SHIP OF FOOLS

Chapter 06

Lieutenant Worf, striding down the corridor of Deck 11 on his way to the gymnasium and the first lesson in unarmed hand-to-hand combat, was aware of a feeling of anticipation. Not self-satisfaction – he very rarely allowed that – but the almost grudging realization that his idea had been a good one, killing several birds with one stone. Passing on to the new crew the kind of knowledge he thought basic, quietly training some inconspicuous backup security to call on in emergencies without appearing to, giving himself a little extra practice – he had a vague feeling that it might come in useful these days, and that in itself should have been sufficient reason to take precautions. And he could do with a workout right now; La Forge's point-blank refusal to take an obvious problem seriously had strained his tolerance much farther than he would have let anybody realize. In fact he had been seething when he left Engineering, but he had a distinct feeling that he would do better to let the matter rest for the moment. There was something wrong there, and it was not a technical problem. He would look into this himself the moment he had the time.

No workout clothing, he had told his participants at the preliminary briefing. They were to appear in their uniforms, or normal everyday garb (he had been surprised and secretly pleased to see six civilians in the briefing room). Yes, he had confirmed, they would be ending up hot and sweaty. But this was not a mok'bara class. In a real-life combat situation they would have to make do, to improvise – and they probably wouldn't happen to be wearing soft rubber-soled workout shoes that made slipping all but impossible. He had divided them into groups, set up a schedule, and sent them home. He would be starting with the group he really had had his eye on all along – crew members with the standard basic training who wished to improve on it. He had asked a few members of his well-trained security team to show up as well, to act as assistant teachers. It ought to be a good mix.

The corridor outside the gymnasium was empty, but as he approached the door he became aware of a muted disturbance somewhere ahead, implying an uncommon level of noise. Had that been a shout? Yes, he decided. Some kind of quarrel was going on in the gymnasium. He covered the final meters at a jog. The door, like the holodeck entrances, didn't open automatically; he hit a key on the control panel, and the door slid open.

The noise was considerable, and he had a brief blurred vision of a seething mass of bodies – of something that looked like a mass brawl. But before even his instincts could kick in something – somebody – cannoned into him, catching him in midriff and slamming him back against the bulkhead opposite the door, actually knocking the breath out of him for a second or two. Lieutenant Worf gasped, found his bearings, and leapt to his feet, fingers already closing about the phaser concealed under his metal sash – and a split second later he realized what it was that had knocked him off his feet. A step or so away a gray-haired woman in a science uniform was scrambling up with a stunned expression, clearly unaware of who she had collided with, or in fact where she was at the moment. Behind her, the gymnasium door was closing even as Worf looked at it, shutting out most of the noise.

It opened again a second later as Worf pushed the key a second time, and he took two long strides into the gymnasium, taking the scene in while hitting his communicator. "Security to the gymnasium now!" he barked. It was a full-grown brawl, involving the best part of his volunteers, and his security crew were in the thick of it. A few people were ducking behind benches or cowering against the walls. Worf spotted Singh just getting to his feet only a few meters away, a thread of blood trickling down his bearded chin, and he collected his breath and thundered: "Attention, Lieutenant!"

For a moment he thought he had got through to him. Singh froze, then turned to look at him, slow recognition dawning in his eyes. But the expression his startled superior saw forming there was one of sheer blood lust, and then Singh began quietly to advance upon him, head down, fists clenched at his sides, his dark face even darker than usual and distorted with rage, mouthing something that was lost between the din in the room and the man's own slavering fury. Worf looked round to make sure he was the intended target, then at the last possible moment, point-blank range almost, he raised the phaser he was still holding and fired. He fired again after that, neatly picking a bulky man in an engineering uniform out of the fray, and then leaped in himself and tore two people apart who were literally going for each other's throats, jerking one back by the shoulder and slamming the hand holding the phaser into the other's chin – and then the door opened again, and half a dozen security crew raced in and threw themselves into the melée.

Between them, they had sorted it out within a minute or so. Breathing a little more quickly than before, Worf straightened his uniform and surveyed the results. Walser walked up to report.

"The situation is under control, sir. Quite a few minor injuries and some pieces of broken equipment."

"What was going on here, sir?" Macaulay asked breathlessly. Her thick auburn hair was hanging in coils and tangles around her shoulders; she was trying to fix it even as she spoke.

"I do not know", Worf replied grimly, tapping his comm badge. "Worf to sickbay."

