Chapter Six

DEANNA TROI BOLTED UPRIGHT in her bed, startled by the usually gentle chiming of her doorbell. She had been sleeping deeply, the sleep of the dead, as they say. Even her dreams remained a dull haze of troubled images with no discernible pattern or reason: a glimpse of her home planet in winter, her mother, a smiling Will Riker, Lynn Costa dead on the examination table . . . it all made no sense or too much sense.

The insistent chiming at the door drew her more into waking reality, and she padded out of bed, slipping a robe over her slender shoulders. She tossed her cascade of ebony hair once before opening the door.

It was her countryman, Karn Milu, with his eyebrows beetling angrily. “May I come in?” he asked.

Deanna gripped the collar of her robe, experiencing her usual inferiority complex in the eminent scientist’s presence. “I’m not dressed,” she protested weakly.

“You are dressed enough,” he smiled, eyeing the lingerie that wrapped her completely from head to toe but did little to disguise her supple figure. “I’m sorry, but this is important, and I don’t want to go to the captain again.”

She nodded, stepped back, and dutifully motioned him in. The door whooshed shut as soon as the stout Betazoid had passed through. He was clearly agitated and spent the first few moments pacing.

“What is troubling you?” asked Deanna with concern.

“Your Lieutenant Worf!” he snarled. “That is what’s troubling me. You have no idea the mountain of data he has requested—much of it personal and about half-finished projects. His arrogance has every department of mine in an uproar, especially Microcontamination.”

“I apologize,” sighed Deanna, “for Worf’s exuberance. But he has been given a very difficult task, that of heading a murder investigation.”

“Rapsalak,” muttered Milu, using a common Betazoid expletive. “You show me any proof that this is a murder, and I’ll shut down every lab on the ship for him. But I haven’t seen anything conclusive at all!”

“Saduk—” Deanna began, but the entomologist wouldn’t let her finish.

“Is wrong!” he snapped. “And don’t tell me a Vulcan always has to be right. That ridiculous pronouncement was a knee-jerk reaction to the shock of finding a serious equipment failure in his lab. Saduk has since then revised his assessment to include the possibility of accident. You can talk to him yourself.”

“That doesn’t sound like a complete reversal,” Deanna observed. “All of us have conceded the possibility of accident.” A question popped into her mind, and she wondered if it was related. Matter-of-factly, she asked, “Is Saduk still in line to head the Microcontamination Project?”

Milu blinked at her and raised his bushy eyebrows. “No,” he grunted. “This entire incident has led me to question Saduk’s leadership abilities. He is an excellent worker, don’t get me wrong, but his proclivity for blurting out whatever springs to mind has got to be taken into consideration.”

“In other words,” replied Deanna, “he’s too honest and doesn’t have enough of a feel for the politics of the situation. As far as you’re concerned, a fatal accident would be unfortunate, but it doesn’t leave a splotch on the records that a murder does.”

At first, Karn Milu bristled at the suggestion, then he smiled slyly and pointed a finger at her. “You’ve been practicing your telepathy, Deanna Troi.”

Either that, she thought, or you let your guard down, Karn Milu. “Grastow is the choice, isn’t he?” she asked.

“That’s none of your concern,” he answered testily. Then the administrator leveled dark eyes full of warmth and wisdom at her. “There’ll never be enough evidence to turn this into a murder case,” he insisted, “and that’s what you should be concerned about. Thus far, you have nothing more than half-cocked assumptions and insinuations. How would you like to lose a mate or an intimate co-worker, then be hit with baseless accusations of murder?”

When she didn’t answer, he moved closer to her, cooing, “You and I should be friends, Deanna, not adversaries. I had hoped I could avoid going back to Captain Picard, for Worf’s sake. Call off the Klingon and let these people get their lives back in order. We have urgent research that must carry on.”

He painted a clear enough picture, Deanna decided—a department wracked by death and insinuation, yearning to put Lynn Costa’s death into the past. But she didn’t believe it, and she resented the waves of sophisticated charm that were emanating from Karn Milu. He was wooing her in every sense imaginable, intellectually, sensually, emotionally. She was almost reeling from his nearness, and she gripped the food slot for support.

“Stop that!” she ordered, sending an unaccustomed wave of negative emotion right back at him. His eyes widened with surprise, and he stepped back.

