Seraphine's long lips twisted into a smile. "How long has it been, Charles?"

"Roughly a week, as usual," he said flatly.

Charles noticed the cab driver's dumbfounded expression in the mirror. He seemed to think Charles was taking his kidnapping at gunpoint a bit too well. Fact was, Charles had seen far worse situations in the War. On top of that, he often froze up under pressure, coming across as expressionless and monotone. It often worked in his favor, giving the impression that nothing affected him. Unfortunately, Seraphine knew him better, and could tell she was intimidating him.

Avoiding Seraphine's gaze, Charles' dark eyes flicked to the window. "Where are we going."

"We're just going for a ride around the neighborhood." Seraphine kept the gun trained on Charles.

"At least fifty people know I was in this neighborhood—"

"For heaven's sake Charles, I'm not gonna dump you in a river. I just want to talk."

He sighed. "If this is about the money we owe you,"

"It is." Her voice became icy. "We had a deal Charles. I agreed to give you the information I knew under the condition you wouldn't share it with anybody. And five minutes ago I see you talking about it on the phone to someone named 'Billy,' right in the middle of the hall! Who is Billy anyway, one of your old Code Talker buddies?"

"Maybe."

Charles wished he hadn't taken Billie's call. He should've used a pay phone to call her back, somewhere discrete. But at least Seraphine didn't seem to know who Billie was, mistaking her for a "Billy" with a "y."

Seraphine wrinkled her already segmented nose. "Crimeny. When I suggested that treasure hunt I didn't expect you to actually do it. Much less convince someone else to help you."

"As if I had any other choice." Charles nodded at the driver. "This crackerjack a new addition to your boy-toy collection, or is he just an heirloom you inherited from your poor departed husband?"

The driver's face scrunched in confusion, as he struggled to work out what Charles had just asked.

Seraphine clicked her tongue at Charles. "Chuckles, is that how you normally speak to a recently widowed woman, whose going out of her way to help you?"

He cringed at the pet-name she'd assigned him. "No, it's how I talk to a Nazi spy who married a rich cartoonist for his money and then murdered him in his sleep."

"If only you had proof of any of that. Then you could probably save your whole tribe with the reward money. But since you don't, you have no choice but to accept my help."

Long before the United States had entered the War, Hitler was already preparing for when they would. It was a little known fact that in the 1930s, a number of Nazis posing as anthropologists had visited America and tried cozying up to some Indian tribes, in an attempt to learn their languages. Most failed hilariously. But while "Seraphine" (or whatever her real name was) had failed to learn anything important from Charles, she'd succeeded in fooling him for a good two years, and he'd never recovered from the shame. But he'd managed to push that pain aside for a while, as he served in the War as a soldier and Code Talker. He'd run into Seraphine again a few times, each experience with her less pleasant than the last.

After victory was won, Charles and his fellow Indian soldiers were commended for their service, and then returned to putting up with the same Jim Crow bullshit as before. Granted, things had improved a bit overall since the War. But to say things were "better" for Indians now was like saying that the Wicked Witch of the West had "better" looks than her flying monkeys. The last couple of years had been the worst Charles' tribe had seen since the Depression. Too small and obscure to obtain federal "recognition" and receive a reservation, they lived on land rented from the state government. And they were now in danger of not being able to continue paying for it.

Enter wannabe cartoonist Gill Evekson. His soul as ugly as his scaled, spoon-headed face (cosmetic surgery gone wrong, supposedly), Evekson had been the first to bid for the land, should the tribe get evicted. Evekson, who fancied himself a competitor to Walt Disney, was looking to build a theme park for his virtually unknown character Vicky Vole, before Walt could do something similar for Micky Mouse. For Charles' people to lose their home to Mickey would've been bad enough, but to lose out to a badly-drawn rodent that the average child didn't know or care about would be downright ludicrous. And as if that wasn't bad enough, Seraphine was somehow back in the States, married to the scum who wanted to steal their land, and her powerful social connections made it impossible to pin her as a Nazi.

The plot had thickened when Gill Evekson was found murdered in his bed with a tin sculpture of his own character, Vicky Vole's long sharp tail embedded in his chest. Evekson's "devastated" (and newly wealthy) widow Seraphine told the press that she was considering going through with building the theme park, to honor her poor husband's memory; but of course, if the tribe came up with the money to keep their land before she got the chance, she'd have to build Vicky's Burrow somewhere else.