"Ogawa here", a somewhat startled voice replied after a moment. "What is it?"

"We have a number of minor injuries in the gymnasium. Phaser stun, bruises – "

"Some broken ribs and noses", supplied Macaulay.

"You heard. We need a medical team. Worf out." He tapped the communicator again, then looked round and discovered the burly engineer who was now sitting slumped over on one of the benches nearby, apparently just recovering from a level-one phaser hit. He walked over to him. "You. Tell me. What happened?"

The man looked up at the towering height of the Enterprise's security chief, bleary-eyed. "Oh my God", he croaked. Then, noticing Worf crossing his arms with more than a touch of impatience, he pulled himself together. "I... I don't really know, sir. We were here waiting for you. Someone said something – you'd be recruiting more security from among those still standing at the end of this class. Just a joke, of course, your reputation being what it is, sir. I'm quite sure no offence was meant. But two of your people got it wrong. Seems they took it personally. And after that..." A helpless shrug. "At the time I just felt I wasn't going to stand by and watch anybody being bullied. I really don't know what got into me, but I wanted to go for them. I wanted a row. I'm sure it all sounds dreadfully childish now – it does to me, anyway. I suppose we were excited about those combat techniques, and a bit keyed up perhaps, and a few of us somehow overreacted, and – bang..." He illustrated the last word with an eloquent gesture. "I'm really sorry, sir", he finished.

Worf nodded once, then turned on his heel. "Singh!"

At the sound Lieutenant Singh pushed himself up from the floor where he had been sitting with his head in his hands. "Sir."

"Report!" snapped Worf.

"I..." Singh collected himself sufficiently to stand to attention. "I must assume responsibility for this, sir. There is nothing I could say that would excuse my behavior."

"I did not ask you to excuse yourself. I asked for a report."

"Yes, sir. It was as Mr. Oakley here just said. Somebody made a joke. I took it to be a joke at the expense of ship's security, and at yours, sir. I never thought twice. I..."

"What the hell has been going on in here?" a familiar voice asked sharply. Worf turned to find himself face to face with Beverly Crusher. The doctor was looking past him, scanning the scene with an incredulous expression that slowly turned to outrage. A bevy of medical personnel with emergency kits had entered in her wake and were already getting to work.

"Worf", Crusher said slowly after a moment or two, "just tell me this isn't the outcome of your combat training, will you?"

"It is not. It is the outcome of a private disagreement." Worf was about to turn back to Singh, but the doctor was too incensed to let him go without a parting shot.

"Well, I just wish they'd kept it private, then!" snapped Beverly Crusher, whipping out her tricorder and stalking away with a toss of red hair.

"Continue, Lieutenant."

"Mr. Oakley intervened, sir. Meddled, it looked to me then. Kalish shoved him out of the way, and Mr. Oakley hit him. So I went for Mr. Oakley. That's how it started, sir. I don't know what got into us. I've never experienced that kind of thing before. It just sort of... exploded." Singh held out his hands in front of him and studied them as if the answer could be found there, shaking his head. Worf frowned; then he asked abruptly: "Why did you attack me?"

"I don't know. I could see you wanted to stop it. I... I didn't want it to be stopped, sir. I wanted to have it out with them. I wanted to have it out with – someone", he finished on a note both of desperation and determined honesty.

"To have out what?"

"I can't tell. It's gone, sir. I just don't know."

It wasn't the sort of answer Worf usually accepted. But then Singh knew that quite well. He wouldn't have offered such an answer if he had had any other to offer. It had a sound of truth to it – of some sort of truth. Scowling fiercely now, Worf said one word.

"Dismissed."

He drew a deep breath once he was outside in the corridor. This should not have happened. Tensions were evidently running higher than he had realized. Our new assignment? he wondered briefly. But there had been something else. Something he had seen in Singh's face had reminded him disturbingly of another expression he had seen these days. He frowned, trying to remember. When and where? He hadn't given it much attention at the time, and he had been kept busy lately. It would come back. For the moment, he would have to inform Counselor Troi of the incident, and of course the captain. Most definitely the captain, he decided, and at once.

"Computer, locate Captain Picard."

"The captain is in the phaser range."

