Dinner was particularly good and reminded Bashir of the times in his childhood when he was in England. Each plate had already been set with a steaming helping of roast beef with horse radish sauce and Yorkshire pudding. The mashed potatoes were soft, hot, and not too starchy. Brussels sprouts, and carrots were also available in white porcelain bowls on the table. There was wine to drink but also a fruit syrup that, when added to water, made a nice refreshment.

The conversation was mildly interesting to the doctor, though Commander Sisko tended to confine his attention to the food. Given the abundance of scientists at the table, they were bound to end up discussing the latest theory or the nuances of xenobiology. Sisko might have had little to add, but Bashir's medical background led to a relatively extensive knowledge of other related sciences.

Bashir contributed his share of information and opinions, but he wasn't really in the mood for contemplating the latest virus to be discovered or the reasons for atmospheric dispersal on Unor Mardin VII. He was more interested in Dr. Grant, who sat directly across from him.

Dax was fully enveloped in the conversation, so she forgot about watching Bashir. She practically glowed in enthusiasm. T'Para, for her part, played very well the good Vulcan. She never once showed any emotion or expressed any pleasure or displeasure with anything that was mentioned. Dr. Seleva, who had been reserved when dinner started, had opened up in excitement in the ensuing conversation. While Gerin wasn't a scientist, he was the captain of a science vessel, and he did take some interest in the discussions.

Grant showed as much ardor as the other scientists. But even as he was seriously discussing Unor Mardin's environmental conditions his hands shook in small, quick movements, and sweat began to bead his forehead. He appeared to be exceedingly thirsty as well, for he kept reaching for his glass, which was now filled with a mix of fruit syrup and water.

"Whatever's causing it," Bashir said, "it has to have been recent. There were no reports of environmental problems until the last fifteen years or so. Perhaps the Geothermic Infusion Reactor had something to do with it. I remember the Unorian ambassador was very excited about the new technology when my parents were stationed on Unor Mardin VI. But it hadn't been tested, so they were going to to try it out first on the seventh planet, since it was unihabited. It didn't work, though, and they had to shut it down."

"What did your parents do on Unor Mardin VI, Doctor?" Seleva asked. "The Unorians were in the middle of a civil war fifteen years ago."

"My father was the mediator between the factions," Bashir answered, allowing a little pride to show. "He helped them come to a peaceful settlement."

"But they've had an infusion reactor on Unor Mardin VI for nearly six years now," Dax argued, "and there is no evidence of dispersal there."

"The reactor was a sound idea, in principle," T'Para added. "However, the Unorians lacked the level of technology that would sufficiently regulate the flow of energy from the planet's core. It wasn't until they joined the Federation, six and a half years ago, that they were able to obtain the proper equipment."

"Your father is a diplomat?" Grant said quietly, not realizing that anyone else had heard. He seemed to be mulling that over, as if he were all alone in the room. He had forgotten about his guests, who now began to look at him in concern as well.

Every muscle in Julian's body tensed. He just watched Grant for a moment, wondering what would happen next. Grant had been speaking to him. Grant's eyes were now wandering loosely under half-closed eyelids. Julian almost stood up, but Grant beat him to it.

Grant had grown pale. His face was an unhealthy white when he stood. Bashir and the others stood with him in concern. Then Grant's eyes fixed on Julian's with such an intensity that the young doctor froze. "Julian Bashir," Grant said in a breathy voice, his eyes widening in shock and fear. Julian's stomach tightened painfully and jumped to somewhere nearer his lungs. "Julian. . . ." Grant's shoulders began to sway, and his eyes rolled upward under his eyelids as he tumbled to the floor.

Sisko had caught him halfway down and gently lowered his head to the floor. Bashir practically leapt around the table though he didn't have any of his medical equipment with him. To Bashir, Grant looked like an alien lying there on the floor. It wasn't so much the man's appearance, but the effect he'd had on Bashir just before he'd collapsed. Grant knew.

"Let's get him to the couch," Bashir told Sisko. T'Para, who had, of course, kept her composure completely, tapped her comm badge, and calmly asked for medical assistance.

Sisko and Bashir placed Grant on the couch, and Bashir propped the man's feet up on the arm. Placing his fingers at the side of Grant's neck, he took the man's pulse. It was quite high at 130 beats per minute. He walked quickly back to the table, picked up one of the cloth napkins, and plunged it into the pitcher of water. He twisted it a few times to stop it from dripping and returned to place it on the forehead of the the unconscious Dr. Grant. Taking his pulse again, he was relieved to find that it had dropped to 110.

The door opened across the room, and Maylon entered with a nurse. "I'll take over now," he said calmly and with confidence. Julian backed out of the way for him. Maylon knelt beside the couch and began to examine Grant with his tricorder. "What happened?"

"He seems to have fainted," Julian answered. "But he didn't look particularly well all evening."

