in the final lot of the
auction.  Wesley was not surprised, since only Munk had been able to
outbid the Cardassianmand that was with fairy gold.

The cadet's heart pounded, and his arm began to ache from the Simak's
grip.  As soon as the auction was over, he had a terrible feeling he
knew where he was headed.

"Two times..."

Gul Fubar stood so suddenly he bowled his chair over; it fell with a
clatter, and everybody jumped.  The Carda~sian's eyes opened so wide,
Wesley thought they would fall out of their sockets.

"Three--"

"One hundred eighty!" announced Captain Picard, also rising.  He smiled
at Gul Fubar.

The Cardassian did not seem to understand what was happening.  He nodded
vigorously, slapping the table with a resounding thunk.

The conductor frowned, stabbing at his data reader.  "Has the Klingon
Empire that much latinurn on deposit, Captain Picard?"

"No," admitted the captain, "but the Klingon Empire combined with the
Federation has over two hundred thousand bars on deposit,"

Worf stood up next to Picard.  "It is a joint bid between our two
clients," he confirmed.

Gul Fubar was still pumping his head up and down, as if he could not
stop.  But he wore the expression of a man who has just swallowed his
own foot up to the kneecap.

He began to laugh, a chuckle at first, rising to a hysterical cackle.
Gul Fubar dropped heavily back into his chair, leaning his head back and
howling like a lunatic.

The conductor's "once, twice, sold" was anticlimax; the other
competitors were already packing up their notes, communicators, data
clips, drinks, snacks, and catalogs and heading for the door.  Smythe
announced that the other lots would be reauctioned at a later date,
beginning at the last bid before Munk won each round.

When the room was almost empty, Captain Picard finally catching Smythe's
attention, "I appreciate your diligence, but it really isn't necessary
to treat the boy so roughly.  I'm sure he's learned from his mistakes."

"Undoubtedly, Captain Picard." Smythe nodded vigorously, emphasizing his
agreement.  Then he turned to the Simaks.  "Proceed, ladies."

"Put me down/" shrieked Tunk in abject terror.  "Picard, you blackguard,
I'll ruin you if it's the last thing I ever do/"

Wesley turned his head toward the Ferengi.  "Where's your sense of
humor, Tunk?  It's just a harmless 'phrank'!"

The Ferengi fell silent, glaring phaser blasts at Cadet Crusher.

The Simaks strode toward the door, swinging left, then right like
dinosaurs.

"Mister Smythe!" called the captain.  Wesley craned his neck to look
back over his shoulder, reminding himself of the pulled muscle.  The
jailers did not stop, but they were slow enough that it was taking them
quite some time to reach the door.

"Yes, Captain Picard?"

"You may release Mister...  ah...  Cadet Kimbal into my custody; I shall
assume full responsibility to ensure he shows up for...  well, whatever
hearing you plan to hold.

There's really no need to lock him in a jail cell."

"A most excellent suggestion, sir.  I shall take it under advisement."
The Simaks continued on their ponderous way.

Wesley eyeballed the captain, waiting for him to do something, until the
jailers passed through the door; one slammed it behind them with her
tail.

I'm actually being arrested/thought the cadet frantically.

Somehow, no matter how many times he had told himself this was the
likely outcome of his Ferengi adventure, Wesley had never quite accepted
the fact that he could end up inside a jail cell.

Jail cell...  even the words sounded sinister; he envisioned a horrific
dungeon with barred rooms and devices to put him to the question.

The reality was not far removed from his fantasy.  The Simaks carried
the two struggling Ferengi and Wesley along the corridor, down the
stairs, and right through the lobby in full view of everybody.  A
procession padded along behind them, led by the Grand Nagus.

Tunk, like Wesley, seemed too numbed to speak.  But Munk sputtered and
flapped his arms like a captured goose.

He was trying to speak so quickly, the words fell against one another
like a verbal waterfall, cascading impotently into the marble floor. The
Simak jailers paid him no attention.

The Grand Nagus caught up to them, cackling and hooting at their
discomfort.  "I've waited for this day for so many years, I've lost
count!" he exulted.  "I hear they still use thumbscrews and pressing on
Novus Alamogordus..."

The Simak with Munk opened a door in the far wall, since she had a hand
free.  It led to a landing and a spiral stair, which wound down and
down, wrapping so many times that Wesley became completely disoriented
not only as to how deep they were, but which way he was pointed.  They
passed at least four landings, but it might have been as many as six.

Led along a narrow corridor with bare, metal walls--made of chaseum,
Cadet Crusher wryly noted--they came at last to a series of cubicles,
each of which had a solid back wall, ceiling, and floor; the other three
sides were indeed bars.

Each prisoner was placed into a separate cell; there were no other
prisoners.

Wesley stood in the middle of his cubicle, staring forlornly at the
departing backs and tails of the Simaks.  Then, filled with melancholy
and despair, he sat on the fold-down bunk, hands on his knees.  He
decided to allow himself at least a couple of hours to wallow in
self-pity before doing some thing constructive.  I've earned that much,
at least, he told himself.

Instead, he found he had the giggles, almost like Fubar when he took
second place for the second time in the auction.  He sat on the bunk
guffawing, watching Munk and Tunk pound the bars and demand to see their
advocates; it was unquestionably the funniest thing he had ever seen in
his life, though he could not have said why.

"HEY, HUMAN!"

Wesley Crusher did not respond.

"Hey, you!  Huuu-man...  you'll fry for it in a Ferengi contracts
tribunal!  Don't even think about turning ears on U.S."

"Aye, laddie, unless ye'er wanting to be scuppered and skewered and
hauled below yon keel."

Ferengi have an uncanny sixth sense, thought the cadet, that warns them
when they're about to be sent down the mine shaft.

In fact, turning "ears" on Munk and Tunk was precisely the path Wesley
was trying to argue himself into.

He had always imagined that sitting in the jail cell would drive him
mad, that he could not live in a cage.  But in reality, it was the first
time in many days that Wesley Crusher had had a chance to just sit down
and think about right and wrong, actions and consequences.

According to Federation law, he was certainly not bound to any contract
with Cap'n Munk.  Signing under the alias

"Fred Kimbal" clearly indicated he never had any intent to enter into a
contract; there was no "meeting of the minds," the most basic component
of an enforceable contract...  in Federation space.

Ferengi law drew no such fine distinctions, unfortunately; according to
their laws, his current name on a contract in his own hand was
unassailable proof that the contract was valid--and if he chose to sign
with an alias, well, who were they to pry into his reasons?

It was irrelevant whether Wesley really wanted to sign the contract, or
whether he had been bullied or threatened into it; a deal was a deal! If
one party happened to have the upper hand in negotiations, for example,
by threatening to put the other party out the airlock if no agreement
was reached, then that was simply the Ferengi Way.

By a carefully worked-out treaty, the Federation of Planets agreed to
accept all Ferengi judgments about cases within their jurisdiction,
which the Ferengi defined as any deal involving a Ferengi as one party.

However, even according to Federation law, the Ferengi held
jurisdiction, since the deal was signed aboard a Ferengi-fiagged vessel.
No matter how Cadet Crusher examined the puzzle, there was no logical
solution: He was caught in a Ferengi legal web.

Hatheby's was the aggrieved party, and they operated under Federation
law; thus, Munk and Tunk had to be allowed access to Ferengi
advocates...  which meant there was no way to prevent word of Wesley's
breach from reaching the Ferengi High Council, which would then demand
extradition.  Much as complying would cause Captain Picard personal
pain, Wesley was under no delusion that the captain would defy the
treaty and refuse to transport the cadet.  Wesley Crusher was enroute to
the Ferengi system no matter which angle he examined...  unless Munk and
Tunk could be persuaded not to talk.

The cadet sat quietly on his bunk, watching the jailhouse door and
waiting for his interrogators, whom he called "inquisitors" to himself.
They would certainly arrive soon, though Wesley would be perfectly
content to have them show up a week later.  The delay would give him
more time to think through the problem.

Precisely on cue, he heard footsteps along the corridor', they echoed
off the chaseum walls, sounding deep and hollow like drumbeats in a
French cathedral.

"Remember, Kimbal--remember!" warned Tunk, sliding his finger across his
own throat.

The door slid open noiselessly; a pair of inquisitors entered, followed
by a Simak, then Commander Data.

"I hope you do not mind," said the android, "I took the liberty of
informing the Hatheby's investigators that I would act as your legal
counsel."

Wesley nodded wordlessly.  The Simak opened the cell door and gestured
at Wesley to exit and precede her.

"If there are any questions you feel might incriminate you, Wesley,
please alert me and I will object to them."

"Hm." Wesley was deliberately noncommittal.

They returned along the same corridor the prisoners had been brought
along six hours earlier', but this time, they entered a small white room
with a single desk and four chairs.  Wesley and Data sat at one end,
while the two inquisitors, private police officers hired by Hatheby's,
took the opposite.  The Simak remained en garde by the door, watching
for any monkey business.

Wesley Crusher faced the two humorless inquisitors; his stomach crumbled
into a ball, his pulse pounded, and he still did not know what he was
going to say, if anything.

But before the first question, a curious peace and calm suddenly
descended upon him.

It's right and wrong...  forget all the rest!  Forget the contract,
forget the threats.  Wesley looked at Data, preparing to defend the
cadet as best as Data's positronic brain could do.

There is really only one question: When do the lies stop?

At once, Wesley knew exactly what to say.  "I would like to turn
plaintiff's evidence," he said.

"Yeah?" asked one of the inquisitors, a short man with a belligerent
scowl and an accent reminiscent of Captain Picard's, but harsher.
"What's yer deal?"

Wesley laughed and shook his head.  "No, you don't understand.  No
deals.  I just want to tell you exactly what happened."

"Are you sure this is wise?" asked Data.  "I would certainly not suggest
you lie about your involvement, but perhaps you need some time to think
out exactly what defense your"

"Sorry, sir.  I know you're trying to help me.  But it's time that
somebody, at least, just sat up and said what really happened."

Data pondered for a moment, then finally nodded.  "You are determined to
"come clean,' as the police used to say, even if it means implicating
yourself?"

"Even if, Commander."

"Very well, I cannot stop you."

Wesley Crusher licked dry lips, swallowed, and proceeded to tell the
entire story, from the start at the poker game to the moment he was
dragged away to the cells.

The inquisitors quietly wrote down every word, every so often
interjecting a question to clarify a particular point.

"Well, that's it.  That's the whole thing," concluded Wesley.

The inquisitors glared a bit suspiciously, then withdrew across the
room, conferring among themselves.

"What's going to happen to me?" the cadet asked Data.

"I cannot say for certain, Wesley.  You are fortunate that most of your
counterfeiting activity was carried out here at Novus Alamogordus, since
that is outside the jurisdiction of the Federation.  The only crime you
committed within jurisdiction was the small amount aboard the
Enterprise."

"Isn't counterfeiting Federation-standard bars of gold-pressed latinurn
within the Federation jurisdiction period, no matter where you do it?"

Data stared into space for a moment, accessing his memory banks.
"Curiously enough, no; it is not."

"It isn't?  Why not?"

Data raised his eyebrows and frowned, indicating a shrug, a very
humanlike facial gesture.  "For the simple reason that it is impossible
to do so, Wesley.  At least, until now it was impossible.

"Federation specie is tied to the gold-pressed latinurn standard; one
gram of pure latinurn pressed into nineteen hundred ninety-nine grams of
gold is one bar of gold-pressed latinurn, regardless of what image is
stamped on the obverse.  Likewise, a hundred grams of latinurn pressed
with nineteen hundred grams of gold filler is a hectobar, and a kilogram
of latinurn pressed with a kilogram of gold is one kilobar.

"The external structure is irrelevant to the value; a gram of latinurn
embedded in a silver coin is also worth exactly one bar of gpl, as is a
gram of pure latinurn.  Only the latinurn has value.

"The only Federation crime is passing counterfeit latinum within
Federation jurisdiction or to Federation citizens, which includes
Hatheby's Brokerage."

"And I aided and abetted Tunk and Munk when they did that."

"I am certain that a Federation tribunal would take into account your
motivation; but it is not a defense.  By all the laws of the Federation
and the regulations of Starfleet, covering up for the transgressions of
a fellow citizen or cadet does not justify participation in a criminal
enterprise."

"Great.  So as soon as I finish my extended vacation at a Federation
fleet prison, I can look forward to being extradited to a Ferengi court
to be tried for breach of contract."

"I am afraid that is the most plausible outcome, unless we can persuade
Hatheby's to drop the charges and the Ferengi not to report the breach."

The pair of inquisitors returned, their faces stone masks behind which
Wesley could glimpse only contempt and scorn.  They gestured to Data,
who joined them for a quick conversation Wesley couldn't hear.

Data turned to Wesley.  "I have made a deal," he said.

"Produce the clock, and they will drop the charges."

Great, thought the cadet; now what?  How am I going to figure out what
Tunk did with that damned thing when the Hatheby's inquisitors came up
with a big, fat zero?

He tried to swallow again, but he had no saliva.  His only hope was that
he knew Tunk well enough from personal contact to guess where the wily
Ferengi might have stashed the Kimbal Clock.

On their way back to the above-ground section of the casino, Wesley,
Data, and the inquisitors stopped off at the cells again to ask Tunk
what he had done with the clock.  It was a vain hope; naturally, the
Ferengi expressed puzzlement, as if he had never heard of such a thing.

"If you will release Cadet Crusher into my custody," suggested Data, "I
will accept full responsibility for him."

The inquisitors looked at the commander as if he were crazy.  The
inquisitors, Wesley, and Data trooped upstairs, then up the turbolift to
the Tunk and Munk suite.

An hour's search finally convinced Wesley that there was no Kimbal Clock
to be found.  Curiously enough, all of Munk's and Tunk's possessions
were also gone...  only Wesley's remained in the otherwise empty rooms.