"What's so funny." Seraphine demanded, her gun still trained on Charles.

Charles hadn't even realized he'd been chuckling to himself. "I'm just trying to picture you building Vole Land. Or sleeping with Evekson for that matter."

"Why don't you let me?" Seraphine taunted. "You don't even live on your tribe's land. And I'm in no position to force you to do anything, once you leave this car anyway."

"And leave everyone else to be screwed over by you. Not an option."

"That's what I always loved about you Charles, you're noble to the point of self-destruction. Of course, I'm being a lot nicer than most spies would to their targets. But I don't get credit for that since I'm on the 'wrong side' and all."

"Were you being 'nice' to me when you had your Nazi friends get the drop on in Europe and use me as a piñata?"

"Considering they just wanted to kill you, yes, I think it was pretty nice of me to convince them you were a useful prisoner. I could just leave you and your people to rot. But instead I'm giving you a chance to buy your land back. I've been giving you information on where to find the Bird. And all I'm asking in return is one or two gems off its wing as a little tip."

"Why?" Confident she didn't want him dead just yet, he allowed emotion to creep back into his voice. "Why do you want the Bird? What's the matter, your Nazi friends wouldn't share any of the silver and gold they looted from the Jews and Gypsies and Pols they gassed? Figured you'd hop over here and loot the Indians, before Hitler reached us first? Well you're a little late, your fuehrer's dead."

"Yes, I know. I read the papers." She cocked her head, looking at him innocently. "You know I never really believed in the Nazi regime. They threatened to kill my mother if I didn't help them."

"That would've been some accomplishment, considering you told me both your parents died when you were six."

Seraphine pursed her lips like a schoolgirl caught in a fib. Switching topics, she said, "I came here to give you a new lead." Keeping her pistol trained on him, she used her other hand to fish out a scrap of paper from her coat and chucked it at him. "Here."

Charles caught the paper in the air between his fingers. Unfolding it, he found it was an article cut from a newspaper. At the top was a portrait of a Colored man, with a long face and heavy-lidded eyes. His ears and eyebrows were pointed, and the eyes behind his round glasses were almost devoid of expression. His thin mustache made Charles think of Gone With the Wind. The article was dated 1945. Skimming it, Charles found it described the man as a Harlem P.I., who'd solved some big murder case right after returning from serving in the War.

"This guy's got my statue?"

"Not yet. But he's close. To the Bird and to you. He's here in San Francisco. Follow him, and he'll lead you to it." She leaned in. "Good luck, Charles." Her hand came over to caress his face.

Batting her hand away he said, "Go to hell."

"I plan to. Or anyway a place about as hot. You find that Bird and we'll have enough money for you to save your tribe from eviction, and for me to split to Argentina."

"You're trying to flee the country now? Guess your cover's not as tight as you thought."

Her brown eyes moved away from him, her face contorting in irritated embarrassment.

"So," Charles said, "Wanna tell me why I shouldn't phone the police as soon as I've found the statue, and tell them I know a Nazi collaborator in the U.S.?"

Seraphine turned to her driver. "Pull over."

The car screeched to a halt.

They were on the outskirts of the city, by the beach. It would have been pitch black if not for the city lights. No one else was around, no sound except hundreds of crickets chirping loudly. The driver turned and rested one arm over the back of his seat. He watched Seraphine and Charles, looking amused.

Seraphine turned back to Charles. "I have powerful friends out here, Chuckles. I have powerful friends all over the world, and I'll always find you. If you tell anyone about my past political affiliations, I'll have them killed. And if you tell anyone about this little meeting tonight, I'll kill them myself. What was your friend's name, Billy? Tell him, and I won't just kill Billy. If Billy has a wife, children, a dog, a pregnant wife," Charles blood turned cold. "a grandmother…"

Seraphine suddenly brought her gun around. Her bucktoothed driver had time to widen his eyes, in the split second before she shot him.

Charles was frozen against his seat, unable to look away from the red windshield. He felt the cold gun barrel against the side of his head, and Seraphine's hot breath in his ear.

"Don't make a sound now."

In the car mirror, he could see her holding him hostage. She pulled a handkerchief from her breasts. Once, long ago, he'd have found that cute and funny. She slammed the cloth over his nose and mouth. It reeked of some kind of chemical. His head began to feel heavy.

And then she said something that was just plain weird. Or maybe he wasn't hearing her right. It was hard to tell, with the chemicals weighing his head down.

