As he was thinking this, he saw the other serving maid emerge from the hallway. Her tray was now empty.

It piqued his curiosity. To whom had she brought the drinks? And why weren't they in this room, which contained what was supposed to be the main attraction?

He eyed the hallway, even more dimly lit than the rest of the place. Could there be a gambling den back there? He had heard that such things were becoming more popular, though no one he knew had actually seen one. Of course, until recently, everyone he knew had been in the Military-and since gambling was illegal, they would hardly have been invited to attend.

Dan'nor decided to investigate-to see for himself. If there was a gambling operation here, and he helped the authorities break it up, it might bode well for his reinstatement.

Leaning forward, he rose carefully from his untrustworthy chair. He looked around, but his serving woman was still nowhere to be seen.

Should I wait for her to return-and then slip into the hallway? Or should I make sure my prey doesn't elude me-and make use of what time I have now?

His impatience got the better of him. He chose the latter option.

The hallway was longer than he thought-and darker, once he got past the part that adjoined the main room. What's more, it took a left turn before he saw any doors. One was on his immediate right, just past the turning. And it was ajar.

He peered inside. It took his eyes a moment to penetrate the shadows. And when they did, there was nothing to see. Only some kegs of beer, some mops, a bucket. And a shelf full of cleaning supplies.

The other door, farther down the corridor and on the opposite side, was closed. But as he padded closer to it-grateful for the soft soles of his civilian shoes-he heard sounds from within.

Voices.

He crept even closer. The voices became more distinct. There were a number of them, some louder than others. He put his ear to the door and listened.

"That can't be, Ma'alor. History shows..."

"The hell with history. They're desperate, Brother. Can't you see that?"

"And besides, they've already gotten away with it. There have been no repercussions due to Ralak'kai's appearance-no widespread objections at all. And that opens the door for others to be used like Ralak'kai."

"Damn them. Can you imagine if they took all of those who've been imprisoned and..."

"It won't happen, I tell you. Perhaps they can get away with Ralak'kai, even one or two others. But if they were to conscript many more like him, the results would be catastrophic for them. The people would rise up-just as they've feared all along."

"You are too much the idealist, Zanc'cov. If the people were capable of rising up, they would have done so long before..."

Dan'nor never heard the rest. A hand gripped his shoulder, spun him around. And before he could protect himself, something slammed into the side of his head.

The next thing he knew, he was lying facedown on the floor, looking at a circle of shoes. The taste of blood was strong in his mouth.

"He's a spy," said one of his antagonists. "A damned Military spy."

"Is he armed?"

Someone rifled the pockets of his coat. He didn't move to stop them.

"No. I don't think so."

"What do we do with him?"

"Kill him. What else can we do?"

Dan'nor didn't like the sound of that. It was obvious that he had stumbled onto something worse than a gambling den-much worse. If he didn't escape now, he told himself, he might never have another chance.

Scrambling halfway to his feet, he tried to bull his way through the circle. But his captors caught him and drove him back. They forced him down against the floor again and held him there-despite his struggles.

"Let me go," he snarled, his words muffled by the pressure of the floor against his mouth. "You're making a mistake."

"It's you who made a mistake," said one of them.

"I'm not Military," he growled. "I work in the shoe factory."

"He's lying. I can hear a Military accent a mile away. Get my knife-it's in my jacket."

That gave Dan'nor reason to struggle even harder-but it gained him nothing. There were too damned many of them.

"I don't like this," said another voice. "Insurrection is one thing. But murder..."

"You must have known it would lead to this, Zanc'cov. How could it have led anywhere else?"

"Here it is, Ma'alor."

Dan'nor saw the glint of the knife, fought with renewed intensity.

"All right. Hold him steady now, and I'll make a quick end of..."

"Wait!"

They all seemed to freeze at the cry. Whoever was holding Dan'nor's head down grew lax and he was able to twist it around. To look up, to see who had cried out.

But when he saw, he couldn't believe it.

"Let him go. I can vouch for him."

"What do you mean? He's a spy."

"I'm not," said Dan'nor. "I thought this was a gambling den. I swear it."

"No-he was listening at the door. I caught him."

"Out of curiosity," argued Dan'nor. "Nothing more."

"What's the difference? He found us out. We can't just let him go."

"We can-and we will."

"Why? Just because you say so?"

"Because we must trust one another. Without that, we might as well cease to exist."

"I trust you, Tir'dainia. But why should I trust him?"

The man who had interceded on Dan'nor's behalf looked around at the others. "Because he's a Tir'dainia too. He's my son."

There were looks exchanged. Mostly surprise, but also suspicion. Only one of the men exhibited relief. "There," he said. "You see? We need not kill him after all."

"Zanc'cov's right. Put the knife away, Ma'alor."

The one called Ma'alor eyed Dan'nor's father. "I hope you are certain about this, Tir'dainia. Very certain. Because if you're wrong, we will all pay dearly for it."

"I'm certain, Brother. Now let him up."

Gradually, Dan'nor felt himself released. The weight of bodies lifted off him. He got to his feet, wiped the blood from his mouth.