“You have no right to try to influence me!” she snapped, sending her fellow Betazoid farther back on his heels. “Lieutenant Worf is in charge of this investigation, and he is conducting it the way he sees fit.”

“Yes,” countered Karn Milu, dropping all pretense of pleasantry, “but is it best for the ship? I think not, and sooner or later, the captain will agree with me.” He turned and stormed out of the room as fast as the automatic door would allow.

Still dazed and angry, Deanna slumped back into her bed. What was going on here? What did Karn Milu’s angry reaction mean? Either she was to lose all respect for the only other member of her race aboard the Enterprise, or she was to lose faith in her own judgment. Dr. Milu had a point that any proclamation by a Vulcan was automatically held in high esteem. Vulcans weren’t infallible, Deanna knew, but she hadn’t needed Saduk to tell her that something was wrong with the way Lynn Costa had died.

Deanna had “witnessed” the frail woman’s death in her own dream. She knew the how, but she was no closer to knowing the why. To Karn Milu, it had been simple carelessness. But carelessness was too insubstantial a reason for the fear in both Lynn and Emil’s eyes. It didn’t explain the certainty in Saduk’s voice and the shock among people who knew Lynn Costa. And carelessness did not come close to explaining Emil Costa’s secrecy, the erased computer records, and the hastily discarded blue vial.

If only, Deanna wished, things could be as clear to her as they were to Karn Milu. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, her fellow Betazoid was not seeking the truth. He was seeking peace, a return to normalcy, and a certain measure of collective amnesia. He wanted all the disturbing details of Lynn Costa’s death to be swept out to space along with her cold remains. But Deanna Troi couldn’t do that. Painfully, she erased the administrator from her mental list of trustworthy allies. Her allegiance was with Worf, who was at least trying to find the truth.

The counselor took off her robe and glanced into her wardrobe for something to wear. Better the simple black shift, she decided, in case she didn’t have time to change before the funeral. Since she had pledged every available minute to help Worf, she doubted if she would have time for wardrobe changes, or anything else.

 

On deck 32, Wesley Crusher gently rang the door chime. He waited several moments before hearing the muffled call, “Wesley, is that you?”

The boy tapped his communicator. “Ensign Crusher to Dr. Costa,” he announced. “Yes, it’s me.”

The door opened, and a disheveled Emil Costa gripped Wesley’s elbow and dragged him inside. He didn’t seem to relax until the door had whooshed safely shut.

“Are you all right, Doctor?” asked Wes with concern.

“Oh, certainly,” claimed the scientist, forcing an uneasy smile. “I . . . I don’t wish to see just anyone at the moment.”

“How are you holding up?” the lad asked.

The microbiologist heaved a sigh, “As well as can be expected. It still hasn’t sunk in yet that she’s gone, and maybe it never will.” His tired expression brightened when he added, “But I have a good portion of my life ahead of me, and I’m very anxious to get off the ship.”

“When are you doing that?” asked the ensign with surprise.

“At Kayran Rock,” smiled Emil, returning to his bed, where he was stuffing toiletries and personal articles into an unassuming duffel bag. “But I still have enough time to put in a word with both the captain and Karn Milu. I’m sure you would be welcomed into the Microcontamination Project with open arms. You might be able to move very quickly in that department, and you could remain on the Enterprise, with all your friends.”

“Well, yeah,” Wesley stammered, “but I’m not sure I want to give up my position on the bridge. I would prefer something I could do part-time.”

The old man shook his head sternly. “Do you think we’re playing down here?” he demanded. “This is serious business, the Microcontamination Project. You live in a totally artificial environment, Wesley, and the project is directly responsible for the gases, liquids, and bacteria that are circulating through your body right now! Out here in space, where you are constantly coming in contact with the unknown, microcontamination technology is essential. And, Wesley,” he pleaded, “we need brilliant people like you.”

Head bowed, Emil corrected himself, “They need you. I’m out of it now.”

“I could transfer there,” the boy replied glumly, “but I still wouldn’t make up for the loss of you and Lynn.”

The old scientist shook his head dumbfoundedly, then he gazed at a small album of holographic photos, waiting to be packed. He dabbed away a tear with a quivering knuckle, then rubbed his hand over the white stubble on his skull. “Did you ever see pictures of Lynn when she was young?” he murmured.

