As they reached the row of trees bordering the road, Tanaka told her to hold her position and went on by himself. Part of her protested at being left behind while he scouted out their course, but she was so tired from the unaccustomed mode of travel that she wedged herself into a secure perch on a forked branch. Wrapping her arms tightly around the trunk, she surrendered to her exhaustion. She could not remember when she had felt so sweaty, so thirsty, and so downright miserable in her life.

Fifteen minutes later Tanaka swung onto the branch opposite her. His approach had been so quiet that she jumped in surprise as his hand closed on her shoulder.

"Easy," he murmured, keeping his hold on her. "I didn't realize you were so tired."

"I'm not tired," she protested, her words sounding like a spoiled child. "I'm just not used to this."

"Uh-huh." His tone was noncommittal, refusing the argument. "We've got to go down to the ground now. There's no other way to cross the road."

"Do we need to cross it?" All at once she realized that descending from the trees frightened her as much as climbing through them. Why couldn't they stay where they were until the Enterprise got a fix on them? How much longer could it possibly be before the ship located them? Surely her husband was in the transporter room, waiting for the sensors to give him their coordinates.

"I'm afraid we do. My leg needs treatment soon, and the only first aid kit around is in my tent." He squeezed her shoulder for a moment longer. "Besides, we both need sleep, and first-timers should be roped into their perches. I didn't think to bring any rope. Did you?"

Keiko forced a weak grin, although she knew he couldn't see her face. "Not even a millimeter. But is it safe to go down?"

Tanaka sighed. "I think so. At least I didn't see anyone around and the campsite seems deserted. If we cross the road here, circle around through the trees, and approach our tents from the other side, I think we'll be safe. I don't know what else to do."

"Then let's do it now, before I think of some other reason why you're wrong." She took a deep breath, trying to gather up the courage to match her brave words. If nothing else, they should collect their water bottles, first aid kit, and remaining ration bars from their camp. After that, returning to the trees might be their best course of action, but then they would be equipped to handle a long siege.

"That's the spirit!" Tanaka's cheer seemed forced, but Keiko decided not to examine it too closely. "Follow my lead down, since you've picked the best tree for it already."

The limbs were closely s.p.a.ced, making it easy for her to lower herself from one branch to the next without falling. Only the last stretch was bad, with a gap of twice her height between the bottom limbs and the ground.

Tanaka dropped first, swinging from the lowest branch and then releasing it. He grunted when his weight landed on his injured leg. Before Keiko could ask if he was all right, he whispered up at her, "Wrap your legs around the trunk and let yourself slide down. I'll catch you."

For a moment she clung to the last branch. Finally she released her hold and slid downward toward Tanaka. He caught her at waist height, where she could stand without sprawling in an undignified heap.

It was a pleasure to feel the solid ground beneath her boots, to not sway and bounce with every gust of wind or shift of weight. Keiko leaned against the tree, savoring the feeling of terra firma while the small night noises drifted around her. A squirrellike animal jumped from tree to tree above her head while the hunting cry of a nocturnal bird-a.n.a.log echoed through the forest. Everything seemed quiet, peaceful, undisturbed. She heard nothing to indicate the presence of a group of crazed Jarada anywhere nearby.

"Come!" Tanaka whispered, tugging on her sleeve. He started for the road, limping heavily on his injured leg. In spite of that, he slipped through the undergrowth as though he belonged there, barely making any noise. Keiko was hard pressed to keep her movements as quiet.

When they reached the road, they paused to look for Jarada. Everything seemed quiet, and Keiko could only hope that no one was waiting to ambush them. It seemed unlikely, given the irrational behavior the Jarada had shown earlier, but neither of them wanted to gamble unnecessarily. Finally, they took the chance, scooting across the road as fast as Tanaka's injured leg would let them.

On the other side, safely screened by the underbrush, Keiko sagged against a tree, limp with relief. More than anything, the tension was getting to her, draining her of what strength she had left. Tanaka, too, seemed to be losing his edge, his energy and enthusiasm waning with each step. He started off, keeping just inside the forest until he reached the closest approach to their tents.

