Chapter Seven

ON HIS MISSION to catch up with Emil Costa, Wesley Crusher hurried down the corridor of deck 32. Passing a pair of residents, he smiled cordially and slowed his walk to an easy gait, trying not to look suspicious while he scanned the doors for Emil’s cabin. He didn’t know why, but Emil’s sudden disappearance at his wife’s funeral greatly disturbed the boy. Captain Picard’s words, though blunt and unexpected, had not been aimed at Emil, as far as Wesley could tell. It had been an appeal for help to everyone on the ship.

The ensign felt he hadn’t intruded upon Emil’s privacy. He hadn’t pressed him for information and had done everything he could to be good company in his time of grief. Now the old man had deserted him. If, as Wes was certain, Emil had nothing to do with his wife’s death, why was he acting so guilty?

His eyes suddenly blinked on the sign reading simply THE COSTAS. Wes stopped, straightened his tunic, and chimed to enter.

The door opened as expected, but it wasn’t the stooped old scientist who met him. The severe haircut was the same, but it graced the skull of an Antarean who stood at least a meter taller than the teenager.

Wesley Crusher stepped back, then stiffened to attention. “I am Ensign Wesley Crusher,” he announced. “Please tell Dr. Costa that I would like to see him for a moment.”

The giant Antarean ducked through the portal and stood blocking its entrance. “I am Grastow,” he said, his soft voice in direct contrast to his menacing size. “Dr. Costa is seeing no one now. He is resting until his departure on the shuttlecraft.”

“Let me pass,” demanded Wesley with false bravado. “I was just with Dr. Costa at the funeral, and we have something important to discuss.”

Wesley took a step forward, and, before he could react, two monstrous hands grabbed him by his jersey and pushed him firmly against the bulkhead. The air shot out of his lungs, and his head and buttocks stung with the impact. Then the hands let go, and he slid down the smooth wall, landing in a wheezing heap on the floor of deck 32.

The hulking Antarean leaned over him. “By Dr. Costa’s direct order,” he warned, “no one is to see him.”

Wesley groaned and struggled to sit up. “I remember you now,” he gasped, pointing a wavering finger at Grastow. “You’re even bigger outside your cleanroom suit!”

The cherubic face scowled down, then the immense body turned and marched back into the Costa quarters. The door whooshed shut with finality behind Grastow.

Ensign Crusher staggered to his feet and took several more painful breaths before his lungs were functioning normally again. So, he mused, Emil Costa had gotten himself some sort of protection.

He could perform his surveillance duties out here. At least he knew where Emil Costa was, stuck inside his cabin. Stiffly, Wesley took several strides down the corridor and positioned himself where he would have an unobstructed view of Emil Costa’s doorway, without being obtrusive.

And he waited.

 

Following the funeral, the elegant tables of the Ten-Forward Room were filling up. Deanna Troi, seated in the center of the lounge, recognized many of the patrons from the services. Many more would come before this night was over to make one last toast to Lynn Costa. She had been a hero to most of them and an idol to more than a few. Even to her detractors, her life and career were monumental achievements. Her like might not be seen again for generations.

Deanna turned her attention back to her escort, the tall slender Vulcan, Saduk. He, too, was quietly surveying the crowded café. Deanna had been somewhat surprised when he had accepted her invitation to join her in the lounge. She could scarcely remember when, if ever, she had seen him here before. But on this sad occasion, even the taciturn Vulcan had apparently not wanted to be alone.

They sat quietly for a long stretch of time, saying barely a word, sipping two different types of herbal tea. Oddly, thought Deanna, she was not in the least bit uncomfortable at this lack of conversation, and neither was he. Of course, a Vulcan would never expect someone to try to make small talk with him, and it would never occur to him that two companions should try to amuse each other. They scarcely knew one another, and their only frame of reference at the moment was Lynn Costa’s death. So the two sat in silence, occasionally glancing at each other.

Deanna couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be romantically involved with a Vulcan, specifically this Vulcan. Quiet evenings around the hearth would be the rule, she imagined. Long-term interaction would probably result in a certain amount of telepathic communication that would confound their acquaintances. With Saduk, there would be no arguments, jealousy, or unfounded accusations. Love-making would be leisurely, gentle, and spiritual. Vulcans, she knew, had great stamina but little passion, and she would have to compensate with a deeper well of her own passion.

