The autopsy took less time than usual. That is, after the family had been calmed. They had been revolted at the idea of an autopsy. Only after Bashir had promised that he didn't need to cut the body in any way, only to scan and examine it, did they acquiesce. Still, they had insisted that one member of the family be present, so a cousin was chosen. He had fainted at the sight of the wound, and had to be revived. Throughout the rest of the autopsy, he had remained seated at the far side of the room. He still looked pale.

The cause of the Ferengi's death was quite evident, though Bashir scanned for other possible causes as well. He doubted that this really was the case of an irate customer. Quark's face had piqued his suspicions. It was not too unlikely that Quark was involved in something illegal, nor was it improbable that he'd have his waiters helping him in some way.

Anytime illegality and Quark were combined, one could not always rely on the obvious clues. So Bashir had run an extra scan, looking for drugs or other foreign substances that might have contributed to the waiter's demise. But the scan turned up negative. Lek had died just as it appeared he had.

Hoping for some clue to the identity of the hooded murderer, he scraped under the Ferengi's long fingernails and had his clothes examined for anything which might contain the murderer's DNA. Of course, with the hood, the murderer would not likely have lost hair that would have fallen on his victim, but Bashir didn't want to overlook anything.

There was little to record in the official log. The subject was Ferengi, twenty-three years old, and in good health up to the point of death. Cause of death was loss of blood. There was little to help the investigation either. There seemed to have been no struggle.

There was one clue, however, also evident from the wound. The knife had first penetrated the skin just under the jaw on the right side of the victim's neck. It had continued to slice across the neck, nearly to the back. This suggested that the perpetrator had been standing behind the victim, as Rom had said, and that he held the knife in his left hand. He was therefore most likely left-handed.

One could also determine that the murderer was taller than the victim, but this hardly constituted a clue. Ferengi were short people, compared to most of the other species that came to the station, including the Gidari and the Bajorans.

Bashir had noticed in the morning the long red letters painted across his door. It was quite noticeable against the dark gray of the corridor walls. It was possible that the Bajorans who had vandalized the station could have murdered an "alien." But there was little evidence either way. Bashir hoped Odo was having more luck with his investigation.

Odo's office was dark compared to the bright lights of the Infirmary, but the soft lighting and neutral colors of the security office had a calming effect, Bashir thought. Odo was sitting behind his desk, poring over a padd which, Julian assumed, held reports on the murder investigation. He looked up when Julian entered. "Doctor," he said in acknowledgment.

"I've got the autopsy report," Bashir said, handing Odo another padd. "I'm afraid there's little to help you. I do think we can assume the murderer is left-handed. The cut was made from behind, right to left. I hope you've had better luck." The last sentence was more than professional courtesy. He hoped the constable would fill him in on any clues.

"I'm still examining the statements," Odo answered, showing little interest in Bashir's curiosity. "There were many witnesses. Though, of course, no one saw very much," he added with cynicism.

There was an awkward silence. Actually Julian always felt a little awkward with Odo. He often found it hard to discern the shapeshifter's emotions. His face showed little change from moment to moment and always retained an undone aspect that obscured most expressions. But Odo appeared, if one could say that, annoyed. "Well," Julian said, "if I can be of any more help, please let me know."

"Thank you, Doctor," Odo replied, then he returned his gaze to the padd in front of him, setting Julian's aside for later viewing. The doors hissed open rather loudly, and Julian turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned back. "I just remembered," he said as Odo looked up again. "Quark seemed rather affected by the murder. I wonder if he isn't involved in some way."

"I always wonder if Quark isn't involved in some way with every crime that happens on this station."

Julian nodded, satisfied that the matter would be looked into. Where Quark was concerned, Odo was always thorough. He turned and stepped back out into the only slightly subdued atmosphere of the Promenade. People didn't lock themselves in their quarters for long. There had been murders on the station before, and it seemed, right or wrong, that the people were in many ways used to the situation. It was just another part of life as usual on this station.

"Some people view the Federation as godless and, therefore, a threat," Vedek Bareil said calmly. Behind him, Sisko could see earth-colored walls and shades of green from the window. The bright daylight sun was shining its rays into the room. "They see your exploration and research as a corruption of that which is holy or sacred."

"So sending a science vessel through the wormhole would defile the Celestial Temple," Sisko concluded. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one arm over his chest. The other arm brought his hand up to his chin.

"Some would see it that way. It is the home of the Prophets."

"But why then attack the station?" Sisko wondered aloud.

"Because you represent the Federation and promote trade through the Celestial Temple. And, you see," Bareil explained, "if the Federation is influencing Bajor, than the Federation is leading the people off toward godlessness."

"And do you think these people might try to harm anyone or destroy the station or the Ranger?"

"It's hard to tell. I'm considered conservative by such people. I doubt they would tell me much. But people who believe in something strong enough are often willing to die for it--or, unfortunately to kill for it."

Sisko frowned. That's not the answer he wanted to hear, but it was the answer he'd expected. "Thank you, Vedek." In his mind Sisko asked if they had already harmed someone. He thought of the Ferengi waiter lying under a bloody table cloth. And, he thought, if that were true, that the Bajorans were behind the murder, where was the Gidari, Harglin Nastrof? Was he a victim, too?

"If I can be of any further help," Bareil smiled, "please, don't hesitate to call." The screen went blank, and Sisko reached forward to turn it off.

