“SO WHAT’S YOUR IDEA?” Guinan asked her companion.

Picard, who was sitting next to her in an obscure corner of the bazaar, had a serious fire in his eyes. But then, he seemed to believe that he had come up with the lead they needed.

“Demmix had a medication,” he said. “He always carried it with him. Something for stress.”

“You said he was the nervous type,” Guinan recalled.

Picard nodded. “To say the least. And in a Zartani, stress is a much more serious condition than in, for instance, a human. It can even be fatal.”

Guinan hadn’t been aware of that. But then, she hadn’t had occasion to speak with many Zartani.

“This medication,” said Picard, “had to be made fresh all the time. After a couple of days, it would have lost its potency. I left orders to have some waiting for Demmix on my ship, but—”

“But thanks to that bomb,” she noted, “he’s not on your ship. And if he’s feeling as stressed as we think he is—”

“He’ll need to obtain some medication,” said Picard, picking up the thread. “The question is—”

“Where would he find it?” Guinan smiled to herself. “I know just the place. It’s not far from here, either.”

“Then let’s go,” said her companion.

He got to his feet and extended his hand to her. As she took it, she imagined that she could feel a current of energy running through him—a current of optimism that she hadn’t felt in the longest time.

Like a drowning woman, she clung to Picard for as long as she could. Then she was on her feet and she no longer had an excuse to do so.

“It’s this way,” she said, barely able to catch her breath. And she started in the direction of the exit.

Phigus Simenon didn’t often have to discipline the crewmen who reported to him in engineering. By the time they arrived in his section, they usually knew how he felt about the importance of their individual contributions.

But every once in a while, there was an exception. In fact, he was looking at one.

What really annoyed the Gnalish was that the slacker in question wasn’t a newcomer to engineering. He had worked a rotation under Simenon before—twice, actually, if memory served. And both those times, he had acquitted himself well.

But he wasn’t doing that this time. For some reason, he was screwing up royally.

Waddling over to the workstation where Ensign Nikolas was sitting, Simenon peered over the man’s shoulder. He could see Nikolas’s monitor screen, where a brightly colored graphic was tracking the efficiency of the ship’s recently upgraded power-distribution system.

“Well,” said the chief engineer, “we now know ever so intimately how the EPS grid is working on Deck Six. But to get some idea of how it’s working on all the other decks, you might want to call up some additional data.” He tapped a key on the workstation’s board. “Like so.”

Nikolas kept his eyes on the screen. “Sorry, sir.”

“Unless, of course,” said Simenon, “there’s some reason you were focusing on Deck Six to the exclusion of all the others.”

“No, sir,” said the ensign. “No reason.”

The engineer maneuvered himself into a position between Nikolas and the screen, forcing him to meet his superior’s gaze. “Then why were you dwelling on that particular information?”

The ensign frowned as he looked into Simenon’s eyes. “I have no excuse, sir.”

No excuse, the Gnalish thought. But he had been around humans long enough to know when they were suffering from lack of sleep—and Nikolas, with his dark, fleshy lower lids, was a textbook example of the problem.

“You can barely keep your eyes open,” Simenon spat. “How do you expect to carry out your responsibilities in my section?”

Nikolas didn’t seem nearly as offended as the engineer had intended. “All I can do is my best,” he said.

Wrong answer, thought the Gnalish, a tide of anger rising in his throat—and he proceeded to address the ensign’s mistake with a colorful array of his favorite words and phrases.

Though he had a feeling it wouldn’t do much good.

Picard stood alongside Guinan in a small but handsomely furnished apothecary shop, and regarded the Dranoon who appeared to be the shop’s proprietor.

The fellow was as every bit as broad and powerful-looking as Guinan’s friend Dahlen. Being a male, however, he was understandably a bit taller. He also seemed older, judging by the thinning of his sleek, black mane.

“May I help you?” he asked in a deep, resonant voice.

Guinan placed her hands on the polished-wood counter between them. “How about a little information?”

The Dranoon laughed. “Information is a most precious commodity. It could be rather costly.”

“Even for an old friend?” Picard’s companion asked.

The Dranoon’s expression changed to one of surprise, then disbelief. “Guinan? Is that you?”

She smiled. “It’s me, all right.”

The proprietor examined her from various angles. “Remarkable. And if you don’t mind my asking, what occasioned this rather ill-advised change of appearance?”

“Believe me,” she said, “you don’t want to know. Just tell me one thing—did a Zartani come in here recently to buy a bottle of Geyanna extract?”

The Dranoon nodded his squarish head. “Yes. Just this morning, actually. He purchased a small supply, though he could have saved on a larger one.” His brow knit. “Why do you ask?”

“You don’t want to know that either,” said Guinan.

The Dranoon considered the remark for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he expelled a husky sigh and said, “All right. If you say so.”

Picard felt grateful. As Guinan had pointed out, it would be better for the Dranoon if he didn’t have any knowledge of what they were up to. But it was even more important to the captain and his companion.

Just then, he caught a glimpse of a blue-and-black uniform through the shop’s transparent display window. “Guinan,” he whispered urgently.

