At some unspecified but highly advanced hour that I'll guess is well after the chimes of midnight, what's left of me is steered into the decon chamber and then poured gently and kindly back into my uniform. Presumably they brush my hair, but there's probably nothing much they can do about my glazed expression.

With a certain amount of assistance from my learned hostess and three assistants who materialised during the evening to conduct further lines of inquiry into the business end of Earth erotic literature, I find my way back to the reception hall, just in time to join the official farewell ceremony. Glad only that nobody looks likely to expect me to hold a champagne glass, because at this present moment it would undoubtedly slip straight from my nerveless grasp, I slide stealthily back into the Enterprise contingent and try to make it look not too obvious that I'm swaying where I stand.

The captain has clearly noted that I was a tad late returning from duty, but after the closing speeches he is elegantly buttonholed by Oreymakfa, who is once again a picture of total propriety, and complimented on my remarkable abilities to inform and educate.

I'm not sure I've ever heard it called that before, but I suppose she can hardly come out with what I was actually doing, though I suppose in some ways it was definitely educational. For one thing, I've been educated in the existence of muscles I never actually knew I possessed. I know they're there, because I suspect I've pulled several of them.

"Please excuse your officer for his late return," she continues, resting her hand on his sleeve and giving him the sort of look that would be enough to melt the hardest of hearts. "He was working very hard. He was a credit to Starfleet and to your ship."

For one moment I suspect some vestige of the truth drifts across Archer's brain. Then he looks at me, and he looks at her, and he decides that no, we couldn't possibly.

"I was sure he'd make every effort to give satisfaction," he replies, and how I keep my face straight I do not know. He bloody well got it right there. Couldn't have put it better myself, actually.

Trip, however, is less innocent. As we turn to take our leave and return to the shuttle, he and I are momentarily a few paces away from the others, who pause to take yet more polite farewells of our kind hosts.

If looks were hooks, he'd be dragging out the truth with a grappler.

"'He was workin' very hard'?" he says in an incredulously accusing undertone. "You don't mean to tell me you an' –?"

Finally, unobserved by authority, I can unleash the full smug, multi-megawatt smile of a happy and satisfied man in his direction. "You forgot the three library assistants."

His mouth falls open. He only manages to produce the 'F' sound of 'Four' (at least, I hope that's what he was trying to say). Still, it's by no means inappropriate, even if it wasn't.

"Yes. All four of them." I haven't got the strength left to stride, but I try to hurry up a bit. I want to get the maximum possible gloating in till the captain, T'Pol and Hoshi catch up with us and the appropriate propriety must be preserved.

"You're kiddin' me!" He matches my stride, peering into my face as though trying to catch the April Fool moment before it happens.

"You should take more of an active interest in literature," I needle him. "Or didn't you know that the Starfleet culture pack includes the Kamasutra?"

"The K–!" He stops in his tracks. He actually stops dead in his tracks. "You did not."

But for the fact that a) I know that Vulcans have exceptional hearing and someone would undoubtedly want to know why I'd punched the air in triumph, and b) I haven't got the strength left, I'd whoop and holler like a redneck at a rodeo. As it is, I give him an even bigger, smugger smile (if such a thing was actually possible) and suggest that while Superman may indeed be laced with metaphor and contain subtext layered on subtext, when it comes to lending colour to an orgy it's just not in the running.

The insult almost passes him by. He's too busy trying to process how spectacularly his mischief has backfired on him.

"You actually mean all four?" he demands, hurrying to catch up with me. "All at once?"

"Goodness gracious, Commander, I don't know how many you've got down your trousers but I've only got one." I cast him an elevated look that would probably work better if I wasn't still looking unbearably smug. "But as for the gory details, an English gentleman never discusses the ladies in his life."

"How 'bout a sneaky English son-of-a-bitch? An' as for what you've got down your pants, if you're not windin' me up, I'm surprised you've still got anything left."

"Oh, it's still attached, I assure you. Weary but triumphant."

Deary me. I hope T'Pol's exceptional Vulcan hearing didn't pick that language up. Definitely unbecoming an officer.

Envy is a terrible thing. And not at all what one expects to find in a senior officer.

But when one does find it, one is going to make the absolute most of it.

For as long as humanly possible.