Dr. Alexander Grant leaned back against the arm of the sofa and stretched out his legs until he was quite comfortable. "Dim," he said quietly, and the lights obediently dimmed. Better, he thought as he yawned. It was still early, late afternoon in fact, but he felt as if he'd been up all night and then some. He'd worked hard all day to remove the virus from the science computers. He had no duties left to attend to, no tests to run for the rest of the day. In fact, he had no obligations at all until dinner that evening. Even the lights were working properly, and his quarters were peaceful and quiet.

Too quiet. When it was quiet he would think, and he didn't want to think. He needed work or people, something to keep him occupied. Reclining comfortably, quietly now he thought of his grandchildren and how far away they were. He thought of George and Elaine, busy raising a family. And he thought of Elizabeth in Cambridge, following in her mother's footsteps. And then he thought of Julian.

He tried to push the thought away, but it refused to leave. So he let it come. He could only think of Julian as a little boy. He never grew up. Grant sometimes imagined the boy in his other memories, ones where George and Elizabeth were grown.

But other times he forced himself to think what the boy must be like now. Was he tall? Handsome? Was he married somewhere? Was he kind or easily angered? It was hard to think of him. In a blind obsession Grant had purchased an empty coffin and a headstone for the plot next to Helen. Part of Grant's mind believed that the boy was dead, just as he had told everyone else. The other part of him knew more of the truth.

He'd deserted the boy, left him fearful and alone in an impersonal hospital, shipped him off to school, and then refused any other word of him. Even George, who had been old enough to remember his brother, had feared to mention the boy's name in his father's presence. In time, it seemed, the boy had ceased to exist. Except that he still prowled around in memories.

Grant wondered where his son was now. Of course, there were ways to find out. Though he'd often been fearful of actually looking, there were records. In fact, he did know that the boy had been adopted. He remembered with remorse and shame how he'd authorized it. His obsession with Helen's death had subsided some even then, but he could not bring himself to admit what he had done. How could he tell George that his brother was still alive? Elizabeth didn't even remember having another brother. And what about the rest of the family? So he had authorized the adoption, officially signing his son away.

Then he had tried for years to justify it. No one knew that Julian Grant was still alive, and now he'd have a new name. He'd have a new family, and he'd have forgotten about the one he'd lost. It would all just fade away. But for Grant, it didn't fade away. Day after day, it demanded his attention. The shame, the regret ate away at him inside.

He gazed at his feet at the end of the couch and thought for a moment about the hypospray in the drawer by his bed. He was tempted to go and get it, to let the black sleep cover him, drowning out the thoughts and memories and sorrows. But guests were coming for dinner; there was no time for sleeping.

O'Brien crouched in the access crawlway and stared at the panel in front of him. This was it. Everything looked much as it should. A few wires were crossed, couplings misplaced. And there was one blue coupling that just didn't belong. It had been added in, attached to the power conduit by a small gray box. O'Brien scanned it carefully just to be sure. He'd had enough of terrorist bombings. But it only registered as a bunch of circuits. Nothing that would blow up in his face if he tried to remove it. So he did.

He touched the comm badge on his chest and waited for the familiar chirp. It came quickly. Hopefully, that meant that communications was back up to specs. "O'Brien to Sisko," he said.

"Sisko here."

"I think I've got something here. Someone tapped into our systems all right."

"Good work, Chief. Any damage?"

"Nothing I can't fix," O'Brien answered confidently.

"Fine. There's a meeting in my office in fifteen minutes. Why don't you join it?"

"Yes, sir. O'Brien out." The coupling had come out quite easily, and the rest of the damage was minimal. But it had obviously served its purpose well. It had kept twenty-seven technicians busy for the last thirteen hours. And that was just on the station. O'Brien suspected that he was looking at the work of the author of the Ranger's virus. "Why can't I have engineers like this working for me instead of against me?" he asked himself.

At 1600 hours Kira Nerys, Odo, and Dr. Bashir were waiting in the commander's office. Chief O'Brien entered immediately after. Commander Sisko had yet to arrive. No one said anything, and no one sat down. Even in more relaxed circumstances Kira said little to the doctor and preferred that he said little to her. She got along well with the Odo though. But there was a murder investigation on. No one was relaxed. It was time for business.

They were left standing there only a few minutes before Sisko entered. He said nothing by way of an explanation for his absence. "Glad you could join us, Chief. Things have gotten a little more serious. There's been a murder."

"Murder?" O'Brien was startled. "Do you think it was our virus people?"

Sisko didn't answer. He raised his eyebrows, leaned back and laced his fingers together. He looked to his other officers for the answer. "What have you got?" he asked. He turned to Bashir first. "I take it there isn't much to report on your end?"

"No, sir," Bashir replied. "As you said, we know the cause of death. I was able to determine from the direction of the wound that the murderer was taller than the victim and--"

"Who isn't?" Kira asked with a smirk, cutting him off.

"Other Ferengi," Sisko answered her without skipping a beat.

"And," Julian continued, ignoring the interruption, "he is most likely left-handed. As the major said, the first clue doesn't help much, but the second might."

Sisko nodded. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. "Constable?"

"No one seems to have seen the murder, except for Rom. Many people did see the murderer run out of the bar though. He was wearing a hooded gray cloak and black hard-soled boots."