Worf's frown deepened for a moment, his attention once again called to the faulty sensors; then it vanished. Good. Alpha shift would be ending in a couple of minutes, but now he would neither have to catch the captain on his way to somewhere or other and make his report in the presence of others, nor show up in the ready room at a time when Picard could not, strictly speaking, be expected to be there, nor disturb him in his quarters. He replaced the phaser in its hidden holster, pivoted on his heel, and headed for the nearest turbolift.

- - - - - -

As he had expected, the captain was alone, picking off colored lights with grace and precision. He never turned when the door swished open and then shut behind the new arrival. Worf supplied himself with a phaser from the box by the door but stood watching for a few more seconds before he approached, just long enough to be reasonably sure of the level Picard had set. Ten or eleven, by all appearances, which meant that he could match him with confidence when challenged.

The challenge came promptly, of course. "Are you joining me, Mr. Worf?"

"Yes, sir." Worf mounted the platform and busied himself shooting hurtling sparks of light for a couple of minutes. He knew himself to be one of the best shots on the Enterprise, which was as it should be. To the best of his knowledge there were only two people on the ship who surpassed him – Data, of course, and unfortunately Guinan too. Data's marksmanship he could accept with equanimity; accepting Guinan's had taken some effort. Worf had never been shooting with the captain, he only knew that Picard had a fair reputation – but as a matter of fact he would have felt quite at home with level twelve himself.

Another minute passed, then Picard said over his shoulder, matter-of-factly: "Something tells me you didn't come here for the practice, Lieutenant."

"No, sir. There has been an incident. I felt you should be informed."

"What sort of incident?" the captain inquired.

"A brawl among the participants of the combat training I proposed, sir."

"What about?"

"I was unable to discover the reason. It appears to have been mere... tension." Picard didn't need to see Worf's face to know what his Chief of Security thought of this explanation.

"Anything serious, Mr. Worf?"

A rhetorical question, Picard thought the moment it was out. If it wasn't, Worf wouldn't have sought him out in this of all places. Worf valued his own privacy, and respected the fact that others valued theirs – his captain first and foremost. He could hear the hiss of the phaser behind his back, once, twice – three times; then the Klingon was ready with an answer.

"I do not believe tension to be a sufficient explanation. The violence was considerable. Security crew were involved. I was unable to stop it on my own. Lieutenant Singh attacked me."

"What?" The captain missed, swore softly, missed again and lowered his phaser in exasperation. "You were saying, Mr. Worf?"

Worf made sure he picked off another light before repeating his last statement.

You didn't like telling me that, Lieutenant, thought Picard. Aloud he said: "Do you know of any possible reason?"

"No, Captain. What they described to me was as akin to battle fury as anything I have ever heard from humans."

"Battle fury?" The captain was actually turning now, forcing Worf to lower his phaser as well and face him. "You mean they went for one another for the hell of it?"

"I believe so, sir."

There was a brief pause. Worf could see the sparks hurtling on their way, unimpeded. He could also see the captain frowning. Finally Picard said, a little hesitantly: "Lieutenant, did you by any chance notice any of them wearing this wire device Geordi has taken to wearing?"

Worf was surprised, and his voice was showing it. "No, sir. I did not. They might have – I did not look out for it. But it is not something I would recommend wearing during combat training."

"No, of course not." For a moment Picard seemed on the verge of saying something more on the subject, then he apparently thought better of it.

"Computer, end program", he said instead. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Just what we need on the eve of a delicate assignment. I'll have to talk to Counselor Troi. And, Mr. Worf – "

"Yes, sir."

"If this is the prevailing mood on this ship, then I think keeping people occupied is an excellent idea. Even if it did backfire in this case."

"I understand."

Under normal circumstances that remark would have been as satisfying as anything could be. But as Worf walked back to the door with the captain, watching Picard's frown out of the corner of his eye, satisfaction was not what he felt. Something wrong here. It was worrying the captain. It was disturbing Worf himself. Where had that feeling of uneasiness come from – that feeling that he should be getting into shape after those two weeks wasted on Mavvion? And why did he now feel like nothing so much as running another check on the weapons systems here and now?

Nonsense. Not here and now. If he was to turn up in Engineering again after that scene with Geordi it would only give people the idea that he was being nervous about something. He left the turbolift on Deck ten instead and strode towards Ten Forward. Riker would be there, and the first officer had to be informed of this. And Worf might as well have dinner with him.