“No,” answered Wesley, stepping forward eagerly. “I’d like to see them.”

Emil opened the book of holographic images, and an incredibly young, lithe, almost girlish figure danced before Wesley’s eyes. Wesley watched a healthy woman in her early thirties swimming, dancing, and playing tennis. The vivacity and wonder of that red-haired sprite virtually leapt off the pages. Her expression at a tennis ball sailing over Emil’s head was joyful. Her stern concentration before diving into a lake was offset in a succeeding photo by her laughter as she struck the water in a belly flop. Her ballroom dancing was enchanting, and the young lad marveled at the images of days gone by, on an Earth he barely knew.

“Wow!” was all he could think to say.

Emil observed, “Pretty far removed from the dour doyenne of the Microcontamination Project.”

“What happened to her?” asked Wesley, with the directness of youth.

“In what sense do you mean that?” sighed the old man, gazing forlornly at his past. “Do you mean, what happened to that carefree young woman? What always happens to youth? It fades away into responsibility, duty, obsession. We get old, and we get desperate to pile up the achievements, to top ourselves even when that clearly isn’t possible.

“What happens to two people?” the widower continued in hushed tones. “Two people who are joined in so many ways? Who can predict all the twists and turns such a partnership will take? We promised each other it would be a partnership until death, and it was. In that sense, I believe we fulfilled our promise to each other. Although I wish our last months had been happier . . .” His voice trailed away into muffled sobs.

Wesley was mortified. He had not meant to open old wounds and cause his tutor pain. But maybe the tears were cleansing, because the old man did not seem the least bit ashamed of them. Wesley stood quietly and let him cry.

“Thank you, Wesley,” he sniffled after a few moments. Emil searched out his handkerchief, coughed into it, then blew his nose. “Of course, you were probably asking if I know who killed her?”

“Uh, yes,” stammered the young ensign, stiffening his spine. “Not in so many words, but that is sort of what I was asking.”

“Do you think I killed her?”

“No!” Wesley exclaimed, aghast at the idea.

“Then you’d be right,” the scientist agreed. He returned to his packing. “I don’t mind you sticking with me through the funeral. But I’m getting off this ship tomorrow, and I need a good night’s rest.”

“Yes, sir, understood,” muttered Wes, snapping to uneasy attention. “Is there anything I can do to help you pack?”

“Those cuckoo clocks,” said Emil wistfully, pointing to his antiquated prizes on the wall. “I took them apart and put them back together, I don’t know how many times, but they never did keep the correct time. I’ve always thought it was the artificial gravity—those old weights and springs know the difference. I’m afraid I can’t take them with me, but would you catalog their i.d. numbers, so that I can have them replicated at my next stop?”

“Where is your next stop?” asked Wes, taking down and inspecting one of the ancient timepieces.

“I don’t know,” murmured Emil: “At this point, I don’t care, as long as it’s far away from here.”

The silence that followed was sad and oppressive. As if forcing himself out of his doldrums, the microbiologist suddenly clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Wesley, you must let me tell you why you should choose the Microcontamination Project as your next career move!”

He gripped the boy’s shoulder and proceeded excitedly, “First of all, excuse me for saying this, but you are being wasted steering the ship. There must be hundreds of officers aboard the Enterprise who could fulfill that position as well as you. Most importantly, you can finally round out your education and learn something about inner space. Thirdly, don’t forget the recognition and prestige. And the fulfillment of doing something to help everyone in the Federation, not just one lonely ship sailing the hinterlands.”

Wesley sat on Emil’s bed, forcing a good-natured smile as he listened to Emil’s last lecture aboard the Enterprise.

 

Lieutenant Worf groaned as he crashed back into his chair and tried to massage his eyeballs back into his head. His eyes felt like they were dangling on a spit over hot coals somewhere. Even with Deanna Troi’s diligent help for the last two hours, they had barely managed to cover all the personal material on Lynn and Emil Costa. Official records of all the other departments and people who used the cleanrooms would have to wait for later. Worf thought about calling in more researchers, but he was in no mood to deliver lengthy explanations on this puzzling case.

Before he had even heard about the counselor’s most recent conversation with Karn Milu, Worf knew they were dangerously close to looking like fools. But he didn’t care. To err on the side of zealousness in a just cause was acceptable. Sloth, or anything less than supreme effort, was never acceptable.

