"I see," said Geordi. It wasn't until after he had said it that he realized how it might have sounded-under the circumstances. "That wasn't a joke," he added.

The poet nodded. "I know. And don't worry-it happens all the time." A pause. "So-what is it about you, Geordi? You're different from the others, aren't you?"

They were walking up a dirt path that bisected the slope of a dark hill. On either side of the path, there were fig trees arranged in neat rows.

Geordi shrugged. "Not so different. I just come from... somewhere else."

"Somewhere far, I understand."

"You could say that."

"And yet you come to hear me sing. Don't they have bards where you come from?"

Geordi laughed. "Plenty of them. But none like you."

Homer grunted. "I appreciate the compliment. But there is more to it than that, isn't there? Something you want to ask me, perhaps?"

Had he put so much of himself into the program? Or was the computer just that good at extrapolation?

Geordi swallowed. "I guess I'm just... I don't know. Curious."

"As to how I do it? How I describe things I've never actually seen?"

"Something like that."

It was the bard's turn to shrug. "That's any storyteller's problem, whether he has the use of his eyes or not. To sing of the gods, who reveal themselves to no one-despite accounts to the contrary. Of heroes long dead. Of events that happened far away. Just because you've never witnessed them doesn't mean you can't imagine them."

Geordi had never thought about it quite that way. He said so.

"There are worse faculties to lose than your sight," said Homer.

"Such as?"

The poet sighed almost imperceptibly-a slight flaring of his nostrils. "Such as your ability to remember, my friend. Memory. It's your life, your identity. Without it, who are you? What are you?"

Geordi watched the old man's face. Was that a hint of pain he saw in the regions around Homer's eyes? Was the bard of bards, in his latter years, starting to forget things?

It was certainly possible. In this era, senility was still a problem. Hell, that hadn't changed until the twenty-second or twenty-third century.

Geordi considered it for a moment-what it would be like to be Homer, the greatest bard of his age. To have all that knowledge, all that poetry and legend stored in his mind. And to know that it was gradually abandoning him. Not just his inner world, but his only world-because for blind Homer, the world outside was something forever beyond his reach.

Then he caught himself. Wait a minute. This isn't Homer, not really. This is just a simulation generated by the holodeck computer. The real Homer died around 700 B.C., back on Earth. How can you feel sorry for someone who no longer exists?

But when he looked at the sightless old gentleman walking alongside him through the fig orchards, it was hard to be quite so logical. Maybe it wasn't the fall of Troy, exactly-but it was a tragedy nonetheless.

"Is that pity?" asked Homer abruptly. "I can feel it coming through your pores."

Geordi swallowed. It was frightening just how perceptive this simulation appeared to be.

"Don't weep for Homer," said the poet. "Weep for Odysseus and Menelaos, Akhilleus and Hektor. When my memory dies, so do they."

Over the hills, the moon was just coming up. It was large, a pale and luminous shade of blue.

"I wouldn't worry," said Geordi. "I think you'll find that there will be others to take up the stories. Just as they were passed down to you."

Homer harumphed. "I wonder. Poeting isn't the honored profession it once was. With so few new bards, our numbers dwindle all the time. In a generation or two, we may vanish entirely from the face of the earth."

"That won't happen," said Geordi. "Not ever."

"You sound so sure. No man can see the future."

Geordi couldn't help but smile. "Why's that? I thought it was a storyteller's job to see things that aren't there."

Homer laughed heartily. "You lift my spirits, Geordi." A pause. "Have you ever thought of becoming a bard yourself?"

Geordi shrugged. "Once or twice, I guess. When I was younger. But that's not really what I'm good at. I like... well, machines. Engines. Warp..." He stopped himself. "Things like that."

"Machines, eh? That is one of the ways I've always thought of Odysseus. An engineer, a builder of things mechanical. The home, for instance, that carried the invaders into Troy."

"You know," said Geordi, "I've always been curious about that. I mean... didn't anyone at all think to look inside?"