The bath towels were also missing.

"All right, Data, assume I'm telling the truth."

"I never questioned that," said the android.

"So what could he have done with it?  There's no way he would destroy
it--he wouldn't kill the goose that lays the latinurn eggs."

"Did Cadet Kimbal also manufacture an anatidae that lays latinurn eggs?"

"No, Data, it's just an expression that means--"

"Ah, yes, I have just referenced the fairy tale in question.

A most apt analogy."

"Thanks.  He wouldn't destroy it, but he obviously was expecting to
leave directly after the auction and he didn't want to have to run back
up here.  But he wouldn't leave it anywhere where it might be found,
either.  So?"

"Since the Ferengi had no ship, perhaps they intended to buy or rent
one?"

Cooper grunted, then touched his wrist-chronometer, opening a comm link.
"Coop of Hatheby's to the Palace concierge."

"May I help you, sir?" oozed an obsequious voice from the air.

"Check Fanny's, Lazy-Eight's, and Bourbaki for any Ferengi renting
spaceworthy vessels in the last couple of days.  Did Tunk or Munk file a
flight plan?"

"No, sir.  The Grand Nagus's pilot filed a flight plan this morning, but
no other Ferengi."

"Nobody else?"

"No, sir."

"Get back to me with that rental information."

"Yes, sir."

"Cooper out."

"You know," mused Wesley, "I'11 bet he stashed it out in the lobby. It's
the only room directly enroute from the banquet hall to the exit."

Cooper scowled.  "You saying we gotta go back to the lobby?"

The cadet folded his arms and glared at the Hatheby's rent-a-guard.  "We
can't let that stupid thing just lie around here; somebody's sure to
find it and figure out what it does."

"Maybe they won't."

"And if they do, this can happen again and again, only on a larger
scale.  Imagine if the Cardassians or Romulans got it!"

"Yeah, go ahead and say 'hrm." You know we have to find that damned
clock."

"All right, all right, I was just saying."

The casino lobby was mobbed.  All the bidders swarmed around the front
desk, trying to pay their bills simultaneously.

Most of the quality were staying an extra day, just to avoid the
stampede; but the smaller delegations, coops, representatives, and
consortia preferred to blitzkrieg the bellhops and crowd the cashier
rather than pay for another exorbitant night at the Chateau H6tel
Casino.

Hatheby's Agent Cooper clamped Wesley's biceps as tightly as had the
Simak; the inquisitor narrowed his eyes and pulled his snap-brim hat
tighter onto his size-nine head.

"Skooze me, Mac," said a slurry voice behind them, "but canoe direc' me
to the turb...  turpo...  the lif'?"

Wesley, Cooper, and Data turned to take in the suspicious character. The
cadet stared in amazement; "D'Artagnan!  I mean, uh, Simon...  what are
you doing here?"

D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed; then he recognized Cadet "Fred Kimbal" at
last.  "Fred, my buddy my pal my man!

Hey, I foilled yer advish, an' lookit!  Lookit!" He reeled drunkenly and
stabbed out his finger to point at his Klingon friend, poking the
behemoth in the eye.  The Klingon muscle gripped a valise to his chest,
stuffed with latinurn bars.

"Thash four hunnert bars!" bragged d'Artagnan, breathing ethanol fumes
upon the cadet.

Wesley gagged, waving his hands to clear the stench.  "You won at Dabo?"

"Followed yer system!"

"But nobody wins at Dabo...  it was invented by Ferengi!"

"Four hunnert bars!" He leaned close, winking at the cadet.  "An' you
know whut?  Here...  thish ish fer you, as a kine-a royalty.  Here!"
D'Artagnan reached into the valise and fished out a pair of dekabars.
"Thas' fifty percent!"

"Five percent," muttered Wesley.

"Use it in--" He hiccoughed violently.  "In good healt'.

Now we're off...  off to the wild, blue yonder."

"Where?"

D'Artagnan winked again.  "We're gonna be gennlernen farmersh on a
planet on the Cardapsian and Frederation frontier--we're retired!  See
ya in the holotoons!" With a final hiccough, d'Artagnan and his Klingon
partner trooped away to find a turbolift.

"Who was that?" growled Agent Cooper.

"Another benefactor of Ferengi generosity," said Wesley.

"C'mon, kid; let's hop to it."

Wesley scanned the room.  There was no Kimbal Clock, but he did see a
brochure stand, several ash trays, replicators, fifty or sixty couches,
Louis XIV chairs and love seats, tables, some communications devices
shaped like antique "telephones," a suggestion box, and of course a
thousand pieces of luggage.

"Do those replicas work?" asked Data, indicating one of the telephones.

"Damned if I know," said Cooper.  "I don't know which end you tap."

"These are similar to the telephones that Dixon Hill uses in Captain
Picard's holodeck programs," said the android.

"I am reasonably familiar with their working."

He picked a black cylinder from a cradle and held it to his ear; then he
leaned close to the conical mouthpiece.  "Hello?"

he ventured, "can anybody hear me?"

After a moment, he replaced the earpiece.  "I can hear a corem link
opening; presumably, the telephones function as normal communications
devices.  The computer asked me to whom I wished to speak."

"Why is that one different?" asked Wesley.  He pointed at one that was
approximately half again as big and dark blue, instead of fiat black.

"I do not know.  Perhaps it is reserved for special clientele."

Wesley placed the earpiece against his ear.  "I don't hear anything."

"Joggle the cradle switch," suggested Data.

"Look, son, this is all interesting, but we've got about fifteen minutes
to find that clock or you're back to the cell."

Wesley joggled.  "Nope, still nothing." His backbrain sent warning
signals: something important about this particular telephone.

"It must be out of order," said Data.

Wesley stared at the telephone.  "Commander...  this would be pretty
easy to spot from across the room, wouldn't it?"

"I believe its visual uniqueness would be detectable from some
distance."

"And no one's likely to steal it.  What would you do with it?"

"I do not see your point, Wesley."

The cadet stared speculatively at Commander Data.  "Sir, perhaps we've
been looking for the wrong clock."

"I do not understand what you mean."

"Commander, the only important part of the Kimbal Clock is the internal
guts, the electronics...  the clock itself is completely irrelevant, and
Tunk knows it!"

"Yeah, what's yer point, kid?" Cooper checked his wrist chronometer
again.

"There's a replicatot right there, about ten feet away."

"I believe I understand your thinking now, Cadet Crusher; it is very
probable."

"Let's give it a shot."

Wesley found the plug and removed it from the base of the instrument. He
placed the telephone into the replicatot bay, twisting the long stem to
get it fully inside.  "Remove the entire outer casing," he commanded the
machine, "but leave all internal electronics."

The telephonic exterior shimmered and disappeared.

Wesley stared at the mess of hand-built circuits and fiberoptics...  it
looked all wrong!  Then a piece slid sideways, no longer contained by
the metal walls of the telephone base.  At once, the image rearranged
itself in Wesley's head and he finally recognized his own handiwork.

"Cooper," he said quietly, "you got any chaseum on you?

I'd like to show you something."

Fifteen minutes later, Cooper returned Wesley to his cell.

When the agent left, Wesley held a whispered conversation with his
counsel.

"Commander, is the Federation going to file charges?"

Data considered for a moment.  "I do not believe so, Cadet Crusher." He
spoke with exactly the same intonations and quality of voice, but he
turned down the volume, giving him the disconcerting effect of speaking
normally from ten meters distant.  "You certainly acted under duress
from the moment you were kidnapped aboard Munk's vessel; arguably,
everthing you did after that point simply marked time until you could
safely speak to the authorities."

"Data, I'm not sure that's entirely truthful."

"Perhaps not; but that is the conclusion Starfleet will probably draw."

"I took an oath, sir, and so did you.  I will not lie, cheat, or steal,
nor tolerate those among us who do."

Data nodded, raising his brows.  "The oath requires you to always answer
truthfully, but it does not require you to answer questions that no one
asks.

"I advise you to say nothing unless you are directly asked.

The law as written does not always fit every possible circumstance...
not even in Starfleet."

"Hm.  All right, what about the Ferengi contract court?"

"Perhaps it would be better to utilize that connecting ramp when we
arrive, Wesley."

The cadet puzzled for a moment.  "Cross that bridge when we come to it?"

"I have an idea about that charge as well; but I do not wish to speak of
it before checking the thermal level of the liquid."

"Sir, do you do that on purpose?"

"Yes.  I find that restating common idioms in a convoluted manner gives
me an affect of ingenuous naivete."

"You mean all these years..." Wesley trailed off.

Data nodded.  He started for the door.

"Commander," called Wesley, "aren't you going to tell me not to deviate
from these coordinates, because your return is imminent?"

"Do not go away, Wesley.  I will be right back."

When Data left, Tunk, who had sat quietly, suddenly grabbed the bars and
pressed his face against them.  In the third cage, Cap'n Munk snored
like the red-alert claxton on the Enterprise.

"So, didn't find any clocks, did you?  Heh-heh!" Tunk nervously tugged
at his ears, trying to look confident.

Wesley looked at him and smiled knowingly.

A thought tickled the cadet's forebrain, a memory from the past...  a
rulema new Rule of Acquisition: The sheep want to be fleeced.

He suddenly remembered.  All he would need to "phrank" Tunk and pay him
back a little of his own coin was the complete cooperation and sanction
of the victim.

Tunk tried more Ferengi subtlety.  "I told you you wouldn't find
anything..." He stared wildly about the room, obviously imagining hidden
microphones and holovision cameras.  "After all, there was nothing there
to find!  Yes, that's what I said!  I don't know why you made up that
ridiculous story about counterfeit latinum, Kimbal!"

At the word latinum, Munk snorted in midsnore and sat up groggily.
"Closer to the wind, boys," he muttered.  "Show us some sheet.  Arrr."
He fell back onto his bunk, snoring again before his pink head struck
the hard pillow.

"Speaking of latinum," said Wesley, "I have a payment for you."

"Eh?" Tunk looked nonplussed at the change in subject ...  but curiously
interested in the new and promising direction taken by the conversation.

"Here." The cadet withdrew the pair of dekabars given him by d'Artagnan
and chucked them through the bars into Tunk's cell.  "That's from my
human friend, the real Fred Kimbal," said the cadet, "and that
completely squares his poker debt to you."

One of the dekabars fell on Tunk's rack, but the other dropped to the
floor.  With a sudden snort, Munk came fully awake at the sound of the
ringing latinurn.  "Art," he commanded, "fetch that hither, boy!"

Glaring reproachfully at Wesley for being such a lousy shot with
latinurn, Tunk handed over the bar that had dropped to his father.

"Good thing the other one landed on the bed," said the cadet, loudly
enough that Munk could have heard him upstairs in the casino.

Casting a furious glare back through the bars, Tunk forked over the
other bar as well.

After a moment, Munk collapsed, clutching his last remaining booty to
his chest as if at any moment he would rise and begin' singing sea
thanties.

Now, thought Wesley, how to play Tunk against himself?.

At once, the cadet recalled a Ferengi racial characteristic:
Imposter-Syndrome, the nagging belief that any moment, They are going to
Find Out Everything!

Wesley leaned close, winked at the Ferengi.  "Don't worry," he said, "a
good advocate can even beat physical evidence."

Tunk started; then he sneered, exposing sharp, rotting teeth.  He
sniffed haughtily, but the effect was spoiled when Tunk nervously began
chewing on his lower lip.  "Ah, ph-physical evidence?  Whatever could
you mean?  Heh-heh."

He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

Wesley smiled vacuously at Tunk, giving the Ferengi no certainty about
whether they had or had not found the Kimbal Clock.  Let him stew,
thought the cadet; in a few more hours, 171 say something casual about a
telephone.

Thus began Wesley Crusher's own, subtle "phrank"...

one that could be milked for hour after hour, leaving Tunk in an
exquisite agony of ambiguousness and mounting terror about his possible
trial.

Data did not return for almost twelve hours; by the end of that time,
Tunk was nearly frantic.  Wesley dropped more and more hints about
finding the device, carefully keeping his remarks just ambiguous enough
that he drove the Ferengi wild.

"It's a phrank!" shrieked Tunk, shaking his finger through the bars at
Wesley.  "You're trying to phrank me...  but I'm the king of the
phranks!  Nobody phranks Tunk the Monster-Lobed!"

"Phranking Tunk the Monster-Lobed would certainly be something to call
home about," agreed Wesley.

"Call?  Did you say call?  What did you mean by that?"

"If someone did pull it off, he certainly couldn't replicate it."

"Couldn't what?"

"Certainly couldn't duplicate it; no sir."

"You didn't say duplicatemyou said replicate/" "They'd have to have
slipped in a ringer."

Tunk groaned, resting his monstrous head in his hands and sinking back
onto his bunk.  Wesley grinned...  he had had Tunk's full cooperation
and sanction for the last half-day of victimhood!

Commander Data suddenly walked into the room.  "Cadet Crusher," he
began, "I have a pleasant surprise for you."

Data stepped aside, and the Grand Nagus himself wad-died into the
prison, leaning on his disselboom, followed by an angry Agent Cooper and
Conductor Smythe.

"This is ridiculous!" insisted Smythe.  "I won't hear of it."

"Bah!  Away from me, human!" The Grand Nagus waved his walking stick
like a club; Wesley concluded it was a common debating tactic among
leathery old Ferengi men.

"It is an elegant solution to all of your problems," argued Data.

Wesley followed the discussion avidly, trying to catch the gist.

"But what's he want with them?" demanded Cooper, gesturing in
exasperation at the Nagus.

"What do I want with a pair of thieving Ferengi traitors and turncoats?"
The Nagus scratched his ears, pretending to ponder the problem deeply.
"Let's see now...  would I want to elevate them to daimons?  Tempting,
but no; I don't think them are any openings.  Would I want to--hmm...

sign over our most lucrative trade routes to them?  Oh, charity!  I
forgot to bring my official seal along.

