"He's in a rush," explained Cold Angel, "because he smells the hay and the well water. The village is just ahead."

"Where?" asked Worf doubtfully, peering into the gloom. Endless trees masked any hint of civilization.

"You'll see it at first light," answered the man in the plastic pig mask, dismounting from his pony. "I don't want to enter the village in darkness. The people might mistake us for a raiding party."

Worf c.o.c.ked his Page's Mask. "Are raiders and thieves a problem?"

"Not to me, no." The brawny animal trainer shrugged. "That rabble usually haven't got the stomach for a fight." He fingered his flimsy Halloween mask. "But sometimes I have to do combat. That's why I've got to get this mask fortified."

"Do thieves wear a certain type of mask?" Worf asked sarcastically.

"Of course," said Cold Angel. "They wear the Raider's Mask, which is painted red and is often armored and st.u.r.dy." He fingered the little green top hat of his pig mask. "This represents an animal, doesn't it?"

The Klingon nodded. "I believe it does, but I am no expert on human masks or human livestock."

"You're not a human, then?" asked the Lorcan matter-of-factly, loosening his saddle cinch.

Worf wanted to avoid conflict with his guide, so he chose his words carefully. "I amhumanoid, which is very close. But there are differences."

Cold Angel slid the saddle-little more than a wooden sawhorse with oilskin stretched over it-off his pony, which was protected by coa.r.s.e blankets. "Worf," he observed, "I can tell you don't understand our masks. You probably see them as a form of vanity."

"At first I did," admitted the lieutenant, removing his own pony's saddle and blanket. "In other human cultures, masksare a form of vanity. But here on Lorca, the masks have practical applications. The mask indicates a person's profession and social status."

Cold Angel again fingered his pig's mask. "Because it bears the likeness of an animal, thisis a Trainer's Mask, isn't it."

"Of course." Worf nodded.

He could almost imagine the Lorcan smiling behind his ridiculous mask as he spread his blankets on the ground and lay on them. "Get some sleep now, humanoid. We have about an hour before daybreak."

Night was but a rumor aboard theEnterprise . Not a single light was dimmed during the yellow alert called by Acting Captain Geordi La Forge. Geordi had called the alert mainly to keep the transporter rooms at full readiness, but he hoped the extra activity would keep the ship's population too busy to worry about the captain. By now even the children had heard that the captain and his party had lost contact with the ship. The adults went about their increased duties stoically, forming bulkhead safety crews, helping out in sickbay and engineering, and suspending normal scientific pursuits to study the mysterious red planet.

As intensely as they studied Lorca during fifteen orbits, its swirling magnetic clouds did not divulge any secrets. The whereabouts of Captain Picard, Counselor Troi, and Lieutenant Worf remained unknown. Geordi's frequent contact with Commander Riker offered some comfort, but their mutual efforts on two separate fronts had turned up nothing. Lorca remained an enigma, and the first away team remained lost. Geordi could sit in the captain's chair and stare at viewscreens and readouts, but nothing was going to make him relax until he heard the captain's voice.

Wesley Crusher had the conn for two straight shifts without a break.At least two straight shifts, thought Geordi, remembering that he had been on duty longer than that and hadn't seen anyone else at the console. The young man had the stamina of, well, a sixteen-year-old, but that didn't mean he should be worked to exhaustion.

Had the yellow alert gone on too long? the engineer wondered. The crew had pa.s.sed the point of readiness and reached the state of edginess. Unfortunately, the quick return of either away team did not seem likely. They could orbit this planet for weeks before finding the captain. Perhaps the captain and the amba.s.sador were engaged in sensitive negotiations and didn't want to be found or forced to return immediately. Worse possibilities entered Geordi's mind, and none of them would require the continuation of the alert.

"Lieutenant La Forge to all hands," he announced. "Yellow alert is now canceled. Transporter rooms, maintain ready status until further notice. Repeat, yellow alert is canceled."

He glanced at Wesley and saw the boy looking back at him with the trace of a smile on his lips. "It's night for the away teams," Wesley observed. "This would be a good time for you to take a break."

"What are you, ship's doctor now?" grumped Geordi, managing a weary smile himself. "We both need a break."

He peered around at a full complement of relief personnel, judging them not by the outward appearances others saw but by the electromagnetic impulses and brain activity revealed by his visor. One ageless Vulcan woman had a nervous system that was particularly composed and balanced, despite the highly charged mind that ran it. She was only an ensign, but he knew instinctively he could depend on her.

"Ensign, you have the bridge," Geordi said with a sweep of his hand from the woman to the captain's chair.

The Vulcan didn't bat an eyelash as she stepped down from her aft station into the command area.

Geordi strode to the turbolift. "If there's any communication from the planet, patch it to me immediately in the Ten-Forward lounge."

"Aye, sir."

"Ensign Crusher, I have a special request for you," he added.

Wesley looked up eagerly. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Accompany me to Ten-Fore. Your shift is over."