From the protective shadows, the meadow was a vast and dangerous expanse that offered no shelter or escape from potential attackers. Thirty meters of waist-high gra.s.s separated them from the edge of the lake. Nothing moved, no small grazers or larger predators, no bird-a.n.a.logs or potential prey. Keiko shook her head, thinking how deceptively peaceful the gently nodding blades were. Overhead, the rusty ball of Bel-Major glared down on the scene like a bloodshot eye. She shivered, unable to shake the image of an angry G.o.d watching her.

"We'll have to crawl," she whispered at last, voicing the thought they both had been avoiding. She had known all along they would have to risk it, but she had hoped a miracle would alter things.

"You lead," Tanaka answered. "I'll be rear guard. If they surprise us, head for the water. I don't think they can swim."

"Right." Keiko crouched low and darted from the trees to the edge of the tall gra.s.s. She threw herself flat, holding her breath until Tanaka joined her. They lay still, listening for the uproar that would indicate they had been discovered. The silence enfolded them like a blanket, thick and soft, and after a bit Keiko began inching forward.

The gra.s.s was spiky and rough, sc.r.a.ping at her exposed skin with serrated blades. It was an effort to keep down and keep moving, but somehow she did. Behind her she heard Tanaka's slither and pause, carefully timed to sound random to any but the most discerning listener. Keiko had forgotten how uncomfortable crawling was, how the damp earth clung to her uniform and how every pebble in the entire field gouged her knees and elbows. She was grateful to finally see the silvered expanse of sand through the last clumps of gra.s.s.

Keiko looked out cautiously, checking both directions, but the beach was deserted. Wiggling up beside her, Tanaka gave a groan of dismay. At first she didn't see what had caught his attention, but when she did, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying in frustration. Where Tanaka had pitched his tent, the ground was littered with shredded cloth and scattered bits of destroyed equipment. She felt sick, thinking about the effort it had taken to get back here.

After the first shock had pa.s.sed, Keiko studied the campsite more carefully. Tanaka's tent, programmed the gaudy orange that no one could miss, was destroyed, his sleeping bag and other equipment trampled into the sand by their crazed hosts. However, Keiko's tent survived and a faint line of shadow marked its camouflaged edge. Against all odds the Jarada who had trashed the campsite had missed the second tent. Or had they?

Keiko shivered, wondering if the Jarada were waiting for them inside, hoping that the humans would a.s.sume they had missed the tent. She sketched the outline of shadow for Tanaka and then leaned close, whispering in his ear, "Is it a trap?"

He drew a deep breath, testing the air. Keiko copied him and smelled only the damp soil beneath her body. Tanaka's shoulder moved against hers as he shrugged, telling her that he couldn't determine whether any Jarada were still in the area. "I'll go first. If anyone jumps me, head for the water."

Rolling over the pile of boulders that separated the meadow from the beach, Tanaka slithered across the sand to the tent. For the first time, in the ruddy light reflected from Bel-Major, Keiko got a clear look at the gash on his leg. It ran nearly from knee to ankle and went deep into the muscle, although apparently no major blood vessels had been hit. He had stopped the bleeding with a makeshift tourniquet fashioned from his shredded pants leg. The binding was still loosely wrapped around his thigh, although Tanaka had long since released the pressure. However, the reason the wound had stopped bleeding was that Tanaka's calf was swollen nearly double its normal size. Keiko shuddered, wondering how much longer the leg could go untreated. Even with the Enterprise's advanced medical technology, such an injury could cause him to lose the leg if he did not get proper care soon.

Tanaka reached the tent and lifted the edge of the flap. No one attacked at the movement, and he eased himself inside. Keiko watched, but except for a brief jiggle the tent remained motionless. Taking a deep breath, she slipped from the cover of the gra.s.s. She felt terribly exposed, as if she were standing naked before the entire crew of the Enterprise, but she forced herself to dash to the tent.

