In Worf's case, there had been no possibility of receiving the eurakoi in the prescribed manner. His immediate family was dead; he barely remembered them. Having been raised by humans on a Federation world, he had never even heard of eurakoi until they turned up in a cultural tape at Starfleet Academy.

He knew now that they had become a symbol for him then-of the extent to which he had been divorced from his Klingon heritage. Of the schism within him, across which his born-Klingon and raised-human selves constantly eyed one another with suspicion.

And so, for Worf-ironically, perhaps-the use of the eurakoi had a greater meaning than for others. It was not only his strength he put to the test, his ability to deny gravity its rightful prize; it was also the degree to which the Klingon in him had survived.

The display showed thirty-six minutes and twelve seconds. He could feel the pain mounting, shooting through his wrists, his shoulders, his neck. His muscles spasmed and cramped as he fought to keep them steady.

Unbidden, the thought came to him that he had only substituted one form of discipline for another-Klingon discipline for human discipline. But the Klingon brand was liberating for him, while the human kind was stifling.

A contradiction? Not to one who appreciated the subtleties of the Klingon psyche.

Thirty-seven minutes and fifty-seven seconds. Fifty-eight...

Once, a Vulcan classmate at the Academy had taught him a method of submerging physical discomfort. Of letting it sink to a level at which it could be managed-tamed. And finally ignored.

But that was not the Klingon way. The whole point of the eurakoi exercise was to experience the pain. To meet it head-on, to embrace it. And then to laugh in its ugly face.

Anything less would make his victory a hollow one.

Thirty-nine minutes and forty-four seconds. Forty-five...

It was agony now. Sheer, unadulterated agony. Even his breath was coming harder. Sweat ran down the sides of his face from his temples-and a Klingon did not perspire easily.

Worf glared at the eurakoi as he would have glared at a living enemy. He noted the humpbacked shape of them, the grisly carvings that depicted the violence of his people's earliest beginnings. The way the dull, dark metal seemed to absorb the light, giving off only the faintest of reflections.

His lips curled back from his teeth, wolflike. Deep in his throat, so deep it was audible only to him, he growled long and low.

He wanted very much to put the eurakoi down. He could not remember anything he had ever desired so fervently.

But he would not be defeated. He would not allow himself to be defeated.

Forty-one minutes and thirty seconds. Only three and a half minutes to go...

"Worf?"

The Klingon did not dare turn his head. But then, he didn't have to. The voice was a familiar one. And a moment or two later, he saw Data's approach out of the corner of his eye.

The android's head was tilted slightly to one side as he came up alongside Worf. His brow was slightly wrinkled, his golden eyes alight with curiosity.

The Klingon concentrated on the eurakoi.

"If I may ask," said Data, "what are you doing?"

"Exercising," snarled Worf.

The android thought about that for a second, then registered mild surprise.

"Really? That is very interesting. I had always thought that exercise involved movement. And yet, except for that trembling in your arms, you are hardly moving at all."

The Klingon's teeth ground together. "My arms... are not... trembling," he said.

Data looked closer. "It certainly looks as if they are trembling. Or perhaps 'trembling' is the wrong word. Would 'shuddering' be more to the point?"

"They... are not... shuddering... either." Each word was an ordeal. But Worf could not allow himself to seem weak. Not even in front of Data.

The android regarded him with a strange expression. As if he had caught on that there was a discrepancy between his own perceptions and those of the Klingon. Or at least, a difference in their interpretations of the physical evidence.

And if he didn't quite know why that should be, he appeared to have the sense not to press the issue. Worf was grateful for that much.

Forty-two minutes and eighteen seconds.

"Would you prefer that I went away?" asked Data. "Until you finish... exercising?"

Worf would indeed have preferred that. But the android was his comrade-his fellow officer. He could not simply rebuff him-not as he had been rebuffed by Picard.

"No," Worf squeezed between clenched teeth. "You may... stay."

Data's face brightened. "Thank you," he said. And folding his arms across his chest, he continued to watch-as immobile as the Klingon would liked to have been.

But the android was right-despite Worf's denials. He saw that his massive, white-knuckled hands were beginning to tremble. The eurakoi each felt like many times their actual weight. He might have been holding up a whole shuttlecraft, the way his body screamed for relief.

Forty-three minutes and six seconds.

Not much longer to go-objectively speaking. But to Worf, it seemed like a lifetime. The pain was giving way now to a numbness-a lack of control that was infinitely harder to master. Slowly, the eurakoi started to sink from shoulder level.

The Klingon stifled a whimper. No!

But he couldn't help it. There was hardly any feeling left in his forearms or in his hands. The shrogh weights were getting the best of him.

"I see," said Data unexpectedly, "that you are about to fail at this exercise."

Worf glowered at him. Bile rose in his throat like liquid anger.

"But then," Data went on, "I did not believe you would succeed. After all, you are only flesh and blood. And flesh, as the saying goes, is weak."

Worf could not believe the android's insolence. It was more than mere navete- it was a direct and purposeful insult. The warrior inside him uncoiled, surged to the surface.

"Are you angry with me?" asked Data. "Do you wish to wring my neck?"

Worf's rage made him inarticulate. All he could do was sputter and hiss like a trapped animal.

The android grinned-grinned! -with satisfaction. "Good. I was afraid that my words would not have the desired effect."

Worf almost lost control-came within a hair, in fact, of lashing out at Data with the eurakoi.

And then he realized what the android was doing.

He looked up at the digital display.

Forty-four minutes and fifty-seven seconds. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine...

Forty-five minutes.

With a howl of triumph, Worf knelt and let his hands-still holding the eurakoi-come crashing down to the padded deck. For a moment, he knelt there, savoring his accomplishment.