And noticed that they had formed that circle around him again. Were they having second thoughts now about letting him go? Surely, that was true of Ma'alor. It was evident in his face, in the way he held the knife.

But before the debate could be renewed, Dan'nor's father came forward and embraced him. Then, his arm still wrapped around Dan'nor's shoulders, he escorted him between Ma'alor and another man. Through the circle-to freedom.

No one moved to stop them. When they reached the door, the elder Tir'dainia opened it.

"Go now," he said. "We'll talk later."

Dan'nor didn't have to be told twice.

"You should have seen it," said Marcroft, pushing some pasta around on his plate. "The poor bastard stood there for almost an hour, holding these damned weights at arm's length. Can you imagine? I can't even do that with my hands empty."

Vanderventer grunted, looked about the lounge. He had an urge to get up, to run, to burn off some energy. But that was crazy, wasn't it? He'd been dragging his rear end after that last shift, and the meal he'd just finished-big even by his standards-should have settled him into a nice, mellow lethargy.

But it hadn't. Quite the opposite, in fact. Maybe the food processing unit had taken some liberties with his Peking Duck recipe. After all, it was programmed to make substitutions when the requested ingredients weren't in its repertoire-and there was no telling how some of those ingredients might affect a given individual.

"Damn it, Hans, you're not even listening to me." Marcroft tilted his head to catch Vanderventer's eye. "Are you?"

"What can I say?" the big Dutchman returned, finally picking up the thread of the conversation. "You're just not a Klingon."

"Oh," said his companion. "I see. Thanks for telling me. Now I know why I'm not partial to raw meat." He shook his head, made a tsk-tsking sound. "I wasn't looking for an explanation. I was just expressing my admiration."

Vanderventer grunted again. But he couldn't seem to make his body want to stay put. He felt as if each and every one of his atoms were vibrating, trying to burst free.

"Sorry," be said. "It's just that I feel so... so jumpy. Must have been something wrong with that duck I ate."

Marcroft leaned a little closer and peered at his friend. "Come to think of it," he said, "you do look a little flushed." He cracked a tentative smile. "You didn't by any chance sneak a little Maratekkan brandy into that recipe, did you?"

Vanderventer frowned. "No, of course not. I..."

Suddenly, his feeling of anxiety eased. It was gone-without a trace. And in its wake, he felt the lazy contentedness he'd expected after a big meal.

"You what?"

"Nothing," said Vanderventer. He sounded surprised, even to himself. "I mean, I feel better all of a sudden. For a while there, I was really zipping along-but now I'm okay again."

Marcroft's expression of concern hadn't quite disappeared. "You sure? You still look a little funny. Funnier than usual, that is."

The Dutchman took stock of himself, shrugged. "No, I'm fine." He shivered a little. "Boy, if that wasn't the weirdest sensation I've ever..."

The fork dropped from his hand, clattered on the table.

"Don't go losing your silverware over it," said Marcroft.

Vanderventer tried to pick up the fork, to replace it on his tray. But he couldn't. His fingers seemed thick and unwieldy. As if they'd forgotten what they were supposed to do.

He looked up at his companion, attempted to control the panic that was rearing up in his gut. The weirdness wasn't over-it had undergone only a change. "Something's wrong with me, Mick. Something's definitely wrong."

Marcroft returned the look as Vanderventer flexed his fingers-first those of his right hand, then those of his left. "What now?" he asked.

"My fingers," said Vanderventer, swallowing. "They feel stiff. I can't get them to move."

"Hey," said Marcroft, "maybe they're just tired. You wore them out with all that spaghetti-twirling."

"No," said the Dutchman. "This is serious. Oh, man-I've got to get to sickbay."

"Sickbay?" echoed Marcroft. "But-I mean, is it really that bad?"

Even as his friend asked the question, Vanderventer was figuring out the answer. He could feel his back muscles becoming soft, spongy. It hurt now just to sit up.

These were Fredi's symptoms, weren't they? The very same things Fredi felt before he collapsed down there in that science corridor.

But the disease wasn't supposed to be contagious. Their tests had shown them that.

So why was he feeling what he was feeling? Why were his legs starting to tremble as he tried to hold himself steady in his chair?

Did it have anything to do with Fredi's relapse?

It was getting more difficult to breathe. He forced his lungs to work harder, but it hurt like the devil. And he knew that he could keep it up for only so long.

"Sickbay," he insisted. "Now."

And to underline the urgency of his request, he lurched out of his seat-tried to get himself moving toward the door. But his legs refused to support his weight, and he had to throw his upper body onto the table to keep from falling down.

"Damn!" cried Marcroft, coming around the table as quickly as he could. Just as Vanderventer was about to slide off, his hands unable to find purchase on the smooth dining surface, his friend caught him around the waist.

"Mick..."

"It's okay, Hans. I've got you."

Slowly, Marcroft let the bigger man down, until he was kneeling on the floor. Then he looked up at the intercom grid and called for a link to sickbay.

Vanderventer tried to relax, to ignore the fact that his muscles were betraying him. But when he stopped pumping air in and out, everything started to get gray and fuzzy-so he gritted his teeth and started making like a bellows again.

"They're coming, Hans. Hang in there, buddy."