"Can we assume that our man's a Gidari and not a Bajoran?"

"Some of the clues don't match up, but we know very little about the Gidari."

"The Gidari are very secretive," Bashir confirmed. He really doubted the Gidari would commit such a public murder. "And they're very concerned with their honor."

"But we can't rule them out." Kira argued. "A hooded cloak can be quite concealing, but five Gidari were seen entering the bar last night. Only four of them were seen to leave some two hours after Quark had closed the place. There's one missing. Is he missing because he's afraid of being found?"

"The Gidari think something's happened to him," Sisko said in response. "They're quite concerned. They suspect the Ferengi."

"Apparently they did have some business dealings last night," Odo said. "It didn't go well."

"Business," Sisko repeated with more than a hint of cynicism. They all knew Quark well enough to assume that any such "business" was not wholly of a legal or even ethical nature. "See if you can't find out what they were up to. And let's find Mr. Nastrof. What about the Bajorans, Constable?"

Odo's expression barely changed. "There are approximately fifty-six Bajorans who are former members of resistance groups currently on this station. All but four are known to be radically religious. And thirteen are known to be computer or engineering experts. That doesn't cover those who don't have criminal records or those that know how to paint in Bajoran."

"Basically, we've got a long way to go," Kira added.

"We might have just gotten a little closer," O'Brien broke in happily. He held up the coupling with the little gray box. "Our Bajorans used this to tap into our systems. With an external terminal attached to this, they could have given us that virus."

"We should scan it for DNA traces," Bashir suggested.

"Yes," Sisko agreed, "and contact the Ranger's Security. They're in this as much as we are. Let's stop this before it gets any farther."

Ensign Tsingras scowled unhappily as he walked down the gloomy corridor in the gloomy station. He was beginning to think seriously about resigning from Starfleet. Things hadn't turned out the way he had thought. He had wanted adventure, but also the easy life he was used to. That easy life might have been possible aboard a nice, new starship or science vessel, but not this decrepit, dismal excuse for a space station.

He'd taken a psychology course in the Academy, and he knew that the colors had something to do with it. Brighter pastels have a calming effect, while dark colors, like the Cardassians used when constructing this station, bring you down. But--and this was the clincher--though the station was occasionally attacked by outsiders or threatened by terrorists or murderers on the inside, Ensign Tsingras was not having any adventures. He wasn't in the least bit excited about his assignment. In fact, he hated it.

And today's stroll down the corridor in the habitat ring was a prime example of why. People had complained that there was a bad smell, and it was Tsingras's job to find the cause. No, he couldn't be helping with the murder investigation, or finding out who tampered with the computer systems the night before. That would be just too exciting. He had to clean out whatever stunk in the ventilation ducts on the habitat ring. That's not exactly what they told him he would be doing when he signed up for Starfleet. And it's not what Tsingras had worked so hard for.

Tsingras yanked the cover off the access crawlway, pushed his bag and tricorder inside, and then crawled in himself. If there's something really gross in here, he thought, I'm quitting tomorrow.

The DNA scan didn't help as much as Kira would have liked. Any terrorist attacks by Bajorans really troubled her. While she was fervently dedicated to stopping them, she was torn. She used to be one of them. She used to fight along side them for the same objectives. To free Bajor from the oppression of outsiders, for example. She understood their desire, their burning devotion to that cause.

But now she didn't agree with it. She had fought against the Cardassians, and the Cardassians were gone. Given, she didn't always agree with the provisional government on Bajor, and she didn't always trust the Federation's policies and decisions. But their intent was a good one. Both the Federation and, for the most part, the provisional government wanted Bajor to succeed and be a functioning member of the rest of the galaxy. Kira shared that desire, even if she didn't always agree with the way people tried to carry it out.

Bajoran terrorists jeopardized that goal. They shamed and hurt her people and damaged their prospects for the future. That, more than anything, drove Kira to stop them. She'd seen Bajorans injured by bombs set by other Bajorans. And she'd seen the loathing of other people when they came to the station. Terrorists, and even simple vandals, only reinforced the stereotype that others were developing about Bajor. And who would want relations with a planet full of terrorists?

There were DNA traces on the coupling, but not belonging to anyone known to be on the station. Whoever had used the coupling had been careful to not leave clues behind. When the data was run through the computer, the name Bahtran Efin came out. Bahtran was a businessman on the planet. He had a small shop in the capital. He sold computers and computer equipment. And he wasn't there when Kira called.

She was having even less luck finding the Gidari. He was last seen by his comrades in Quark's bar late at night. He was seen leaving alone by an anonymous witness. He had walked toward the docking ring. No one had seen him since. Except that everyone thought they saw him at the bar this afternoon slitting a waiter's throat. Frankly, Kira didn't trust the Gidari, but she was beginning to wonder if Bashir was right.

Would a Gidari really have risked being seen in public to kill a Ferengi? And would someone so concerned with honor run away like a criminal? But there were always people who didn't fit the mold. So she didn't delete his name from the list of suspects. Odo was working on Quark to see if he was involved. Hopefully he would uncover a motive for the killing.

"What's with all the Security at the airlock?" Maylon asked Pynar as he entered Sickbay. He leaned over her desk.

Pynar looked up at him in surprise. "You don't know?" she asked. "Where have you been?"