"What do you mean?"

"He seemed hyper at first. Later, his hands began to shake, and his attention seemed to waver just a bit. He looked overheated. Then his eyes began to glaze, and he grew pale. Then he fainted. His pulse was high--130 bps."

"He's almost normal now. I'm going to take him to Sickbay for tests." The nurse called for the transporter to stand by, and Maylon continued his scan. He appeared confused and scanned again.

"So, Julian, you'd have dinner with a complete stranger just because he's a famous scientist, but will you stop by to visit your old roommate?" Maylon didn't take his eyes off his patient as he teased Bashir. "Nooo."

"I practically had to force him to come tonight," Dax said in Julian's defense.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I hadn't noticed you here tonight, what with the medical emergency and all. I suspect that Doctor Bashir came more for your company than for our friend Grant here."

On the couch, Grant began to stir. Julian had been standing near the couch still and could hear him as he murmured in muffled semi-consciousness. "It's you . . . Julian. . . ."

Maylon had heard, too, but the statement lacked any significance. "We're going to take you to Sickbay, Doctor Grant," Maylon said in a soothing voice. "Just rest now."

Julian could feel his own heart racing and hoped that his face wasn't turning red. He caught sight of Dax, who was standing just behind him. She couldn't have shown any more concern or confusion if she'd been an empath. She must have heard, too. Julian turned away from her. But she placed her hand gently on his shoulder.

"We should go now," Sisko suggested as Maylon ordered the transport. Julian nodded, inwardly relieved. The room emptied as the doctor, nurse, and patient disappeared in the shimmering effect of the transporter.

Inara said nothing until the door had shut behind her and she had locked it. "They're still going," she said, shaking her head.

"Unfortunate," the old man sighed. He was sitting at the small round dinner table with Liian. Liian had a book open in front of him. They'd been studying about the Prophets. "But in that case, it seems we still have work to do. I had hoped they'd listen to us, but I had serious doubts that we could scare them off with so gentle an approach."

"But what about the virus?" Liian protested. "That should have worked."

"It did work, Liian," Inara answered, though she knew that's not what he had meant. "But the Federation has many computer experts. They fixed it. You must remember, we did not rid ourselves of the Cardassians in only one day either."

"I know." His voice dropped, and he lowered his head. "It's just that I don't want to. . . ."

"Liian." Inara sat down. She didn't know quite where to start. "We've talked about this. You said you'd do anything."

"And I will," he said emphasizing the last word. He looked up at her. He wanted her to understand. "I just don't want to. I wish things were different so I wouldn't have to. So you wouldn't have to. So none of us would have to."

Inara rubbed his hair and sighed. "We all wish that. Make sure the shop you pick is empty. We don't want to hurt any Bajorans who might be around."

Liian nodded. Inara walked to the bed and pulled her computer out from under it. Then she sat down and began to work.

Tsingras now knew why the people were complaining. I'm definitely quitting, he thought. An acrid odor filled the duct he was crawling in and grew stronger as he moved forward. His stomach was beginning to turn from the stench. He had to use his tricorder to trace it now. It had become so strong that he couldn't tell from which side it was emanating when he hit an intersection.

The tricorder itself didn't quite know what to make of it, but it could point the way to the higher concentrations of whatever it was in the air. Tsingras had his own idea about the smell. Something had died in there.

He stopped for a moment and retrieved the small gas mask from his bag. When he put it on, it covered his mouth and nose and cut off the awful pungency. He sighed and took a deep breath of the clean, odorless air. Then checking his tricorder, he turned to the right and crawled forward again. There were extremely high concentrations about fifty meters ahead.

The ventilation ducts were smaller than the access crawlways so it was harder to move forward, especially with a tricorder in one hand and dragging his bag and palm beacon with the other. He wasn't quite sure that he wanted to find what was causing the smell. He was sure it was dead. If the tricorder couldn't identify it, he felt he had reason to worry.

In time, he'd traversed the fifty meters. Nothing. He checked the tricorder again. There was an intersection just ahead. He edged up and flashed his light off to the left. The thin beam of light reflected on the wall of the duct, and Tsingras arced it slowly. Then he saw something dark. It was a sickening black color, like something very rotten. It was about two meters into the duct. Tsingras sighed and moved cautiously into the duct, pushing the light in front of him.

It was a lump, as far as he could tell. He continued slowly forward. The tricorder was useless. Despite its proximity, the instrument still couldn't identify what was in the duct. Tsingras edged forward some more, and his light caught something white in the end of the black lump. He propelled himself forward in spite of his instincts. Forget tomorrow, they screamed. Quit now!

He was close enough to touch it now. He felt something sticky beneath his hand. A gummy, viscous liquid had seeped from the thing. It was an ugly blue color in the light. He turned the beam back to the lump and the white he'd seen before.

