Lyneea nodded. “Thanks.”
It took a little while to find the projectile gun; it was mixed in with some of the garbage that had fallen out of the container. Riker had to clean it with a rag before he could shove it into his tunic for safekeeping.
When he was done, Lyneea gestured with the blaster. “Let’s get a move on,” she told the Pandrilite. “I think my companion is getting cold.”
It was untrue. Riker was all but oblivious to the weather. If anything, he was hot—seething, in fact—as he tried to reconcile the Pandrilite’s information with his faith in his friend.
Damn it, Teller. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
Chapter Five
THE FIRST TIME Wesley’s door beeped, he thought he’d imagined it. That’s how deep he was in his research.
The second time, however, he was listening for it, and therefore it was unmistakable. The boy sighed, the slightest bit annoyed at the interruption.
“Come in,” he said.
The doors parted to reveal Data. Suddenly Wesley forgot that he was annoyed.
Data was probably the only one on the ship—his mother included—who would listen to him expound indefinitely on whatever subject had most recently caught his fancy and never, but never, invent an excuse to leave before Wesley was finished. The boy still hadn’t figured out if the android was really interested or just too polite to leave him hanging, but it almost didn’t matter, as long as he listened.
Data greeted him. “I hope I am not disturbing you,” he said.
“Heck no.” Wesley motioned the android to a seat. “In fact, I’m glad to see you.”
“It is nice of you to say so,” said Data, folding himself into the chair. “Actually, I—”
“You see,” the boy plunged on, caught up in his excitement, “I’ve been curious about Commander Riker’s mission. But I haven’t been able to get the captain to drop a hint about it—Priority One and all that.” He frowned. “I think Mr. Worf knows something about it, too, but he’s just as closemouthed as the captain. So I decided to check out Impriman culture on the library computer and see what I could dig up.”
Data’s features seemed to recast themselves as Wesley spoke—a subtle change, but one the boy couldn’t help noticing. Was he boring Data now, too?
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said the android. “Please proceed.” “
You’re not just saying that so you won’t hurt my feelings? I mean, you really want to hear this?”
“Yes, Wesley. I really do.”
Thank God. “Okay—so where was I? Oh, yeah. Impriman culture. It’s pretty interesting—for instance, the institution of the madraga. In one respect, it’s like some sort of monarchy, with control passing from parent to child. But in all other respects, it’s more like one of Earth’s old business entities—the corporation. The madraga isn’t limited by geographical boundaries, as a nation-state would be. Instead, it’s defined by the extent of its involvements in various Impriman industries.”
“Interesting,” said the android.
“Anyway, these madraggi all get together once a year, during the time of the winter solstice, in the ancient mountain city of Besidia. They hold trade meetings during which the course of Impriman economics is charted for the foreseeable future.” He couldn’t suppress a smile. “And when do you suppose the winter solstice is?”
Data’s eyes moved abruptly, as they sometimes did when he was computing something. “Now,” he answered.
“Absolutely right.”
“So,” said the android, “you believe that Commander Riker is involved somehow with the trade meetings?”
“Right again. And—ready for this?—Commander Riker has been to Imprima before. As a trade liaison.” Wesley outlined the details of that mission, including its successful conclusion.
“I see. And have you a theory as to Commander Riker’s role in the current meetings?”
The boy leaned back and shook his head. “No. Unfortunately, that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Still, you seem to know a good deal more about Commander Riker’s mission than I do, and I am third in command of this vessel.”
Wesley looked at him in a new light. “Say, Data . . . if you asked the captain—”
The android thrust his chin out, as he always did when remonstrating with someone. “I am sorry, Wes. If the captain had wanted Commander Riker’s mission known, I am sure he would have made it so by now. Since he has not . . .”
The boy held his hands up and smiled. “Okay, okay. No harm in asking, is there?”
“No,” agreed Data. “There is never any harm in that. And speaking of questions, would you answer some for me?”
That was when Wesley realized the significance of Data’s change in expression a few minutes earlier. “Oh,” he said, pounding his fist on his desk. “That’s why you came here in the first place, isn’t it? To ask me some questions. And here I go spouting off like the egghead everybody thinks I am.” He shook his head as he regarded the android. What was’ I thinking? That Data came to visit just so I could have a sounding board? “I’m sorry, Data. I really am.” He leaned forward. “Now, what do you want to know? I’m all ears.”
Data cocked his head slightly. He had that quizzical look in his eyes.
“It’s an expression,” explained Wesley. “It means I’m listening.”
“Ah,” said the android. “In that case, have you ever played baseball?”
“Baseball?” echoed Wesley. He’d expected Data’s inquiry to be something in the area of human nature—the type of thing he usually discussed with Geordi. “Sure. I’ve played it, mostly when I was smaller. Why?”
The android told him about the goings-on in the holodeck. About the dilemma he’d faced between first base and second, how it had been resolved, and the manager’s reaction to the resolution.
Wesley found it pretty funny, but he didn’t let Data know that. “The problem,” he said, “is that you took the players’ encouragement too literally.”