Maylon wrinkled his brow in confusion. "On the station. Why? What's going on?"

"Well, first there's the virus," Pynar responded, in a tone that said he should already know.

"Well, I know about that," he retorted. His eyes lowered then, and Pynar suspected that he regretted his cynical tone.

"They just want to be careful who they let on the ship," Pynar said calmly. "And then there's the murder."

Maylon pulled over another chair and sat down on it backwards, leaning his elbows on its back. "Murder?" he asked.

"Yes." Pynar sensed Maylon's interest and laid her padd on the desk. She turned her full attention toward her co-worker. "I'm surprised you don't know about it. News usually carries fast on stations like that."

"Well, I . . . ," Maylon stammered back, "I did notice more security personnel."

"Someone slit a Ferengi's throat just after lunchtime. Right in the bar."

"In front of all the customers?!" Maylon asked.

Maylon's face showed his disbelief and surprise, but Pynar thought she could see a glint in his eyes. Perhaps he was too interested. "Yes, there were customers in the bar. The murderer was wearing a hooded cloak though, so no one saw who it was."

"The Gidari wear hoods," Maylon offered. "Perhaps they didn't like the service."

"I really don't know any of the details, but the captain wants to keep unauthorized personnel from getting on board the ship."

"A lot of good it would do," Maylon said, standing up again. There was a hard edge to his voice. "Someone could just beam on, or what if they're still here? Besides if a Gidari is the murderer, he wouldn't come onto the ship."

"If it was a Gidari, he wouldn't have been in a public bar at lunchtime either," Pynar retorted. "I don't give the orders, and I'm not Security. There's no reason to argue with me about it. Now, you may have the rest of the afternoon off, but I've got work to do. I'll see you tomorrow morning." She didn't give him time to answer. She just picked up the padd she'd been working with and pretended to be working as Maylon left.

Pynar made a point of trying to get along well with Maylon. It wasn't always easy. She didn't really like his personality. He flirted with all of the female crewmembers and was sometimes quick-tempered. But as Chief Medical Officer, she knew she had to work with him, and she hoped he would be a better doctor in the end.

"You have no right to hold me here." Quark didn't even bother with trying to sound indignant. He knew he was right, and he knew Odo knew he was right. That was the beauty of the thing.

"You're not being held," Odo responded evenly. "You're being questioned." Odo's face showed no emotion, not even a clue. His eyes remained fixed on Quark's.

"Well, then don't I even get to sit down?"

"No."

Quark swallowed his anger. "Why question me?" he returned. "I wasn't even there when it happened. I was in the Infirmary."

"You were there just before the murder," Odo answered. "And it is your bar. Now, why do you feel that a Gidari committed the murder?"

"Because my brother said so." This time he forced the indignance into his tone. "And he was dressed like one. They are aggressive people."

"They are also very obsessive about privacy. Why would a Gidari be eating lunch in your bar?"

"I don't know!" Quark had a hard time keeping his voice low. "Maybe he was hungry and wanted to meet people."

"Maybe he was in your bar to talk business." Odo's voice was still calm and even.

"Why would they want to do business if they're so xenophobic?" Quark eyed the chair beside him longingly. He knew that forcing him to stand was Odo's way of trying to intimidate him. But he also knew that Odo could keep him standing here for quite a while.

"They're not xenophobic. They're ardent capitalists, much like the Ferengi." Odo's gaze seemed to reveal just a hint of an I-know-what-you're-up-to-so-you-might-as-well- confess look. "They were seen in your bar last night."

Quark thought about his response for just a moment, but there was no outward sign of a stall before he answered. "Oh that!" He chuckled lightly. "They were interested in buying a share of the bar. But, of course, I wasn't interested in their offer. You know how attached I am to the place."

"I know you'd sell your brother if you were offered enough gold-pressed latinum," Odo said sarcastically.

"Of course." Quark smiled inwardly. Odo was beginning to show signs of frustration. And frustrating Odo was almost as much fun as cheating people out of their money.

"The Gidari were angry after your negotiations. Were you angry as well?" But Odo didn't give him time to answer the question. "One of the Gidari is missing. Perhaps you know something about that."

"Maybe he's missing because he's a murderer, and he's afraid he'll get caught." Quark's tone was curt.

"He'd have better luck on his own ship. We can't even scan it for life-signs. Personally, I don't think our murderer was a Gidari. But I do think that you know something about it, anyway."

"Well, if it wasn't the Gidari, then who was it?" Quark's question was a genuine one. Lek was a young man, likable. No one would want to kill him. But the Gidari, they had reason. They had been angry when they left. But Odo was usually right about this sort of thing. Quark was relieved then. If it wasn't the Gidari, they wouldn't be after him next.

"Someone who wanted it to look like the Gidari did it," Odo answered.

"What?!" Quark was shocked. Odo had that look in his eyes again. "Me?!" Odo said nothing. "You don't seriously think that I would murder my own waiter! I wasn't even there!"

"Not you personally." There was still a hint of suggestion to his manner. He sat behind his large desk, leaning slightly forward, but comfortable. The fingers of his hands were laced in front of him on the desk. He did not appear frustrated anymore.

"What profit would there be in having my own waiter murdered in my bar in the afternoon?" Quark asked, deciding that he would reason with Odo. "I'll probably lose business now as it is."