- - - - - -

"Well, I suppose it's only fair that you should be having problems with discipline at last like everybody else", Riker commented somewhat bitterly. "I've had to chase them all through that damn diagnostic, I've been lecturing Benedetto, and now I've had a row with Kwame in Hydroponics over something he called a report. Tempers are running a little short on this ship. Here's to one quiet evening." The first officer downed the best part of his synthale and turned his attention to his roast. "They must have done something to the replicators", he decided. "This has rather more bite to it than last time. Black pepper, I think."

"Not bad", commented Worf.

"I'll tell Guinan you said so next time I see her. – I bet she was thinking of you when she did it", he added with a glance at Worf's plate. "Tell you what, that meat is going to get up and walk away any moment."

Worf stabbed a fork into his roast as if to prevent that danger from occurring. Riker grinned. He liked his meat a little underdone himself, but there had been a time when he would have called what Worf was eating a bloody mess. "Where's Alexander, by the way?" he asked abruptly. "You seem to be having a lot of time to yourself."

"He is staying with the family of Dimitri Chelnikov."

"Oh", said Riker. "He's friends with little Pjotr?"

"Yes. And he can speak Russian with the Chelnikovs."

"What about some bat'telh practice tomorrow then?"

Worf nodded readily. "As soon as I have finished with my volunteer class."

"Oh", said Riker again, amused. "So you haven't given up yet?"

"It is a different group. Tomorrow I will be teaching the beginners", Worf pointed out.

"You know, Worf, I don't believe your motives for this would bear investigation. – Yes, thanks, Ben, I would like another lager. Hey, tell me one thing, how long have you been wearing that device? You didn't have it last time I saw you."

The waiter grinned. "Been given it – oh, yesterday, I think. By a young lady I see. It's fabulous. Ever thought of getting one yourself, Commander?"

"No rest for the wicked", retorted Riker. "I'm paid by Starfleet, remember – on duty twenty-six hours a day."

"Just shows how right I was to remain a civilian. Another pint of synthale coming up straight away, Commander." Ben snatched the empty glass away from under Riker's nose and vanished. "That guy was right to remain a civilian", stated the first officer emphatically.

"He bothers me", commented Worf.

"Talks an awful lot, but he's all right. Quite a poker player, did you know? I'd like to know what Guinan would have to say about that little gadget, by the way. The captain doesn't like it much."

"No. He is right. It is a stupid toy."

"It can't do any harm. He keeps worrying about it, and it's really not worth the bother. In fact I told him as much."

"He will have his reasons", stated Worf, frowning a little in spite of himself as he recalled that question in the phaser range.

"Frankly", Riker said before Worf could pursue the thought, shoveling up a forkful of peas, "I think he may be looking for reasons in the wrong place. Everybody on this ship is cracking up. We were going to recommend shore leave after finishing with the Hellicon Cluster, Deanna and I. And now Starfleet serves us that kind of trick. It's enough to make anybody lose patience. I have a theory why the captain has taken such a dislike to that device."

Worf looked up questioningly, knife suspended in mid-air.

"It does look a bit like a Borg sensorscope, doesn't it?" Riker said bluntly.

He could see Worf's brown knuckles turning white for a moment as the Klingon's fingers tightened about the knife, and a thought flashed through his mind: Hell, you too, Worf – and after three years. The thought was gone before he could quite grasp it, and now Worf said, his voice a rasping growl: "He would never let that interfere with his judgment."

"I wasn't suggesting that he does. In fact he told me in so many words that he couldn't think of a good reason to ban it. I just wish he'd get that thing out of his mind – he's got enough to worry about, and he's taking it much too seriously. I'm afraid the real problem is that we've driven everybody pretty hard lately, and at some stage there's bound to be some serious trouble."

"We seem to be having some serious trouble", muttered Worf, stabbing at the remainder of his meat.

"Well, you might have a point there", Riker agreed with a singularly wry grin. "I would have liked to see Singh going for you. Do you know what it reminds me of? That time we had Ambassador Sarek on board. Only this time it's Starfleet providing us with the trouble. And in a way, the captain's having decided where to look for the source of the problem isn't making things easier for me."

"You believe he is prejudiced", Worf said.

"I believe he's as tired and as unnerved as any of us, that's all. And I do think Starfleet might have picked somebody else to saddle with this Cardassian mess right now. There's a limit to how much you can deal with, and I'm getting a little tired of having to sort out things Starfleet Intelligence has messed up. Ah, thanks, Ben.You didn't by any chance think of bringing some more prune juice as well, did you?"