On the downside, they probably couldn’t have children without substantial medical intervention. Her one abrupt experience with pregnancy had left her anxious to experience it again someday, naturally. More importantly, she wondered if a Vulcan could ever open up to her, share his innermost dreams and desires. She doubted it. With Saduk, she might never know what feelings he wasn’t revealing, what emotions he was keeping bottled up inside. She would have to be content with never really knowing him.

Deanna had all but discounted the idea of ever getting interested in Saduk, when he turned to her suddenly and said, “You are very beautiful.”

She blinked at him and blushed, “Why, thank you.”

“I did not mean to be forward,” he replied politely.

“I have been looking at all the females in this room, and I believe you are the most attractive.”

“Thank you again,” she gulped, sitting back in her chair and blinking at him with amazement. “If you’re trying to make sure we have tea again sometime, I would be delighted.”

“I have no ulterior motive,” he shrugged, taking a sip of the brackish brew made from the bark of a Vulcan tree. “I am celibate.”

“Is that because of a vow?” asked Deanna with a tinge of disappointment. She knew Vulcans took their personal vows very seriously.

“No,” he replied, gazing away. “Vulcans remain celibate until they choose a bond mate, and I have chosen to devote all my attention to my work. Domestic entanglements would be a detriment.”

“Domestic entanglements,” the Betazoid mused aloud. “Did you, by chance, base this decision on your observation of the Costas?”

“Partly,” the Vulcan answered with typical honesty. “Mostly, I based this decision on my own past experiences.”

Deanna would have liked to explore this topic further, but she had a more important job at hand. “Speaking of the project,” she remarked coolly, “how do you feel about being passed over to be its new head?”

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “Logically,” he observed, “I would be the preferable choice to lead the project. I have more experience, training, and ability, although Grastow can be counted upon to follow the aims and dictums of the Costas explicitly. Perhaps Grastow will be an able administrator, which is something we have lacked.”

“Yes,” replied Deanna, “I have noticed in our investigation that Karn Milu pretty much let the Costas do whatever they wanted, and the Costas were hardly sticklers for correct procedures.”

“Agreed,” Saduk nodded. “I believe this murder would not have happened if procedures had been tighter. In that respect, your Lieutenant Worf was absolutely right.”

“You said murder,” Deanna pointed out. “Karn Milu told me that you had accepted the idea of it being an accident.”

Saduk fixed her with piercing onyx eyes. “I always accepted the possibility of accident,” he replied, “pending evidence to the contrary. However, my own personal hypothesis has not changed from the moment we first inspected the pod—I believe it was murder.”

“Yes,” Deanna answered solemnly. “But who?”

Without warning, Saduk stood and lowered his head in a formal bow. “This has been a very pleasant interlude,” he remarked, “but I must return to work. We have finally received clearance to return to the cleanrooms.”

Deanna fixed him with her own dark eyes. “If you know who did it, tell me.”

“I’m not certain,” he answered. “Please remember, Deanna, I am devoting every waking moment to saving the project and the various experiments already under way. The dead do not concern me.”

With that, the slim Vulcan swiveled gracefully on his heel and marched out.

Deanna was still shaking her head when Guinan strolled past, wearing a broad-brimmed gray chapeau. “He would be a tough catch,” she drawled, scooping up the Vulcan’s tea cup, “for any woman.”

“He’s very single-minded,” agreed Deanna, “and stubborn. He knows more than he’s telling.” She exploded with frustration, “Everyone knows more than they’re telling!”

Deanna glanced around the room, and those who had noticed her outburst politely turned away. “I’m sorry, Guinan,” she muttered. “We’re no closer to knowing what happened to Dr. Costa. We’re at a total standstill.”

“Can I be of some help?” asked the Listener.

“Perhaps,” Deanna replied, hope brightening her lovely face. “You overhear much of what is spoken in this room. Have you heard any information about Lynn Costa’s death?”

“Her husband is the most popular suspect,” confided the proprietress. “Others say that Lynn Costa hasn’t been herself for over a year, so your idea of suicide hasn’t been totally discounted.”

“In other words,” sighed the Betazoid, “none of them knows anything more than we do.”

Guinan frowned, “That wasn’t much help, was it? What about the blue vial?”