"Oh, well, I guess the only thing left to do is flay them alive and use
their internal organs for spare parts.  But first, I think I'll let them
serve my harem girls as live-in slaves for a few years...  after we make
Munk and Tunk into eunuchs, of course.  I wouldn't want my property
damaged?

"But...  but what's in it for Hatheby's?" Wesley noted wryly that Smythe
did not seem particularly concerned with the fate of Munk and Tunk; he
only cared about his employer's stake.

"If I may make a suggestion," ventured Data.  He leaned over and spoke
into the Grand Nagus's gigantic ear; the cadet could not hear what he
said.

The Nagus scowled.  "Are you really sure that's necessary?"

"All things worth having are worth paying formas a last resort," said
the android.

The Nagus stepped back, staring at Data with new respect.  "I didn't
realize they taught the Rules of Acquisition in Starfleet!" He shrugged
elaborately.  "All right...

Smythe, I'll pay you one gram on the hectogram for all amounts that Munk
paid with counterfeit."

Smythe drew a data-reader from his belt like a Klingon drawing a
disruptor.  He tapped away for a few seconds.

"That's three thousand, five hundred and fifty grams of latinurn," said
the conductor.

"Exactly!  Let's round it up to an even thirty-five hecto-bars."

"Thirty-six."

"Whatever, whatever.  Is it a deal?" The Grand Nagus grinned like a
shark.

Smythe frowned.  He stared back and forth between Munk and Tunk, then
back to his data-reader.  "Oh, all right," he grouched at last.  "What
about this Kimbal?"

The Grand Nagus shrugged.  "I have no use for humans; I don't think the
girls would like it." He cackled as if he had just gotten off a whizzer,
slapping Smythe on the back.

The conductor stiflened at the familiarity, but the Nagus continued,
oblivious.  "But I guess I bought it, so it's mine."

"Fine.  Hatheby's shall expect payment in the morning

...  in latinurn." He leaned down and curled his lip.  "In real
latinum!"

"Of course!  What do you take me for?"

"A Ferengi," muttered the conductor, tossing him the key.  Turning away,
Smythe marched back up the corridor, Cooper in tow.

The Grand Nagus did not hear', he had turned back to Tunk and Munk and
was contemplating the pair.

The younger performed several standard Ferengi cringes, unable to decide
which was more subservient.  "Please, your Grand Nagusness.  Mercy, kind
sir!  Spare my life, oh, great avaricious one!  It's not my fault...
it's not my fault!  It's him!  He did it!" Tunk pointed frantically at
his father.

Munk just scowled belligerently; give the old man credit, thought Cadet
Crusher; at least he doesn't belly-crawl, like his son.

"If it's booty yet after having," whispered the old man with a sly wink,
"I ken the path to latinurn like grainules of sand...  millions o'bars,
an' I'm or altruist!"

In his thin, reedy voice, the Nagus spoke.  "I think I'll let you two
stew in your own juices for a while, while I think of something truly
unique for each of you!"

The Grand Nagus threw back his head and howled with laughter, shaking
his shillelegh like a wrathful godling.

Simmering down, he started to leave the room, still giggling.

"Sir," called Data, "have you not forgotten something?"

"Oh, yes, where are my manners!  Until we meet again, Commander."

"Sir, I believe you agreed to release Wesley Crusher into my custody."

"So I did.  Where is he?"

"He is here, Grand Nagus.  In the far cell."

"Nope; Fred Kimbal.  It says so right in the charge sheet."

The Nagus fished a data clip out of one of his dozens of pockets.  "I
made no promises to liberate any Fred Kimbals!" He leaned forward,
stage-whispered behind his hand to Data.  "But, you find me a Wesley
Crusher, and he's off, free as a curse!"

"Sir?  Commander?  May I handle this?"

"If you wish, Wesley, though I am your counsel."

"Just this one time, all right?" Wesley stared at the Grand Nagus, who
watched him back.  "You have no particular objection to releasing 'Fred
Kimbal,' do you?"

"Not at all, not at all!  If the price is right, that is."

"Would, um, thirty-six hectobars of gold-pressed latinurn be a fair
price?"

The Grand Nagus grinned.  "Now that sounds like a worthy reason to let
you go, young man."

"Do you mind if it's fairy gold?  You know, chaseum altered to give the
illusion of latinurn?"

"Wesley," said Data, "I urge you to reconsider.  You are in plenty of
scalding liquid already without adding another charge."

The cadet waved his counsel to silence.  "Do you mind?"

he repeated to the Nagus.

"Why...  why no, not at all, if you'll allow me to help you produce it;
after all, I certainly wouldn't want to overtax you, after all you've
been through."

"It's a deal.  For thirty-six hectobars of counterfeit latinurn.  Now
let me out, please."

"Well, since you put it that way...  how can I refuse?"

With a smirk wide enough to dock a shuttlecraft, the Grand Nagus brought
the key within two meters of the cell and activated the unlocker.

"And just in case you were thinking of grabbing my new toy away from
me..." added the Ferengi, trailing off into silence.  He held up a
vicious, Ferengi phaser.  "I can draw and fire this thing faster than
you can say Dophu wox almuqti woxas!"

The Nagus ushered them all into the interrogation room, where Smythe,
Cooper, and Dobbs prodded the erstwhile guts of the Kimbal Clock.  As
they entered, Smythe poked it with one fat forefinger.

"Out of the way, humans!" barked the Ferengi merchant-prince.

The three Hatheby's agents looked up, annoyed.  "Please take your
prisoners and leave, sir."

"Take your hands off of my device!"

"Your device?"

"Cadet Kimbal has given me temporary custody of the device; as you have
no legal right to confiscate it, take your grubby paws off."

"We, ah, we need it for evidence," suggested Agent Cooper.

"For the investigation," appended his shadow, Dobbs.

"What investigation?  I bought full jurisdiction!  I need it for my--I
mean our trial!"

Data ventured his own opinion.  "Since you sold complete jurisdiction on
this case to the Grand Nagus, on behalf of the Ferengi High Council, I
would advise you not to withhold potential exhibits."

Smythe and his two seconds stared at the Nagus, at Data, finally at
Wesley Crusher', then the Hatheby's men conferred privately.  After a
moment, they broke down and vacated the room, leaving the transmutation
device behind.

"Yes," breathed the Nagus, "yes yes yes yes!  Hurry now, human--tell me
how to work it!"

As Wesley pushed past Data, he whispered almost inaudibly into the
android's ear, "Follow my lead, sir."

The cadet stepped up to the table opposite the Crrand Nagus.  "Well,
first of all, sir, you have to have some chaseum.  That's what it turns
to latinum."

"Chaseum, ah yes...  of course!  Of course, chaseurn...

ah, yes!" The Nagus fumbled in his numerous pockets, finally fishing out
a Ferengi ear-pricker tool for picking locks.  It was made almost
entirely out of chaseum.

"Now place it on the pad there.  Careful, don't touch the pad!  It's
very dangerous."

The Ferengi yanked his hand back; then, from a distance, he tossed the
ear-pricker onto the transformation pad.

Wesley continued.  "I rigged that stem to activate the device;

we need a power source, a battery or something Pretty low power.  Urn,
Data?"

"I believe I can supply the necessary power without draining my own
electrical cells," said the commander.  He reached across and gripped a
pair of electrodes, and the operation LEDs glowed cherry-red.

"Ready, Grand Nagus?  Twist the clock stem.  But be very cautious!  We
wouldn't want you to receive a dose of..."

"Of what, human?" croaked the Grand Nagus.

"Well, never mind.  If you're careful, nothing will happen this time."

"This time?"

Wes tapped the stem.  Brow glistening with nervous sweat, the Nagus
bared his pointed teeth, gripped the stem between his leathery fingers,
and twisted.

The chaseum ear-pricker shimmered and flowed...  the "melted butter"
effect marked the transformation.  The "pie plate" pad heated red-hot;
but sitting within it was an ear-pricker that now appeared to be made of
pure, twenty-four-carat latinum.

The Grand Nagus stared.  "By all the Profits!" he gasped, stretching out
his hand.  Awed, he plucked the still-hot "latinurn" from the pie plate,
bouncing it from hand to hand to cool it.

Wesley stared in horror.  He staggered slightly, as if he had just seen
a ghost, clutching Commander Data for support.

"He touched it!" cried the cadet.

The Grand Nagus looked up, confused.  "Touched it?"

"He touched it...  with his bare hands, as I'm an ensign!"

Wesley turned a shocked gaze on Data.

The android cleared his throat.  "Wesley, I am afraid you neglected to
inform the Grand Nagus that he should use rubber gloves so soon after
the transformation."

The cadet retreated, shaking, until he bumped into a chair, into which
he dropped heavily.  "I...  I never thought a man would be so foolish as
to touch fairy latinurn with his bare hands!"

"What?  Why?  What did 1 do?" The Nagus flung the

"latinurn" tool across the room, frantically wiping his hand on his
clothing, the wall, the table.

"Data, is there an electo-decrystalizer aboard the Enterprise?"

"I do not believe so, Cadet."

"Oh, no!" Wesley leapt to his feet and staggered about the room, hands
clutching his head.  "What are we going to do?"

"Human!  Quick, what did I do?  What's going to happen?"

The Grand Nagus hopped up and began flapping his arms like a bat with a
broken wing.

"Why, Grand Nagus, don't you even know how that machine works?  It's a
distribumorphic isolinear recrys-talizer!

By God, when you picked up that latinum, you recrystalized your entire
arm!  And you know what that means, don't you?"

"I do?" squeaked the Ferengi, eyes as wide as wagon wheels.

"Darn it, Nagus, you might lose the whole arm!  Data, Data, what can we
do?  We have to do something quick, or..." Wesley made a snikking noise,
sliding his finger across his neck.

"We must get the Grand Nagus to the nearest decrystalizer," suggested
the commander.

"Sir, that's...  that's brilliant!"

"It is?"

"Of course!  It's our only chance--we'll build an emergency
decrystalizer right here!"

"Please, I beg you...  hurry!" The Nagus grabbed his arm and stared at
the hand.  "I can feel it crystalizing already!" He looked up at Data
with a wild surmise.  "Can you wrap a tourniquet around it?"

"Of course," said Data, calmly.

"Would it do any good?"

"None at all.  But if it will make you feel better psychologically, I
will do so anyway."

The Nagus groaned and sank into the other chair.  "I'm slain!  Oh why,
oh why did I ever get so greedy?"

How do you think you became Grand Nagus?  thought the cadet, but aloud
said only, "Hurry, sir...  the emergency decrystalizer!"

"What do I do?" demanded the Nagus in a falsetto screech.

"We have to get a crystalization processor...  now, where could we find
one?" Wesley pretended to ponder, glancing every now and again at the
transmutation device on the table.

Unconsciously, the Ferengi's own gaze followed the cadet's, settling
upon the clockless Kimbal Clock.  "Isn't there a crystalizer,
decrystalizer, whatever-it-is processor in...

in there?" The Nagus pointed gingerly at the device as if afraid it
would jump up and bite off his finger.

Wesley slapped his forehead.  "By all the Profits and Rules of
Acquisition, that's right!  How could I be such a chowderhead?  Of
course--we can use the crystalization processor in the transmuter
itself!" He stared in awed wonder at the Ferengi.  "How did you know
that, sir?  Have you studied subcrystaline tomographic discrepancy
theory?"

"Well, I-I-I guess I've, oh, fooled around with it a bit...

Ferengi science is quite advanced by human standards, you know." The
Nagus grinned, accepting the accolades which were his natural right.  He
bobbed his head, eyes tightly shut, until he suddenly remembered his
predicament and stopped abruptly.

"Hurry!  There's not much time left...  you don't, urn, feel any
tingling in your arm already, do you, Grand Nagus?"

The Ferengi moaned, staring at his arm again.  "All up and down, from
fingers to elbow!  Is that a bad sign?"

Wesley shuddered and turned his attention back to the device.  "There...
take that cover off, sir."

The Nagus absently started to pick up his ear-pricker, then yelped and
yanked his hand away.

The cadet reassured him, "No, no, it's all right!  The crystals have set
by now."

The Grand Nagus gingerly picked up the tool, holding it from the extreme
edge, and unlocked the frequency clamps at each corner of the
transmuter's grounding plate.

Quietly, but with increasing urgency, Wesley Crusher talked the Ferengi
through the steps necessary to remove the main processor...  the
custom-built original that Fred Kimbal himself had concocted.  Wesley
still had no idea how it worked.

But he had a pretty good idea how to make it stop working.

"Quickly now--fast!--put it on your arm...  no time, no time!  Just rest
it there and hold it down with your finger!"

The Nagus did as he was told.  Wesley leapt up, grabbed the pair of
copper wires...  for what he planned, the fiberoptic cables were no good
at all.  When overloaded, they would simply shunt the excess power off
as visible light.

"Data, grab these two ends!" The android complied, and Wesley issued his
final instruction.  "Now reverse the polarity, Commander, and give it
all the juice you've got!  Do you understand, sir?"

Commander Data nodded.  "I believe I do, Cadet."

For an instant, the copper wires glowed hot red, then yellow, then
white, so bright Wesley had to turn his face away.  At once, a sudden
crackling noise echoed through the room like thunder, hurting the
cadet's ears.

The Nagus howled like a banshee as the burning hot processor sizzled his
forearm.  He yanked his limb away, clutched it with his other hand, and
ran around and around the interrogation room, swearing like a drunken
sailor.

On the Nagus's third orbit, Wesley Crusher caught hold of him.  "Let me
see your arm!" he demanded.

The Ferengi shoved the requested body part 'forward viciously; Wesley
held it steady and stared at it.  "By God, but you have the luck of a
Ferengi!"

"You--youm!  I do?"

"Yes...  Grand Nagus, we actually caught it in time!