The ensign joined Geordi, and the two of them stood silently in the turbolift, letting waves of exhaustion sweep over them. Both of them would gladly have served two more shifts in a row if it would have helped to bring their missing comrades back. But they both knew that staying on the bridge was akin to watching a pot boil. It simply wasn't going to help.

"Where are they?" muttered Wesley in exasperation.

"On that planet somewhere." Geordi shrugged. "We lost contact with them so quickly that I have to a.s.sume they had equipment failure."

"Or else the volcanic eruption ..." The young ensign didn't finish the thought.

The turbolift doors opened, and they found themselves staring into the deserted Ten-Fore lounge. The furnishings and lighting were tasteful and subdued, but an angry red planet was visible beyond the window ports, demanding their attention. Even here, thought Geordi, there was no escape from anxiety.

At first he was confused by the deserted recreation center. Then he remembered that the yellow alert had been rescinded only a few moments earlier. The place would begin filling up in no time. He and Wesley collapsed into the first chairs they came to, their backs to the planet they had been staring at for days.

"My first customers," said Guinan, emerging from behind the bar. She was draping dark gray fabric around her head in the shape of an outlandish hat.

"Hi, Guinan," said Wesley, managing a weary wave.

"Hi, Wesley."

Geordi sighed. "I'm afraid you have me to thank for the drop in business."

"I know." Guinan leaned over them with a warm smile.

"You can get the captain back," muttered Geordi. "And Worf and Counselor Troi."

She clucked her tongue. "I thought that amba.s.sador was supposed to know his way around down there."

"It's not his fault the sensors won't give accurate readings," Wesley said. "We know there are life-forms down there, but they're so scattered that we can't get a fix on them."

Geordi quickly added, "There's no reason to believe the away team is in any trouble. Equipment failure would account for all of this."

"I still wish we would hear from them," Wesley said with a sigh.

Guinan wiped some dust off their table. "Don't they have an expression on Earth-'No news is good news'?"

"That's right." Geordi nodded decisively. "They're probably having the time of their lives."

Worf was in a netherworld between sleep and wakefulness when he felt wetness all around him, accompanied by an unpleasant tickle. He had lain on dry ground, but he was now slipping head first into a pool of slime. He instinctively touched the ground, but it oozed through his fingers.

Icy water lapped about him as he slipped forward into the mora.s.s. He was about to shout for help when a wave of muddy water and worms swirled under his mask and around his mouth, choking him. He sputtered and coughed as he clawed at the slippery clay.

"Stop kicking!" ordered a forceful voice from behind him, and he felt powerful hands gripping his thigh.

Worf stopped his futile efforts and concentrated on gripping first a clump of gra.s.s, then a vine, and finally a root. The hands now seized him around the waist, and he knew he was no longer sinking, but he still couldn't breathe. He dug his long fingernails into the roots and clumps of gra.s.s and slowly pushed himself out of the sucking quagmire. The muck clung to his shoulders, but the brackish water began to drain from his mask, allowing him to gasp for air.

A tense moment later, the Klingon rolled up onto wet but solid ground, and Cold Angel dragged him farther from the treacherous spring. Worf struggled to his knees and wheezed for breath.

"That bog almost got you," the Lorcan remarked. "It may get bigger. Let's grab the ponies and get out of here."

Watching their footing in the faint dawn light, the two travelers untied their ponies and led them up the road, not stopping until they were on dry clay. Worf dropped his saddle and bent over, his shoulders still heaving.

"Can I take my mask off?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"Go ahead," answered Cold Angel. "I'll turn away."

In reality, curiosity made the Lorcan turn only halfway around, but Worf didn't mind. He just wanted to wipe the crud and squiggly things off his face. Had it been possible, he would've shed his muddy clothes, too.

"Does that happen often?" he muttered.

"Sure," the Lorcan shrugged, stealing a look at the Klingon's ma.s.sive brow and deep-set eyes. "The road gets worn thin, and the undersea swamps it."

Worf dried his face with his sleeve and pulled his mask back on. "I don't suppose I could get a bath in this village?"

"A bath?" laughed Cold Angel. "You just had one!"

They walked their ponies the rest of the way, keeping a careful eye out for new bogs. By the time dawn had advanced to a cold misty gray, they began to see smoke curling through the trees ahead of them. They heard happy voices, and the first villagers they saw were three children dressed in identical brown smocks and gaily painted wooden masks and wooden shoes. The crude squiggles on the masks suggested that children were allowed to decorate their own masks. Childhood was evidently its own rank.

They stopped their play and stared at Cold Angel in his plastic pig mask. They barely acknowledged Worf in his Page's Mask and filthy clothes.

"I knew this mask would demand attention," Cold Angel whispered proudly. "I will be the most famous animal trainer on Lorca."

But Worf's attention was riveted to the tidy rows of thatched huts that lined a widened section of the road. The cylindrical huts were red, from the clay used as binding, and ranged in diameter from a few to as many as twenty meters. All of them stood on stilts a meter off the ground. After his recent experience, Worf could well imagine why.