The Klingon checked the chronometer in the corner of his current screen. Although his command post was near to the theater, he didn’t want to be late for the funeral. He glanced at Deanna Troi, who was correlating information from two biographies written about the Costas. She was concentrating on the public personalities, while he was rummaging through their personal logs, memos, and schedules.

“It’s almost eighteen-hundred hours,” Worf muttered. “Let’s summarize to each other the important matters and leave the objects of curiosity for later. What have you discovered?”

Deanna, too, slumped back in her chair and rubbed her tired eyes. “Early in their careers,” she reported, “the Costas engendered their share of enemies and critics within the scientific community. But after they perfected the biofilter, they received support from the highest levels of the Federation, and their critics were no longer paid any attention. The Costas formed the Microcontamination Project and were given carte blanche to pursue whatever research they wanted. The rest, as they say, is history.”

She punched up a biographical passage on one of her screens and pointed to a name. “A woman named Megan Terry sued them for scientific plagiarism, claiming that she perfected the biofilter while all three of them were co-workers. But Megan Terry lost her suit twenty-five years ago, and she’s been dead for three years.” Deanna scanned another page of data, adding, “They were forced to resign from a research project on Epsilon IV, but that was thirty years ago.”

“Why were they forced to resign?” asked Worf.

“They rode roughshod over the administration,” replied the Betazoid. “That seems to be a recurring story wherever they were assigned, at least early on. For the last twenty-five years, nobody has dared to stand in their way. To their credit, they’ve performed an amazing number of altruistic acts, such as bringing clean farming and manufacturing to impoverished planets. They’ve never taken any payment for any of their discoveries, even assigning the royalties from their patents to a plague relief fund.

“In short,” she concluded, “they’re almost perfect.”

“Not quite,” said Worf, squinting his massive brow at his screen. “They have two grown children with whom they have no contact. The children were left with relatives on Earth almost from the day of their births. They have lived in dozens of different places, laying down no roots. They have few friends and no discernible hobbies, outside of Emil’s fondness for cuckoo clocks and alcohol. One might say the Costas have been selfish and single-minded in the pursuit of their careers.”

Deanna shrugged, “I could name many people on this vessel who fit that description.”

“But I must disagree with you,” admitted Worf. “Emil has often devoted himself to others. He has tutored Wesley Crusher and several of the young people on the ship, as well as making himself accessible to researchers from other projects. Lynn Costa, on the other hand, was always more secretive and suspicious of others—I could hardly locate any of her personal notes or memos.”

“Maybe those were the records she destroyed,” suggested Deanna.

“Undoubtedly,” Worf grumbled. “Both Costas are well versed in the art of secrecy. I’ve also discovered that only the offical records of Emil’s microbe discoveries are available. Much of the raw data he collected whenever the Enterprise was in orbit around a planet is missing, and so is the testing that was done afterward.”

“So what have we got for all our work?” yawned the Betazoid.

“Very stiff necks,” snarled Worf. The Klingon lumbered to his feet and gratefully stretched his taut muscles. “I assigned Wesley Crusher an undercover task,” he remarked, “and I would like to assign one to you, too.”

“Yes?” Deanna replied, somewhat warily.

“At the funeral, can you befriend Saduk and see if he has learned anything new?”

Deanna nodded firmly, “I was already planning to do exactly that.”

 

The theater was crammed to capacity, with every seat filled and people milling in the aisles. The overflow crowd stood outside in the corridor or stopped wherever they were to listen to the service on the ship’s intercom. Through a viewport, the stars gently blurred past at warp three, but everyone’s attention was on the elegant silver casket in the center of the stage. The sphere was aimed like a missile at the starswept heavens beyond.

Lines of somber faces gazed down at the white-shrouded body of Lynn Costa. Her tiny frame was dwarfed by streams of red and silver hair, festooned with green orchids. The once dynamic face was now peaceful, bland, and rouged with more color than it possessed when she was alive. In the background, a harpist gently stroked her instrument.