"Don't worry," she purred in his ear. "This is just another bad vision quest."


"Hey!" Samantha Wildman said sharply. "Anyone catch that?" Softening her voice, Sam asked her daughter, "You alright Naomi?"

Naomi nodded, but clearly looked disturbed. The fact that the man she'd just watched getting shot was a hologram was little consolation.

"The 'vision quest' reference?" Vorik said in response to Sam's first question. "Indeed. Either the program is malfunctioning, or 'Seska' is being controlled by someone who knows Chakotay."

A fatigued Tabor added, "Or Chakotay's character just practices vision quests in this program. His branch of humans have been going on vision quests for eons, haven't they?"

"But 'vision quest' to most Indians doesn't mean what it does to Chakotay's tribe," Sam said. "Outside Chakotay's New Age group, vision quests are basically just meditations, if I understand correctly. Seska seemed to be referring specifically to Chakotay's fever-dream machine. Don't tell him I called it that."

"I won't." Tabor squinted at the screen. He wrinkled his nose, causing his Bajoran ridges to scrunch like an accordion. "If the crew's subconscious is somehow being used to write this program, then that could account for Seska's comment."

"Alternate theory," Naomi said. "It's the Seska hologram from Tuvok's old program that I never go to play—"

"We deleted that program," Tabor said quickly. "B'Elanna had us do everything to double check that every trace of Seska's hologram and that program were gone from Voyager. And believe me, of all people on board who'd be most determined to make sure Seska never got the upper hand again, a good most of them work in Engineering."


After the blond woman finished her song, she exited the stage and a troop of jazz players took her place. It might've been Ned's imagination, but he could have sworn that the young Asian man playing the clarinet was continuously sealing glances at him and Mr. Excelsior.

The blonde took a seat by herself, near the stage. Such a glamorous-looking girl, in that glistening red dress and purple gloves, looked a bit out of place sitting by herself. When she ordered a glass of water from the waiter, Ned noted how her voice, though polite, held none of the smooth seduction it had when she'd been singing. Actually, she was reminding him a lot of Tim right now, with her stiff posture and voice. She looked like she was trying to fit in and act casual, but secretly didn't know how. It was almost as if she and Tim had arrived here in a rocket ship from some alien planet, and were trying desperately to act human.

"I've got a plan Mr. Excelsior," Ned whispered to his partner. "That singer must have access to a back room. She seems like someone you would get along with. You can strike up a conversation with her, maybe trick her into giving away where the keys are and which door she uses. I can go have a word with Miss Indiana, keep her distracted."

Tim spun his cigarette between his fingers. "Mr. Felix, maybe it's different 'across the pond.' But here in America, it is never a good idea for a Colored man to try 'striking up a conversation' with a blonde white woman, in public at least."

Ned frowned, and looked around at the melting pot of people in the café. "But we're in California, Tim. I thought that sort of thing was more of a concern in, in places like…"

Tim popped one pointed eyebrow. "Like Georgia."

Ned recalled that Tim had grown up on a farm in the South. No wonder he was such a cautious man. Ned realized, suddenly, that while he had a great network of connections and a smooth social manner among California's criminals and lowlifes, he knew practically nothing about the classier America's social rules. Britain—at least the Britain he'd grown up in—wasn't very diverse, so if there were any rules regarding how the races should interact, Ned hadn't learned them. In this melting pot of California, he'd just treated everyone the same.

"You know more about the matter than me," Ned admitted. "How about if I talk to the girl, and you go meet Indiana."

"That might be a more logical plan."

Though Kitty was also a "white woman," it was a very different situation. She wouldn't come across as being sexually vulnerable to most, like the singer. And her being the lady of the house, speaking to a mere patron, would make Tim look like the less powerful one. It wouldn't draw much attention.

Ned glanced back at the stage. The young man in with the clarinet was definitely looking at them now.

Tim suddenly elbowed Ned. "Now." He pushed himself up from his chair, gathering up his drink and joint.

Kitty Indiana was speaking to her bald bartender, her gold eye-patch glistening under the mirror ball.

"Tim wait, what's our story?"

"We're looking for jobs." Tim said without missing a beat.

Ned snapped his fingers and pointed at Tim, liking the idea.

While Tim casually crossed the room to the bar, Ned picked up his glass and approached the blond woman's table.

"Is someone sitting here?" he asked, placing his hand on the empty chair.