Eyes. Tsingras screamed in his mask and jumped up so that he hit his head on the top of the duct. He backed away quickly, sticking his hand in the goo again in his haste. He felt sick. He wanted to tear the mask off, but that would have been worse. Finally, when he reached the intersection again, he lay flat in the duct and took deep breaths.

He began to calm down. It was something dead. It was a body. The eyes had stood out from the face. Could he really call it a face? The Gidari, he thought. It must be the Gidari. The tricorder could have identified anyone else.

When he'd regained his composure, he edged forward into the duct again. He could look at it now. The first "lump" that he'd seen was its head, its face turned to the side at an odd angle. Long white hair lay on the floor of the duct under it. The eyes did indeed stand out from the face. They were open wide and completely white, but dirty and dry, like the belly of a catfish after it had been out of the water for a few hours.

Farther down, the body was naked to the waist. It wore dark pants, with tall boots of a soft gray color. Tsingras didn't doubt that the Gidari had been murdered. Maybe he wouldn't quit tomorrow. He wondered though, how the murderer had managed to get the body so far into the ventilation system.

Tsingras tapped his comm badge. "Tsingras to Ops." He was aware that his voice would sound strange and muted by the mask, but he didn't dare remove it.

"Ops, Major Kira here. What did you find, Ensign?"

"I, I think I've found the Gidari. He's dead."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the commline. "We'll transport him directly to the Infirmary."

"They'll want him in stasis or something. He's quite, well, putrid."

"Where is he?"

"Right in front of me. Look, could you beam me out as well? It took me hours to get in here, and it's a little tight for turning around."

"Alright. Wait for me in the Infirmary. Prepare for transport. Kira out."

Tsingras was a mess when he materialized in the Infirmary. A nurse helped him to his feet. He was covered in the blue sticky mess that had come from the body. The nurse quickly covered her nose. Tsingras, himself, was still wearing the gas mask.

"Is it all like that?" the doctor asked from the other side of the room where he was preparing a containment field for the body.

"Afraid so," Tsingras answered. "You got something I can change into? The major told me to wait here."

"Yes," the doctor replied. The nurse left him and returned with a hospital jumper in one hand. The other hand still covered her nose. She didn't come too close, but held the jumper out to him. "Then burn that uniform, okay?" the doctor added.

"No problem."

The nurse pointed him toward another room where he could change. Just as the door closed behind him, he could hear the doctor telling them to transport the body.

The call that the Gidari's body had been found had come just in time. The walk down the Ranger's corridor had been rather tense. Bashir wasn't quite sure why he wouldn't talk to Dax, except perhaps that he was being childish. He knew he was. It would probably do him good to talk it out with someone, to get it off his chest.

But he still couldn't do it. In his heart he knew that Dax wouldn't turn against him, but the fear remained, however irrational. He also felt like he'd be feeding someone's morbid sense of curiosity if he told about his birth-father, something like a freak show in a circus. And here is the kid who was abandoned by his father, and if you look carefully you can see the grave his father dug for him. Irrational? Of course, but he still just couldn't seem to get past it.

Dax, he could tell was wanting to ask him about what Grant had meant. But fortunately she respected his wish for privacy enough to let it alone in Sisko's presence. He knew she was just waiting to corner him alone though. The call at least postponed any chances of that happening. Instead, all three of the officers had rushed toward the airlock. They waited impatiently for the big door to roll aside and then hurried to the turbolift that would take them to the Promenade where the Infirmary was.

Sisko stood off to the side of the room, out of the way. Dax offered her assistance in preparing the containment field that surrounded the biobed. They had been warned that the body smelled quite bad. They didn't know how badly until Ensign Tsingras materialized, lying on the floor, his uniform stained from part of the remains. The odor was appalling, and Bashir had been thankful when the man had offered to change clothes.

"We're ready," he said after tapping his comm badge. At that moment Kira entered. She and Sisko talked quietly. "Transport." The light within the containment field began to sparkle and shimmer. In seconds the body appeared and multi-colored lights lit up on the headboard of the bed.

The body was an ugly black mass of decaying flesh, oozing a bluish fluid. As a doctor, Bashir had seen dead bodies before, even semi-decayed bodies, but he was quite taken aback by the Gidari corpse. Dax, who as a scientist could look at and even touch some rather disgusting substances, backed away from the biobed and averted her eyes.

Bashir tried to make light of the situation. "Just our luck. We finally get a look at a Gidari, and he's half melted."

"We won't have him for long," Sisko replied. "The Gidari will want him back, and you can bet they won't want an autopsy. Can you tell how he died?"

Bashir activated some of the sensors on the bed and reached for his tricorder. He couldn't touch the body through the containment field, and, doubtless, the Gidari would be highly upset if they felt it was tampered with in any way. The black, decomposed skin hid the details of his features. The computer could see through the color and shadows and display a clearer picture.