Commander William Riker took the podium and looked out on the solemn faces—familiar, unfamiliar, and vaguely familiar. Deanna was talking with a Vulcan who was in the vague category. Wesley Crusher stood next to Emil Costa, whose eyes never moved far from his hands clasped stiffly at his waist. From the Microcontamination Project, the big Antarean and the attractive blond woman stood together. The captain was talking in low tones to Doctors Milu and Baylak, and Worf was prowling through the crowd, his bony forehead sticking out like a shark’s fin over the top of the other heads.

It was gatherings like this that reminded Will that the bridge and the occasional away mission were only two of the ingredients that constituted life aboard the Enterprise. It was home for a diverse, iconoclastic lot pulled from the farthest reaches of the Federation. Students and apprentices shared duties with the greatest deans of their professions. There was little time for theory—it was all hands-on. In some ways, the Enterprise was like a floating academy, with everyone living in one big dormitory.

Except for living in that dormitory, Will marveled at how little he had in common with most of these people. While he explored the buildings and beings of an alien culture, many of them were exploring the world inside a thimbleful of air or water. The one thing they all had in common, Will decided, was a desire to learn what is out there. Certainly, Lynn Costa had that.

The voices had nearly died down now, acknowledging the first officer’s presence at the podium. He swallowed hard before he began, “Thank you for attending this memorial service for Dr. Lynn Costa. We are holding it here in the theater instead of a holodeck, because Dr. Costa requested a simple crew member’s funeral as prescribed by Starfleet regulations. For that reason, only Captain Picard and I will speak.”

He nodded toward the still form in the glass case. “It doesn’t strike me as unusual that Lynn Costa should choose to remain in space, because she devoted her life to understanding it. It’s the same mystery on the microscopic level as it is on the cosmic level. Dr. Costa actually did something about the space around us, finding ingenious ways to keep it clean and usable. But the real reason she came to the Enterprise, I understand, was to make sure we were keeping up the biofilters.”

Quiet chuckles graced his last remark, and Will cleared his throat before continuing, “It is my lasting regret—and I’m sure I speak for many of us—that we didn’t get to know her better. It wasn’t because we didn’t want to, but we knew that every minute we stole of Dr. Costa’s time was depriving the Federation of her remarkable genius.” He turned back to the casket and smiled, “Lynn, we’ll miss you, but we’ll see you every day in your legacy.”

Commander Riker stepped down from the podium to murmured approval, and Captain Picard took his place. The large room and even the corridors throughout the ship hushed to an abnormal silence.

“Normally in these affairs,” began a stern Jean-Luc Picard, “the captain is supposed to be reverential, pleasant, and say something comforting. I am certainly glad that Commander Riker was so eloquent, because now I don’t have to be pleasant and comforting. I am very discomforted by the circumstances surrounding Lynn Costa’s death.”

Not even breathing could be heard now, and Wesley Crusher glanced at Emil Costa beside him. The scientist’s lower lip was trembling, and his eyes looked glassy within the sunken cavities of a sagging face. Wes started to ask him if he was all right, but Captain Picard was speaking again.

“I know,” Jean-Luc continued, “this is a sad enough occasion without injecting a specter that none of us wants to acknowledge. Nevertheless, Lynn Costa’s death remains an enigma, an accident that shouldn’t have happened. So,” he pleaded with out-stretched hands, “if anyone has any information regarding the tragedy which befell Dr. Costa, please contact Lieutenant Worf, Counselor Troi, or myself.”

As the audience shifted uneasily, Picard looked down at the body and shook his head. “We think people like Lynn Costa will live forever, because their impact on our society is as great as the sun’s impact on a planet. But we are mistaken. So let’s treasure all life while it lasts, because it is so fragile.”

Jean-Luc tapped on his insignia. “Picard to O’Brien.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the transporter operator.

“Energize,” uttered the captain.

“Acknowledged.”

In an aurora of phosphorescent lights from every color of the spectrum, the silver casket dematerialized. Instinctively, most eyes in the room turned to the observation window and the vast starfield beyond, where Lynn Costa’s molecules had been forever scattered.

Wesley finally released his breath after the drama of Captain Picard’s speech and Lynn Costa’s departure. He turned back to see Emil’s reaction, but the white-haired scientist was gone.

Desperately, Wes tried to make his way to the door, but the entire crowd was jostling its way in the same direction. Without shoving people out of the way, the teenager could never catch up, so he settled into the general flow and cursed himself for not paying closer attention. As far as Ensign Crusher was concerned, surveillance of Emil Costa was his job, and he wasn’t about to let Worf down. He had momentarily failed, but Wes was determined to pick up the scent.