“Circumstantial,” shrugged Deanna. “It might be useful if we had something else, but we don’t.” She rose slowly from her seat. “I’ve got more records to go over, but I’ll try to check back with you later. Please keep your ears open.”

“Always,” smiled Guinan.

 

Lieutenant Worf took his time making his way down to deck 32 and Shana Russel’s cabin. He was still replaying in his mind his conversation with Captain Picard. It had been painful for the captain, more painful than for him. In truth, the four-hour time limit weighed more heavily than Captain Picard’s lack of confidence in his investigation. The captain had many concerns, but Worf had only one—to find Lynn Costa’s killer.

What if it wasn’t Emil Costa? What if most of their efforts and suspicions until now had been wasted? Worf knew the business of the Enterprise was not police work, but he hated to end the investigation so soon, so inconclusively, merely because the main suspect was leaving the ship. Worse yet, if Emil Costa wasn’t the murderer, the murderer would still be aboard the Enterprise.

Before he realized it, he had walked past Shana Russel’s cabin and had to retrace his steps. The Klingon gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath; he was getting careless. What if, during this investigation, he had missed more than a few numbers on a door? Worf couldn’t remember the last time he had slept, but he wasn’t using that as an excuse. He vowed to himself to be sharper, do better.

Worf wondered if, psychologically, he was cut out for the plodding cerebral work of a detective. He wanted action! He wanted to wrap his hands around the killer’s neck, not glare at a computer screen for another four hours or ask another round of questions. But he had to follow up every possibility, especially a report that Karn Milu had threatened Lynn Costa’s life. Worf chimed at the door, it brushed open, and Shana Russel hurriedly grabbed his hand and ushered him in.

“Good,” breathed the young woman excitedly, “you came alone!”

She was wearing a floor-length chiffon nightgown which set off her blond hair strikingly but did little to hide her youthful figure. It was quite inappropriate dress to receive a visitor, thought the Klingon, until he remembered that she had probably been sleeping. But, as he watched Shana Russel nervously pacing the confines of her small cabin, he didn’t think she had been sleeping at all.

“I don’t know what to do,” she moaned, clenching her hands. “I’m afraid I’m getting to be a bit of a wreck.” She turned to him with earnest blue eyes. “My whole world’s been turned upside down by this. I don’t know what to think anymore!”

“Calm down,” said Worf in a voice he hoped was soothing. “The way to rest easier is to help us solve this mystery. Now, what is it you wanted to tell me about Karn Milu threatening Lynn Costa?”

“Oh, that?” she sighed, running a hand through her golden hair. It tumbled becomingly around the smooth white skin of her neck and shoulders. “It was in the transition room right after Lynn did whatever she did to the computer records. I don’t think they were paying any attention to me—they hardly ever do—and he screamed at her.”

Worf asked patiently, “What exactly did he say?”

Shana Russel stopped pacing and deliberately collected her memories. “He said very clearly, ‘If you botch this opportunity, I’ll kill you.’ ”

Worf narrowed his eyes. “What opportunity?”

Shana shook her head in frustration. “I have no idea,” she groaned. “All I know is he was very mad at her.”

“Evidently,” grumbled Worf. “But you don’t know what he was referring to?”

“No,” she answered, staring at him with round, frightened eyes. “What does any of it mean? What’s happening to us?”

Before Worf could react, the young woman gripped him around the chest and hung on tightly.

“I’m so afraid,” she murmured, nuzzling her face into his chest. “Please stay with me.”

Worf gently held her at arm’s length. “You’re upset,” he said hoarsely. “Perhaps, if you talked to Counselor Troi . . .”

“I don’t want Counselor Troi,” she breathed, fighting past his hands and hugging him tighter. “I want you.” She looked up at him with eyes that begged for him to comfort her, eyes that promised more than comfort in return. “I realize you don’t know me very well,” she whispered, “but I really feel alone now. I’ve got no one.”

“I cannot become involved at this time,” Worf said forcefully, pushing her away again and stepping back.

Shana turned away with embarrassment. “What you must think of me . . .” she sputtered.

“Nonsense,” the Klingon answered sympathetically. “This is a trying time for all of us. But it’s not a time to seek false consolation. I believe there’s a murderer on board this ship, and none of us can rest until he is brought to justice.”

“Of course,” muttered the girl. “I’m being selfish.” She turned back to him, managing a slight smile.

The Klingon cleared his throat and returned to the subject at hand. “Can you tell me anything else about this threat?” he asked.