Then he peered up at Data.

"You did it," said the android, obviously pleased with himself. "And I helped."

"Yes," rumbled Worf. "You helped." But he couldn't keep a note of rancor out of his voice entirely.

in a sense, Data's intervention had cheapened his victory. It had distracted him, even as the Vulcan technique would have-and thereby eased the path to his goal.

But that was all history now. Challenges were things of the moment; what was past was past. And whatever might be said of Klingons, they did not bear grudges. Not unless they were big ones.

"You see," said Data, "once I came to understand the nature of your exercise, it was a simple matter to devise a ploy to spur you on. As the Klingon psyche does not respond significantly to encouragement, I chose to taunt you. To mock you. To question your abilities..."

"Yes," said Worf, cutting the android off. "It is clear to me now."

Data's smile faded a little. "I hope I was not... what is the expression? Out of line?" He regarded the Klingon. "Perhaps it was presumptuous of me to interfere."

Worf scowled, shook his head. What could one say to someone like Data? "No," he assured him. "You did not overstep your bounds."

The android's smile came back with renewed enthusiasm. "I am glad, then, to have been of service."

Leaving the eurakoi on the floor, Worf stood. He towered over Data by half a head.

"What are you doing in the gym anyway? I thought you had no need of physical education."

"True," said Data. "No more than I have need of other forms of diversion. But the captain ordered us to recreate, and he did not make my case an exception." He paused. "I had thought to spend some time on a holodeck, but they all seem to be in use. Nor was there anyone I knew in Ten Forward, so... here I am."

Worf grunted. "Here you are."

The android glanced around at the various activity areas, shrugged. "Would you care for a game of Ping-Pong?"

"Ping-Pong?" said Worf.

"Yes. I have seen it played in tapes. And if I am not mistaken, the Ping-Pong table Commander Riker created is still right over there."

The Klingon eyed the table, snorted. "No," he said. "Thank you." And stooping to pick up his eurakoi, he went to replace them in his locker.

Doctor Katherine Pulaski sat on the hard edge of a lab table, her arms folded across her chest, considering the sleeping form of Giancarlo Fredi through the transparent wall of the critical care area.

He was a lucky man. If one of Worf's security people hadn't found him when she did, he would no doubt have died in that lonely science-section corridor.

The doctor consulted the monitor on Fredi's biobed, saw that everything was more or less stable-except for one thing. The toxin in his bloodstream was gradually building up again.

Maybe lucky wasn't quite the right word after all.

Initially, Pulaski had gone with the obvious hypothesis: that the geologist had been exposed to the poison during his away duty on Baldwin-McKean's Planet. However, his exposure had taken place weeks ago, and that was a long time for even a slow-acting toxin to make its presence felt. What's more, if the problem were a simple poisoning, the blood purifier would have taken care of it-and it hadn't. Minutes after the purging process was complete, the toxin was evident again. And a second purge hadn't managed to get rid of it either-not permanently.

Which added up to one thing-the toxin was being manufactured by something in Fredi's system. An alien bacterium had taken hold inside him-in quantities small enough to have gotten past the transporter sensors, which meant really small-and then, given time, had multiplied to the point where it could generate a significant level of toxin.

It sounded good. Unfortunately, there was no alien bacterium-or at least none she could find. But if a bacterium wasn't responsible... then where in blazes was the poison coming from? Something had to be producing it. It couldn't very well be materializing out of thin air.

Fredi stirred and turned his head toward her. For a moment, his eyes blinked, as if at a bright light. Then he fell asleep again.

It brought her maternal instinct to the surface. The man was only a couple of years her junior, but that didn't matter. In a sense, all doctors felt like mothers to their patients.

She bit her lip. Enough romanticizing. She had some work ahead of her.

Fredi himself would be all right for a while. As long as his blood was purified every so often, his symptoms wouldn't get any worse. As for the rest of the crew... well, that was another story.

Those who had been part of the Baldwin-McKean away team were naturally at risk. They would have to be tested for evidence of the toxin. And even if they tested negative, they'd have to be watched closely for a while-in case the ailment took even longer to develop in their cases.

What's more, in the weeks since they'd left Baldwin-McKean, there had been plenty of time for Fredi to pass on the disease-assuming, of course, that it was contagious.

The fact that Fredi's case was the only one she'd encountered so far was encouraging-but hardly conclusive. Until Pulaski knew exactly what this ailment was, she had to entertain all possibilities.

Hence, the quarantine order. Not only for Fredi, but also for the other Baldwin-McKean away team members, once they were identified and brought to sickbay.

The thing to do now was to inform the captain-even before she rounded up the others who'd participated in the Baldwin-McKean survey. If the disease did prove to be communicable, she didn't want Picard caught by surprise.

Not that there would be anything he could do about it. That responsibility would come to rest squarely on her shoulders.

Chapter Three.

RIKER HEARD the last of Pulaski's report. He nodded as if she were standing there in front of him, rather than communicating from her office in sickbay.

"Thank you, Doctor," he told her. "Need any help corralling the rest of the survey team?"

"I can do that myself," said Pulaski. "I know how quickly you bureaucrats roll into action."

Riker chuckled. "All right," he said. "Have it your way."

As luck would have it, he had missed that rather uneventful away mission, having entrusted it to Ensign Pappas. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked.

"No," said the chief medical officer. "That will be all-for now."

Having gotten what she wanted, Pulaski terminated the exchange. Again, Riker couldn't help but be a little amused. The doctor was so brusque sometimes. But then, in a perverse way, that was part of her charm.

Right now, of course, he was glad that the conversation hadn't drawn on. There were more important matters with which to contend.