“I see.” Data looked a little disappointed—in himself, no doubt. “And I thought I was making strides in that regard.”
“You are,” the boy assured him. “At least from what I can see. But in this case you should have taken as many bases as possible. In fact, you should have hit a home run in the first place. That would have taken the guesswork out of baserunning.”
The android nodded. “Actually I was thinking of hitting a home run. But when my teammates recommended I hit a single—”
Wesley shook his head.
“Too literal again?” Data asked.
“That’s right. A single would have brought the runner home from third base, and that would have been good. But it would have been better to bring two runs home.”
The android seemed to absorb the information. But he still looked puzzled. Wesley said so.
“What I do not understand,” said Data, “is Terwilliger’s reaction. Even if I did make a mistake, why should he have become so incensed over it? Is baseball not a game? Or am I missing something else?”
“To tell you the truth,” remarked the boy, “I’m a little puzzled myself. I guess everybody takes something a little too seriously. Lord knows, I fall into that category from time to time.” He shrugged. “It would probably help if we knew more about the environment Terwilliger was operating in—or the pressures he may have been under. I mean, this was his job, wasn’t it? From what I understand, baseball was an industry as well as a sport.”
Data looked at him as if he was expecting more.
“Unfortunately,” said Wesley, “I don’t have all the facts. I’m not exactly an expert on twenty-first-century social history.” An idea came to him. “But wouldn’t that sort of information be stored in the ship’s computer archives?”
The android’s eyes seemed to brighten a little. “I believe you are correct,” he said. He rose. “Thank you, Wes. You have been most helpful.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the boy. “It was my pleasure.”
Data started for the exit, then stopped, as if he’d forgotten something. He wheeled around to face Wesley. “Incidentally,” he said, “I really am interested in your research on Imprima. Please let me know how it goes.”
Wesley grinned. “You’ve got a deal,” he told him.
And with that, the android departed.
As the doors to his quarters came together again, the boy sat there for a second or two in appreciation of the marvel that was Data. He wants so badly to be more like us, Wesley mused. But it wouldn’t hurt us to be more like him.
Then he remembered Imprima and turned back to the array of information on his desktop monitor, downloaded from the library computer. “Let’s see,” he said out loud. “What’s so important about these trade meetings that Commander Riker had to be called back for them?”
The first official of Madraga Terrin stood before the picture window in his library. The grounds outside were a snow-covered expanse broken only by a few stately trees.
“I have given your proposal much thought,” said Larrak, his hands locked behind his back, his narrow features unreadable. “But it bears more thought still.”
“Then you’ve yet to make your decision,” said Riker.
“That is correct.”
“Is there some additional information we could provide?” asked Teller.
The isak sitting by the door growled softly. Riker tried his best to ignore it.
Larrak eyed Teller, giving away nothing. ‘“I do not believe so. But if anything occurs to you, you may send it on.”
“I appreciate that,” Teller said, without the slightest hint of irony in his voice. “And if anything occurs to you, First Official, please let us know.”
“I will. I assure you.”
It was the shortest interview they’d had yet. Riker felt Larrak’s vote slipping away. And Terrin was one of the most powerful madraggi on the planet—it was a vote they needed. He started to drag out his speech again—the by-now standard oration about the virtues of trading with the Federation—figuring that it couldn’t hurt.
But Teller had subtly placed his hand on Riker’s. He was standing up.
“Thank you,” he told Larrak, “for your time and your attention.”
The first official inclined his head ever so slightly. The movement emphasized the waspishness of his appearance.
Following Teller’s lead, Riker stood too. His friend knew these people better than he did; he’d figured that out days ago. With a smile, Riker turned and fell into line behind Teller.
The isak looked up at them hungrily. Saliva dripped from its massive jaws, leaving little pools on the floor.
To Riker’s surprise, Teller didn’t go through the open doorway. Instead, he knelt beside the isak.
The thing’s eyes went wild. It made an ugly sound deep in its throat, but it held its ground.
“Beautiful animal,” observed Teller, showing no sign of fear. “Did you train him yourself?”
“I did.” Larrak eyed Teller curiously. “I have seldom seen anyone get so close to him. Even trained isakki are unpredictable sometimes—or didn’t you know that?”
Teller rose. “I knew,” he said. “Good day, First Official.”
“Good day, Lieutenant Conlon.”
As they made their way down the hall to the front door, Teller elbowed Riker in the ribs. “Impressive, huh?”
“Crazy, if you ask me. You could’ve lost half your face. Or worse.”
A retainer was waiting in the foyer to show them out. He opened the door for them; they turned up the collars on their Impriman tunics, which weren’t nearly warm enough to stave off the frigid weather.
The gate was about twenty paces away. There was a retainer there, too.
“I took a chance,” Teller went on. “I showed Larrak I trusted his training of the isak—that I trusted him. And that should show him the extent of our commitment, how much we want this trade agreement, and that we’re operating on the level.”