The body was only half-clothed. There were no puncture wounds, and all internal organs seemed to be intact, though in their state of decomposition it was difficult to be sure. It did add a little to the sparse knowledge of Gidari anatomy. They had two hearts and three lungs. Their brains occupied an area more to the back of their oval-shaped heads rather than on the top as other humanoid brains tended to do.

The trachea was depressed, smashed in fact. Bashir stepped closer to the head of the body to examine the face. The eyes, completely white so that they appeared to lack pupils and irises, were pushed forward, standing out from the face. About six centimeters below its eyes, a long, swollen tongue stuck out of its opened mouth. "Asphyxiation," Bashir proclaimed. "He's been strangled."

"You're sure?" Sisko asked, stepping forward only a little.

"Yes, his trachea's been completely cut off. I can't make out much else. They decay rather quickly."

"Well, we've got to give him back. Kira slowed them down, but we can't keep him more than a few minutes. The captain is being escorted here in order to identify the body. Let's get those sensors off and dim the lights. We'll try to avoid any conflict if we can."

"Right," Bashir replied, and all the displays went black at the touch of his finger. Then he turned away from the biobed and joined the other officers where they stood. "Computer, dim lights over Biobed Three."

The door opened again, and Captain Nardek appeared flanked by two Bajoran security officers. There was really no need for a Security escort, but Bashir assumed that it was a stalling technique invented by Kira to give them a little more time to examine the remains. The captain walked with angry steps, and Bashir was glad he was just the doctor. He didn't have to deal firsthand with furious ship captains.

Sanglin Nardek scanned the room before he spoke. His voice was unexpectedly calm. "Why could we not simply transport the remains directly to our ship?"

Good question, Bashir thought. If the station's crew was not examining the body at all, why indeed was the body beamed to the Infirmary and not to the Gindarin?

Sisko answered, just as calmly as his counterpart. "There is a murder investigation going on. It was necessary to view the body. But, respecting your privacy, we have waved the customary autopsy."

"It should be obvious, by his death, that Harglin Nastrof is not your murderer."

"Yes," Sisko affirmed, "but he was murdered by the same person as the previous victim. The murderer stole his cloak. This information will help us in our further investigations here on the station. And the cause of death was easily identified without serious examination."

Nardek's hooded face turned towards the body. "I had hoped that it wouldn't come to this." His voice was distant and reflective. "But I did expect it. Nastrof would have returned to the ship if he was able. You notified me as soon as he was found?" The firmness of his voice then surprised the officers.

"Yes," Sisko answered smoothly, "Ensign Tsingras found the body at precisely 2157 and reported it to Major Kira who notified you." He indicated with his hand the officers he mentioned.

"You found the body?"

Tsingras, who had been standing unobtrusively at the back of the room, was unaware that he'd been spoken to and didn't answer for a moment. When all the heads turned to face him, he nearly jumped. "Uh, yes," he finally answered.

"And you reported it right away?"

Tsingras was more composed now, and he stood at attention. "Yes, sir."

Nardek was silent. He stood still. Because of the hood, no one could tell what he was thinking. Was he angry? Then he spoke. "I shall have to insist that all relevant records from your scanning devices be destroyed. Including portable devices as well as those here."

Sisko didn't respond, but looked to Bashir, deferring the reply to the doctor. They were, after all, medical records and, therefore, his responsibility.

"Of course. I see no problem with that," Julian answered sincerely and walked over to the biobed. The state of the remains left little of importance for the records. A full autopsy might have divulged more, but that had not been possible. What he did have, he could easily remember in his own head. Picking up a small rectangular chip, he ordered the computer to transfer all information gleaned from the scans to the removable chip.

"Task complete," the computer's flat female voice intoned.

Bashir then downloaded the information from his tricorder's memory, too. Tsingras had taken the initiative as well to offer his tricorder to the doctor. When both of the tricorders had been purged of any information pertaining to the Gidari, Bashir removed the chip and handed it to the Gidari captain. "It's yours to do with as you please."

"May I transport the body now?" Nardek turned back toward the commander.

"Of course," Sisko answered.

Nardek lifted his arm and produced something from the sleeves of his cloak. Without another word, he pressed a few buttons, and both he and the body disappeared in a bright flash of blue light.

Sisko, who had been standing stiffly while the Gidari captain was there, visibly relaxed. "That went rather well, actually." He seemed surprised. "I'm sorry you lost all your information, Doctor."

"There wasn't much anyway. Two hearts, three lungs. That's about all I got. He must have known that we couldn't see much, since he was so far gone."

"Well, what can this tell us about the murderer?"

"Not much, I'm afraid, except that it's the same murderer, and he isn't a Gidari," Bashir replied.