“No,” shrugged the researcher, “only that it made quite an impression upon me. But I never mentioned it to anyone.”

“Did anyone else hear it?”

Forlornly, Shana Russel shook her head. “It probably isn’t much help, is it?”

“I cannot say,” answered the security chief, moving toward the door. “Thank you.”

The young blonde smiled hopefully, “Maybe, Worf, when this is all over, we could have dinner together, take a walk on the holodeck . . .”

“When this is all over,” muttered the Klingon, “I plan to sleep for at least two shifts. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” Shana Russel answered weakly as her door slid shut.

 

For almost three hours, Wesley Crusher had stationed himself in a corridor on deck 32 and watched people pay their respects to Emil Costa. Or rather, try to pay their respects to Emil, because so far the eminent scientist had refused to see anyone. This, too, struck the teenager as being odd, considering that Emil would soon be leaving the ship and his colleagues forever.

Wes could understand the widower not wanting to see him, having already spent several hours with the teenager. But how could he refuse to see old friends, like Dr. Baylak? So far, no one had answered Emil’s door except for the big Antarean, who listened to many plaintive pleas but steadfastly turned everyone away. The young ensign was beginning to get suspicious.

In fact, he wondered whether Dr. Costa was in that room at all. Wesley knew that, as a rule, Dr. Costa didn’t wear a communicator, so Wesley couldn’t simply ask the computer to verify his whereabouts.

There was one way to find out, decided the teenager, and all he needed was a tricorder. The boy left his self-appointed post to search the hallway for an emergency first-aid kit. He knew the hatches on emergency equipment were never locked, and there was always a medical tricorder among the hypos, tourniquets, and bandages. As expected, he located the small red-striped locker at eye level near an intersection with another corridor.

Stealthily, Wesley opened the hatch and pried the tricorder from its mount. He knew the ship’s computer was making a note of this somewhere and that somebody from sickbay would probably investigate to see where the instrument had gone and if it needed replacing, but Wesley felt he could explain taking it. He could explain everything—he was on special duty, wasn’t he?

Returning to Emil Costa’s cabin, Wesley was relieved to find the door shut and no callers around. He aimed the tricorder with its special medical peripheral at the door and searched for all indications of life within a six-meter radius. Inside the cabin, there was only one life form—a large one, to be sure—but only one living being.

So intently was Wesley studying the big Antarean’s vital signs that he didn’t see the door slide open and the giant himself step out. Suddenly a shadow darkened the tiny screen, and a meaty pink hand swiped the scanner from his grasp.

“What are you doing?” hissed Grastow.

Wesley didn’t feel like getting involved in a discussion of the finer arts of tricorder operation, so he walked away. Let Grastow explain the borrowed tricorder!

 

From the corridor outside Worf’s command post, Karn Milu glared with bristling eyebrows at the Klingon and Deanna Troi, both of whom gazed up at him wearily from a bank of display screens. “What can be so important,” demanded the Betazoid, “to summon me here at this hour?”

Deanna glanced at Worf, whose jaws were already tightening, and she gave him a confident smile that told him to let her handle this. Worf relaxed slightly and leaned back in his seat. In the last few hours, they had gone over every shred of evidence many times, including Shana Russel’s death threat account. Like Worf, Deanna was becoming annoyed with Milu’s unseemly lack of cooperation, an attitude which bordered on obstruction, she felt. As shocking as Shana Russel’s accusation had been, it could explain what Karn Milu had been hiding.

“We’re sorry to have summoned you so abruptly, Dr. Milu,” she smiled. “Won’t you please step inside?”

Scowling irritably, the administrator finally relented and stepped across the threshhold, allowing the door to close behind him.

“It’s not that I mind cooperating,” he insisted, “but I’ve told you all I can. I’ve delivered every record, every lab report, every maintenance schedule, and I’ve shut down the cleanrooms for an unconscionable length of time. What more can you want from me?”

Deanna Troi looked at the entomologist with eyes as cold as those of his petrified beetles. “We want to know,” she said calmly, “whether there is any truth to a report that you once threatened to kill Lynn Costa.”

The scientist blinked at her, and his face reddened considerably. “Who told you that?” he demanded.