"I have to admit," said Homer, "I've wondered about that myself." The moon pulled free of the hills as he thought about it. "My best guess is that Cassandra helped the Greeks without knowing it. Everyone considered the girl insane, you see. No one wanted to be associated with her. So when she warned them about the horse, everyone rushed forth to embrace it. To prove their sanity, as it were."

Geordi smiled. "That would explain it, I guess."

There were other questions he'd like to have asked. About the construction of the horse, for instance-an engineer's curiosity. But it occurred to him that his holodeck time was almost up, and he didn't want to be a pig about it.

"What's wrong, my friend?" Homer's brow had creased. "The muscles in your arm just tensed."

"Nothing," said Geordi. "Nothing really. It's just that it's time for me to go."

Homer nodded. "Back where you came from." It wasn't a question. "That faraway place."

"Yes. But I've still got time to walk you back to the house."

"Thank you," said the poet. "I am grateful."

"Don't mention it," said Geordi.

Commander William Riker felt as if he had done something wrong somehow. He said so.

"You shouldn't," said Troi. "You acted just as he would have expected-you put the welfare of the ship and its crew first."

They stood forward of the control consoles, dwarfed by the magnitude of the celestial tableau on the viewscreen. Her tone, like his, was confidential.

"Sure. But now that I think about it, the effect was a little humiliating-wasn't it? I mean, to be shooed from your own bridge like some kind of worn-out part... especially when your defenses are down, and you're vulnerable..."

"That's not the way it happened," she insisted. "Certainly, the captain could have remained if he had wanted to."

"You don't think I was too cavalier? Too flip?"

"On the contrary. You were really quite gentle. Quite diplomatic. And I'm sure the captain understands."

Riker sighed. "I hope so, Deanna. The last thing I want is for him to feel crowded by me. That's not why I'm here."

"Of course not," she said. "You know, it is funny. You are so solicitous of his feelings sometimes-much more so than you need be."

He shrugged. "I can't help but put myself in his position. The captain has been commanding starships for a long time and doing a damned fine job of it. Then I come along, maybe a little wet behind the ears-at least by his standards. Suddenly, he finds himself sharing some of his responsibilities-and some of his prerogatives as well."

"What's more," said Troi, "you're a constant reminder that he is closer to the end of his career than the beginning. You're a younger man, one with aspirations to command-aspirations you have never bothered to conceal."

He looked at her, cleared his throat. "Exactly."

"But don't you think," added the empath, "that he occasionally puts himself in your position-just as you put yourself in his? That he knows how difficult it can be to remain in the background, when one is capable of commanding one's own ship? And how a first officer must walk a tightrope between saying too little and saying too much?"

Riker shook his head. "You make it sound so simple, Counselor. It's one thing to appreciate the situation intellectually-and quite another to actually..."

"Commander?"

He turned in response to the voice. Wesley Crusher was standing just to one side of Data's Ops console.

"Yes, Ensign?"

"I think we've got something, sir."

Riker shot a glance at Troi and followed Wesley up the ramp to the afterbridge. He could feel his pulse speed up with anticipation.

"Exactly what is it you've got?" he asked, even before they reached the young man's station.

"It may be that ion trail we've been looking for." Wesley leaned past his empty chair and pointed to the scanner screen.

Riker took a look. What he saw took some of the edge off his optimism. "I'm no expert," he said, "but it seems like a very low concentration. What makes you think it came from the research ship?"

"Well," said Wesley, "it is a low concentration. But it's all relative, sir. If we were in a sector with a lot of activity, natural or otherwise, I'd say that it meant very little. But this area's been so clean up until now, I've got to believe it's significant."

Riker bit his lip as he studied the monitor. "Do you have enough information to project where the trail might lead?"

Wesley nodded. "I think so, yes." He called up a representation of the Trilik'kon Mahk'ti system and it supplanted the ion data. "You see those two planets-fourth and fifth from the sun? The trail seems to lead somewhere in there."