"Not necessarily," Kira retorted, though Bashir could tell that her heart wasn't in it. "He could have been murdered by another Gidari, but, given, the odds are terribly slim."

"Do we know when he died?" Sisko again.

"I have no way of knowing. We don't know the rate of decay, only that it's fast."

"Alright." Sisko crossed his arms and thought for a moment. "Well, we know he was last seen at 0200 this morning. We can assume he died shortly thereafter. But why would someone kill the Gidari and then a Ferengi? What's the motive?"

Everyone thought for a moment, but no one answered.

"Make sure Security gets a report on this," the commander continued, uncrossing his arms. "I want this man found. And I want extra Security in the habitat ring and on the Promenade tonight in case the Bajorans try something else."

"Or the murderer," Dax added.

Sisko nodded. "Without a motive, we can't know who he'll be after next. Let's call it a day." He started to head for the door, but then remembered Tsingras. "Ensign," he said, turning back, "I don't need to tell you. This should be kept quiet."

Tsingras had remained in the room, eyes wide with interest and adventure at being part of the murder investigation. He came to attention again when Sisko addressed him. "Of course, sir."

Sisko didn't look wholly convinced, but he let it go. He turned back to the door.

"Ensign," Kira said, again addressing Tsingras, "I'd like a full report. You can fill one out in Security right now."

"Yes, sir." Tsingras replied, confidently.

Dax didn't follow them out the door.

When the nurses had gone back to their usual duties and they were alone in the Infirmary, Julian felt the pressure of Dax's presence return. He sat down and began to draw up a report on the Gidari, hoping that she'd leave him to his work.

"Julian," she began cautiously. Bashir wouldn't look at her. "What happened at dinner?"

Julian decided to play stupid again. "What do you mean? Grant became ill. He fainted."

"But it had something to do with you." Her voice was soft. She was trying to be soothing, unthreatening.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said evenly, but his fingers jabbed a little harder at the console on his desk. He hoped to put her off politely.

But she continued to force the issue. "I've noticed the way you act around him. You're tense and rude--"

"Was I rude at dinner?" Julian asked, letting his voice raise just a little. Then he regretted it. Now he sounded defensive.

"No, you behaved very well tonight," she conceded. "But that's just my point. It's like you were putting on an act for my benefit."

Julian didn't say anything. He had stopped working on his report. He just sat and stared at the screen. She was right, of course. But he didn't want to talk about it. No, that wasn't true. He did. He wanted to tell her, to say how confused he was, how afraid, but he just couldn't. He couldn't make himself say it.

"And when Grant stood up, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. And he kept saying your name. What did he mean?"

"He was ill and probably half-delirious. How am I to know what he meant?"

She wasn't buying it. "He knew you, Julian."

"He doesn't know me," Julian replied, and felt in his heart that at least that part was true.

This time, Dax was silent. He was frustrating her, he knew. She sighed. "You're lying," she said flatly.

"Jadzia--"

"I worry about you," she pressed, not letting him finish. "I can tell that something is hurting you, and I want to help you."

"I don't need your help or your concern." His voice was even and assertive, but he felt like a mess inside. It wasn't even him who answered her, it seemed. Inside, the real Julian Bashir was telling her everything, but his mouth kept pushing her away. "I don't want to talk about it."

She was silent again. "If you change your mind," she finally said quietly, "you know how to find me."

Bashir sat still until he heard the door close behind her. Then he practically crumpled over the desk. He was miserable. He felt guilty for being curt, especially with her. But he was relieved that she was gone.

Grant tried to force himself to remain calm. Bashir. The doctor was his son. But then maybe he just wanted to believe that, to have found him so he could try to make peace. He didn't, in truth, have much to go by. The doctor had the boy's name and his father--adopted?--was a diplomat.

"Doctor Grant, I think we need to talk."

Grant opened his eyes to the face of Dr. Maylon, who was leaning over the bed so that his face hung right in Grant's line of sight. In his excitement about his son, he'd forgotten that he was in Sickbay. Why had he been brought here? He couldn't quite remember. He'd used the hypospray late that afternoon--he did remember that--though he had reduced the dosage so that he wouldn't sleep through dinner. Perhaps he had misjudged his tolerance. Something must have happened.

"How are you feeling?" Maylon asked.

"I . . . I'm fine," Grant answered trying to sound fine. He couldn't stay here, that was obvious. They'd find out about his . . . hypospray. He tried not to think of the actual drug; it was easier just to call it 'the hypospray.' "Why am I here?" he asked in return.

"You collapsed in your quarters after dinner this evening. How have you been feeling lately?"

"Fine," Grant replied. Maylon was trying to draw him out. Grant was a doctor, too. He knew how they operated. If he was any good at all, Maylon would have run a diagnostic scan and found out about the. . . .

"I've found traces of stenacine in your blood."