Quickly, she searched the remains of Tanaka's tent until she located his undamaged canteen and the nearly indestructible box of the first aid kit, half buried in the sand. She freed both objects and hurried inside, hoping no hostile observers had seen her. Logic told her that they were safe, that the Jarada would not expect to find them here after their possessions had been destroyed, but Keiko did not want to take any chances. At least if she was in the tent, she was hidden from view; she hoped that would be enough to protect her from further attacks.

Tanaka had collapsed across her sleeping bag, his breathing shallow and feverish. She tried to get him to move, but he didn't respond. After a second attempt she decided he was unconscious and likely to stay that way. Under the circ.u.mstances it seemed unwise to make him too comfortable, so she left his boots on but tugged the sleeping bag out from under him to use as a blanket for both of them.

Before she slept, though, Keiko knew that Tanaka's leg needed as much care as she could give it. She draped the sleeping bag over herself and pulled out the flashlight to examine the injury. Dried blood caked the wound and streaked the leg. The edges of the cut were yellowish-white and crusted with dried pus, but most of the calf was a dark purplish-red and hot to the touch. Keiko shuddered, thinking she had never seen a wound become so badly infected so rapidly. Most likely, the Jarada's claws exuded something toxic to humans.

She cleaned the gash as best she could, unwilling to disturb the scabs, and slathered antibiotic ointment into the wound. Looking at the leg, she knew her treatment was completely inadequate, but their first aid supplies were an emergency stopgap, intended to patch someone up before beaming back to the ship. Nothing in the kit was intended for situations like this. Tanaka shivered, his body burning with fever. For good measure, Keiko dug out the hypo and injected him with a double dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics and an antivenom shot.

Then, with nothing more she could do, she stretched out on the air mattress beside Tanaka and pulled the sleeping bag over both of them. Miles will find us soon, she promised herself, trying to hold her apprehension at bay. She had intended to keep watch, but in spite of her best intentions, exhaustion claimed her and she drifted off into an uneasy sleep filled with nightmares of friendly insectoid beings that changed into enemies when she turned her back on them.

Sometime much later Keiko drifted back to consciousness, awakened by the sound of several Jarada talking outside the tent.

Chapter Seventeen.

THE DANK, MOLDY TUNNEL seemed to go on forever, with no cross-tunnels or intersecting shafts that offered any hope of escape. The thick mud squelched under Worf's boots, a constant reminder of how far underground he was. After ten minutes the corridor ended in a T-shaped intersection. He started to the right, but found his way blocked by a cave-in before he had gone more than fifty meters.

He reversed his course and tried the other direction, but found that the builders had stopped their excavation just beyond the intersection. That left him with two options, neither good. He could return the way he had come, hoping to find another escape route before his pursuers found him. Or he could try to worm his way through the cave-in and hope that an exit lay beyond it.

It didn't take Worf long to decide. Clearly, he had to get back to the captain to warn him of what was happening to the Jarada. His chances of fighting off the overwhelming odds he would face if he retraced his steps were slim. Although a warrior's greatest ambition was to die in battle, death should count for something. To deliberately court suicidal odds when he had other options, however distasteful, was not the warrior's way. With a growl of frustration Worf headed back for the cave-in.

He studied the pile of mud and rubble, trying to make sense of the chaos. Rotting timbers sagged from the ceiling and jutted from the dirt at drunken angles. He prodded a two-decimeter beam, wiggling it until he discovered that it had once been anch.o.r.ed in the tunnel wall. Apparently the builders had tried to sh.o.r.e up the roof at that point, with little success. From somewhere within or beyond the collapsed section he heard the trickle of running water, a constant drip and gurgle that added to his uneasiness. There was too much water in these tunnels, so much that he felt as though an entire lake were poised over his head waiting to sluice over him.

Worf climbed halfway up the mound and prodded at the gap near the ceiling, looking for a hole big enough to crawl through. At first the s.p.a.ces he found were barely large enough to accommodate a human child. He was almost ready to give up, when the rotting beam again caught his attention. It was wedged between two large boulders and half buried under the mud, but if he could pull the end free, Worf thought he could just barely wiggle through the hole.