"Too busy eavesdropping, Commander. It's Starfleet Intelligence business again, is it? I thought as much."

The two officers looked up simultaneously, both of them scowling, and Ben's easy grin faded rapidly. After a long moment, Riker said quite softly: "Look here, Ben. I don't know what you mean by again, and I don't know what you think you're putting together here, but I do think you've gone as far as you should right now."

"No offence meant, sir. I won't repeat it."

"No", said Riker firmly. "I'm sure you won't." He watched Ben's retreating back, making quite sure that Ben could feel his look following him across Ten-Forward.

"You're right, Worf", he said. "He's beginning to bother me as well."

- - - - - -

"So you see, that cloud is about the most exciting place in the galaxy short of Rura Penthe", Crewman Andrew Ferguson concluded a few tables away, and the four people sharing his table nodded. "It makes you wonder what the captain thinks he's doing, doesn't it – waiting around in a damned nebula for the Cardies to turn up and use us for target practice."

"Who told you all this?" asked Nurse Cavour. "I had no idea it'll be the Cardies again!"

Ferguson flashed her a wide smile. "A little bird told me. Well, in fact it was Barclay. You know him, don't you, Céline – that tall lanky guy from Engineering."

"If Barclay says so", snorted Dualle. "Wasn't it Barclay who told that wild story about blowing up a Cardassian superweapon when all we really did was plant some mines?"

"We did. I heard the captain really was reassigned to blow up a Cardassian superweapon", Storgat put in, reaching for his drink. "Not that I believe it."

Ferguson and Dualle exchanged a pained look. Ever since Ensign Storgat had joined the Astrophysics department there had been an ongoing discussion about the Bolian temperament. One school of thought held that Bolians tended to be phlegmatic by human standards and that Storgat was a typical representative. Another claimed that on the contrary most Bolians were volatile by nature and that Mr. Mot was better suited to represent his homeworld in that respect – a view enthusiastically supported by the barber himself. In that case Storgat's wholly undisputed talent for deflating a good story would have been uniquely his.

"Well", Katchourian said somewhat hastily, "I have heard he was sent on some mission by Starfleet Intelligence and something went wrong."

"Sounds as if that might be bits of the same story. Not that there's anything wrong in blowing up a Cardassian weapon", remarked Dualle, to grins and chuckles all round. "They're bad news. Those three we had on board – remember the stories O'Brien used to tell? By the way, Daniel, what did go wrong?"

"Don't know. It was just gossip anyway. But Worf and Dr. Crusher were gone at the same time, weren't they? And turned up again rather earlier?"

Nurse Cavour nodded. "Dr. Crusher had had a sprained wrist, too."

"How do you know?"

"It had been set by Lieutenant Worf, and had to be re-set."

"Uh-oh. Yes. He set my ankle for me once on an away mission", Dualle said, grimacing at the memory. "He made a good job of it, too. Still, a Klingon sickbay must be one place I'd avoid like hell."

"Don't think they have sickbays. It's probably dishonorable or something." Ferguson threw a cautious look back over his shoulder and found that Worf was, indeed, looking at him – or rather, in their direction. It was highly unlikely that even a Klingon could understand any of it over the distance, and the subdued babble and hum of conversation all around them, but the look was disconcerting nevertheless. Dualle, who had seen it too, lowered his voice involuntarily.

"Come on now, Daniel. We'd like the rest of the story. You know perfectly well who came back when, so stop pretending. You're working in the shuttlebays, for Heaven's sake."

"But I don't know the rest of the story", Katchourian said patiently. "The commander took a shuttle out and came back with Worf and Dr. Crusher. That's all. Later Riker and La Forge went out with a shuttle full of mines, to frighten that Cardassian fleet out of that nebula. I have no idea when the captain returned – actually I don't even know when he left. Those were bits they kept very secret. They did clear Shuttlebay III of all personnel once, and there was talk about a Cardassian shuttle arriving and leaving again. Perhaps that was when the captain came back. I wasn't anywhere near, though."

"Some Cardassian mess. Like that time we went after Maxwell. I thought it a shame to stop him. And now we're obliging them again, is that it?"

"Says Barclay, says Ferguson", Storgat interposed dryly.

"Well, if it's true it's a damn shame. Makes you wonder if Starfleet ever learn anything. Or the captain, for that matter. For all I know we were cutting it rather close last time. I would like to know what we are in for now."

"So would I", Storgat said, phlegmatically.