Near the podium, Captain Picard exchanged cordial words with several people who stopped to tell him that they didn’t know anything about Lynn Costa’s death, but wished they did. Picard craned his neck, peering over their shoulders for the person with whom he really wanted to speak. Spying Lieutenant Worf, he motioned the security officer to his side.

“Yes, Captain?” answered Worf attentively.

“Lieutenant,” said Picard, lowering his voice, “I wish to talk privately with you in my ready room in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, Captain,” Worf acknowledged with a hard swallow.

The Klingon straightened up and watched the captain as he sliced his way through the knot of people. Worf was not the type to second-guess himself, but he began to wonder if he had made the right assumptions, gone to the right sources, and otherwise conducted this investigation in the most expedient way possible. His superior should not have had to make a shipwide appeal for assistance.

In the doorway of the theater, he saw Deanna Troi and Dr. Saduk patiently filing out with the others. At least Deanna’s mission to win the Vulcan’s confidence had apparently been successful. Worf had to admit his disappointment in not turning up more physical evidence regarding the alleged crime. But, like most Klingons, he was a great believer in the power of subterfuge and the inevitability of loose tongues.

“Lieutenant Worf?” said a soft voice, breaking into his reverie.

He turned to look down at the comely face and figure of Shana Russel. The human female was petite, but her voluminous blond hair gave her extra height. She gazed up at him with eyes that were a lovely shade of blue but were a bit too helpless for Worf’s taste.

“Yes?” he answered, with only a hint of politeness.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, averting her eyes. “I wasn’t very friendly to you and Counselor Troi. Of course, you were just doing your jobs, and it’s not your fault if everyone is a suspect. But,” she breathed, looking around to make sure no one was listening, “I once heard someone threaten to kill Dr. Costa.”

“Who?” asked the security chief, expecting to hear Emil Costa incriminated once again.

“Karn Milu,” she hissed.

The Klingon blinked at Shana Russel and the ridges of his brow rippled. “You heard this yourself?” he asked.

She nodded forlornly, “I wish I hadn’t.”

“Under what circumstances?”

The young assistant glanced around nervously. “I don’t really feel like talking here. Can we meet later . . . someplace private?”

“My command post . . .” Worf began.

“More private than that,” whispered Shana. “Come to my quarters on deck 32. My cabin is number B-49.”

She turned to go, and Worf caught her shoulder in his firm grasp. She managed a nervous smile as he pulled his hand away.

“I may be delayed,” Worf told her. “Shall I send an assistant to take your statement?”

“No,” breathed Shana with alarm. “Come alone. I don’t feel right about this, and I could be stepping on toes. Whatever happens, I don’t want to be transferred off the Enterprise so soon.”

“Understood,” Worf nodded.

She squeezed his arm, adding, “Any time is all right, but come alone.”

With that final admonition, Shana Russel hurried out the door, which was now clear of traffic. Worf heaved his thick shoulders, wondering what would happen next, and strode out after her.

 

In the captain’s ready room, Jean-Luc Picard stared at his screen, with Data hovering over his shoulder, pointing to a remarkable simulation of shuttle traffic at a giant asteroid.

“So you see, Captain,” explained the android, “the docking procedure and disembarkation consumes approximately sixteen-and-a-half minutes, perhaps more if the greetings are prolonged. We would need to allow half-an-hour to be on the safe side. I propose assigning two or more parties to arrive in each craft, resulting in an average of eight passengers per craft instead of four.”

“How do you propose we accomplish this?” asked Picard.

Data replied, “The Enterprise can set a precedent. By speeding up our arrival in time to meet the Kreel flagship, the Tolumu, we can request that their admiralty join us. It is my assumption that the Kreel representatives will welcome a tour of the Enterprise and a chance to ride in our shuttlecraft. They are quite curious about our technology. We then have the benefit of controlling their transportation and making sure they don’t arrive at the same time as the Klingons. We can delay the Klingons by asking them to rendezvous with the Manchester.”

Picard nodded thoughtfully, remembering how ill-mannered the Kreel could be. Like their archenemy, the Klingons, they hadn’t been civilized for very long—some would say they still weren’t. “How many are there in the Kreel delegation?” he asked.