The woman froze, with her glass of water in the air. Her blue eyes were stuck on him, conveying some mixture of surprise and terror, with a side of You're joking, right?

"Well don't look at me like I'm bloody Frankenstein," Ned said jovially. "It's just a yes-no question."

"No, no one is sitting here." The woman sipped her water, her thick black lashes fluttering.

As Ned took a seat, he suddenly realized that the woman might fear he was flirting with her. So he added, "My wife loves that last song you did, it's one of her favorites. I think she'd have liked the way you performed it."

The woman instantly seemed to relax. "Thank you."

Ned glanced back at the bar, where Tim was talking to Indiana. "Did it, ah, take you long to get this job?"

"No." The girl shook her head, causing her ruby earrings to sway. "I've known Kitty Indiana for a few years. This job was really just handed to me."

"Oh. Well, I'm an accomplished chef, always on the lookout for new gigs. Would you call this a good place to work, Miss…?"

"Annie. Annie Hanson." She smiled politely, but made no effort to hide her eyes moving up and down Ned's odd face. "And you are?"

Annie Hanson. Tommy Chicago had given Ned and Tim that name. She was "in the know" on Bird statue plot.

"Oh I'm sorry! Nathanial Felix, but friends call me Ned. At least they would if I had any friends," he chuckled.

Annie smiled at the clichéd joke. "Pleased to meet you Ned." She was warming up to him, he could tell. "I don't think I've seen you in here before. This your first time here, in the Cabin?"

"It is. I don't normally come to places this fancy, but a little bird told me Miss Indiana might be hiring."

Annie hesitated before sipping her water again.

"I'm not certain if Kitty's hiring right now," Annie said smoothly. "But I'm sure you'll have time to ask her tonight. She always makes rounds to talk to her customers. Out of curiosity, what kind of job…?"

"Chef. You haven't lived until you've tasted by gumbo! I used to cook for my whole troop when I was serving for England." Ned allowed himself to reminisce. "My pal Jimmy—rest his soul—said when he tasted my Swedish meatballs, it took him back in time to when he was a kid, no War, no Nazis, no—"

Annie's glass almost slipped out of her hand, but she caught it.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Ned said quickly.

His "little bird" comment had been one-hundred percent deliberate, but Ned had no idea what he'd said this time.

Annie flashed a strained smile. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit tired. It's been a long week."

Ned nodded. "Well, maybe you should," he shrugged, "grab a short nap before your next song."

Annie's blue eyes went to a little staircase against the wall, just a few yards from their table. Without looking at Ned, she replied, "I think I'll be fine. I just need to rehydrate myself." She raised her glass for another sip.

Had he been too obvious? Ned wondered. Or was it just his abnormal spotted face and Mohawk that was distracting her? He glanced over at the bar. Tim was laughing with Miss Indiana. Now there was something you didn't see often: Tim Excelsior laughing.

"Oh!" Ned feigned surprise. "There's Miss Indiana now! I think I'll take your advice, ask her about the job. Thanks for your help, Miss Hanson, pleasure to meet you!" He went to dip his hat, then remembered he'd left it on his and Tim's table.

Annie smiled. "Pleasures' all mine. Good luck!"

As Ned moved across the room to the bar, he glanced over his shoulder once more. The singer's blue eyes were fixed on her drink.

Tim and Indiana were leaning on the bar's counter. Tim was finishing up a joke.

"…and then the German says, 'that's not the Fuhrer, that's my wife!'"

Kitty Indiana almost spit out her drink.

"I like you Mr. Excelsior!" Indiana patted him on the shoulder. "You're hired."

Ned felt his jaw dropped. Tim met his eyes, and behind the glasses, the other detective looked equally surprised.

"Just like that?" Tim asked Miss Indiana.

"Just like that." Indiana repeated. "I want my Roulette Wheel back up and running as soon as possible."

Tim took notice of Ned, and suddenly gestured to him with his glass. "Miss Indiana! Meet one of my oldest friends, Ned Felix!"

Ned extended his hand, meaning to take Indiana's and kiss it. But instead, she grabbed it like a man and shook it firmly.

"Mr. Felix! Are you job hunting too?"

It took him a second to respond. "Oh yes! Yes, I'm a chef, and you haven't lived until you've tasted my chips and fish…"

Behind the bar, in the mirrored wall behind the shelves of alcohol bottles, Ned could see Annie Hanson now standing by the edge of the stage. The clarinet player knelt to speak with her, holding his clarinet almost like a rifle. Annie was whispering something urgent into his ear.