“Never mind,” growled Worf. “The exact words you are described as saying are, ‘If you botch this opportunity, I’ll kill you.’ ”

Karn Milu burst out laughing, a little too loudly, then remarked, “The only one crazy enough to have said that is dead.”

“Do you deny saying it?” asked Deanna, her smile gone and her lips unaccustomedly thin.

“Yes,” Milu answered with pained dignity. “Somebody is being melodramatic at my expense. I had my disagreements with Lynn Costa, and I was certainly distraught when she erased those records. But kill her? The most prestigious scientist under my command? I didn’t work with her on a daily basis—I could avoid seeing her quite easily. Even with all her . . . peculiarities of late, she was still a tremendous asset to this ship. And I miss her.”

Deanna sat back in her chair, surprised. Somewhere in that convoluted answer, she sensed the truth. But then she reminded herself that Karn Milu had extraordinary mental abilities, powers that far eclipsed hers. She was susceptible to his telepathic thoughts, and he knew how to exert his will very subtly.

“Dr. Milu,” she warned, cordially but with steel in her voice, “if it is ever proved that you have been lying to us, I will personally see that you are prosecuted fully under Starfleet regulations.”

“Don’t worry,” countered the Betazoid. “Like Emil Costa, my service to Starfleet will soon be coming to an end. Am I free to leave?”

“You may go,” intoned Worf.

Milu turned his stocky back to them and marched out; even his walk looked indignant.

Leaning back in her chair, Deanna shook her head puzzledly. “I don’t understand his attitude,” she sighed, “but I apologize for it.”

“His attitude is not so remarkable,” said the security chief. “He wants to believe the best of his people. For that reason, if no other, he refuses to condone our investigation.”

“But,” Deanna whispered, “do you think he is capable of threatening someone’s life? Even taking a life?”

Worf gazed at her with dark eyes hooded by bony protuberances. “Betazoids are not pacifists,” he remarked. “In fact, you take extreme pride in your love of emotions. He is a very proud man, but could he ever become angry enough to kill Lynn Costa?” Worf shrugged doubtfully at his own rhetorical question and punched up another screenful of cleanroom schedules.

Then Deanna wondered aloud, “What did he mean about ending his service to Starfleet?”

But Worf had evidently had enough of unanswerable questions and was poring over the data on his screen. Trying to clear her mind of thoughts that were more disturbing than constructive, Deanna returned to her own screen of raw laboratory records. At the moment, they were searching for the names of everyone who had any contact with the deadly pod, however fleeting. Thus far, their exhaustive search had only widened the list of persons who had access to the cleanroom. Narrowing the list was proving impossible.

“Data to Worf,” came the familiar clipped tones of Starfleet’s only android officer.

Worf touched his comm panel, responding, “Worf here.”

“We are now maintaining course and station with Kayran Rock,” said Data. “Per your request, I have the latest estimate of the departure time of the shuttlecraft. We will rendezvous with the Kreel flagship in approximately nineteen minutes. Allowing time for a brief tour of the ship, I estimate shuttlecraft departure in approximately forty minutes.”

Worf and Deanna exchanged troubled glances. Neither one of them wanted to admit defeat, but the prospect was staring them in the face, just forty minutes away.

“Thank you, Data,” Worf replied. “Out.”

With exasperation, Deanna pushed herself away from the console and stood. “With your permission,” she groaned, arching a stiff back, “I would like to see if Guinan has overheard anything else.”

“Good luck,” grumbled Worf, delving back into the morass of statistics on his computer screen.

Deanna hurried out of the command room. She actually had little hope that Guinan would prove to be useful; in truth, she just could not bear to look at the expression of defeat on the proud Klingon’s face.

 

Putting two and two together had always been Wesley Crusher’s strong point, and he quickly surmised that if Grastow was alone in Emil Costa’s cabin, perhaps Emil was hiding out in Grastow’s cabin. A few inquiries later, and he had found out that the Antarean also kept quarters on deck 32. As Wesley made his way through the quiet residential section, he shook his head in bewilderment at this odd state of affairs. Why on earth was Emil hiding out in someone else’s cabin, just hours before leaving the ship? It didn’t make any sense, unless . . .

Unless Emil was afraid of something.

Now the young ensign had a powerful motivating force stirring him on, the desire to help someone he greatly admired. Upon reaching Grastow’s quarters, Wes didn’t fool with formalities; he banged on the door and called out in a loud voice, “Dr. Costa, let me in! I know you’re in there!”