See?" Proudly, the cadet pointed at the distinct mark of the processor,
branded into the Nagus's arm.  "You've now got at least nine square
centimeters of recrystalized flesh...

you're going to be all right after all!"

Shaken, the Ferengi sat down at last.  He stared in dismay at the blob
of bubbling goo that had once been the Kimbal fairy-gold processor
before Data fried it.  "Gee, thanks," said the Grand Nagus without true
conviction.

Wesley collapsed back onto his own chair, mopping his brow with his
shirtsleeve.  "Thank God; I thought it would never work!" Surveying the
fried processor, Wesley said, "It's so sad that such a valuable
invention--to which I own full rights--should have to be destroyed just
to save the life of the Grand Nagus."

"Er...  you weren't thinking of any court actions--were you, human?"

"I don't know; in my present state as a slave to you, I just can't think
at all.  I'm liable to jump to the first action plan I happen upon."

"Ahhh...  what the heck.  I don't think I could get anything for you,
anyway.  If you'll call us square for the clock, I'll release you for
now."

The cadet stuck out his hand.  "Data, you witness the deal, all right?"

"Of course, Cadet."

"Then it's a bargain, Grand Nagus: You let me go--" "For the moment,"
clarified the Nagus.

"For the moment, and I won't press a claim on the Kimbal Clock."

The Nagus grumbled and bit, but in the end he finally agreed.  Wesley
walked out of the Novus Alamogordus jail cell a free cadet...  for the
moment.

"Ah, well," said Cadet Crusher, "ali's well that ends."

Data spoke up.  "I believe the exact quotation is 'all is well that ends
well,' though the Bard uses a contraction for 'all is.""

Wesley smiled.  "I think I like my version better, Commander."

COMMANDER WILL RIKER waited more or less impatiently for Wesley Crusher
to beam aboard the Enterprise again.  Data had already transmitted a
full report of the deal.  With Munk and Tunk in custody, the only
potential catastrophe for the errant cadet would be if the Grand Nagus
filed an action for the breach of contract...  a contract he now owned
under Ferengi law.

Out of the frying pan, thought the first officer.  Still, it would not
impair the learned lesson if Riker were to let the boy know he was still
considered one of the crew.

Wesley opened a corem link to the transporter room, requesting beam out.
He had returned to his room and gathered up the few possessions he had
with him.  Riker acknowledged and beamed the cadet up himself.

When he materialized on the transporter pad, Riker was all smiles. "Why,
Fred Kimbal, haven't seen you in days!

How was the auction, Fred?"

Wesley had the decency to wince at the name.  "It was very illuminating,
as Commander Data would say."

"Actually, he used the term stimulating."

"That, too.  But it's good to be back, sir.  I haven't really visited my
moth-- Doctor Crusher since I arrived."

"Speaking of Beverly, I have an offer for you, if you'll swear on your
honor as an Academy cadet that you won't tell her...  Wes."

Wesley relaxed.  He nodded briskly as he shouldered the clothes he had
been wearing when he was kidnapped.

"I understand you were trying to get Data to show you some of the manly
art of poker.  Well, Wes, you've tried the rest, now learn from the
best."

"Sir?"

"Why don't you drop by my quarters after you've gotten settled in and
spent some time with you-know-who?  I'd be happy to teach you a thing or
two about poker that would even startle an android." Riker winked and
elbowed the thin, haggard-looking cadet in the ribs.

Cadet Crusher stopped so suddenly that the first officer almost ran into
him.  The cadet whirled, staring at Riker as if the latter had just
suggested a bombing run on Betazed.

"No!" he shouted, eyes wild, taking on a belated "sir" as an
afterthought.  "No, no, that's very kind of you, sir, I must decline."
Wesley resumed a quick-march to his temporary quarters, leaving a
puzzled Will Riker in the corridor.

The commander shrugged finally and headed back toward the bridge,
shaking his head.

Lieutenant Worf silently piloted the shuttlecraft Nameme, while
Professor Raymond Redheifer, representing the Federation, Commander
Kurak, representing the Klingon Empire, and Lieutenant Commander Geordi
La Forge, representing nothing but his own reputation huddled together
in the passenger section, which had been hastily converted to an
auxilliary cargo hold.

Behind the Nameme--far behind it--they towed the newly built photonic
pulse cannon by tractor beam; Commanders Data and Kurak had spent four
full days assembling the device from the data clip plans jointly
purchased by the Federation and the empire.  The Nameme also towed a
pair of small equipment-asteroids for targets, brought along by
Professor Redheifer.

Raymond Redheffer was a tall, muscular, gray-haired old man--he claimed
to be one hundred and twenty, but he looked not a day over one
hundred--who had joined them from a small, one-person scoutship sent out
from Starbase 6.  He was a technician sent to test the pulse cannon by
the Federation Association for the Advancement of Science, which had
stolen an orbit on the rival Federation Exo-Vironmental Research
Council.

Raymond Redheifer had greeted them with a hearty clap on the back that
staggered both Geordi and Kurak.  He regaled them with incessant poetry
as they transferred the hastily assembled observation equipment from the
scoutship to the Nameme, offering to buy a drink for anyone who could
quote a line from a poem that Redheifer could not identify within five
minutes.  Geordi tried and ended by owing the good doctor three drinks.

Commander Kurak fixed the human professor with curled lip and suddenly
barked out a short line in Klingon.

"Invincible is the enemy, but you are merely invulnerable."

Redheifer blinked rapidly.  He stared at the mohawked Valkyrie, saying
nothing.

"I appear to have stumped your Federation professor," she declared,
grinning.

"Only because you misquoted Tyrdak the Battleflag,"

retorted Redheifer.

"I did not?

"Didn't you?"

"No!"

"Doesn't this sound a little closer to the original?"

Redheifer cleared his throat, then recited in harshly sonorous Klingon:
"Invincibility comes from your enemy, but invulnerability comes from
within/To attack invincibly, the enemy must move from his place/In that
moment, he becomes vulnerable."

Worf grunted, almost grinned.  "My memory of the poem matches Professor
Redheffer's recitation," he ruled.

Commander Kurak gasped, raising her fist; then she turned the attack
into a polite bow.  "I yield to the human's superior learning," she
oiled.  She smiled...  but the cold glitter in her eye as her gaze
caught Geordi's made him shudder.  Thank goodness I'm not Ray Redheifer,
he decided.

Professor Redheifer wore a kind of visor, and Geordi felt an odd
kinship; the visor allowed Redheifer to plug his eyes directly into the
broad-band scanner, giving him an even greater visual range and acuity
than Geordi had.

"Commander," said Worf, "you should participate in designing the
experiments.  You know more about Doctor Zorka than anyone else here."

"The Klingon's right," said Redheifer, "I've never studied Zorka.  I was
just the only techno near enough to get here in time."

"Mm-mm!" grunted Geordi La Forge, shaking his head emphatically.  "I'm
in enough trouble already.  Everyone knows I think Zorka was 1oopy.  If
I'm involved, they'll just say I set the experiments up to fail."

"Suit yourself." Redheifer shrugged.  He began barking orders to Kurak
and Worf, who glowered but finally obeyed.

Neither one of them had any experience with testing weapons systems.

The equipment stuffed into the Nameme filled practically every cubic
meter of both the cargo hold and the erstwhile passenger section; nobody
knew how many shots the crew could get from the pulse cannon, and they
wanted to make every possible measurement.  The crew was jammed in
almost as an afterthought, left to fend space for themselves.

Geordi had had to argue for several minutes with Commander Riker to be
allowed to waste precious space by accompanying the expedition.

At last, they reached a position one light-year away from Novus
Alamogordus and the two orbiting ships, the Enterprise and the Hiding
Fish; Redheifer and Kurak agreed that the distance was sufficient for
safety.

Worf launched the first target satellite and waited while it maneuvered
into range approximately three hundred thousand kilometers distant; then
he delicately used the tractor beam to rotate the pulse cannon into
position.

Geordi watched, helpless and anxious, as the other two engineers
carefully armed the pulse cannon, then began powering it up.  Twice, he
almost interjected himself, correcting a sloppy reading or lending a
hand in calibration; but each time he stopped himself, desperately
afraid of tainting the experiment by his biased participation.

I'm just an observer--nothing morel During the final five minutes of
critical testing, Geordi La Forge literally sat on his hands to keep
them to himself.

Come on, baby, he coaxed;just one little, total failure for Daddy...

Geordi felt like a traitor to his profession and his oath for his
attitude; but he realized that if the photonic pulse cannon were a
raving success, he might as well kiss his reputation good-bye.

At last, the test countdown picked up, and Kurak counted slowly from
eight to zero in Klingon.  At zero-seconds, she touched the trigger
plate.

A high-pitched whistle shattered the silence aboard the Nameme, and all
four crew members clapped their hands over their ears.  After a moment,
Commander Kurak had enough presence of mind (and threshold of ear pain)
to reach out with one hand and disengage the triggering pulse.

The noise ceased.

For five or six minutes, all Geordi could hear was a persistent ring
echo; apparently, no one else could hear either, because Kurak, Worf,
and Redheifer simply sat quietly, rubbing their ears.  At last,
Redheifer began checking the circuit, finding the short at last.

This time, before she actually fired the weapon, Kurak performed a
low-amp test of the triggering circuitry, verifying that there were no
more breaks.  She turned to Geordi.

"Was that what you humans call a wolf whistle?  I did not know I was so
attractive."

It took La Forge several seconds to realize that Kurak had actually made
a jokema rare event indeed for a Klingon!

"Fire two," she said, then counted down from eight again.

Just before she pressed the plate, the other three testers poked fingers
into ears.

Two.  One.  Zero.  Commander Kurak pressed the touch-plate, and for an
instant, the entire shuttlecraft seemed to draw a breath.  Every gauge
pegged as far to the right as it could register: The shuttlecraft power
cells were nearly sucked dry.

A loud pop inside the cargo bay sounded like the world's largest
champagne cork.  Geordi ducked involuntarily.

A thin green beam of energy lanced from the end of the cannon to the
satellite target; Geordi adjusted his visor's scan-speed and discovered
the beam was, indeed, pulsing.

It touched the satellite and bounced off, so low-energy it barely even
registered on the sensitive instrumentation.

Geordi sucked in a breath.

Kurak spoke hesitantly.  "The energy...  must be going someplace."

"It's not in the beam," confirmed Redheifer, his own detachable visor
locked into the sensors.  "Of course, if it's not still in the
shuttlecraft, and it's not in the beam, there's only one other place it
could be."

"Shields up!" shouted Geordi.

Worf barely had time to raise the shields before the vaunted photonic
pulse cannon, for which the Federation and Klingons had jointly paid one
hundred and eighty thousand bars of gold-pressed latinum, blossomed into
a silent, white flower of violent disintegration.

The shuttle, struck by the force of the explosion, tumbled like a cast
die for several moments until Worf could reassert control, by which time
Kurak, Geordi, and Redheifer, as ballistic projectiles, had managed to
tear apart much of the delicate equipment the professor had brought from
Star-base 6.

Kurak quickly checked out the two humans; Redheifer had broken a finger,
but Geordi sustained only a few bruises.

The political officer snorted.  "Hmp.  Trust a human to design weaponry
that attacks itself!"

Geordi could not help grinning, however; in fact, he barely restrained
himself from shouting Yes/and pumping his fist in celebration.  Saved by
the supernova!  he silently exulted.

Then he noticed that all three of his crewmates stared, dumbfounded, at
his entirely inappropriate jubilation.

"Ah," he improvised, "I'm just, um, pleased that we're all still alive."

Kurak snorted again, staring at the Enterprise engineer with new
respect.  "Remarkable," she muttered; but whether she meant his
successful, gut-feeling prediction that the cannon would not work or his
peculiar glee when proven right, Geordi could not tell.

Worf spoke more quietly than usual.  "Perhaps we had better return to
our ships to make our reports."

"Oh, well," said Redheifer, shrugging fatalistically; "and all at once
they sang, 'Our island home/Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer
roam.""

Captain Jean-Luc Picard had luxuriated for four days with nothing to do
while Data and the Klingon science officer Kurak built the cannon, then
towed it off for testing.

Picard spent his brief respite of free time perusing two new books
received in the last subspace cultural broadcast: a new analysis of the
Mayan-like language found on a three-hundred-thousand-year-old Vulcan
etching, and a vaguely amusing time travel conceit about King Arthur.
Halfway through the latter, Picard grew bored by the author's ponderous
style and bloodthirstiness, and erased the novel from the memory banks.

At last, his annunciator chirped.  It would have to be Geordi La Forge,
since the Nameme had just returned...

somewhat the worse for wear, according to Commander Data.

"Come," said the captain, in his mind's eye still figuratively crawling
on hands and knees through the ruins of a Vulcan culture three thousand
centuries old.

The door to his quarters slid open; Geordi La Forge stood triumphantly
in the doorway, data clip in hand.  "Results of the photonic cannon
tests," he proclaimed.

With regrets, Picard saved a pointer in the archaeology book and turned
off the data-reader.  "Can you give me a brief synopsis?"

"Yes, sir." Geordi grinned, making no effort to hide it this time. "It's
a complete dud, Captain.  It sucks power like a leaky containment field,
it's so loud it shakes its own structure half to pieces when we fire it,
and ifwe had three of them, we could produce a photonic pulse beam that
was almost as powerful as a regular phaser.  That is, if we could manage
to build one that didn't vaporize itself as soon as the energy bulidup
exceeded the maximum storage capacity."

Captain Picard sat in shocked silence for nearly a minute.

Geordi had not made any report by subspace after the tests, insisting on
delivering the news in person...  and now Picard knew why.

At last, he cleared his throat.  "Ahem, perhaps I had better review the
entire report before you send it off to Starfleet, Geordi."

"I thought you might, sir." He placed the data clip on the captain's
desk.

Picard stared ruefully at the data clip as if it were some sort of
betrayer.  "Let me review this tonight; I'd like you and the rest of the
senior staff, and Wesley, to assemble in my ready room at zero-eight
hundred."