Planting his boots into the slippery muck, he shoved against one of the boulders. At first it would not budge, but finally, with a revolting sucking noise, it came free of its muddy coc.o.o.n and rolled down the incline.

The second boulder was more difficult. Even when he braced himself against the side of the tunnel and shoved with all his strength, Worf could not get enough leverage to force it loose. Finally, he realized he was not going to budge the rock, so he turned his attention to removing the beam.

Lying flat on his back in the cold, slimy mud, Worf kicked upward, aiming at the unsupported middle of the obstruction. The rotten wood gave a tortured groan and cracked under the impact. Three more powerful kicks widened the break. Worf scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms around the beam. Throwing his weight backward, he jerked against the weakened section. It yielded slowly, creaking and groaning in protest. Worf continued the pressure until the beam snapped. Overbalanced from the effort, he tumbled backward down the slope and fetched up against the boulder he had managed to move. The impact knocked his breath from his body.

Grunting from the shock, Worf climbed to his feet and crawled up the mound to examine his handiwork, slithering half a step backward for every step he took. A bristly, ragged break separated the two sections of the beam. By tugging the broken ends aside, Worf was able to create a hole that could just accommodate a Klingon. He poked his head into the opening beyond.

The trickle of running water was louder, and it echoed in the empty s.p.a.ce. He could see nothing in the darkness, even after he let his eyes adjust to the minimal light that leaked in from the corridor behind him. He felt around with his hands, but encountered only emptiness overhead. A vertical wall rose above him, its surface unnaturally smooth.

Worf slid backward until he regained his footing. To get anywhere, he needed a light. If he had a phaser, he could dry out the rotten wood and use it for a torch. On the other hand, if he had a phaser, he wouldn't be in this mess. The stun setting would easily have eliminated the threat from the crazed Jarada, and he could have rejoined the captain long before.

He started back along the corridor, studying each of the glowstrips. Most were in such poor condition that it wasn't worth the effort to remove them from their brackets. Finally, he found one strip that still put out a consistent, if weak, glow. It was firmly attached to the wall and it took Worf several tries to break it loose from its fasteners. Bearing his prize, he returned to the cave-in.

In the feeble light from the glowstrip, the opening extended upward into darkness. Worf examined the walls carefully, confirming his guess that the builders had intended to put an enclosed ramp here. The sides of the shaft were smooth as far up as he could see, although the far wall was buried under a ma.s.s of mud and debris that filled the bottom of the shaft and spilled out into the corridor beyond. Water slicked the walls and pooled in the low places near the perimeter of the shaft.

A steel rod, about three centimeters in diameter and with a rust-streaked surface, jutted upward in the center of the opening. Worf climbed up to its level and pushed against it, testing its strength. With one hand clamped around the rod, the other hand just reached the wall. The rod flexed slightly but seemed sound and well anch.o.r.ed, and Worf guessed that its upper end was still anch.o.r.ed to the construction bolts. Apparently the cave-in had halted all work on this part of the complex. He just hoped the shaft opened out on another level before it ended.

Wedging the glowstrip under the edge of his sash, Worf started to climb up the slippery pile of mud. His progress was slow, with each step carrying him back downhill almost as fast as he could pull his boots free for the next step. After fifteen minutes of slithering and sliding he reached the top of the mound of waterlogged dirt. Smooth walls extended upward on all sides of the shaft.

Muttering with frustration, Worf held the glowstrip over his head, trying to see what lay farther up the shaft. The mud under his feet had come from somewhere, and he had been gambling that it had fallen from a hole that he could use for an escape route. At first he thought he had lost his bet, but then he saw a darker shadow on the wall just at the limit of his vision. It was difficult to estimate distances in the uncertain light, but he guessed that the darker spot was about seven meters above his head, which put it two levels above the corridor where he had started. If he was right, the upper corridor had crumbled into the shaft when the construction crews connected the two. All he had to do was get to that upper tunnel.