Wesley was counting on the microbiologist wishing to keep this news somewhat quiet. He was about to yell again, when the door whooshed open, and a hand dragged him inside.

Looking haggard, pale, and closer to a hundred than eighty years of age, Emil Costa sank into an armchair. “Did you have to yell like that?” he cursed. “Haven’t you any sense?”

“What about you, sir?” Wesley barked, stiffening to attention. He was always uneasy about questioning authority figures, but he was determined to help his friend. “Why are you in hiding?”

The old scientist bobbed his head wearily. “The story is too long and painful to go into now, Wesley,” he sighed. “And besides, I am putting an end to this affair tonight, before I leave the ship. I am resolving it once and for all.”

“Your wife’s death, too?” asked the boy. “Do you know who killed her?”

Emil Costa gripped the sides of his head and grimaced in pain, as if this was the one question he couldn’t bear to hear. “No!” he shrieked. “Demons! Demons from the past or demons from the future—it doesn’t matter which. We brought it upon ourselves!” The old man dissolved into tears.

Wesley swallowed hard and stumbled around the room, looking for a chair. He sat, profoundly embarrassed and saddened. How could a man as famous and accomplished as Emil Costa have these kinds of problems? And what could be done to help the poor man? Wesley felt totally inadequate to the situation, and he wished Deanna Troi was there to take over.

“Dr. Costa,” he stammered, “would you like to talk to someone, like Counselor Troi?”

“No!” rasped the old man, staring at Wes with hollow eyes. “Don’t call any of your friends. Like I told you, I will end this affair tonight, once and for all. You must trust me, Wesley, and do nothing to interfere.”

The teenager countered, “What about your old friends, like Dr. Baylak? Do you know that Grastow is lying to all of them?”

“Yes,” Emil sighed, smiling sadly. “I wish I could see them, but the good times are past. And don’t blame Grastow for what he is doing—he is only following my orders. You must understand, Grastow would do anything for me.”

Wesley swallowed hard again, wondering if “anything” really meant anything.

The door suddenly brushed open, and the mammoth Antarean entered his own quarters. Wesley nearly leapt from his chair, but Grastow hardly paid the ensign any attention as he rushed to Emil Costa’s side.

“Doctor, are you all right?” asked the high-pitched voice with concern.

“Yes,” smiled Emil, patting his assistant’s beefy shoulder. “You have done well, even if our young friend was a bit too clever.”

Grastow glanced at the teenager, looking as embarrassed as Wesley felt. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“Oh, no,” Wesley shrugged, wondering if his tailbone would ever stop aching. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“There is,” replied Emil, forcing himself to his feet and straightening his bent frame. “Please don’t attempt to follow me.”

“Where are you going?” asked Wesley with alarm.

“I must find out,” Emil said grimly, walking over to the comm panel by the door and touching it with a trembling hand. “Emil Costa to Karn Milu.”

“Milu speaking,” replied the Betazoid. “Have you decided to talk?”

“I have,” Emil nodded determinedly. “Where are you?”

‘“I’ll meet you in the pod room. We’ll have more privacy there.”

“Very well,” the microbiologist agreed, his lower chin quivering. “Out.”

Wesley Crusher rose to his feet and clapped his hands with false cheer. “If you’re going, Doctor,” he grinned nervously, “I guess I will, too.”

“No,” said Emil, nodding to his hulking assistant, “I want you and Grastow to stay here.”

On this subtle command, the huge Antarean wrapped his arms around Wesley and plunked him back into his chair. The ensign reached instinctively for his communicator badge, but Grastow was swift as well as strong. He wrapped a massive fist around the tiny badge and ripped it off Wesley’s chest, taking several centimeters of red cloth with it.

“No, no!” Wesley protested, clawing the giant hands for the communicator. “Give that back!”

But the boy’s attention was diverted from the giant humanoid by the sight of Emil Costa taking a small phaser from a drawer by his bed. “Dr. Costa!” he shouted. “Where are you going with that?”

“Merely for safety’s sake,” the scientist smiled wanly, his drawn face looking like a death’s-head. “One cannot be too careful.” As the door opened, Emil Costa concealed the phaser in his waistband.

“No!” screamed Wesley Crusher. But one huge hand was already covering his mouth, as another one gripped his neck, brutally pressing him into the chair and holding him there.