"Would you?" Ferguson winked at Céline Cavour. "Perhaps you two just keep asking the wrong people. What would you say if I told you the place where we're supposed to be meeting with that Cardassian ship is going to knock our sensors out for good measure – ours, mind you, not theirs?"

"Impossible", said Katchourian. "I'm just as sick of pretending they can be trusted. But that would be idiocy. The captain's not an idiot."

"Perhaps he takes his orders from idiots." Ferguson shrugged. "Anyway, that's what I have heard."

"From a little bird in Engineering", sneered Dualle.

"From Szegi. The Zaldan, remember him? He's the one who had to check the external sensors during that diagnostic. And check them again, because Lieutenant Worf told him to. And there's another thing Barclay told me." Ferguson had everybody's attention now, and he was enjoying himself. "That Cardassian superweapon. It was supposed to be there, but it wasn't. The whole thing was a trap, and they walked right into it. Starfleet's orders, you understand. We're lucky we're still here. Only we're doing the same thing all over again right now, and this time Picard is taking the ship with him."

There was a short silence. "Whew", said Katchourian at last.

"That's a real beauty", commented Dualle.

"But if they know about the sensors – ", objected Cavour.

"Starfleet's orders, sweetheart. They tell us to go, we go. Right into a Cardassian trap if required." He smiled. "You wouldn't and I wouldn't, but some people do, you see."

"Wait a moment. All of that must have been classified, certainly?" Katchourian asked abruptly.

"Why, yes." Ferguson was still looking at Cavour, shrugging slightly. "Of course. Just knowing who to talk to, I suppose. Well", he admitted, "maybe there are more people on this ship who aren't happy about this, and would like to do things differently this time."

"I'm quite sure the captain will handle it", remarked Storgat. He finished his drink and directed a thoughtful look into his empty glass. "I like this Milikan Shooting Star", he decided with a firm nod.

"Oh, well, have it your own way then", Ferguson said after a tense moment, pushing back his chair. He had noticed all of a sudden that for all his efforts, when Céline Cavour smiled she was usually smiling at Storgat, and his mood had changed abruptly. He was about to get up when he became aware of the dead silence that had fallen. The others were looking past him, their expressions suddenly frozen. He turned to look at whatever it was that had caught their attention, and realized with a chilly start that the first officer had quietly approached the table, and was standing only a step or two away, arms crossed, head tilted slightly sideways. Neither Ferguson nor anybody else had an idea of how long he had been there, but Riker's expression indicated clearly that it had been long enough. When everybody had finally turned the first officer took another easy step towards them, giving Ferguson a wide smile.

"Storytelling time?"

Ferguson knew that expression. So did the others. All teeth, and eyes as cold as agate above them. Riker could be terrifying where his ship was concerned. Dualle gallantly tried to save a situation they all knew to be past saving.

"Just chatting, sir. The things you hear around here. Weird stuff, really."

Riker nodded, his smile widening further. "Really. Mr. Dualle, is it? And Mr. Ferguson?" The smile vanished. "What sort of stories do you think you're spreading around here, Mister?"

"Just... things I've heard, sir. I didn't think about it", replied Ferguson through clenched teeth. He was in for it, and he knew it – and resented it, not so much for the fact itself as because Barclay who had told him all that classified stuff in the first place would be getting off lightly. He was a lieutenant. La Forge would protect him. Ranking officers didn't get into trouble – they had others to do that sort of thing for them.

"You should. In fact you know all about handling classified material that happens to come to your notice. That'll be a reprimand on your record, Mr. Ferguson, and if I catch you again trading that sort of thing you'll be in serious trouble. This applies to everybody on this ship, of course." Riker studied the faces one by one, as if to make sure he had been making himself clear. "That'll be all", he added after a moment, and turning abruptly on his heel he walked away.

"Damn you", muttered Ferguson under his breath.

"Barclay and Szegi", said Riker grimly to Worf, slumping back into the chair at his own table. "Seems I'll have a word with Geordi after all." He reached for his glass, downing the remainder of his drink in one gulp. "And with Deanna, come to think of it. There is something weird about those guys sitting there with that device in their faces."

"So you changed your mind, Commander?" inquired Worf.

"We-ell." Riker frowned. "Seems the captain has a point. I'll mention it to him. And I suppose it'll be best if I go and talk to Deanna straight away. I'd like an explanation."

- - - - - -