"You overestimate your customers. They won't stop coming simply because of a murder."

"You said yourself that I'd sell my brother. Well that's true. I might sell my waiters, too, but I certainly wouldn't kill them." Then he saw a new direction to take this conversation in. "What if it was the Gidari? They might be after me next. Instead of questioning me, you should be trying to protect me."

"Why would the Gidari wish to kill you?" It turned out to be the wrong direction.

"We were discussing business," Quark admitted, but added, "as I told you. But we couldn't come to any agreement, and they left angry, as you pointed out."

"They didn't leave until several hours after closing time. Why were they there so late?"

"We were negotiating!" Quark said, as if implying that it was a stupid question. "Sometimes that takes a while."

"Most people then reschedule for another day. Why didn't you?"

"Because they wouldn't want to come back. There's too many people for them."

Odo seemed to have sensed that he was getting to Quark. His questions came faster now. "Why did they come in the first place?"

"To do business," Quark answered tersely. He was tiring of this whole conversation. And his legs were getting tired, too. Quark looked at the chair beside him and decided to sit down, whether or not Odo allowed him to.

Odo said nothing about the chair. "What kind of business?"

"I told you," Quark replied, "they were interested in buying the bar."

"But you wouldn't sell?"

"No."

"Then why would the negotiations take so long?" Quark opened his mouth to answer, but Odo spoke first. "The Gidari wouldn't want your bar. Too many people." His tone mocked the Ferengi. "Besides you told me before that they wanted to buy a share of the bar."

Quark tried to dismiss the discrepancy in his story. "Same thing," he said, waving his hand.

"Hardly." Odo wasn't accepting it. "Why would the Gidari come all this way for a small share in your bar? Why are they here?"

"Looking for business. They are ardent capitalists," Quark argued, mocking the shapeshifter.

"And what kind of business did they find at your bar last night?" Odo pressed.

"None," Quark answered. He would only admit what Odo already knew, nothing more. "That's why they were angry."

"That still wouldn't take hours of negotiations." Odo waited for a better answer.

Then Quark got an idea. If the Ferengi had a bad reputation, the Gidari did, too. "They had something they wanted to sell." He would tell the truth, at least part of it. So what if it didn't really relate to the Gidari.

Odo leaned back just a little. It was hardly noticeable, but Quark watched Odo a lot. He knew the subtle changes in the shapeshifter's appearance or position. Odo had bought it. "What did they want to sell?"

"They had managed to acquire some ancient Andorian pottery, very exquisite, perfectly preserved. It was worth a fortune."

Odo's hands relaxed slightly. "And they left angry, because you weren't buying?"

"Yes." Quark's manner was confident now.

"Why not?" Odo was still suspicious.

"Because it was stolen goods." There it was. It was beautiful in its simplicity. Quark, the upstanding citizen, the pillar of society. "I was interested, of course. I could have sold the pottery for three times the price. But I was worried that it wasn't honest. You can't trust people in hoods, you know. That's why it took so long. They don't just come out and say, 'We stole this, and we want you to buy it.'"

"Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"When I said I wasn't interested, they were afraid I'd come to you. They practically threatened me. And then when they killed--or when I thought they killed--Lek. . . ." He let the sentence trail off.

"They still might," Odo said, leaning all the way back in his chair. "I'll assign some Security to watch you."

The leaning thing confused Quark. It was too far. If Odo leaned back just a little, it showed that he had gotten what he wanted, or thought he did at any rate. But to lean all the way back in his chair. . . . "I don't think that will be necessary. You said it wasn't the Gidari." No matter what Odo thought, Quark did not want Security tailing him everywhere he went. He liked his privacy almost as much as the Gidari did.

"As you wish," Odo answered, much too nicely. "You may go." The doors behind Quark opened loudly, letting the sounds from the Promenade into the security office.

Quark looked at the open doors and then Odo again. "You're letting me go?" he asked suspiciously. It was too easy.

"I have no right to hold you," Odo answered with Quark's own words. "I'm finished questioning you." Quark rose from the chair and walked uncertainly toward the doors. "For now," Odo added.

Julian Bashir paced nervously around his quarters. Doubts again crept into his mind. Maybe he could still get out of it. But not showing up for dinner would only make Dax worry more. Besides she was coming round for him at a quarter past seven. He only had a few minutes. The thought then crossed his mind that perhaps he should tell her about Grant and himself when she came. But he quickly pushed the thought away.

He had kept the truth about his father secret for many years. He had even buried it inside himself. If he kept it a secret now, Grant would eventually leave with the Ranger, and the truth would be buried once again. But if he told Dax, the secret would be out even when Grant was gone. Besides, what would she think? Would she pity him? Or would her fascination with the famous Dr. Grant color her judgement of Dr. Bashir? He cared a lot about what she thought of him.

At that moment the door chimed. Julian stopped pacing, tried to look natural, and cheerfully said, "Come in." The door opened, and Dax stepped in. She was dressed as usual in her black uniform with blue shoulders. Her long, brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the base of her neck. She smiled that same serene smile. She was beautiful. She always was.

"Are you ready?" she asked. Her eyes seemed to search his for some further clue to his strange behavior earlier that day.

"Yes," he answered, walking towards her and the door beyond, "although. . . ." He paused, as Dax took his arm. Julian sighed. He could tell that she was trying to be nice so that he would talk.