"Aye, sir, I'll tell the first officer."

"Dismissed."

Geordi left, still smiling, leaving Captain Picard wondering how he was
going to explain to both Starfleet and the Emperor Kahless a very, very
large bid on a very, very big pail of air.

The next morning, Commander Riker arrived at the ready room fifteen
minutes early, as was his wont; he was surprised to see Wesley Crusher
already waiting.

"You're here early, for a change."

"I got used to it at the Academy, sir.  They wake us up by playing
reveille at zero-five thirty; by zero-five thirty-five, we're expected
to be dressed in PT clothes and outside, ready for a morning run or PT."

Riker grinned.  "Really!  They actually do that?"

"Whoops...  I guess I don't need to tell you what they do in the
Academy." His face reddened, but he smiled.

"Nab, back in my day, we got all our exercise chasing dinosaurs off the
drill field."

"Good heavens," said Captain Picard's voice behind them.  "Then I must
have attended the Academy around the time blue-green algae began
producing oxygen."

Riker and Wesley stood respectfully as the captain entered the ready
room, followed by Data, Geordi, Woff, Beverly, and Deanna Troi.  Picard
sat, and the crew followed suit.

"Well, it's a bit early, but since you're all here, we may as well
begin.  Geordi, perhaps you'd care to fill us in on the results of the
testing?"

Geordi cleared his throat.  "Well, I assume you've all read the report
by now.  Basically, they tested models where they existed and attempted
to build them where they were only vaguely described.

"The results were ...  well, I hate people who say they hate to say I
told you so, so I'll cheerfully gloat that I did tell you so.  In a
nutshell, nothing works.  All of Doctor Zorka's junk turned out to be,
well, junk."

Riker muttered, "And we're stuck with the biggest piece of junk of them
all."

The captain steepled his fingers.  "Strategic analysis of our position,
Mister Data?"

"To put it bluntly, sir, we are up the proverbial.  aquatic waterway
without an oar."

"Data!" objected Beverly, grinning.

"Um," said Geordi quietly, "that expression is a little scatological in
its original form, Data."

The android raised his eyebrows.  "Indeed.  I meant only that we have
severely compromised the security of both the Federation and the Klingon
Empire by paying an amount likely to cripple defense spending for some
time for what turns out to be a valueless fantasy.  The only consolation
is that Cardassian will also have to pay a large amount, their own
losing bid...  assuming they choose to honor the debt."

"What if they don't?"

"There is little we can do to force the issue.  We have virtually no
commerce with the Cardassian Empire; we have no formal diplomatic
missions; trade talks are already sporadic; and the Cardassians have
shown a proclivity toward canceling debts and payment schemes owed to
the Federation upon small pretext.

"Besides, we are in the process of negotiating a treaty over the exact
borders of the Federation and the empire, and the Cardassians need only
demand debt relief as a condition of signing.

"On the other hand, because we live by the rule of law, we cannot so
easily discharge our own debt to Doctor Zorka's son, Bradford Zorka,
junior."

"I thought Doctor Zorka's first name was Jaymi," Beverly Crusher said.

"We've already been through that," said Geordi, cryptically.

Hesitantly, Wesley decided to join the discussion.  "May I speak, sir?"
Picard nodded, and Wesley continued.  "Commander, why can't we simply
refuse to pay on the grounds that the merchandise was not as
advertised?"

"It is not as easy as that, Cadet.  In order to participate in the
auction, the Federation representative, Lieutenant Worf, signed a
contract obligating us to honor all bids, no matter who won or whether
subsequent developments rendered the lots obsolete.  Captain Picard
signed the same contract on behalf of the Emperor Karlless."

"Basically," clarified Will Riker, "we agreed that if we developed our
own photonic pulse cannon tomorrow that was better than the one Zorka
supposedly developed, we wouldn't use that as an excuse to back out of
our bid."

"Unfortunately," continued Data, "Hatheby's wrote the clause ambiguously
enough that we cannot use our own test results to retract the bid,
either."

"Sounds like a Ferengi contract," Wesley said.  And I beat a Ferengi
contract, he thought--maybe I can beat this!

"If it were," added Data, "then at least we could be sure the
Cardassians would pay their own bid.  The Cardassians have commerce
worth several million bars of latinum with the Ferengi, and they would
not jeopardize it by defaulting on a debt of one hundred and fifty
thousand."

Wesley furrowed his brow; Riker knew the look: It meant that another
intricate scheme was running through the cadet's brain.  "Data, are you
saying that if the Cardassians owed the latinurn to a Ferengi company,
rather than Hatheby's, they would have to pay it?"

"That is most likely true.  The Ferengi are their primary trading
partners, and the Cardassians cannot afford to devalue their credit by
defaulting on a debt."

"Wes," said Riker, leaning forward, "do you have an idea?"

"Almost, sir.  Let me keep thinking for a few minutes."

Picard nodded.  "To continue, is there anything we can salvage from the
tests?"

"Jean-Luc," said Dr.  Beverly Crusher, "I should point out that the
medical equipment I purchased on behalf of Admiral Dyreal of the Luqtan
Research Facility does work; I tested it myself."

"I'm not surprised," said Geordi, "in his early days, Doctor Zorka
really was brilliant.  His reputation wasn't built on vacuum.  In fact,
there are some interesting principles in the photonic pulse design; they
learned a lot from playing with the cannon."

"Just not one hundred and eighty kilobars' worth," said Picard ruefully.

"Right."

"There is one consolation," said Riker.

"Yes, Will?"

"At least we've got the Cardassians thinking we have a photonic pulse
cannon.  Worf, is there any way we could fake a test that would leave
the Guls convinced we've got a planet buster?"

The Klingon considered for a moment.  "If Kurn cooperates, I believe we
can produce a fraudulent test firing.  But I do not like the idea, sir."

"What's wrong with it?"

Worf fell silent, obviously reluctant to criticize his superior
officer's suggestion; but his warrior's heart did not take kindly to
victory by deception.

"Seriously, Worf, if there's a problem, I need to know it."

"Sir, if we stoop to such chicanery, we are no better than... Romulans."
He spat the last word as if tasting something nauseating.

Picard spoke up.  "I can give Worf's unease a concrete image, Number
One.  Suppose we did fake some test results and convinced the
Cardassians we had a superweapon.

What then?"

"First, they would be driven to develop their own version of a photonic
pulse cannon...  one that might actually work.

"Second, suppose they then claimed to have done so, and as proof
presented a test quite similar to the one we had rigged.  Should we
believe it?  Or should we assume they are just as capable of trickery as
we?  Once you start down the road of disinformation, you begin to
fundamentally doubt all information and fear to take any action.  You
become paralyzed with indecision.

"Third, if word of the trickery leaked to the Cardassians --and make no
mistake, Will, it would--they might be tempted to doubt any future
announcements of new weaponry we had supposedly developed.  After all,
if we were willing to lie once, why not again?"

"And besides," added Riker, yielding with a smile, "I think I agree with
Worf: I hate victory by deception.  The only thing worse is losing."

"The Cardassians would find out within a matter of months, Will.
Trickery is not a viable option."

"Well," said Wesley, uncomfortably, "at least not that kind of
trickery."

"How's that idea of yours, Mister Crusher?" asked the first officer.

"I think I have a suggestion, Commander.  But you may not like it...
there's some trickery involved.  In fact, I think Tunk would call it a
phrank."

"Never let abstract theory get in the way of a good plan, Cadet.  Fire
away!"

"All right, sir.  You have a problem and I have a problem.

Your problem is that you paid almost two hundred thousand for a
worthless piece of junk...  that's ninety thousand bars from the
Federation, ninety thousand from the Klingon Empire."

"Wesley," said his mother quietly, "if you have an idea, just tell us."

He continued logically; it was the only way he knew how to proceed.  In
fact, he was still working out the solution as he spoke.  "My problem is
that the Grand Nagus is dangling a major threat over my head: prime
blackmail material.  All he has to do is bring charges against me on
behalf of Munk and Tunk in a Ferengi court; the Federation extradites me
and I spend the rest of my life shoveling coal or serving alcohol at
Ferengi orgies."

"Wesley!" cried Beverly, scandalized.

"Sorry, Mother.  The Grand Nagus has a problem: He laid out thirty-six
hectobars for Munk and Tunk, and they haven't got a gram between them.
Or rather, they have only twenty grams." He smiled at the memory of the
jail cell payoff.

"The Cardassians have a problem: They lost out on the bidding, and now
they don't have a nice, new photonic pulse cannon."

"Great," said Riker, "everybody's got a problem."

"No, sir.  Everybody has different problems; so I asked myself...  what
would a Ferengi trader do?  Specifically, what would Tunk do?" The cadet
smiled, sitting back in his chair.  "It's pretty obvious.  Tunk would
pull the biggest 'phrank' of his career."

"I am unfamiliar with the term phrank," said Data.

"It's a term Tunk made up.  I think it means a prank or a practical
joke--one based entirely on the cooperation of the victim.  In this
case, we would simply give the Cardassians the opportunity to make
suckers of themselves."

Picard said nothing; he looked at Riker.  The first officer shook his
head.  "I don't get it, Cadet."

"I do not like the idea," rumbled Lieutenant Worfi Counselor Troi and
Wesley's mother merely looked puzzled.

Only Geordi began to grin, perhaps beginning to glimpse the plan--the
phrank.

"It's really straightforward," said Wesley.  "We just get the Grand
Nagus to steal the pulse cannon and sell it to the Cardassians."

"Cadet Crusher," said the captain, "I don't see how that helps us any."

"He sells it to the Cardassians for an even two hundred thousand bars of
latinurn and gives us one hundred eighty."

Geordi sat forward.  "And the Grand Nagus keeps the other twenty
thousand as profit!"

"Which solves his problem," added Wesley.  "In exchange, he gives us
jurisdiction over Munk and Tunk and their contractmwhich solves my
problem."

Data spoke up, sounding puzzled.  "But eventually, the Cardassians will
test the cannon and discover that it does not work."

Wesley shrugged.  "Hey, that's their problem!  That's why it's a
phrank...  they'll know it was a phrank, but they'll also know that they
were the ones who bought allegedly stolen merchandise.  We have their
sanction.  They can't accuse us without simultaneously accusing
themselves of a far more serious offense: receiving stolen property."

They sat in silence for a moment until Commander Riker began laughing.
Geordi and Deanna joined in, while Beverly merely smiled.  Data
activated his laughter program, though it was set too slow and sounded
like a coughing fit.

Only Picard remained serene.  "Mister Crusher, if you can pull this off,
I will personally write a letter of explanation to Admiral Boxx and
Captain Wolfe."

At the mention of the commanding and executive officers of the Academy,
Wesley sobered instantly.  He looked at his newly replaced wrist
chronometer; classes would begin in three days...  if he were not back,
he would be marked as "missing ship's movement," exactly as if he had
not shown up for a starship assignment.

Another few days after that and he would be officially listed as AWOL.
The former could result in a reprimand and two weeks double duty; the
latter could buy him thirty days in the stockade and expulsion from the
Academy.

Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it quickly, then somehow get
the captain to return to earth at warp five�

Riker finished chortling and leaned forward on the conference table.
"Should I hail the Grand Nagus and see whether he wants to play?"

Picard nodded.  "Make it so."

The negotiations actually took eight hours; the Nagus drove an
adamantine bargain.  In the end, Picard and Worf each had to sign a
written agreement giving the Grand Nagus full authority to negotiate
with the Cardassians on their behalf, making any representations he
chose.  The Federation and the Klingon Empire would split the first one
hundred eighty thousand the Nagus received, plus ten percent of any
amount above that with no upper limit.

At Wesley's urging, Picard made one big concession a deal buster: In the
event of a dispute in terms, the contract would be interpreted by a
Federation court according to the Federation code of civil procedure...
not by a Ferengi court or by Ferengi rules.  The only reason the Grand
Nagus agreed was because he had already discovered that Gul Fubar had
received authority to double his credit line...

rather belatedly.

With the contract signed, Wesley sprang his photon torpedo: "Commander,"
he requested of Riker, "I'd like to be the only person on the away team
with the Grand Nagus."

Riker raised his eyebrows.  "I wasn't planning to send an away team.  I
assumed the Nagus himself would handle the details."

"I've been thinking about this.  There's a flaw in the whole operation;
how is the Nagus supposed to have gotten the plans for the cannon?"

Riker shrugged.  "He stole them."

"How did he even get into the computer?  And why aren't we after him?"

"Hm.  Well, maybe Gul Fubar will be so greedy he won't even stop to
ask."

"And maybe he will ask.  We'd better have an answer, sir, and I've got
one.  I'm a spy, a turncoat...  I made a copy of the operational plans
and I'm willing to hand them over to the Cardassians in exchange for
latinum--lots of it.  The Grand Nagus is acting as my agent."

Riker stroked his beard.  "Well, Gul Fubar did see you working for the
Ferengi, Tunk and Munk."

"And by now, he knows that Data tried to get Hatheby's to hand over
jurisdiction to them, but the Grand Nagus bought me, along with Tunk and
Munk."

"All right...  so how did you get into the computer?"

Wesley smiled.  "I hacked it."

"He's going to believe that?"

"He will after I hack his computer."

"Can you?"

The cadet shrugged.  "I don't know; I've never tried.  But how hard can
it be?"

Will Riker closed his eyes.  It was a dangerous assignment �..  and if
anything happened to Wesley, Will shuddered to think what Beverly would
do to him.

Besides, he thought, no matter what the kid does, he's still part of the
family.  If Gul Fubar did anything to Wesley, Beverly would not have the
opportunity to slay Riker: He would beam over to the Cardassian ship,
phaser in hand, and get to Gul Fubar before the Cardassian soldiers
could cut him down.