“Six,” said Data. “With our party of three, that will leave one empty seat on the shuttlecraft.”

“Correction,” snapped Picard. “In all likelihood, we will have a party of four, and there will be no empty seats.”

Data cocked his head puzzledly and straightened up, as the door to Picard’s office opened. Lieutenant Worf darkened the doorway and intoned, “Permission to enter, Captain.”

“Come,” said Picard, motioning the Klingon in.

“This following bit of news concerns both of you.”

Approaching the captain’s desk, Worf glanced at Data, but the android shrugged his eyebrows, admitting he didn’t know what was coming next.

“At the direct order of Starfleet,” muttered Picard, “Emil Costa has been granted permission to disembark at Kayran Rock at the earliest opportunity. He is leaving the ship permanently.”

“Captain—” began Worf with concern.

Picard silenced him with a raised hand. “Let me dispense with Commander Data’s assignment, then we will discuss yours.” He turned back to the android. “We have to increase speed, I presume, to rendezvous with the Kreel.”

The android nodded, “Warp four will be sufficient.”

“Make it so,” ordered the captain. “I have no changes to your proposed schedule and course settings. You may transmit your report to Starfleet with my recommendation.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the lieutenant commander, heading immediately for the door.

“Data!” called Worf, stopping the android in his tracks. “How long before the shuttlecraft departs?”

“Four hours at the earliest,” came the reply. ‘“I’ll have a more accurate estimate after I contact the Kreel vessel.”

“Thank you,” grumbled Worf, and the android was gone.

Captain Picard turned off his screen and clasped his hands in front of him. He looked frankly at his security officer. “I know you’re not happy about this latest development,” he remarked. “Neither am I. But the fact of the matter is, Emil Costa has a great deal of influence, and we have no right to keep him here.”

“Captain,” barked Worf, “I’m sure we’re about to uncover something. Both Counselor Troi and Ensign Crusher are working on different angles, and we have some physical evidence, a vial discovered on the floor by the pod. Guinan has identified it as being exactly like a vial Emil Costa was carrying earlier.”

Jean-Luc slapped his palms on his desk and stood. “You may have evidence,” he countered, “but you don’t have a crime. I’ve read Geordi’s report, and there’s no conclusive proof that Lynn Costa’s death was anything but an accident.”

“There is instinct,” Worf intoned.

Shaking his head glumly, Picard circled his desk and confronted Worf face-to-face. “I sympathize with you,” he admitted. “Just now, you heard me ask the ship’s populace for help. I have defended you against a very prominent scientist who claims you are disrupting the work of the entire science branch. I have listened to all the theories, read all the data, and I have looked in vain for a suitable explanation.”

Worf bowed his head and murmured, “I have failed.”

“Nonsense,” replied Picard, momentarily gripping the Klingon’s brawny forearm. “I assigned this investigation to you and Counselor Troi, and I know you have done all you could. What I didn’t realize—what no one could realize—was that the task would be so difficult. Quite possibly, Lynn Costa’s death will always remain a mystery. We have to accept the possibility that it will eventually be classified as an accident.”

“Captain,” Worf grimaced, barely controlling his frustration, “both Troi and I are convinced it’s murder.”

Picard shook his head and reiterated, “You can’t take suspicions and gut instincts to a tribunal. In addition, we need you and the ship’s counselor back at your regular duties, and we need to get deck 31 functioning normally again.”

Worf grasped at the only available opening. “Captain,” he pleaded, “grant me the next four hours until Emil Costa leaves the ship. I promise that if we haven’t got enough material to charge him by then, we will conclude the investigation.”

Picard shrugged, “Very well, pursue it until then. I wish it could be different, Lieutenant. I wish you could take as much time as you needed, but we have to be realistic.”

“Understood,” the Klingon nodded. He turned to leave.

The captain called after him, “Try to get some sleep when this is over, Lieutenant. Commander La Forge will need you on the bridge while Data, Riker, and I are off the ship.”

“Aye, sir,” replied Worf, slumping out the door.

His lips thinned, and Jean-Luc Picard angrily rapped his knuckles on his desk. Anyone who thought the job of a starship captain was wonderful should stand in his shoes at a moment like this. As captain, he was given great latitude, but he could never forget the limitations.