"What?" she asked, concern showing in her voice.

"You don't think he invited Maylon, do you?" Julian thought he felt her shoulders drop. Apparently, she'd been hoping for more.

"You don't want to see your old roommate?" she asked, teasing. The door hissed shut behind them as they walked toward the turbolift. Some of the doors along the corridor still showed traces of the painting the night before. Bashir's own door still bore the shadow of red from the Bajoran vandal's paint.

"To tell the truth," he admitted, "no. He's. . . ." He had to think for a moment for the right adjective to describe Maylon.

"Arrogant and obnoxious?" Dax offered.

"It's more than that."

Just then the lights went out in the corridor, plunging them into complete darkness. They stopped walking, and Julian pulled her over to the right until he felt the wall beneath his outstretched hand. His sense of balance tended to suffer without the benefit of sight. And in this blackness, he was as good as blind. "What now?" he asked impatiently. He hoped it was just a simple bug in the system, not the Bajorans deciding to step up their operations.

Dax slid her hand down Bashir's arm until she found his hand. Apparently she had been thinking the same thing. "No matter what, let's stick together," she said. Then she used her free hand to reach for her comm badge. "Dax to Ops."

"Ops," Kira answered. "Aren't you at dinner?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Dax answered. "But actually, Julian and I were on our way when the lights went out. Saying that it's dark would be an understatement."

"Hold on," she said seriously, "I'll check it out." There was a moment of silence, and then she was back. "It seems to be a leftover from last night. We should have them on in a minute."

"Good," Bashir said, relieved.

"Just hold on to something in case the gravity goes. You still wearing those boots, Doctor?"

"Ha ha," Julian said sarcastically. "Will we have the pleasure of your presence at dinner, Major?"

"Oh, it's very nice of you to ask, but I'm much too busy," she replied in a playful tone. "I have a murder to solve, vandals to catch, missing people to find, angry ship captains to argue with. I'm just swamped."

The lights came back on with no noticeable change in the strength of the artificial gravity. "Just keep telling yourself it's an adventure," he said.

"Kira out."

Dax was chuckling quietly. "Shall we?" Bashir asked, offering his arm again.

"Let's shall," she replied and smiled when Julian looked at her in confusion. But she didn't bother correcting herself as they continued to the turbolift. As the doors closed behind them, she said, "Upper Pylon Two."

There was a slight shift in gravity as the turbolift began to move, and Bashir thought nostalgically for a moment about the smooth lifts on Starfleet vessels. "Now what was that you were saying about Doctor Maylon?" Dax asked.

"He's just strange, I suppose," Julian replied. "He's very reserved, really, though he doesn't act like it. But I lived with him for three years, and I don't think I know him at all."

The turbolift arrived at the pylon with no further problems, and the doors opened smoothly. Julian motioned that Dax should step out first, and he followed her into the corridor. Two security officers stood outside the airlock doors, one from the Ranger and one from the station. The ship's security man watched them suspiciously, but the station officer smiled in recognition of the two officers. "Good evening, Doctor," he said as Bashir and Dax approached.

"Good evening, Lukas," Bashir returned. "How's that knee?"

"Just like new," the security officer answered. "You do good work." He was a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties. Bashir had seen him after a wrestling match with a holosuite-generated Klingon, but without the usual benefit of safety features to insure against injury.

"Thank you. We've been invited to dinner by Doctor Grant."

"Names, please." This was the Ranger's man.

Dax answered. "Lieutenants Jadzia Dax and Julian Bashir." They waited while the officer checked his PADD for their names. Dax stood with her hands clasped behind her back and, as usual, a soft smile. Julian tried to calm the nerves that were building in his stomach. He really didn't want to be there.

"Sorry about all this," Lukas apologized, "but we have to careful. You understand."

"Of course," Julian answered. But he wouldn't have minded at all if there had been some mistake and his name was not on the PADD. He'd have to go back to the station for dinner. But the other security officer turned and released the airlock door, which rolled open with a hiss.

"Have a good time, sirs," he said as they passed.

Julian heard the turbolift doors behind them and turned to see who was arriving. Dax waited as well. Walking back to the security man with the PADD, Bashir stated, "Commander Benjamin Sisko." That sent the officer's fingers flying over the PADD's controls until the name was found. Sisko waited calmly at the open airlock door until the security man waved him through.

"Thank you for waiting," Sisko said, but he didn't smile. He seemed preoccupied. And of course, he had good reason.

"How is the investigation going, Benjamin?" Dax inquired as they all stepped through the door on the other side of the airlock. The brightly lit, soft colors of the ship's corridors were a pleasing change from the austere darkness of the station.

"Which investigation?" Sisko responded. He sounded tired. "The one about the murder, or the one about the Bajorans? Or maybe the search for Mr. Harglin Nastrof?"

"All of the above," Julian answered. "Perhaps they're all related."

"We've thought about that. But we don't have any evidence yet. Kira's got the provisional government checking up on Bahtran Efin, the Gidari captain is getting impatient about Nastrof's whereabouts, and we still know very little about the Ferengi's murderer."

"Was there any evidence left in the bar?" Bashir queried. "He was eating. Perhaps there was something on the plate?"

"No," Sisko replied, "and he never touched his glass either. He doesn't seem to have eaten anything before the attack."