"Sorry," Ned caught himself. "I was uh, distracted by how—"

"—much I look like Katharine Hepburn," Indiana nodded quickly, as if she heard this daily. "You can both get started right away if you'd like."

"Thank you," Tim said quickly. "But we promised both our wives we'd be home before midnight."

Kitty checked a stylish gold clock behind the bar. It was almost one in the morning. "It looks like you're already late. I'm sorry to've kept you."

"Not a problem!" Tim held up one hand.

They bid Indiana goodbye, and crossed back through the crowd, towards the door.

"Why are we really leaving?" Ned whispered. "You have no wife to get home to, and mine is safe and sound."

"Because," Tim whispered, back to his serious self. "I need to figure out how the game of Roulette works, before I start the job." He added, "I think I may also want to figure out which regular players are the most important to please. Miss Indiana's last Roulette Man suffered a tragic accident a week ago, when he tripped down a staircase—and onto some bullets."

"Oh my word…"

Once they were back onto the street, Tim made a suggestion. "If you get this job, perhaps Kaaren can accompany us to the club. She's got an agreeable personality, she'd probably make a good informant."

"No, no and no!" Ned shook his head fiercely. "Kaaren is far too beautiful to be left on her own in a place like that."

"Yet you'll leave her alone with that cab driver?" Tim asked dryly.

Ned laughed. "Tom's not Kaaren's type. She may be willing to put up with me, but she'd never stoop that low!"


White, lacy curtains billowed in the breeze. It was still dark out. The little clock on the bed stand said it was past one in the morning. Tom had already put his underpants and undershirt back on, and was pulling on his trousers. Kaaren sat on the bed, in her pale purple night slip and ruffled panties. Her blond curls were tousled over her head in tangles, her red ribbons almost completely undone.

"Well," Kaaren sighed softly. "I suppose I'd best make myself back up for Ned."

"Why don't you just go to sleep?" Tom threw his shirt back on and began to button it up. "I'll be downstairs reading the funnies in the paper, and tell Ned I was there and you were up here all night."

Kaaren shook her head. "I couldn't sleep a wink, Tom. I'll be up all night worrying about him anyway."

Tom scoffed. "You didn't seem too 'worried' about him a few minutes ago."

Kaaren looked away, towards the window. "There's someone else, isn't there Tom."

"Maybe." Tom searched the floor for his Porky Pig socks. "It'd only make us even, wouldn't it?"

He got down on all fours to look under the bed, and finally located one sock.

"Who's Billie?"

Tom paused, his arm under the bed.

"You've called me Billie a few times."

Tom shook his head, and finished digging out the sock. "Someone I don't deserve."

"But apparently you're good enough for me?"

Tom came back up and glared at her. "You came begging to me Kaaren. All that talk about how you couldn't stand being Ned's wife," he tugged on his sock. "How he treats you like a child, won't ever let you have fun." He glanced at the empty champagne glasses on the windowsill, and the ashtray of cigarette butts. "You specifically told me that all you wanted was to 'have fun.' You never made 'true love' a requirement."

"Yes but," she looked at the floor. "When you said, that other night, after you took me to see that cowboy picture…how I made you forget about all your troubles…and I just…felt the same way about you."

Great, she was crying now.

Not loudly, at least. Just a couple of tears.

"Ah," Tom moved onto the bed, with one sock on, and put his arm around her. "I'm sorry doll, I really am. I just think…" he gaped, searching for the words. "Maybe we've taken this little adventure as far as we—"

A flash of light out the window caught his attention. Ned's car was pulling up. Tom swore. Kaaren quickly stashed the ashtray, glasses, and empty champagne bottle in the trash can, and tied the trash bag shut.

"He'll smell it," Tom warned.

"Then I was doing it on my own. Because I was just curious." Kaaren hurried back under the covers, and shoed Tom away. "Go!"

Tom gave up looking for his other sock, and pulled his shoe onto his bare foot, before ducking into the water closet. I came upstairs to check on Kaaren…because…I thought she was in trouble, but she was just talking in her sleep. Then I went to use the toilet.

Tom came down the stairs a couple minutes later, to find Ned locking the door, and Tim looking out the living room window.

"We having company soon?" Tom leaped over the staircase railing, and grabbed his coat from the sofa, rummaging for the pistol in the pocket.