"All right, Crusher; you're the away team.  But I want you to get a comm
badge before you leave." He smiled.  "One made of chaseum, not latinum."

More hours passed; now the Grand Nagus was privately negotiating with
Gul Fubar, trying to persuade the Cardassian that a human defector had
actually stolen the long-sought plans for the pulse cannon.

The Gul had a hard time buying the concept.  Obedience to the state was
so ingrained in Cardassians that whenever the Gul tried to contemplate
not only betrayal, but betrayal for profit, he became so enraged that he
could not rationally bargain with either the "traitor" or even the
Ferengi.

Had the Nagus been trying to convince another Ferengi, the concerns
would have been reversed: The Ferengi would have no trouble
understanding an insider who turned spy for money...  but they would be
highly suspicious that the plans were not bonafide.

One sticking point was that the Gul was not stupid; he knew that anyone
could fake plans and call them "a photonic pulse cannon." Thus, he would
be satisfied only with the original plans themselves, just as they had
come from the auction.

They were stored on a security data clip, one with latinurn identifiers
that could not be accurately duplicated by replicators or any other
means of copying.

The Grand Nagus, playing the game to the hilt, became highly agitated
and doubled his price, bringing the total tab to well over the
anticipated two hundred thousand.  This time, however, Gul Fubar was
ready with a large enough line of credit.

They finally agreed on the deal, with the Grand Nagus warning the
Cardassian that he had better immediately take off for Cardassian space
at top warp the instant he transferred the kilobars and received the
plans...  a double blessing, since it meant that Gul Fubar would not be
able to test the cannon until he was far, far away.

The interior of the Cardassian ship was cold, gray, and dreary; even
Klingon ships were more colorful.

Wesley's role was easy: He simply had to play the part of a nervous,
frightened, anxious traitor who wanted nothing more than to unload his
data clip, pick up the latinurn, and "get the hell out of here," as
Picard's favorite literary detective, Dixon Hill, would have put it.
Except for the "traitor" part, the rest of the description was perfectly
accurate: It was quite an easy role for the cadet to play.

Gul Fubar was one of the "long-necked" Cardassians, his head rising half
a meter above his shoulders, the neck muscles sloping down from the
jawline to the tips of the arms.  Out of the blue, Wesley wondered how
such Cardassians could ever turn their heads to look at something.

The Ferengi and the Cardassian finalized the deal in furtive whispers,
despite being alone with the cadet in GUl Fubar's sterile quarters.

"You, ah, got the thing?" asked the Cardassian.

"You have the money?" countered the Grand Negus.

"I might have; then again, I might not have.  What about the...  you
know?"

"Well," cackled the Nagus, "I might know; then again, I might not know."

"The thing!"

"It might be a thing, but it might not be a thing."

The two of them strolled around the barn a few more times before GUl
Fubar finally admitted that, yes, he did in fact have the money.

He had a junior officer bring it in on a pallet, a small, symmetrical
mountain of 225 hectobars of latinurn, the price agreed upon.  The Grand
Negus managed to conceal his avarice, an amazing act for a Ferengi,
considering that the sum represented a clear profit to the Nagus of
forty-five thousand bars.

Wesley fished around his shirt pocket and handed GUl Fubar the original
Hatheby's data clip.

The Cardassian grinned nastily, holding the clip as if it contained the
philosopher's stone, the elixir of life, and the Great Word of Power.
"It may have taken half the yearly weapons development budget," he
whispered, more to himself than to his visitors, "but it's worth every
last gram...  I'll stake my career on it!" His eyes lit up with a holy
glow, a missionary who has just discovered the promised land.

Then they narrowed in suspicion.  He glared back and forth from the clip
to Wesley Crusher.  "Is it ready to review?"

"There's a password," improvised Wesley.

"Yes?"

"I'll tell you when we're safely out."

Gul Fubar grumbled a bit but fanally relented.  At last, one standard
day, almost to the hour, after Wesley first thought of the idea, they
loaded the pallet of latinurn into the Nagus's personal shuttle and
launched from the Cardassian cargo bay.

As soon as they launched, Wesley hailed Gul Fubar.  When the frequency
opened, he broadcast only a single word: swordfish.  It was the first
password that popped into his head.  Then the Grand Nagus hit the
impulse engines, and they were gone.

Before they made it halfway to the Enterprise, Gul Fubar took his own
ship out of orbit and exploded back toward Cardassian space...  at warp
9.5.

"So much for the environmental warp treaty!" said Wesley, chuckling.

The Grand Nagus began to snicker.  "That was truly clever, human... that
was Ferengi-clever!"

"Really?"

"Absolutely!  What did you call it?  That was one of the best phranks
I've ever participated in.  And highly profitable, of course, for all
parties concerned."

"Except the Cardassians."

The Nagus turned to the cadet, winking and leering hideously. "Nonsense!
They bought an expensive but very valuable lesson!"

Wesley bowed his head.  "Well, if it was Ferengi-clever, it's because I
learned from the cleverest and sneakiest Ferengi in the quadrant."

"Why, thank you, human.  That's quite a compliment...

and completely true, too." After a moment, however, the Nagus began to
scowl; then he looked puzzled.  "Wait a minute--did you mean me, or that
altruist Tunk?"

Just at that moment, however, Wesley saw something on the instrument
panel that absorbed his full concentration; after a while, the Nagus
became distracted by the mind-numbing sum beside them and forgot all
about his question.

Show me the way to go home, I'm tired, and I want to go to bed...

WESLEY HUMMED THE ANCIENT SONG to himself as he stood outside Captain
Picard's quarters, steeling himself to the task of touching the
annuneiator and bracing the captain for a favor.

His pulse and respirations were elevated, and his palms were sweaty.
Jeez, he thought, I might as well be asking for a date/

Finally, he decided he had sufficient self-control.  He touched the
plate and was rewarded by an instantaneous "come" from the interior.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard sat behind his desk, trying to fit together what
looked like the broken pieces of a vase.

"Oh, ah, did you drop something?" asked the cadet.

Picard smiled without looking up.  "Not exactly, Wesley."

"Can't you just use the replicator to repair it?"

"This water gourd is over seven thousand years old...

can you believe that?"

Wesley stared curiously.  "It's wrecked."

The captain finally looked up; his face was calm and peaceful,
definitely a good sign.  "I wonder," he said, "what you will look like
seven thousand years from now."

The cadet frowned, considering the shards.  Isn't it more interesting to
understand the universe as it is, rather than study the broken remnants
of dead cultures?  But he said nothing aloud...  he wanted a very big
favor from Pieard and decided it was probably not the best strategy to
begin by insulting the captain's first love: archaeology.

"Sir, classes start tomorrow.  My first class is not until thirteen
hundred."

Picard put down the pottery shard and looked up politely.

"I know.  I keep abreast of my entire crew's duty assignments."

Wesley held up a small data-reader.  "I performed a few calculations,
sir.  We could just make it back without exceeding the environmental
speed limit.  If we leave fairly soon, I mean."

"How soon?"

Wesley grinned disarmingly.  "Oh, within the next half hour, forty-five
minutes."

Captain Picard smiled.  "No," he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"No."

"Uh...  when can we leave?"

"We're leaving immediately.  But we're not going anywhere near Earth."
Wesley said nothing, and the captain continued.  "Did you actually think
I would deviate the assigned cruise of a Galaxy-class starship just to
ferry an errant schoolboy back to his classes?"

Wesley stared, opening and closing his mouth.

Captain Picard watched and waited.  Wesley remained speechless--not
because he thought the captain should ferry him back to the Academy, but
because he had never even thought about the possibility that he would
not.

Picard smiled.  "Think of it as my own 'phrank' on you.

This is the real world, Ensign.  When you make a decision, you must
accept all the consequences, whether you thought about them at the time
or not."

An enormous pressure built up inside of Wesley, as if his warp coils had
breached and filled him with ultrahot, pressurized steam.

Of course he wouldn't.t He didn't drag you out here,' you're not under
orders; you're out on a crusade, a juvenile lark, light-years from where
you're supposed to bet What in the universe made you think the
Enterprise would drop everything to charge back to the Academy, just to
drop you off.

Picard was right; unconsciously, Wesley had expected somebody else to
take responsibility for getting him back.

Without thinking, he had slipped into the Tunk-mode, expecting the
sanction of the victim for any inconvenience the cadet might cause by
running off on his holy crusade to save Fred Kimbal's career.

"You're right, sir.  I shouldn't have asked; I had no right."

Wesley took a deep breath; for the first time, he understood he really
was in serious trouble with Starfleet.  "Missing ship's movement" was
bad enough; but if he did not find some quick way back, he would be a
wanted felon.

"Sir, I need some advice.  I got myself into this, and I won't make
excuses.  Do you have any idea how I can get back to Earth before they
declare me AWOL?"

"I don't suppose a shuttlecraft would help, and I can't spare one
anyway."

"Too slow.  I'd be back sometime in the second week of classes."

"Computer," said Picard, raising his voice, "request flight plans of
outbound vessels from Novus Alamogordus.

Are any of them headed near Earth?"

"Captain Kurn's ship will pass through Sector Zero-Zero-One on its way
back to Klingon space," said the mellifluous voice of the computer.

"Cadet, I suggest you begin negotiating with Kurn.  Once you're in the
first sector, you can certainly find a merchant ship headed toward
Earth.  Perhaps Kurn can put you off at the starbase nearest his route."

"Sir, I would be happy to bargain with Captain Kurn...

but what do I have to offer him?"

Picard considered.  "For your service to the Klingon Empire, in my
capacity as representative of the Emperor Kahless, I will ask him as a
personal favor to take you."

"Captain, that's very generous; but the only deal we made was for you to
write me a letter of explanation to Admiral Boxx and Captain Wolfe."

The captain smiled.  "That was in my capacity as captain of the
Enterprise, thus a representative of the Federation.  I will only ask
Kurn to take you aboard and drop you off enroute; it's up to you to get
back to the Academy from there."

"Thank you, sir.  I appreciate it."

"It was no trouble, Wesley...  or I wouldn't have done it.

You had no business coming out here in the first place--and you violated
your Starfleet orders by not taking the first opportunity to steal the
device, jump ship, and return.  Just be thankful that you came up with a
clever scheme to get the Federation and the empire out of a serious
problem, or else I would have cheerfully abandoned you here on Novus
Alamogordus to work your own way back."

"Aye, sir."

"Go back to your quarters and pack everything; be standing by in the
transporter room in ten minutes.  Dismissed."

"Aye, sir.  Thank you again, Captain.  I hope to see you again soon...
this time on official leave."

Wesley exited smartly and was standing by in the transporter room, ready
and waiting, three minutes early.

He remained standing by for an additional two hours before Kurn was
ready to break orbit and leave.  Riker, Data, and Geordi dropped by
separately to say good-bye and wish him luck with the "Big, Bad Wolfe."

"I served with Wolfe on the Hood, when we were both lieutenant
commanders," the first officer reminisced.  "He was a real hard case
then, too.  Good officer, but we all hated his guts."

Data spoke up.  "I would strongly suggest you attempt to bypass Captain
Wolfe and get Admiral Boxx to hear your

"Data's right," agreed Riker, "it's always better to go before the
captain than the first officer.  We get paid to be hard cases!"

"I won't say a word," said Geordi with a grin.

"Outside, Geordi!  Get a mop and pail and start swabbing the outer hull.
Give a shout when you're finished."

Data looked puzzled for a moment; then he activated his laugh program,
chuckling lightly.

"That was perfect, Data," said Geordi.

"Thank you, Geordi.  I have worked hard on the program, but I do not
think I will continue using it.  It seems to disconcert human beings
more than it sets them at ease."

Riker pulled at his beard, frowning.  "I think they're just not used to
hearing you react in a way that would be considered 'emotional' in a
human, even knowing it's just a program."

"Anyway," said La Forge, "good luck."

"Give Wolfe one for me."

"I'll tell him you said to, Commander."

"I wish you well, Wesley; I hope the next time we meet, it will be under
more fortuitous circumstances."

Cadet Crusher sat in the transporter room, alternately filled with ennui
and anxiety.  After another half hour, Lieutenant Worf and Deanna Troi
entered the room.

Deanna almost hugged the cadet, but satisfied herself with a hearty
handshake instead.  Worf glowered, congratulated him on his bravery in
volunteering for the mission to Gul Fubar's ship, and advised him to
straightforwardly and forthrightly admit his actions and accept the
consequences.

As they left, Wesley noticed a curious connection between them, almost
as if there was more to their relationship than mere professional
colleagues...  and as if their simultaneous arrival might be more than
timely coincidence.  The impression was too nebulous for the cadet to
name, however, and he said nothing.  Besides, it was none of his
business, though he could not imagine why Deanna Troi would be more
attracted to Worf than Riker.

His mother was the last to arrive and wish him well.  At their request,
the transporter chief departed temporarily and they were alone in the
room.

Beverly Crusher did not hesitate to embrace him; he hugged her back,
feeling somewhat embarrassed and thankful that the others had already
left.

"Wes, what's going to happen?  Is there any chance that you'll be
expelled from the Academy?"

He shook his head.  "I didn't do anything other than miss the beginning
of class--I mean I will miss it.  That's not an offense they expel
cadets for.  The most I might have gotten was a letter of reprimand
anyway..." Wesley grinned lopsidedly.  "And being kidnapped by Ferengi
counterfeiters is a heck of an excuse."

"Are they going to believe you?"

"Captain Picard put it all in his letter; he sent it to me on the
data-reader before I went to see him."

"Then there's nothing to worry about?  You're not going to be in hot
water?"

Wesley was silent for a moment.  Years ago, he routinely shared with his
mother all his feelings, fears, worries; but starting back when he first
became "acting ensign" aboard the Enterprise and began learning about
adult responsibility, he had felt a curious reluctance to share his
private pain with anyone...  especially with Morn.

"I'm not going to be in hot water," he said.  She did not notice that he
only answered one of her two questions.