Julian had a thought then, though he wasn't quite sure it was a good one, or even very helpful. "What did he order?"

Sisko looked at him quizzically but didn't answer.

Bashir continued. "It's a long shot, but it might give us a clue as to the species of the murderer. While some people do eat various ethnic foods, many still prefer to stick to home favorites."

"The Gidari would be more apt to eat their own I would imagine," Dax added. "And Bajoran radicals."

"It's worth a shot," Sisko decided. They had arrived at Grant's quarters, but Sisko waved a hand to say they should wait before sounding the chime. He tapped his comm badge. "Sisko to Odo."

"Odo here." He sounded perturbed by the interruption.

"What did the murderer order at Quark's? There might be a clue to his identity."

There was a pause as Odo checked records. "Kohlanese stew." Kohlanese stew was a common dish at Quark's and liked by many different species.

"Doesn't help much. Thank you. Sisko out." Sisko shook his head, and then reached his hand toward the console beside the door. Julian's stomach twisted tighter with every inch. And then the door was opening. Grant stood smiling there, and Bashir, for a moment, almost remembered his father from a time before the fire.

"Welcome," Grant said extending his hand to each in turn as they stepped through the door. The doctor in Julian couldn't help noticing the coolness of Grant's hands. "I'm very glad that you could come. Oh, but where is the lovely major?"

"She's much too busy with the investigations," Dax replied, "but she sends her regards."

"Ah well." He turned to Bashir. "I do hope that you are feeling better, Doctor."

Julian answered politely, "Thank you. I'm fine, and yourself?" He noticed Dax watching him again, studying his face. Her smile though seemed to be approving.

"Just fine. Commander," he said to Sisko, "how is your son? I hope he wasn't too angry with my keeping you so late last night."

"Jake's fine," Sisko affirmed. "And you should call me Benjamin, Alex." Sisko was smiling now and seemed more relaxed, but Bashir resented the friendship that was apparent between his former father, whom he hated, and his current commanding officer, whom he greatly admired. He looked away and casually scanned Grant's quarters out of curiosity.

They were in a fairly large combination living room and dining room, comfortably furnished with a soft gray couch and chair. A tall, slender antique lamp with a white shade stood beside the couch, and Julian thought it looked familiar. A long dining table had been set up to one side with eight chairs. The door chirped, and two more guests arrived. Julian didn't recognize the two women who entered, but recognized from their uniforms that they were Grant's co-workers.

"Ah, welcome!" Grant said cheerfully. "May I introduce some new friends?" His right hand was outstretched to indicate the station officers. "Ladies, this is Commander Benjamin Sisko." He waited as Sisko shook hands with each of them. The first was a Vulcan, the second, Andorian. "Lieutenant Jadzia Dax, Chief Science Officer, and Chief Medical Officer Julian Bashir."

Grant then introduced the women. "Doctor T'Para and Doctor Seleva are my co-workers."

Dr. Seleva, the Andorian, was quiet and did not speak. "It is nice to meet you," T'Para said flatly, displaying no sign of pleasure. Bashir suspected that it was merely a useful sentence for her.

The door chirped again. "That must be the captain," Grant said, bouncing toward the door. A tall man entered, smiling warmly. Four circular pips on his collar confirmed that it was the Ranger's captain. "Captain Gerin, may I introduce you to. . . ."

"Thank you, but I've already met the commander and Lieutenant. . . ." He didn't finish his sentence. He turned to Dax. "I never caught your name, Lieutenant."

Dax's smile widened. "Jadzia Dax," she replied, offering her hand.

Gerin took it and shook it firmly before looking to Bashir.

"Ah, and this is Doctor Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer," Grant said rather formally.

Julian extended his hand as well. "It's nice to meet you, Captain."

"Well, shall we sit?" Grant said brightly, leading them toward the table. Julian thought that Grant seemed rather hyper. But he'd only really met the man once before, so it was hard to judge. Grant pulled out the chair for T'Para, while Sisko and Bashir did likewise for the other women. "Would you like some wine?" Grant held up a bottle of red liquid and began to pour the glasses.

Kira picked up the tray from the replicator and carried it over to her station at communications. So far, it seemed that O'Brien's repairs to the replicators were holding. The coffee she had ordered steamed in the mug, and the bread was even warm, too. Steam also rose over the stew. She was just about to see if it tasted the way it was supposed to when she noticed the incoming call from Bajor. It was Bahtran Efin.

"This is Major Kira Nerys," she said, putting the call on the large, elliptical main viewscreen. Bahtran was a young man, perhaps thirty, with red hair and dark brown eyes. He was dressed smartly, and Kira decided that his business must be doing well. Whether it was doing well honestly was something she intended to find out. "Thank you for calling."

"I was contacted by Security. They said you had one of my couplings." He did not appear worried or nervous. "How may I help you?"

"Our computers were tampered with last night. The perpetrators used this coupling," she said, holding it up, "to tap into our systems. I was hoping that you might be able to help me find those responsible."

"I'd be glad to help if I can. I can tell you who bought it. I'll run the serial number through my computer." The businessman looked down toward his computer. "Ah, here it is. It was sold one month ago to someone named Targo. I'm sorry I don't have a given name."

Kira was impressed by his helpfulness. Perhaps he was honest. "Do you have any other information that might help?"