. . . Stenacine. He'd found it. Grant's heart began to pump harder and faster. His career could be ruined. He tried to hide it, to act casual, but it was hard, lying there on the biobed with displays above his head constantly monitoring his pulse. "I've been having trouble sleeping."

"You do realize, Doctor Grant," Maylon continued, stressing Grant's title, "that stenacine is an addictive narcotic?"

"I'm a doctor and a scientist. I am well aware of its properties." There was a note of offended dignity in his tone. Of course he knew. He'd helped develop it for use as a powerful anesthetic nearly thirty years before.

"Yes, I thought you would be. How long have you been taking the drug?" Maylon was calm, but his tone implied that of a father gently chastising his son.

Grant was on the defensive. "Only just recently."

"How recently?"

Was Maylon a lawyer, too? Grant thought quickly. "Since the break-in and the virus. It disturbed me."

"We only found out about that this morning. Why would that then disturb your sleep?"

"This morning?" Grant asked quietly, looking away. And he regretted that, too. Now he sounded like a doddering old man. Only this morning? What then? "The Gamma Quadrant."

Maylon had easily dismissed everything Grant had suggested thus far, but this one seemed to have caught his attention. His eyebrows knitted in confusion and interest. "What about the Gamma Quadrant?"

Grant calmed down a little, and concentrated on his idea. "It's new territory, light-years away from the known galaxy. It'll be years before I see my family again. And what if the wormhole should close? We'd never make it back in my lifetime. I'd never see my grandchildren again."

Maylon straightened and mulled that over for a little while, turning his back to Grant. Grant, for his part, fervently hoped that Maylon had accepted the excuse.

Maylon let out a long breath before turning back to his patient. "I can understand that. I have doubts about the Gamma Quadrant, too. But you weren't assigned here. You're not even Starfleet. You signed up for this mission."

"I know. It's the opportunity of a lifetime." Grant was telling the truth, at least as far as the Gamma Quadrant was concerned. "But that doesn't discount the doubts."

Maylon nodded in agreement. "Stenacine is dangerous. If you'd like, I can prescribe a sleep agent. If you get addicted now, before we've ever gone into the Quadrant, you won't make it back. I can guarantee that. It'll kill you."

"May I return to my quarters, Doctor?"

"No more stenacine?" Maylon was the father again.

"I promise." And Grant, the repentant son.

"Fine. I'll have the nurse escort you back. He'll give you something to help you sleep." Maylon now appeared slightly preoccupied. He kept looking toward the chronometer.

"No, that's alright. I'm quite tired now. I think I can sleep on my own."

"Alright. Take it easy tomorrow. Sleep in and get some rest." Maylon walked away, and Grant sat up.

The nurse arrived and helped Grant to his feet. Grant stood nearly a foot taller than him, but the man was strong. He escorted Grant to his quarters and helped him into bed.

On his way out of the bedroom, he turned out the light and said, "Goodnight, Doctor."

Grant closed his eyes and feigned a yawn. "Good night." Grant's eyes opened again once the man was gone. It had taken all his effort just to walk down the corridors and stand up straight in the turbolift. His legs had felt like jelly. Now that he was lying still, he could think again. But his mind was still quite cloudy.

He had collapsed at dinner, the doctor had said. What dinner? He couldn't remember having eaten. Ah, but his son was there, his little boy. He remembered that. No, it wasn't a boy. It was the doctor from the station. He was grown, a doctor.

Grant swelled with pride. His son, a doctor like himself. Perhaps the boy had remembered him and followed in his footsteps. Grant let his eyelids drop and rested happily. He would go to his son in the morning. Then he could end his years of torment.

But sleep didn't come, not even after perhaps an hour of waiting. Grant thought of the hypospray. It would help him sleep. No, he decided, he had promised. And why did he need it now that he had found his son? So, though he didn't sleep, he continued on that way, long into the night, dreaming of his boy's life since he'd left him twenty-five years before. It was a good dream.

Inara walked slowly, waiting for the couple behind her to pass. She was only fifteen meters away from the access panel that would lead to the crawlway. And the crawlway would give her the access she needed. She had a lot of work to do. She didn't turn back to see who was behind her, but she could hear their voices and their muted laughter. Come on, she thought. Only thirty feet away. But now they were just behind her. She pretended to check an address on the piece of paper she had in her hand, glancing at the doors she passed to see if they matched.

And then they were past. They were Bajorans, she could see now. A man and a woman. The woman clung to the man's arm and from time to time laid her head on his shoulder. Inara envied her. She had time for such frivolity and romance. Inara had no such time. She had vowed that she would not seek such personal happiness until all her planet was free. She had been tempted occasionally, but her duty always won out.

The man and woman rounded the corner ahead of her, and Inara stopped to listen for footsteps. The corridor was silent. She quickly crossed the last few meters to the panel. She looked over her shoulder to each side, and then, after deciding that it was all clear, she knelt and removed the panel. She had had much practice and become quite adept at entering such crawlways, so she was in and closing the hatch in a matter of seconds.