"Do you want me to put in a word for you with Admiral Boxx?  I've known
him for..." Beverly Crusher stopped, her face turning red.  "Oh, son,
I'm sorry.  I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"Sure you did; it's a Mom-thing."

"I've been your mother for twenty-two years; it's hard to break a habit
you've had that long."

"Don't even try, Mother.  I'd rather have you as my mother than my
doctor anyway."

Beverly made sure no one had crept into the room, then tousled his hair.
She performed a passable impersonation of Lwaxana Troi, Deanna Troi's
mother: "You never call, you never write!  You're such a stranger, I
don't even know where you are half the time." They both laughed.  "Try
to drop by once in a while, kid," she said, "only not quite so
dramatically, all right?"

"See you."

Beverly Crusher left; leaving was hard enough and she only wanted to do
it once.

At last, Kurn's ship, the Hiding Fish, broke orbit and tore away toward
Klingon space, dropping its shields just long enough to beam Wesley
Crusher aboard as it passed.

Aboard the ship, he was greeted not by Captain Kurn himself, but by a
beautiful, muscular, hard-edged commander named Kurak.  Despite her very
pronounced fore-ridges, savage uniform, and mohawk, Wesley felt a
powerful attraction toward her.

She was extremely intelligent but Commander Kurak had an intuitive,
abstract grasp of subspace that almost equalled that of the Traveler...
though she could not turn her theoretical knowledge into direct physical
control as he could.

He decided the feeling was mutual; else, how could he explain her
especial delight in shoving him around, boasting of her superior
fighting skills, and offering to wrestle him, man-to-man?  She offered
to "show him her holomorphic model," but Wes decided he was not quite
ready for what she obviously meant by that invitation.

During the night, while the Hiding Fish crawled along at warp five--even
the Klingons had temporarily accepted the "environmental speed limit,"
though privately, Wesley thought it a ridiculous conceit, an excuse to
avoid facing the problem and coming up with a real solution--he.  lay on
Kurak's own bed in her own quarters, wishing she were with him and
simultaneously thanking his lucky stars that she was not.

Two hours before, Wesley discovered that all the extra racks in the
Hiding Fish were occupied by the Klingon observers who had arrived with
the Federation technician on the Heisenberg.  The cadet was so exhausted
and haggard that he found a quiet corner of the engineering division and
tried to sleep.

Kurak nudged him awake and brazenly insisted, "You must share my bed,
human."

Wes stammered, attempting to refuse; but she grabbed his arm and
propelled him to her cabinmwhereupon she pushed him into the bed and
left.

Chagrined, he realized she meant share her bed literally: He could sleep
in Kurak's rack while Commander Kurak stood watch--then when she
returned to sleep, she booted him out as politely as a Klingon female
commander is capable of ejecting a human cadet.

Wesley felt incredibly ambivalent toward the sexy, frightening Klingon
girl: she was older, at least twenty-eight; and she exuded a confidence
and sense of self that so far eluded Wesley.  Kurak knew who she was and
what she wanted to become: a warrior and a scientist, both.

By contrast, Wesley was completely unsure of both questions, holding
only partial answers...  and negative ones at that.  He was sure he did
not want to be a scientist stuck on a research base somewhere; but he
was becoming more certain with every passing month that he also did not
want to be a Starfleet officer, like his father, Jack Crusher, like Will
Riker--and the growing knowledge gave Wesley the cold sweats.

Why am I even going back?  The only answer he could find was because he
had given everyone his word.  He was not a "slave to duty," like
Frederick in The Pirates of Penzance, which he had studied two years
earlier.  still, he had no reason to believe his word was coerced or his
agreement forced...  yet.

He lay all night in the dark, eagerly awaiting his Klingon warrior
Kurak, dreading the possibility.  She finally did come, but only to
shake him awake roughly and tell him he had fifteen minutes before he
would be beamed to Star-base 2--again en passante.

Maybe if he caught her by the shoulders and kissed her hard, right on
the lips- Wesley rubbed his eyes, canceling the fantasy.  It was silly,
adolescent schoolboy stuff.  He would never see Kurak again, and she
would forget he existed ten minutes after he disembarked.

"Kurak, I think you're really--great.  It's too bad we couldn't have--I
mean, would you have ever--did you think about anything?"

She smiled.  "Here, human." Reaching up, she raked her claws across his
face so suddenly he had no time to flinch.

Shocked, he touched his cheek and brought his hand away bloody.

"There," she said, "now you can never forget me."

Hurts like hell, he thought in wonderment.  He forced himself not to
grimace or show any sign of pain.  "Commander Kurak.  I won't forget
you...  beautiful."

She was gone, and Wesley grabbed the duffel bag he had never unpacked
and headed toward the transporter room.

When she met him to say a formal good-bye, she made no reference to his
gouged cheek or the unwiped blood; in fact she did not even look at it.
The soldier manning the transporter noticed but said nothing.

Wesley paced his small quarters on Starbase 2 for two days before a
merchant ship agreed to return him to Earth.

He angrily refused medical treatment for his cheek, secretly hoping it
would leave a scar when it healed.  Alas, after a day, he could barely
see Kurak's claw marks, and it was obvious that it would leave behind a
cheek as unblemished and unscarred as the rest of him.

The great worry he had refused to reveal to his mother concerned not
himself, but Fred, the real Fred Kimbal.

For all his brave words and his intellectual knowledge of their truth,
Wesley was more than half convinced that Starfleet and Captain Wolfe
would find some way to throw Wesley Crusher out of the Academy.  In a
way, it would be a reliefi He felt like a victim of the old torture,
arms and legs pulled in opposite directions by separate teams of horses.

He could not in good conscience stay and accept his commission in
Starfleet; he could not honorably depart unless Starfleet proved itself
a fraud.

But either way, he knew he would survive.  His self-worth was not bound
up with being a Starfleet officer.  The sense of self he sought would
not be found in a red, yellow, or blue uniform; of that much, he was
sure.  When Wesley Crusher discovered who he was, the matter of being a
commissioned officer or an Academy reject would be completely
irrelevant.

But the same blow that would liberate Wesley Crusher would probably
destroy Fred Kimbal.

Their lives were not at all parallel.  Fred was the most brilliant young
man that Wesley had ever met...  in some areas, so much brighter than
Wesley himself that Kimbal could hardly survive without burning himself
out.

Unfortunately for Kimbal, he was brilliant in precisely those areas in
which Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets held the monopoly.

Wesley's destiny lay somewhere Out There, beyond the hull.  Fred Kimbal
lived only to see the interior of a starship or starbase; what was
outside did not concern him.

Wesley gripped a handful of stars in one hand and a personal connection
to humanity in the other; he was the bridge between his species's reach
and its grasp.

Fred lived so far beyond the farthest star that trying to live outside
the hull of Starfleet would be the equivalent of sucking vacuum.  He
needed the structure, the goals, the hierarchy; Kimbal needed external
direction, since he had no moral compass; he required somebody to hang
onto his feet while he reached for quasars with both hands.

The only "somebody" with that much strength was Starfleet; if they cast
the boy out, he would be lost forever.

"I'll just have to make them see it," swore Wesley, standing in the
observation lounge and staring at the star that spawned his race.  It
was so close he could touch it, almost see it as a disk; but he could
not seem to catch a falling ship.

I'll make them see.  I'li make them understand.  l'll put it in terms
that nobody can mistake: If Fred goes, !  go!

CADET WESLEY CRUSHER stepped forward with his left foot, centering
himself in the doorway.  He executed a left-face, then raised his right
hand and pounded three times on the doorframe.

No response.  Though he could clearly see the executive officer of
Starfleet Academy, Captain Lyle Wolfe, sitting at his desk working--and
though Captain Wolfe could just as easily see Cadet Crushersthe
executive officer did not respond.

After a minute, Cadet Crusher raised his hand and again pounded the pine
three times.

"Do I hear some kind of bird pecking on my chamber door?" asked the
captain rhetorically, looking up as if he did not see Cadet Crusher.

Cadet Crusher pounded the pine three more times, bruising his palm with
the force of the blows.

At last, Captain Wolfe focused on him.  "Enter."

"Sir, Cadet Wesley Crusher reporting as ordered."

"You're a little late, aren't you?"

"Sir?"

"You're a little late, Cadet."

"Sir, Cadet Crusher received a message to report immediately upon
disembarking from the Kings of the High Frontier Lonatian merchant
vessel.  The cadet reported immediately from the landing field."

"Yes, but it still seems to me that you're about, oh, two days late!"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, do you have any particular reason for being two days late?
Couldn't get out of bed?  Late night out with the boys?  Just couldn't
get motivated, eh?"

"No excuse, sir!"

"No excuse, sir!  No excuse, sir!  Do you really think I'm so stupid
that I don't know what 'no excuse, sir' really means?

Well, are you just going to stand there and refuse a direct question?"

"No, sir!  The cadet does not think the executive officer is stupid at
all, sir."

"So you think I do know what 'no excuse, sir' really means?"

"Yes, sir."

"What?"

"Sir?"

"Sir?  Sir?  The lowest damn enlisted man knows enough to at least try
to answer a question!  He doesn't let his eyes bug out and say 'sir?"
with that vacuous expression you jerky little cadets use that implies
you never even heard of such a thing as answering a question!  Now let's
see if you can spit it out."

"Aye, sir.  'No excuse, sir' means that the cadet understands the
gravity of his off--"

"DON'T YOU MOVE.t You are at attention!  Get those damned thumbs along
your trouser seams and stop running your eyes over me!"

"Aye, sir.  'No excuse sir' means that the cadet understands the gravity
of his offense and offers no...  and does not attempt to excuse his
actions, sir."

"Oh that's much clearer, cadet.  Well, the cadet obviously doesn't
understand much, so I'll illuminate him.  'No excuse, sir' means that
the cadet was told somewhere by some senior cadet that that's what he's
supposed to answer whenever somebody in his chain of command asks him
why he did something stupid, even if he didn't know until that moment
that it was something stupid.  But what it really means is that you
think I'll be impressed by you taking responsibility for your actions!
Oh, Cadet, I'm just shocked at how responsible and honest you are!  Why,
with just a dozen more like you, we could abandon the entire Starfleet
Judicial Advocate General office, since everybody would be so honest,
loyal, brave, thrifty, trustworthy, and true that no one would ever
stand captain's mast again!"

"Aye, sir."

"Aye, sir?  Are you responding to an order, Cadet?"

"No, sir!  The cadet meant 'yes, sir,' sir!"

"Oh!  You think I'm soliciting your opinion on my suggestion?"

"No, sir!"

"So now you're contradicting my suggestion?"

"No, sir!  The cadet was confused, sir."

"My God!  You are an honest little cadet, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir!"

"No excuse, sir.t Well, let's just start all over again, shall we?  Why
were you two days late for classes?"

"Sir, the cadet was kidnapped by Ferengi counterfeiters, Munk and Tunk,
and taken to an auction on Novus Alamogordus."

"Kidnapped!  My, how exciting for you.  But...  I thought you were
kidnapped by one Ferengi, Tunk?"

"Yes, sir.  Tunk kidnapped the cadet from the landing field; then later,
Tunk's father, Munk, continued the kidnapping to Novus Alamogordus."

"Oh, very glib.  So tell me, Cadet...  how did Tunk happen to kidnap
you?  Did he abduct you at phaser-point from your quarters?"

"No, sir."

"Did he chloroform you in one of our passageways?"

"No, sir."

"Well, how did he manage this dastardly deed?"

"Sir, the Ferengi ordered his bodyguards to prevent the cadet from
leaving the Ferengi's ship before it launched."

"But...  before this Tunk could prevent you from leaving his ship, you
had to be aboard his ship--or am I missing something?"

"The cadet was aboard the Ferengi's ship, sir."

"Well, how did the cadet board the Ferengi's ship?"

"Sir, the cadet...  snuck aboard the Ferengi's ship in order to retrieve
a device."

"My, goodness!  So you're telling me that you burglarized Tunk's ship,
and he caught you and took you along with him to Novus AlamogordusP'

"Yes, sir."

"So he didn't really kidnap you at all, and you lied to me!"

"No, sir."

"No sir' which?  That he kidnapped you, or that you lied to me?"

"Sir, the Ferengi kidnapped the cadet, and the cadet did not lie to the
executive officer."

"You know something?  I don't think we're getting anywhere on this one,
Cadet.  You're just too clever for me.

Gosh, I just can't remember when I've heard so many great excuses.  I'll
have to write a few of them down so I can remember them in case I
accidentally shoot down my own wingman!  I've submitted a letter to your
file, which is my right as your supervisor; and it's not a very nice
letter.  In fact, it's what we call a letter of reprimand, and it means
you're going to have an awfully hard time getting a good billet from
your detailer when you graduate.  That's all I have to say to you, Cadet
Crusher.  Now get your butt inside to do a little tap dance for the
admiral.  Dismissed."

"Aye, sir!" Cadet Wesley Crusher took a step backward, executed an
about-face, and exited the office.  He executed a left face, walked to
the next office, centered himself in the doorway, turned to face the
closed door, and pounded the pine three times.

"Enter." The door slid open.

"Sir, Cadet Wesley Crusher reporting as ordered by the executive
officer."

"As you were.  Take a seat, Cadet."

"Aye, sir."

"This is just an informal meeting, Cadet.  We'll have to hold a formal
captain's mast next week; but I'll tell you now what we're going to
decide.  Unless you'd rather request a formal court-martial."

"No, sir."

"Wise decision, Cadet.  According to Captain Picard's statement on your
behalf, you have admitted to leaving Academy grounds without authorized
liberty, gambling with civilians and other cadets, and breaking and
entering the ship of a civilian.  Do you contest any of this?"

"No, sir."

"Good, let's stay ahead of the power curve, Cadet.  I know why you
burgled the Ferengi's ship, and under the circumstances, I'm inclined to
dismiss the charge as an example of initiative, rather than criminal
action."