The first officer frowned. "That is, if it's really a trail in the first place."

Wesley looked at him. "Have we got anything to lose?" he asked.

Riker had to smile. "Good point, Ensign. Advise Mister Sharif of the coordinates and I'll authorize a course change."

"We won't need much," said the youth, his brow furrowing slightly as he made some quick computations on the screen. "In fact," he added with a note of mild surprise, "a couple of degrees to starboard ought to do the..." He stopped himself, looked up. And saw how Riker's eyes had narrowed in mock reproach. "Sorry, sir."

"That's all right," said the older man. "But I think we'll let Mister Sharif perform those calculations. After all, it is his job."

"Aye, sir," said Wesley. "I'll pass the information on to the conn."

"Thank you," said the first officer. Leaving matters in the ensign's capable hands, he descended the ramp again.

When he reached the command center, Troi was already seated in her usual spot. Riker sat down in the central chair-where the captain would have sat if he had been present.

"Lay in a course change," he instructed Sharif. "Mister Crusher is sending the coordinates."

"Aye, Commander," came the answer. "I've already got them."

"All right, then. Full impulse."

"Aye-full impulse, sir."

The ship surged effortlessly ahead-its progress evident only in the subtle movement of the planets on their viewer.

Troi looked at him expectantly. "So?" she prodded.

"We may have found the Mendel's ion trail," he said. "Though I'm not betting the farm on it. The evidence is very faint."

There was a pause in which the same question occurred to both of them. Troi was the one who finally voiced it.

"Are you going to let him know?" she asked.

Riker weighed the particulars of the situation. "No," he told her. Then, with more certainty, "Not quite yet. This mission obviously means a lot to him. Why raise his hopes just to dash them?"

Troi nodded but did not comment. Nor, having made up his mind, did he press her for her opinion.

Lieutenant Worf-just Worf, no compilation of wasteful syllables as was the custom among humans-set his teeth against the pain. It was terrible, excruciating. Like a flame that ate at him from within. At the corner of his mouth, a muscle twitched. With an effort, he forced it to stop.

After his unceremonious departure from the bridge, Worf had needed to burn off his frustration. It had never been easy for him to live among humans-to practice discipline, to observe the rules. Always, it seemed, there were rules, coming at him from every direction.

In this case, the rules had proven particularly onerous. He had acted out of loyalty and he had been publicly shamed for it. No doubt, the captain had believed he was practicing diplomacy. But then, really, he understood the Klingon mind and soul no better than anyone else.

So Worf had been on his way to the gym, and his locker here, even before Radzic and Pappas had walked in-discussing Picard's all-inclusive, no-exceptions recreation order. The Klingon took note of the fact that he was no longer alone in his expulsion-but it didn't serve to quench his fury any.

Only the rigors of battle could do that.

Worf glanced at the digital display he had programmed into the gymnasium wall. It showed him that he had been at this for thirty-two minutes and five seconds, ship's time. Six. Seven. Eight...

The eurakoi that he held in front of him, extended at arm's length, weighed slightly more than thirteen pounds a piece. They were made of shrogh, a metal as common in the Klingon Empire as it was rare in the Federation territories.

This was not a source of envy on the part of the Federation, nor had it ever been so. Shrogh was a fairly useless metal, difficult to alloy and too heavy to be helpful in the construction of space vessels. In fact, it was only mined at all to be employed in the manufacture of eurakoi.

Worf had discovered this particular pair in a pawnshop on Starbase 13. At the time, he had had mixed emotions about them.

Of course, there had been an eagerness to rescue the eurakoi from their ignominious fate as curiosities in the shop's display window. To put them back in the hands of a Klingon, where they belonged.

But there had also been a feeling that the things were not his-could never be his. A Klingon was given the eurakoi by his mother's eldest brother-that was the tradition. Any other way of obtaining them was considered tainted. Not necessarily wrong, but not quite right.