Riker shook his head. “I would never have thought of all that. And even if I had, I don’t think I’d have had the nerve to pull it off.”
“Sure you would,” his friend assured him. “Thought of it and done it. Or maybe you’d have found something even better.”
“I doubt it.”
The retainer at the gate swung it aside at their approach. As they made their exit, Riker had a funny feeling. Turning, he saw Larrak out of the corner of his eye. The first official was standing at the front door, watching them go.
“Don’t look now, but our host is seeing us off.”
“Guess it worked, then. Though that’s no guarantee that he will vote us in. He’s still risking an awful lot if he breaks his ties with the Ferengi—and the promise of greater profits with the Federation could just be pie in the sky.”
“On the other hand, he seems to have no great love for Rhurig. And Kelnae would just hate it if Larrak sided with the Federation.”
“Good point,” said Teller.
An ascetic was sitting just outside the gate. A female, Riker thought, though the shapeless brown robes didn’t give him too many clues.
Before he knew it, Teller had dug into his tunic and produced a chit. He went over to the ascetic and held it out. A moment later a slender hand emerged and accepted the offering.
Riker looked back. Larrak was still watching them.
They began walking again, away from the estate of Madraga Terrin and back toward more familiar precincts.
“Another gesture?” asked Riker.
“Huh?”
“That bit of charity. To impress Larrak?”
His friend grinned as he began to understand. “Hell, no. A reflex.” He paused. “But if it impressed Larrak, so much the better.”
“Daydreaming again, Riker?”
“Thinking.”
“About what? Your friend?”
Riker looked at her as they approached the doors of the Golden Muzza. “As a matter of fact, yes. Is it that obvious?”
She shrugged, opening one of the doors. “After you,” she said.
He went inside, and she came after him.
All the way here, Riker had been at odds with himself, alternately hurrying and dragging his feet. He wanted to hear what Bosch had to say—but at the same time, he dreaded it.
Because if what the Pandrilite had told them was true, it opened up some pretty dismal possibilities. First, that Teller had been involved, in some way, with the theft of Fortune’s Light. Second, that Riker had perhaps not known his friend as well as he thought.
And Reggidor Bosch would tip the scales one way or the other. Either he would confirm the fact that Teller was a smuggler or he would reinforce Riker’s belief in the man.
The desk clerk was of mixed blood—part Impriman, part Tetracite, part something else as well. It was an uncomplimentary combination.
And they soon found out that, at least in this case, it was possible to judge a book by its cover.
“Maybe he lives here and maybe he doesn’t,” the clerk told them in a whiny, high-pitched voice. “Who wants to know?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Lyneea. She reached inside her tunic and plunked down a half-dozen variously colored chits on the counter—chits from various madraggi so, as in the tavern, no one would link them with Criathis in particular.
The clerk looked down at the chits, a little surprised. Apparently they didn’t get too many big tippers at the Golden Muzza. Gathering up the pieces of plastic, he put them away below the counter.
“He’s in three-oh-three. Two flights up. But . . .” He paused, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “What do you want with him?”
Lyneea produced two more chits.
The desk clerk grunted. “Have a nice day.”
The lift was in need of repair. It jerked as it came to a halt at the third floor, and the doors opened on completely different sequence
schedules.
Bosch’s suite was to the left and all the way down the hall, which gave them a chance to sample the threadbare imitation Andorian-weave carpet. At one time, Riker knew from his last stay on Imprima, the Golden Muzza had tried to affect an offworldly kind of splendor. It had long since faded.
He knocked on the door, an elaborately embellished version of the sort found on ancient Earth. It sounded hollow.
For a moment or two, nothing. Then, “Who is it?”
“Room service,” said Lyneea.
The door swung open a crack, and a slice of Impriman features appeared in the opening. “I didn’t order any—”
By the time the Impriman realized that it wasn’t room service, Riker had inserted his boot between the door and the jamb. Lyneea pushed it open the rest of the way.
The occupant retreated a couple of steps and stared at them, fear etched on his narrow face. Riker felt sorry for him. Obviously this kind of thing didn’t happen to him very often, despite his line of work.
Lyneea closed the door behind them gently, so as not to scare the fellow any more than he was already scared.
“What . . . what do you want?” asked Bosch.
“Not what you may think,” said Lyneea. “We’re not here to rob you.” She smiled—a rare expression for her, but one she was quite good at.
“We’re friends,” said Riker. “Friends of Teller Conlon.” He glanced sideways at his partner. Well, it was half true. “We haven’t seen him in a while, and we’re worried. He mentioned your name a couple of times; we thought you might be able to put our minds at ease.”
Bosch shook his head. “I don’t know who Teller Conlon is. I’ve never heard of him.”
Lyneea chuckled. “Of course not. You’re not his outside player, right?” Her tone was mild but assured. “You’ve never taken a commission from him—is that correct?”
Bosch looked from one to the other, then gave a nervous half smile. “All right,” he said. “I admit that I’ve done some business with him.”
Riker cursed silently. “When was the last time you saw him?”
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