"Don't think so," Tim's eyes were still on the window, but he held out a waving hand to Tom. "Ned thought someone might've been following us, but I think we're safe for now."

"How's Kaaren?" Ned asked.

"Fast asleep. I just checked on her, before using the loo." Tom stretched. "Y'know Ned, sometimes I think you don't give her enough credit. She's survived a lot after all."

"She's survived more than any girl should have to." Ned said bitterly, checking the windows with Tim. "When I saved Kaaren from that ghetto, I promised her I'd never let anything happen to her again."

Tim, whose hands were parting the curtains of another window, turned to Ned. "I don't believe I'd heard this one."

"Kaaren's German." Ned said. "They were Christian and ethnically German, but her father was a priest who opposed Hitler. Her whole family was already gone by time I met her. Kaaren would've gone to a camp if my troop hadn't shown up just in the nick of time."

Tom had heard far more detailed accounts from Kaaren herself. He didn't like to be reminded of anything related to the War. In fact, he didn't like to be reminded of most things in his life prior to his coming to California.

"I'm thinking of taking her out to a movie this week," Ned mentioned offhandedly.

The mention of the movies immediately had Tom tensing visibly, as he and Karen had just been to the theater earlier that week. Tim noticed, his eyes flicking to Tom under his heavy lids, but he said nothing.

"That cowboy one looks interesting," Ned said, still talking to himself.

Quickly Tom suggested, "How about that 'Saint Claire' one? They're saying it's the next 'Casablanca.'" And that one, Tom had seen by himself, during a particularly lonely night after several drinks.

Ned gave it some thought. "That's the one where Katharine Hepburn runs a night club, but it's actually a base for the French Resistance, right? And Rita Hayworth is their singer, and Peter Lorre's their bicycle messenger?"

"And Humphrey Bogart is leading the American army," Tom added. "That's the one!"

Actually, that movie had been painful for Tom. Specifically, the romantic subplot between Madeline Le Beau and the young American soldier whose actor Tom had forgotten. During the scene where the two lovers reunited, with guns pointed at each other, Tom had suddenly found himself inescapably reminded of Billie. And then again, when Le Beau revealed her pregnancy by a Nazi soldier to her former lover. Maybe it had been the alcohol he'd had before, or the way Le Beau's character had shared Billie's feisty personality, or both. But in any case, Tom wanted to forget it all, and fast.

"Any luck with the Bird?" Tom asked casually, begging silently to change the subject.

"Maybe." Tim said. "We've both been hired on to work at Indiana's club. I'll be running the Roulette Wheel and Ned will be a chef. Actually Mr. Chicago, I was hoping perhaps you could teach me how to play."

Tom nodded. "I can explain a bit about the game right now, if you've got time, and if Ned doesn't mind."

"Not a bit." Ned moved to the kitchen. "I'll put on some coffee."

"Hey," Tom called, folding up his jacket. "Does Indiana know that you two know me?"

"No," Tim took off his hat and hung it on the coat rack. "And I think we'll want to keep it that way. She only hired you on recently, she doesn't entirely trust you yet."

Tom shrugged. "She trusted me enough to let me in on the Bird."

Tim's eyes flicked over to Tom, under low lids. "She didn't tell you where it was hidden. With you delivering the statue for her, she couldn't keep it hidden from you. It's possible she only said what she had to, to ensure you stay quiet for as long as she needs you."

Tom didn't like what Tim was implying.

"I'll keep that in mind." Tom said, flopping onto the couch and putting his sock-less foot on the table.


Sam Wildman stared down at the screen. "Did, did Tom and Kes…?"

Next to her, Naomi said flatly, "They went up to the bedroom and kissed for a few seconds. Then 'Tommy Chicago' turned down the lights. A minute and a half later the lights came back on, and they were partially undressed, looking perfectly clean and dry." The girl seemed a bit less disturbed than her mother. "From what you and the Doctor told me, it takes a little longer than that for most species."

"Hot 1940s sex," Marina Jor muttered from a nearby console. "Blink and you miss it. Tom did say this program would have an air of camp."

"Well in any case," Sam said, "They think they did it. And so will Neelix. And B'Elanna."

"And this is in addition to all parties competing for the silver sculpture," Vorik noted.

After a moment, Icheb added, "And none of them possesses their usual principals or rational."

"Naomi," Sam asked nervously, "Tom got you into this genre a little bit. Do these noir stories usually contain a lot of violence?"

Naomi's eyes wandered the tiny screen on the console. "…they can."