Holding on to the central rod for support, Worf played the glowstrip over the sides of the shaft. The finish was smooth, almost polished, and showed no signs of obvious deterioration. Briefly, he wondered why the Jarada had not used the same coating on all these lower tunnels to exclude the moisture rather than foolishly building kilometers of corridors that fast became unusable. The mud beneath his feet shifted, forcing him to take two steps to regain his position. That triggered another train of thought, suggesting that perhaps the moisture buildup behind the coating was what had caused the cave-in.

Such speculations did not solve his immediate problem, however. The shaft was too wide for him to jackknife his way up it and the surface was too slick to provide any handholds. That left only the central rod. He shook it again, listening to the hum of the vibrating metal and wondering how strong its anchoring bolts were. Given the condition of these tunnels, he was reluctant to bet his life on the st.u.r.diness of the fastening. Still, if he could not escape by climbing up the rod, he would be forced to return the way he had come.

His decision made, Worf tucked the glowstrip back under his sash and started up the steel rod, hand over hand. The damp, rusty surface of the metal bit into his hands, alternately aiding and hindering him. He tried to keep his movements slow and deliberate to avoid excess stress on the upper end, but he could feel the metal flexing under his unbalanced weight. Worf decided to move faster, trying to shinny up the rod before it broke loose.

Three meters. Four meters. Five. He was beginning to hope he could make it when the ominous screech of a bolt pulling loose from rock echoed down the shaft. The rod shuddered and started to sag toward the wall. Worf grabbed another handhold higher on the rod, abandoning all caution and trying to climb high enough while he still had time.

A second bolt shrieked and a rain of mud and small pebbles pelted Worf. He lunged upward again, bringing himself to the level of the dark shadow he had noticed from below. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder, confirming that this spot was the scar where the tunnel had collapsed into the shaft.

The edge looked crumbly and weak, and Worf doubted that it would hold his weight. The bar shimmied beneath him, and Worf didn't need to see the anchors to know that only one bolt was left. He made another grab, hoping to get the last bit of height he needed just as the remaining fastener pulled loose.

The steel rod snapped against the side of the shaft with a deafening clang. Worf hung on with desperate strength, hoping his weight would dampen the rebound. The glowstrip slipped loose from his sash and tumbled away, quickly swallowed by the darkness beneath his feet. His knuckles sc.r.a.ped against the rock, but the rest of his body encountered only air.

Worf loosened his legs from around the rod and pushed off, trying to swing himself as far into the opening as he could. Trusting to luck, he released the bar and dropped to the mud, throwing himself backward to get the maximum body area in contact with the floor. Even so, he slid downward and, despite his efforts, arrested his descent only after his boots were hanging out into thin air.

Carefully, Worf rolled over onto his stomach and wiggled uphill. The mud sloped upward toward the ceiling, again blocking his way. Without the glowstrip he had to explore by touch alone, probing with his fingers to find any openings. At first it seemed like he was out of luck, with the mud blocking this tunnel completely. Finally, he located a gap that was just too narrow for his shoulders.

Muttering under his breath, Worf began clawing at the damp, clayey soil. It gooped through his fingers and clung to his hands as if it were glued there, cold and slimy and repulsive, but slowly he forced his way through it. After three meters of squirming on his belly like a snake, the pa.s.sageway became wider and drier. Phosph.o.r.escent patches, possibly bacteria released from broken glowstrips, shed faint, patchy light into the tunnel.

Getting to his hands and knees, Worf began crawling, eager to escape the cramped pa.s.sageway. It seemed to go on and on, an endless nightmare of cold and wet and mud. He was in so much of a hurry that he didn't notice the subdued buzz of Jarada voices until he almost fell on the two guardians.

Suddenly aware of his danger, Worf froze, berating himself for his lack of caution. The dirt that clogged the tunnel ended abruptly against a wooden retaining wall. A short distance away, a similar barricade closed off the tunnel from a brightly lit corridor beyond. In the s.p.a.ce between the barriers, two Jarada were clutching each other and writhing on the ground. More insanity? Or simply illicit behavior such as drugs or forbidden dueling? Worf decided he didn't want to know.