Every building had a chimney, and the larger ones had two, suggesting more than one room. No building was over one story high, and the village reminded Worf of a farm on Khitomer, with the huts looking like grain silos and mounds of grain. There were rows of cultivated soil between some of the huts, and the main crop seemed to be a fibrous brown pod, probably grown for fabric rather than food. In the center of the community, a half-dozen masked villagers were milling around a low roofless structure.

"That's the well," Cold Angel explained, noticing the direction of Worf's gaze. He pointed out other buildings, each of which had a distinctive mask painted on its crude wooden door. "There's a smithy. That one's a woodcarver. There's a tanner, and this one's a tailor who can make you new clothes, if you wish. At the far end of the street is a baker and, of course, the maskmaker. This town isn't big enough to have an inn, but the maskmaker is a friend of mine. He'll feed us."

"Then why do we wait?" asked the Klingon.

They continued through the center of the village. The colorfully masked inhabitants were too busy drawing water or fish from the well to pay them much attention. When they did glance up from their work, they stared at Cold Angel, who obviously relished the attention. The three children they had met outside the village now followed them in, and they had picked up a full entourage of gawking children by the time they reached their destination.

The maskmaker's shop was one of the largest in the village and three masks were painted on the door. "Why three?" asked Worf.

"The one at the top is the Maskmaker's Mask," explained Cold Angel, pointing to a stylized representation of a human face. How ironic, thought Worf, that the maskmaker's own symbol would be the face he took such pains to hide.

"The others are family masks," continued Cold Angel. "They show the maskmaker's lineage." He rapped on the door. "I hope it's not too early. Trim Hands is not a young man."

An older woman answered the door. She was wearing a white mask with so many delicate inscriptions painted across it that she looked like a living parchment.

Cold Angel bowed respectfully. "Please tell the master that his humble servant Cold Angel is here."

"I don't recognize your mask," she said.

"Nor should you," replied the jovial pig, bowing lower. "It's a Trainer's Mask from another land, far away. The master will recognize it."

The woman disappeared behind a shimmering curtain without inviting the visitors inside. Cold Angel turned to Worf and shrugged.

Seconds later a small man in a human mask appeared from behind the curtain. His mask was of a young man with a close-trimmed beard, but his gnarled hands and stooped gait belied the youthful disguise. He reached immediately for Cold Angel's Halloween mask and stroked its flimsy pink surface.

"What material is this?" he asked haltingly.

"I don't know." Cold Angel shrugged. "Ask my friend."

"It's a synthetic substance," Worf answered.

"Do you have more?" asked the maskmaker.

Worf knew the transporter could make kilos of it, if necessary. Trade wasn't his primary mission, but it could be a means to an end. "Perhaps," he said. "We must make arrangements with your leader. Do you know where to find Almighty Slayer?"

"Slayer?" scoffed Trim Hands, shaking his head. "He must be nearly as old as I am." He turned irritatedly to Cold Angel. "Is this why you awoke me?"

"No," the Lorcan said quickly. "My new mask is lovely to behold but not fit for battle. I would ask you, with your great skill and wisdom, to fortify it."

The maskmaker nodded. "I could make a cast of it, but you will have to leave the mask for a fortnight. Come inside."

They were ushered into a s.p.a.cious room that was part living quarters and part studio. From the thatched ceiling hung masks in various stages of completion, as well as bolts of fabric, strips of leather, chunks of wood, sets of feathers, strands of jewels, and other shiny odds and ends. A fireplace pumped sooty heat into the room, and Worf noticed a bellows, clamps, hammers, and other smithy tools. Trim Hands was obviously prepared to fashion masks that were functional as well as beautiful.

"Do you wish some food?" asked the maskmaker.

"Yes, please," answered Cold Angel. He turned to Worf, and the Klingon could almost see him winking.

The maskmaker went into an adjoining room, and the visitors heard m.u.f.fled but spirited voices. When Trim Hands returned, he was carrying a light green mask with exaggerated puffed cheeks, heavy-lidded eye sockets, and gossamer fringe.

He showed the mask to Cold Angel. "What do you think of this Fisherman's Mask?" he asked proudly.

Cold Angel nodded noncommittally. "Good workmanship."

"The finest!" snapped the maskmaker. "I will trade you this brand new Fisherman's Mask for that grotesque thingyou are wearing."

The pig mask shook forcefully. "No. I don't seek a new mask. I seek repairs."

"Very well," muttered the maskmaker, handing Cold Angel the Fisherman's Mask. "Wear this until you return for your mask. I can't quote you a price now."

"I understand," said Cold Angel. He turned away from them and deftly replaced the pig mask with the Fisherman's Mask, moving so quickly that Worf couldn't even catch a glimpse of his companion's face.

"Remember, I'll need a fortnight."

"You'll have longer than that," said Cold Angel, looking and sounding strange in the pale fish mask. "We are going to the fair at Cottage Meadow."

With his companion's business out of the way, Worf decided to press for more information. "Trim Hands," he said respectfully, "are you sure you know nothing more about Almighty Slayer?"