"Thank you, sir."

"I like the fact that you didn't just sit back and let the Ferengi have
a latinurn-counterfeiting machine.  You rolled up your sleeves and
solved the problem.  It took some ingenuity; good job.  I do not like
the fact that you built the latinum-forging machine in the first place.
Where was your head, Cadet?  Didn't you think?"

"Sir, the cadet--"

"You can drop the third person rule for this meeting, Cadet, and for
your mast next week."

"Aye, sir.  Sir, I didn't know what the machine was until it was built.
I considered destroying it immediately; in retrospect, I should have."

"Yes, you should have.  Innovation is all well and good;

I'm all for progress.  But there are some things we just weren't meant
to know, such as how to counterfeit latinurn."

"Yes, sir.  I weighed that against the scientific value gained by
studying--"

"Are you qualified to make that decision?"

"Ah...  no, sir.  I'm not, sir."

"All right, there you go.  Let's keep ahead of the eight ball.

But I'm really not concerned about you.  Look, son, I know about the big
poker game; I know who was there, I don't need you to tell me."

"Thank you, sir."

"I could reel off the names: La Fong, Axel, Lees, DuBois, Jantzen,
Ackermann; I always know when the big game is on, and everybody involved
gets a slap on the wrist.  Do you know how long that tradition has
lasted here?"

"No, sir."

"Neither do I.  I played in a couple of big games when I was a fourth
year cadet, 1o these many years ago.  Did Captain Wolfe tell you about a
letter of reprimand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, don't worry too much about it.  We call it the Poker-Chip
Slapdown.  Nobody pays much attention to it in the fleet...  unless you
get into trouble and they decide they want to boot you; then your
commanding officer can use the Slapdown to show a pattern of
unofficerlike conduct.

"I really don't want to talk to you about you, Cadet.  I don't think
you're a problem; you're a good man, and you'll make a good officer."

"Thank you, sir.  I appreciate having your confidence."

"I admit I had my doubts when I assumed command; I read about that
incident in your first year and wondered whether you were really fit to
be at this Academy.  I watched you very closely over the next year,
Cadet; but I've changed my mind.  I think you were incredibly stupid to
pull that starburst thing, but you showed some guts later when you broke
the code of silence.  Wish we had more like you."

"Thank you, sir."

"Son, this is a very important lesson.  I want you to listen closely and
remember this throughout your entire career: Starfleet is not about
never making a mistake.  Everybody makes stupid mistakes!  Starfleet is
about taking responsibility for your mistakes--and not just saying 'it's
my fault' or 'no excuse sir,' but actually fixing the problem.  Even if
it wasn't your mistake in the first place, but your crewmate's."

"I understand, sir."

"No, you don't.  But you will, given a few years out in the fleet.  I'm
not worried about you; I'm worried about one of your crewmates.  You
didn't say anything, but I can tell from your face that you know exactly
who I mean.

"Crusher, I'm very concerned about Cadet Fred Kimbal.  I don't know if
he's really officerlike material; and I don't know if the Academy can
afford to keep him.  But I'll give you a chance to change my mind."

"Thank you, sir.  Sir, I...  I need to speak frankly."

"What you say will not leave this office, Crusher."

"Sir, I think you're very wrong about Kimbal.  I think he would make an
excellent officer, and I would be proud to serve with him."

"Continue."

"No, sir.  Sir, Kimbal is the most intelligent cadet at the Academy, bar
none.  He understands warp theory, uh, postgravitational fluctuation,
the gravity wave equations, subspace...  everything better than anyone
else here.  He has an incredible, intuitive understanding of exactly how
subspace really works; not even Commander Sur knows it from the gut the
way Kimbal does."

"That's great; he can go to Keynes and be a physicist.  I want you to
tell me why he'd make a good Starfleet officer, Cadet."

"Sir, he's learning.  He's coming along.  He's showing definite
improvement."

"Kimbal's admission was questionable to begin with, Cadet Crusher."

"But he's getting a lot better at--at leadership and command and all the
qualities that go to make a good Starfleet officer."

"So he's what, about up to admission standards now?  At the end of his
second year?"

"He's better than that, sir."

"Let me tell you my standard, Cadet.  I don't expect cadets to learn how
to be officerlike while they're here; I expect them to already be
officerlike when we accept them to the Academy.  If I decided to just
commission everyone tomorrow, I would expect every single cadet to be a
solid, reliable, dependable Starfleet officer...  immediately.  Son,
there is no time to 'grow into' being an officer; the day I pin that dot
on your collar, you had better already be a Starfleet officer.

"Now frankly, I would have no hesitation pinning you right now, or La
Fong, or Cadet Lees.  You don't have the experience to pilot a
Galaxy-class starship yet--no, not even you, Crusher, what you did on
the Enterprise isn't enough, and it's no more than half the cadets here
have done before they came here--but you were already officer material
when you came to us...  in fact, like a lot of the cadets, you were
already an officer.

"We don't make officers here, Mister Crusher.  We refine them.  The
Academy isn't like a factory, turning out cogs for the big Starfleet
machine; it's like a latinurn mine, chipping away the useless mass to
find the valuable latinum that's already there, just hidden.

"Now throughout your whole defense of Cadet Kimbal, there's one question
you haven't answered.  You've been dancing around it.  Based on what you
know about Cadet Frederick Kimbal, would you say it is in Starfleet's
best interest to graduate him."

"Sir, I--"

"Take your time.  Wait a moment and think about it.  All right, go ahead
and answer."

"Yes, sir, I do."

"You do?"

"Yes, sir.  Fred is definitely not poured from the same mold as most of
the cadets here; I won't argue that!  He's quirky, he's different, and
he doesn't always do what you expect him to do.

"But it's not right to say he's not officerlike.  We can't let the
'standard mold' of a Starfleet officer become a prison that traps us
into being one specific type of person and keeps out anybody who might
give us a fresh perspective.

"I agree...  Fred Kimbal is no Jean-Luc Picard and no William Riker.
He's not even a Carl La Fong or a Locarno.

"But neither am I!  Not really.  Every one of us is different; we all
bring our unique perspectives to being an officer in Starfleet...  and
if we didn't, then you may as well fire us all and replace us with
seventy-three million copies of Commander Data, like Starfleet wanted to
do before.

"That was wrong then, and it's wrong now.  You're right, sir; Starfleet
isn't a huge machine, and we're not cogs.  We don't all look alike, act
alike, or think alike.  Fred Kimbal looks just a little further outside
the norm than the rest of us, but he knows what he's doing.  He has the
most important skill of all for a Starfleet officer: He genuinely,
desperately, wants to lead his crew and accept his responsibilities.
There aren't many people left in the quadrant with that quality.

"Sir, Kimbal is committed, devoted to Starfleet, and willing to accept
the consequences of his own actions and those of his crewmates.  He is
brilliant, he is reliable--you can rely upon him to solve problems that
the rest of us can only dimly understand--and he is an honest, decent
man.

He has all the qualifications to be a strong, successful Starfleet
officer.  And yes, I would be proud to serve alongside him."

"How about serving under him, Mister Crusher?"

"If necessary, yes."

"If necessary?  Why the qualification?"

"Well, I just meant..  2'

"Mister Crusher, you gave a very strong defense.  You caught me by
surprise; you changed my mind about several things anent Kimbal."

"But I didn't change your mind about the most important thing."

"No, son.  You didn't."

"Sir, please reconsider.  I know I can make Kimbal more officerlike...
he's improved so remarkably in the last year, since La Fong put us
together, that I know he'll make a first-rate officer."

"No, son.  He won't...  because if he hasn't by now, he never will. With
apologies to Mister Kennedy, ask not what the Academy can do for you...
ask what you can do for the Academy.  I'm afraid we've just hit an
irreconcilable difference between your view and the Academy's view: Fred
Kimbal simply does not come across as a Starfleet officer."

"Sir, are you saying you're going to dismiss him because he doesn't look
and feel like an officer?"

"No, son, and I don't like that tone.  I'm saying I've decided to
dismiss Kimbal because I would not feel comfortable serving under him...
and neither would you, whether you'll admit it or not.  You already told
me that when you hesitated when I asked whether you would be willing to
serve under him."

"Does that mean that anyone who is the least bit different from the
'Starfleet norm' will get bounced from now on?"

"I didn't invent the norm, Mister Crusher; and I'm not enforcing it any
more rigidly now than it was enforced last year, or ten years ago, or
back when I was a cadet here.  I'm not willing to throw it out the
airlock just for one extremely smart misfit."

"Sir, I almost feel like saying if Kimbal goes, I go."

"I hope you don't say that, Mister Crusher.  I would hate to see you
leave.  But that's a decision that each one of us must make on his own.

"I will caution you about one thing, Cadet: Before you accept your
commission, you had better be damned certain that you're willing to
carry it on your shoulders; because if you're not sure, I guarantee you
those collar dots will get heavier and heavier with every passing day
until they finally drag you down to the bottom.

"Now do you have anything else to say before I dismiss you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Speak up, son."

"Sir...  if your decision is final, then I request permission to be the
one to inform Cadet Kimbal."

"Granted.  Go ahead and tell him; he may as well start making
arrangements.  Ask him to come speak to me before he leaves and to swing
by the PDP to arrange his flight home and mustering-out pay.  They'll
have a few forms for him to ident, and they'll tell him what equipment
he can keep and what belongs to us."

"Aye, sir."

"I'm appointing you his mustering-out liaison.  Any problems or
disputes, he goes through you straight to me.  You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"The chain is from Kimbal to you to me from now on.

Dismissed."

"Aye, sir.  Thank you, sir."

Wesley walked across the quadrangle, his steps slow but still too fast,
too certain.  They've turned me into one of them, he thought morosely.
If I'd had any guts, I wouM have torn them I refused to accept their
moral authority to tell Kimbal he wasn't officerlike, and if they wanted
to cashier him, they wouM have to do it without my sanction.  But I have
no guts.

I'm complicit in everything they do to Fred.  I'm just as guilty as
Bernard Boxx.

He avoided the turbolift and walked up two flights of stairs, then
slowly marched down the passageway with a measured tread.

Wesley thumbed the pad and opened the door, then stopped.  Fred sat on
his already-packed suitcase, wearing civilian clothes.

"Heard you had landed and gone to see the old man," said Kimbal.

"I'm sorry, Fred.  I tried."

"I know.  I knew you wouldn't turn them around, too.

Wes, they're right, you know."

"They're not right."

"I'm not cut out to be an officer."

"You don't know that, and neither do they.  They think they know it; but
nobody knows anything about anyone until he's actually in the line of
fire.  Maybe I'll freeze up on my first command.  Maybe I'll turn left
when I should turn right and drive into my wingman.  Maybe I'll win the
bronze nebula on my first tour of duty...  nobody knows.  It's insane to
pretend that you can know from how the uniform hangs whether a cadet
will make a good officer."

"Wes, I'm really not destroyed by this.  I really thought I'd make it,
but I'm not going to stick a phaser in my mouth."

"You have any ideas?"

Fred shrugged.  "Harvard, Stanford.  I can probably get a scholarship
anywhere."

"It won't be Starfleet."

"I don't know whether to say 'too bad' or 'thank God."" "You have to go
to the PDP."

"I already called and made an appointment.  Do I go through you or La
Fong?"

"I'm the liaison."

"Good.  I hate that arrogant, strutting Carl La Fong, capital-L,
small-a, capital-F, small-o, small-n, small-g, Carl La Fong."

"I don't know what to say, Fred.  I'm going to miss you."

"I'm actually going to do my best to forget you and everyone else here,
the whole damned Academy."

"Not your fault, Wes.  I just want to concentrate on tomorrow, not
yesterday.  All right?"

"Fair enough.  Good-bye.  I hope after a while you can write and tell me
where you are."

"Leave word with Boothby where you get posted."

Then Wesley blinked, and Fred Kimbal was gone.

Wesley Crusher lay down on his bunk, not even bothering to throw his
civvies into the replicleaner and put on his uniform.

If he rushed, he could still make his last class for the day.

He did not rush.  If he changed, he could attend evening chow in the
mess hall.  He did not change.  If he got up, he could wander to the
O-club and down some synthehol, toast Fred Kimbal, remember his friends
on the Enterprise, laugh about his close scrapes with Ferengi and
Cardassians, and tell lies about his encounter with the commander Kurak
aboard the Hiding Fish.  He did not get up.

It's a damned giant squid, its tentacles wrapped all around us, and it
eats people like Fred alive.  It's cold and leathery, and it cares only
about spreading its tentacles farther and farther into the universe
until they stretch infinitely far, their moral fiber stretched
infinitesimally thin.  It's paradise.  It has everything...  peace,
plenty, power,' replicators to feed the hungry, holodecks to feed the
spiritually dead; and an obsessive fascination with the past to feed
dreams of yesterday.

It is sterile, unsympathetic.  The moral compass spins free, pointing
neither north nor south.  Starfleet has lost its way.

The sun set; the room grew too dark to see.  But Wesley saw perfectly
well.

Do I have the courage to do what I was called to do?

In the morning, he rushed, he changed, he got up and ran downstairs by
0535 for PT.  His first class was History of Moral Philosophy, and if he
missed one more lecture, Captain DuBois would have his hide.

About the Author Dafydd ab Hughmraconteur, troubadore, and bon vivantmis
the celebrating author of Fallen Heroes, the Deep Space Nine novel where
everybody dies, as well as the justly unforgotten Heroing and
Warriorwards (the Jiana Chronicles) and the equally unappalling Arthur
War Lord and Far Beyond the Wave--a vaguely-amusing time-travel conceit
about King Arthur.

Mr.  ab Hugh is found under the His (for "Hugh") in the science-fiction
section, where he startles inattentive browsers by sudden movements.

Mr.  ab Hugh assures his readers that he is not now, nor has he ever
been, Peter David.