stooped posture made it necessary for him to crane his neck to look up at her—a gesture that would have been awkward, not to mention painful, for a human. Of course, Simenon was decidedly not human.
Crusher returned the greeting as best she could, extending her hands in the same manner. The Gnalish seemed to approve.
“Not only beautiful,” he told the captain, “but respectful as well.”
“I’ve been to your world,” explained the doctor, taking the compliment in stride. “It was part of my training in xenobiology.”
“I gathered as much,” said Simenon.
“No doubt,” said Picard, “you’ll want to join the others. They’re in our Ten-Forward lounge.” He looked at Crusher. “In fact, one might say they’re commandeering the lounge, and have done so for the last two days.”
Greyhorse grunted. “Sounds about right,” he remarked.
“To the lounge, then,” said the Gnalish. “But only on one condition.”
The captain became mock-serious. “And that is?”
“That afterward you take me to your engineering section. And leave me there with someone who knows a driver coil from a magnetic accelerator.”
Picard nodded gravely. “I think we have someone like that. I’ll see what I can do.”
The Gnalish harumphed. “You mock me, Captain.” He appealed to Crusher. “Imagine—ridiculing someone of my advanced years.”
The doctor found herself smiling. Perhaps Wesley wasn’t entirely wrong.
Both Simenon and Asmund had heard her last name, but neither had made the least mention of Jack. And Simenon seemed like the kind of person she’d like to know better.
She still wasn’t about to invite them to her room for a party. Or, for that matter, join them in Ten-Forward. Not yet. But she made a promise to herself—and to Wes—that she’d be a little less of a hermit.
At tactical, Worf noted the intercom activity a fraction of a second before they heard the voice on the bridge.
“Lieutenant?”
It was O’Brien down in Transporter Room One.
Data sat up just a little bit straighter in the captain’s chair. “Yes, Chief?”
O’Brien frowned. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. It’s probably nothing, but…well, one of our guests—Commander Asmund—brought aboard some rather unusual cargo.”
“Can you be more specific?” asked the android.
A pause. “Some kind of knives, sir. I can’t tell you much more about them, except…I think they’ve got a sort of ceremonial look to them.” Another pause. “I would’ve said something to the captain himself when he was here, but Commander Asmund does have top-security clearance, and I didn’t want to embarrass anyone.”
Worf grunted. Ceremonial knives? That was unusual.
Data rose and started to circumnavigate the command center. “Please make your scan available to the tactical station,” he told O’Brien.
“Aye, sir,” came the response.
A fraction of a second later, the image appeared on one of Worf’s monitors. And a fraction of a second after that, Data was standing beside him, looking it over.
The android’s brow creased ever so slightly. He turned to the Klingon. “You are the weapons expert, Lieutenant. Have you ever seen specimens of this sort?”
Indeed he had.
Worf nodded. “Mr. O’Brien is right. They are ceremonial knives.” He frowned as his eyes traced the familiar serration pattern. “Klingon ceremonial knives. My brother showed me a pair just like them when he was on the ship.”
Data nodded. “I see. Then that explains it.”
Worf looked at him. “It does?”
“Certainly. They must have been a gift from her parents.”
The security chief’s confusion only deepened. “I do not understand,” he confessed.
Data stared at him. Then comprehension dawned. “Did you not know that Commander Asmund was raised in the Klingon Empire?”
He might as well have told Worf that they were headed for the heart of a supernova. It took the Klingon a moment to recover.
“No,” he said finally. “I
Crusher returned the greeting as best she could, extending her hands in the same manner. The Gnalish seemed to approve.
“Not only beautiful,” he told the captain, “but respectful as well.”
“I’ve been to your world,” explained the doctor, taking the compliment in stride. “It was part of my training in xenobiology.”
“I gathered as much,” said Simenon.
“No doubt,” said Picard, “you’ll want to join the others. They’re in our Ten-Forward lounge.” He looked at Crusher. “In fact, one might say they’re commandeering the lounge, and have done so for the last two days.”
Greyhorse grunted. “Sounds about right,” he remarked.
“To the lounge, then,” said the Gnalish. “But only on one condition.”
The captain became mock-serious. “And that is?”
“That afterward you take me to your engineering section. And leave me there with someone who knows a driver coil from a magnetic accelerator.”
Picard nodded gravely. “I think we have someone like that. I’ll see what I can do.”
The Gnalish harumphed. “You mock me, Captain.” He appealed to Crusher. “Imagine—ridiculing someone of my advanced years.”
The doctor found herself smiling. Perhaps Wesley wasn’t entirely wrong.
Both Simenon and Asmund had heard her last name, but neither had made the least mention of Jack. And Simenon seemed like the kind of person she’d like to know better.
She still wasn’t about to invite them to her room for a party. Or, for that matter, join them in Ten-Forward. Not yet. But she made a promise to herself—and to Wes—that she’d be a little less of a hermit.
At tactical, Worf noted the intercom activity a fraction of a second before they heard the voice on the bridge.
“Lieutenant?”
It was O’Brien down in Transporter Room One.
Data sat up just a little bit straighter in the captain’s chair. “Yes, Chief?”
O’Brien frowned. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. It’s probably nothing, but…well, one of our guests—Commander Asmund—brought aboard some rather unusual cargo.”
“Can you be more specific?” asked the android.
A pause. “Some kind of knives, sir. I can’t tell you much more about them, except…I think they’ve got a sort of ceremonial look to them.” Another pause. “I would’ve said something to the captain himself when he was here, but Commander Asmund does have top-security clearance, and I didn’t want to embarrass anyone.”
Worf grunted. Ceremonial knives? That was unusual.
Data rose and started to circumnavigate the command center. “Please make your scan available to the tactical station,” he told O’Brien.
“Aye, sir,” came the response.
A fraction of a second later, the image appeared on one of Worf’s monitors. And a fraction of a second after that, Data was standing beside him, looking it over.
The android’s brow creased ever so slightly. He turned to the Klingon. “You are the weapons expert, Lieutenant. Have you ever seen specimens of this sort?”
Indeed he had.
Worf nodded. “Mr. O’Brien is right. They are ceremonial knives.” He frowned as his eyes traced the familiar serration pattern. “Klingon ceremonial knives. My brother showed me a pair just like them when he was on the ship.”
Data nodded. “I see. Then that explains it.”
Worf looked at him. “It does?”
“Certainly. They must have been a gift from her parents.”
The security chief’s confusion only deepened. “I do not understand,” he confessed.
Data stared at him. Then comprehension dawned. “Did you not know that Commander Asmund was raised in the Klingon Empire?”
He might as well have told Worf that they were headed for the heart of a supernova. It took the Klingon a moment to recover.
“No,” he said finally. “I
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