Creeping back from the edge, he reversed his position. Feetfirst, he dropped over the wall. Grabbing the Jarada by their necks, he cracked their heads together with his full strength. Both sagged to the ground, unconscious. Leaving them, Worf crossed to the second barricade and looked over it. He was in a well-lit, dry corridor that ended a few meters to the right at a well-marked door. As he watched, it opened and a dozen guardians marched out, moving at double time. Worf ducked below the barrier and waited until the clatter of their claws faded into the distance.

When he was sure the corridor was deserted, he climbed over the barricade and headed for the door. Much to his surprise, it responded to the same sequence as the others: 1-1-3-2-1-2-3-3-1. He entered the shaft and started up, counting doorways. If he was right, he needed to climb four levels to reach the ground floor.

Once, halfway to his goal, Worf heard another troupe of guardians enter below him. However, his luck held and they went down, the clatter of their claws receding as they descended. The shaft ended in a flat landing at what Worf thought was ground level. For a moment, thinking that the shaft's entrance might be public, Worf considered retreating one level. If he did that, he would have to find another way out of the building, and he had seen more than enough of the underground tunnels.

He entered the lock code one last time and waited for the door to open. The mechanism was sluggish, jerking the door a moment before pulling it back into the wall. Worf stepped into the deserted corridor and saw the most welcome sight of his life. A broad, arched door that opened onto a wide avenue was opposite him. In three long strides Worf crossed the s.p.a.ce and shoved the door open.

It was dark outside, with the huge rusty ball of Bel-Major casting an amber half-light across everything. Worf looked around, trying to get his bearings. Through a gap in the bushes he saw a broad, swift-moving river flowing beside the building he had just left. He started toward the water with a sinking feeling in his gut. Almost certainly, if his sense of direction had not completely betrayed him, the Governance Complex-and Captain Picard-was on the far side of the river.

The road turned to the left and dipped downward through a dense wall of bushes. Following his instincts, he started toward the river. From the other side of the hedge Worf saw the spidery strands of a bridge stretching across the water and the globular architecture of the Governance Complex on the far bank. He started toward the bridge, wondering if things could really be so easy.

He studied the layout from the cover of the bushes, looking for concealed obstacles. The deck of the bridge was broad and unguarded, inviting him to cross. No one moved on either side of the river. Their information on the Jarada had not said when the insectoids slept or how long their sleep cycle was, but Worf decided he would not have a better opportunity than now.

He was nearing the middle of the bridge, keeping to the shadows as much as he could, when he heard the hum of a vehicle behind him. He broke into a jog, trying to reach one of the support pylons before he was spotted. Several of the deck plates were missing on the far side of the road, and the edges of the holes were warped. In his haste Worf failed to notice the loose plate ahead of him. His foot landed on its edge and knocked it free.

Worf felt his footing drop out from under him and grabbed for the rim of the hole, a moment too late. His fingers slipped off the metal decking and he dropped toward the river, fifty meters below.

Chapter Eighteen.

THE INTERCOM ROUSED PICARD from a fitful sleep. "Go ahead," he told the computer as he swung his feet to the floor and tugged his uniform into place. Sleeping in his clothes was not something he usually did anymore, but the events of the last few hours had revived old habits. Far too often in the old days, patrolling the Neutral Zone, the entire command crew of the Stargazer had been forced to sleep as they were and when they could for days at a stretch. The continual alerts were one thing he certainly did not miss in his current a.s.signment aboard the Enterprise.

"Selar, here," the speaker announced. "I have preliminary results on the Jarada pilots, if you would come to sickbay."

"I'll be there as soon as possible, Doctor." He tapped his communicator as he stood. "Mr. Data, meet me and Dr. Selar in sickbay in five minutes."

"Yes, Captain," the android answered.

Data arrived from the bridge just as the turbolift deposited Picard outside sickbay. They entered together, threading their way through the complex of treatment rooms and laboratories to the security area where the Jarada were being held. The tall Vulcan doctor greeted them with a brief nod and activated her monitor.