Turning around quietly in the small space was always a bit harder, but then, she wasn't in such a hurry as when she had a chance of being seen. She could deal much better with the possibility of being heard. One can make oneself silent, but invisibility is more difficult.

She was facing the wrong direction, and the bag on her shoulders didn't help. She slipped the bag off her shoulders, unclipped the handle and wrapped it around her waist, clipping it again to the bag. Then she twisted around until her feet faced the panel that lead to the corridor. Before moving forward, she stopped to look at the time. She had five hours and sixteen minutes to complete her mission. She had a lot of work to do, and she still had a long way to crawl.

She needed to be nearer to the center of the station, but she hadn't dared to enter the crawlways any farther in. The risk would have been far too great. Instead she had chose to enter from the habitat ring. Shifting the bag on her waist, she set off down the crawlway.

Odo had become a tray. That had been quite easy. Inanimate objects were the easiest to do. It was the humanoid form that he had trouble with. The contours of the nose, the shape of the eyelashes, the curves of the ears, not to mention fingerprints and correctly defined knuckles. These were exhausting and difficult. When, on occasion, he had tried, he had become so drained of energy that he'd had to spend almost a whole day regenerating. But the simple curves and smooth surfaces of a tray were child's play, a restful break from even the incomplete form he kept as Chief Security Officer of Deep Space Nine.

So for the last hour, he'd been a tray, carted here and there by various Ferengi hands. He'd therefore had a decent view of the entire bar and most of the goings-on in it. As yet he'd seen no sign of the Gidari. He hadn't really expected to. After the murders of the Ferengi waiter and the Gidari crewman, both groups no doubt felt suspicious and wary.

He had heard, however, mention of some Andorian pottery. Quark had been telling the truth after all, to a certain extent. And it was from Quark himself that Odo was hearing about it now. Quark had brought Odo, loaded down with five glasses and a bottle, to a table in a dark corner of the upper floor of the bar.

"How can I be sure it's authentic?" Quark was asking as he set Odo down on the table. So Quark had lied about who had the pottery, Odo deduced. It wasn't the Gidari.

Four others, of various species, listened intently, leaning forward in their seats. One, who seemed to be the spokesman for the group, spoke up. "I can assure you, it's of exquisite quality and completely authentic." He was a Bolian, and his blue features seemed almost purple in the dim light.

"It would be foolish to purchase merchandise simply on the salesman's word. I'd have to see it."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," the Bolian stated. "We don't have the merchandise."

"Then how can you expect me to buy it?" Quark asked calmly.

"On our word."

Quark held his ground. "So I'm to run the risk of a loss for my investment. You're wasting my time."

"Please, please," the Bolian soothed, holding up his hands. The others waited, silently. "It's simply too dangerous to bring the merchandise to the station. There are too many untrustworthy people. Please, it's only for security reasons. Surely you can understand. Why, only this afternoon, one of your own waiters was murdered right in this bar."

Quark waited. "How can we be sure the merchandise is authentic?"

The Bolian's partners said nothing, as usual. "You have my word." He smiled, trying to appear sincere.

"Your word is not a guarantee of profit."

"Look here, Toad," the Bolian began, his smile melting into a scowl.

"Now there's no need for name-calling." Quark squirmed. "I have to be careful as well. I have to guard against the sale of stolen artifacts."

Stolen. But why had Quark said it so openly? Odo was still suspicious. He would wait.

"Stolen!" the Bolian feigned shock. "Why would you say such a thing? We are insulted."

"I bet," Quark commented. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave before I call Security." He thumped the tray with his fist.

He knew. The Bolian and his companions' attention, and anger, was focosed on Quark, so Odo quietly flattened himself, retaining the dark color of the table. With little effort he slid out from under the glasses and gracefully poured himself over the edge of the table. Once on the ground, he began to mold himself into the convenient form of a mouse, which scurried unnoticed past the feet of the Bolian and into the bag he had carried to the table.

In it he found a manifest which identified the merchandise he was attempting to sell. There was also a report verifying its authenticity and the details of its acquisition. It was stolen.

Quark had walked away, leaving Odo in the Bolian's bag. The Bolian and his partners left angrily soon after. Odo stayed in the bag until they had reached the docking ring. Then he began to reform himself into his usual humanoid-like form. The Bolian dropped the bag in surprise and watched as Odo regained his form. Then they all tried to run. Odo stretched out his arms, forming two extra ones, and stopped them all in their tracks. Using another appendage, he tapped his comm badge and ordered Security to come and take the Bolian and his friends into custody on the charge of attempting to sell stolen merchandise.