"Let's see. . . ." He looked away again, checking his computer. "Targo bought seven such couplings, a portable monitor and some peripheral accessories. It was a pretty big order. I think I remember." Bahtran thought for a moment. "It was a man. He was old. He had gray hair, white really. He was tall, about six foot three. He didn't seem to know much about computers. I suspect he was buying them for someone else. He had a list." He chuckled then. "I remember," he said, "he stopped to pray over his purchases before he left. He made quite a scene, asking for the Blessing of the Prophets." Bahtran's tone ridiculed the old man's faith.

Kira rankled at the laughter. She admired the spiritual devotion of these terrorists even if she abhorred their other convictions. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Bahtran. I'll get in touch with you if I need anything else." She stabbed a finger out that ended the transition. Bahtran's face disappeared to be replaced by silent stars surrounded by the blackness of space.

She looked at her dinner, pulled the tray near her and was glad to find the mug of coffee still warm to the touch. She lifted the spoon to her mouth. The stew was wonderful, just like home-made, with all the right spices. It was neither too thin nor too thick. It was perfect. A light on her console alerted her to another call. She pushed the tray aside again.

"I demand clearance to leave this station," the captain of the Tellarite ship announced haughtily.

Kira counted to three silently and then put on her best diplomatic smile. "I'm sorry, Captain," she said. "No one is allowed to leave until we're certain--"

"I have goods to deliver," he interrupted, "and schedules to keep."

Kira's smile slipped a little. She did not try to bring it back. "And I have a murder to deal with. We cannot allow any ship to leave that might be carrying the murderer."

"Are you inferring that we are harboring a murderer?" The captain was incredulous, or at least, Kira thought, he was trying to act that way. He was trying to be intimidating. Kira was not intimidated easily.

Her smile returned. "I am inferring nothing. A murderer might slip unnoticed aboard any of the ships docked at this station in an effort to make his escape. Not only can we not allow the murderer to escape, but we do not wish to endanger other vessels."

"We are in danger by staying at this station."

"If the murderer did slip aboard a vessel, he might commit murders on those vessels as well." Kira held firm. "We cannot allow you to depart at this time."

The screen went abruptly blank. Kira let out a long breath and reached for her tray. That was the third captain this evening who demanded clearance to leave the station and keep their schedules. If you'd quit bothering us, and let us do our jobs, she thought, we could catch the bastard and let you leave a lot sooner.

She lifted her mug and took a careful sip of her coffee. But there was little need for her caution; it was only just warm. Kira moved the tray off the display on her console and pulled up the list of known terrorists on the station as she took a bite of her stew. It wasn't bad. It just wasn't hot.

Targo was not on the station, at least not under that name. She tapped a few more panels connected to the planet's security database, and there he was. "Targo Kob. Age 94. Hair: gray. Height: 6'2"." And the picture showed a semi-wrinkled face, crowned by almost white hair.

"Computer," she said. The computer chirped to signal that it was ready for a command. "Cross reference with all Bajorans on the station."

"Working," the flat voice of the computer responded. There was a slight pause and then, "No one matching this description is on the station."

Kira frowned and then transmitted a request to the provisional government to find Targo Kob and hold him for questioning. Then she turned her attention to the missing Harglin Nastrof. She had already tried to run a scan of the station, but the computer had no information on the Gidari to go by. The Gidari's own ship resisted any attempt at scanning. So between bites of stew and sips of lukewarm coffee, she ran scans for each of the known species on the station. Hopefully, Nastrof would be the only one she couldn't identify.

Another call lit up on her console. It was the Gindarin. Kira punched it up to the main viewscreen. A hooded figure replaced the stars, but the background was the same blackness. Apparently, the Gidari were afraid that someone would see a part of their ship over the comm channels. "I'm Captain Nardek. Who are you?" the Gidari said roughly. The captain's voice was scratchy and deep.

"I'm Major Kira Nerys." Kira forced her face into a polite smile. "How may I help you?"

"I want to speak to Commander Sisko."

"I'm sorry, the commander isn't available. I'm First Officer, perhaps I can help you."

The Gidari was silent for a short time. "I want my crewman returned."

Kira noted a patch of red on one shoulder of the captain's cloak. She had read about something similar in one of the reports from the murder. "If you are referring to Mr. Nastrof, we have not yet located him," she told him calmly, still smiling.

"Why is it taking so long? Your Security is inadequate!"

Kira began to lose her patience. "You haven't helped much. We can't even run a scan to see if he's on the station. If you could transmit some information, something we could scan for--"

"We will not expose ourselves to your scrutiny. How am I to know that you haven't already found Nastrof and are keeping him for study? A Gidari was seen on your station this afternoon! You have no right!"

"Someone with a Gidari cloak was seen this afternoon, yes," Kira clarified. "But that person was involved in a homicide. We do not have Nastrof. We're trying to locate him. Perhaps," she countered, "you've had him all along and are trying to cover for his involvement in the murder."

"That's ridiculous!"

Kira lowered her voice. "Of course it is. About as ridiculous as your accusation. It would be a lot more helpful if you would cooperate rather than diverting my attention from the search to insult this station and its personnel."

Nardek didn't answer, but his figure disappeared from the screen. Kira sighed. That kind of conversation was the part of the job that she hated. She took another sip of her coffee and nearly spat it back out. It was cold.