"What did you find, Doctor?" Picard skimmed the columns of data, but the information made no sense to him. That was not really a surprise, since he knew only enough biochemistry to realize how complex the field was. He glanced at Data and was surprised to see a puzzled flown creasing the android's face. Selar's results must be unusual, if the readout could produce that reaction from Data.

"Preliminary results are that both Jarada pilots are suffering a form of insanity due to biochemical imbalance." Selar's voice was calm and level, as though she were reporting the status of inventories in the medical storage locker. "They appear to be suffering from intense paranoid delusions, particularly the delusion that everyone they meet is attempting to destroy their world. Unless they are kept drugged and under restraints, they press home ferocious attacks against any individual who comes within reach. Unfortunately, the levels of sedation that we have been forced to use distort their biochemistry further and interfere with some of our tests."

"Doctor, do you have any explanation for the cause of this biochemical imbalance?" Even as he asked the question, Picard had a sinking feeling that he already knew the answer. The Federation had so little information about normal Jarada that it would be virtually impossible for Selar to explain abnormal Jarada.

"We have taken scans of all their biological functions. Unfortunately, I was unable to locate any records of normal Jaradan physiology to use for comparison purposes. All the readings transmitted by the away team from the planet must be considered suspect, until we understand the underlying cause of this aberration." A hint of frustration flickered across Selar's face before she resumed her impa.s.sive Vulcan mask. "Without baseline information I will be forced to conduct a random search until I can determine what the problem is."

Data stepped closer, examining the readings before turning to face Picard. "Captain, may I make a suggestion? My positronic brain contains the biochemical specifications for one thousand seven hundred and twenty intelligent and semi-intelligent species. With Dr. Selar's help I could compare the structure of the various Jaradan enzymes with those for other races. If I can spot any comparable structures, we should be able to shorten the search process considerably."

Picard glanced at Selar for her reaction. She lifted both her eyebrows to indicate she had no objections. "If Commander Data is willing to help me locate the necessary information, I shall be grateful for the a.s.sistance."

"In that case, make it so. Contact me as soon as you have something to report."

"Yes, Captain."

The Vulcan doctor and the android turned to their task, with Selar calling up the descriptions of each enzyme while Data searched his memory for a.n.a.logs. Picard watched for long enough to realize just how tedious the process would be and then left, unheeded. Their discussion followed him until the door closed.

With all thought of sleep driven from his head, Picard headed for the bridge. He could have called in his request for a progress report on the search just as easily, but he suddenly felt an urge to check things in person. It was the type of hunch a commander ignored at his own peril.

When Picard stepped out of the turbolift, Geordi looked up from the engineering console, his face registering surprise. "Captain!"

Picard crossed to Geordi's side to see what he was doing. "Mr. La Forge, I didn't think this was your shift."

Geordi gave an apologetic shrug. "Data showed me his latest simulations on how the Jarada might be disrupting our sensors and the patterns kept running through my head. I couldn't sleep, so I decided to try adjusting the sensors to compensate for the hypothetical interference. It beats worrying about it half the night."

The captain leaned over to study the display more carefully. Geordi was working with a theoretical model for the jamming signal, trying to guess the wave frequency and interference characteristics of the radiation the Jarada might be using to distort the Enterprise's sensor readings. Half a dozen waveforms of varying frequencies twisted across on the screen, adding and subtracting from each other to create a tangled composite. "Hypothetical interference? Can't our sensors at least tell us if someone is disrupting our scan?"

The chief engineer shook his head. "No, Captain. That's one of our main problems. The background radiation in this system has been giving us problems from the word go. As we orbit around Bel-Major, we pa.s.s in and out of its radiation tail, which further complicates the readings. Also, Data has virtually proven that the Jarada stole most of the specs for our system when they scanned us at Torona IV. So-if these Jarada have that information, and if they really are scrambling our scans, they're keying their interference off all the natural problems we'd be having anyway. In fact, we were getting similar results earlier when we ran simulations on how to maintain the transporter lock, and I think we're supposed to believe that it's natural. Of course, the only way we'll know for sure that they're jamming our equipment is when we succeed in breaking through."