Ensign Tsingras was lying in his bed with his arms crossed behind his head. He weighed his options after the day's events. He could stay. He'd come to the attention of his commander. He was now involved in the murder investigations. But--and this was important--it didn't necessarily mean that anything would be better tomorrow. He would still just be a lowly ensign and probably assigned to the same dead-end assignments. With his training he could get a good job back home. And he'd be appreciated there.

He hadn't had time to fully decide the issue when a blue flash lit up his dark quarters. When the light subsided, three Gidari stood around his bed. They wore red cloaks, not the ordinary gray, and their hands were stuck into their sleeves.

Tsingras froze. Every muscle in his body was paralyzed by fear. Every muscle except his heart, which beat fast and pounded hard in his chest. "What do you want?" he forced himself to ask.

They didn't answer but began to chant in a language Tsingras had never heard. Security, he thought, as if thinking was enough to make them come. Since he was in bed, he wasn't wearing his comm badge. He could see it. It lay on the dresser next to a chronometer. 0043. There was a communications panel near his bed. He wanted to reach out for it, but his arm refused to move. I'm quitting, he decided, I'm definitely quitting.

The three red Gidari continued their chant, and Tsingras mustered the courage to move his arm toward the table beside his bed. His heart felt like it would burst through his ribs. His arm moved, just a little, and Tsingras found that it was easy. He moved it more. But before he could make it to the table, a powerful hand gripped on his arm so swiftly and strongly that Tsingras thought it would break. The Gidari forced his arm to his side and held it down on the bed.

Another hand grasped his leg, and the Gidari on his left took his other limbs in hand. Any words of protest were stolen from Tsingras by sheer terror. The third Gidari, continuing the chant, moved toward the head of the bed.

"Please," Tsingras pleaded. Tears began to form in his eyes. "Please. . . ." But he didn't even know what to ask. He couldn't think.

The third Gidari removed his hands from his sleeves and produced an object that Tsingras could not recognize. With his left hand the Gidari pushed Tsingras's forehead down on the bed, forcing it back so that his neck was exposed. Tsingras couldn't see well from that position, but he could make out the movement of the Gidari's right hand toward his throat.

His hand moved quickly, and the device clamped onto Tsingras's neck and bit into his trachea. Pain and heat pierced his throat, but he couldn't scream. His voice had been stolen. He thought he would die then, but he found he could still breathe. His breath came in short pants, and his heart screamed warnings in his chest at every beat.

The Gidari's right hand moved again, back to his cloak and then back toward Tsingras. His left hand still applied the pressure to his forehead, so that his neck ached from the device and the strain to raise his head. He couldn't fight the overwhelming urge to see what was happening, even though his mind told him to die, just die. Let it end.

A soft hiss sounded by his ear, and a chill filled his body from the side of his neck down. He shuddered, and his teeth began to chatter in his head. He felt dizzy, and he could no longer feel the bed beneath him. He could only see the ceiling. The Gidari at his head chanted louder now, with the others joining in at intervals. The pain in his neck began to fade, and Tsingras dared to hope again that all would be well if he could just wait it out.

His stomach began to turn, and his muscles felt like rubber, useless and sickly. His heart beat jerkily in his chest in an irregular rhythm that ironically matched the chant of his assailants. The chill disappeared only to be replaced by heat, a deep searing heat that blistered his wounded throat and burned the backs of his eyes. Still his stomach churned, and his lungs sucked in fire with every breath.

And then came the pain. Pain unlike anything he'd ever felt or imagined. Tsingras tried again to scream, but there was no sound, only the chanting of the Gidari. The other two had joined in then, and their voices sang in monotone with the rhythm of his heart. Tsingras's muscles tightened and jerked, but the Gidari held him tightly to the bed. His fingers opened and closed, clenching the blanket he could no longer feel. Tears streamed from his eyes, pouring over the side of his face into his ears. It could have been molten lava, for even the tears caused him agony.

And still it went on. He wasn't dead. Please God, he cried silently, mouthing the words. Please let me die. Make it stop. Let it end. Please. The chanting filled his ears and echoed in his head, a brother to the pain.

After what seemed an eternity, Tsingras lay still. Only his mouth moved to carry his prayers to heaven, and his whole torso jerked with the deliberate beat of his heart. His eyes pleaded with the ceiling to end the pain. And the chants in his ears grew fainter and gradually slowed to match his heart.

The Gidari removed their hands from his body, but Tsingras could no longer move. His head lolled to one side, and in his fading sight, Tsingras watched as the Gidari removed their hoods. You're beautiful, he thought, and it was the last thought he could muster. The chant was over and Tsingras was dead.

The head Gidari pulled the device from Tsingras's neck, and the Gidari silently spread out in his quarters. The one nearest the dresser reset the chronometer there to read 0000 and joined the others in their search. In a few minutes the blue flash again lit up the room and the Gidari were gone.