She had noticed it too, it seemed. But if she had even considered asking her friend to conceal them, the option quickly became unavailable. Before either Guinan or Picard could make a move, a Tyrheddan security officer walked through the wide-open doorway of the apothecary shop.

He wasn’t alone, either. The captain saw several of the officer’s colleagues outside, waiting for him.

If the Dranoon was nervous, he didn’t show it. “Good day, Lieutenant. How can I help you?”

The security officer didn’t respond with the same warmth, scanning the shop with his single cyclopean eye. “We’re looking for a couple of humans.” He handed the proprietor a padd. “Have you seen them?”

The Dranoon studied the image on the padd’s tiny screen. Picard saw his face there, right beside Guinan’s. But thanks to Dahlen, they didn’t look like that anymore.

“Can’t say I have,” the Dranoon said. He handed the padd back to the officer. “What did they do?”

Muscles twitched around the officer’s eye. “Never mind that. Just watch for them. If you catch sight of them, report it immediately.”

“I will,” the Dranoon promised him.

The officer stared at him for a full second, as if to impress the store owner with the seriousness of the matter. Then he turned to Picard and Guinan.

For a moment, he seemed to see that there was something odd about them. Something familiar, even. The captain felt a drop of perspiration trickle down the back of his neck.

Then the officer said, “That goes for you too.”

Picard nodded. “Of course.”

“No problem,” Guinan assured him.

With a last glance at the Dranoon, the officer left the shop. It wasn’t until after he and his men were all out of sight that Picard felt a wave of relief.

Turning to Guinan’s friend, he said, “Thank you.”

“For what?” the Dranoon asked. “I answered honestly. I haven’t seen those people.” He glanced at Guinan in a conspiratorial way. “Lately, at least.”

“Before we were interrupted,” said Picard’s companion, “we were talking about a Zartani. I don’t suppose he made mention of where he was staying?”

The Dranoon’s features squeezed together as he thought about it. “I don’t believe so,” he said at last.

Picard’s hopes fell.

“Do you remember him saying anything about where he was headed?” Guinan asked.

Her friend thought some more—and a light went on in his round, dark eyes. “As I was preparing the extract, he asked about a footwear vendor. He said his heel hurt him.”

The captain nodded. “That sounds right.” The same slender leg and foot bones that made Demmix’s people such splendid runners also made them vulnerable to injury.

“Where did you send him?” Guinan asked.

“There’s a place two hulls down,” said the Dranoon, “in that direction.” And he pointed with a thick green finger.

Picard followed the gesture to a distant hatch. Then he turned to his companion. “Do you know of any Zartani accommodations in that direction?”

Guinan shook her head. “No. There are a couple of hotels that way, but neither of them is designed to accommodate Zartani.”

The captain frowned. Would Demmix have risked staying in a non-Zartani sleeping environment in order to avoid detection until he left Oblivion? It might explain why they were having such a difficult time finding him.

“Thanks,” Guinan told the owner of the apothecary shop. “I guess I owe you one.”

He smiled paternally. “You owe me more than one, but you can take your time paying me back.” Then, to Picard, he said, “I hope you find the fellow you’re looking for.”

“So do I,” said the captain.

Enabran Tain eyed the manager of the Singing Waters across the top of the fellow’s stained metal desk.

The glinn declined to guess what kinds of stains they were, considering the fact that this had once been the galley of a Klingon transport, and Klingons were known to eat their food freshly slaughtered.

Like The Heavenly Meadow, the Singing Waters was a hotel that catered to Zartani. Tain hoped to have better luck there than in the other places he had visited.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said.

The manager’s expression indicated that he didn’t often see Cardassians. But then, Tain wouldn’t have expected him to.

“Maybe you’ve seen him,” he added, handing over a palm-sized recorder with Demmix’s likeness on it.

The Zartani studied it for a moment. Then he returned the recorder. “He doesn’t look familiar.”

“You’re certain?” Tain asked.

“Quite certain,” the Zartani told him. “I have no reason to conceal anything from you.”

Tain nodded. “I’m glad to hear that.”

His eyes were drawn to the wall behind the Zartani. There was a shelf there supporting a holoprojector—not the latest kind, but one that seemed to work pretty well nonetheless.

It depicted the hotel manager along with three others. One was a female, obviously his mate. The other two were his offspring, both males.

They seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. It was a nice scene, a family scene.

Touching, thought Tain.

He held out the recorder again. “So you’re certain you haven’t seen this man?”

The Zartani nodded. “Yes.”

Tain pointed to the hologram. “Lovely family.”

The Zartani didn’t turn around to look at it. However, the furrow in his brow indicated that he knew what the Cardassian was referring to.

“Thank you,” he said a little shakily.

“You must be very attached to them,” Tain observed.

The Zartani swallowed hard and visibly. “Of course.”

“Do they live in Oblivion?” Tain asked.

He didn’t get an answer.

“I’ll bet they do,” said Tain. “A family man like you wouldn’t want to be separated from his wife and children.”

The furrow in the Zartani’s brow grew deeper.

“It would be a pity,” the Cardassian continued matter-of-factly, “if anything happened to them.”

The Zartani’s eyes widened. “Please,” he said, his voice taut with apprehension, “it’s as I told you—I don’t know anything about the man you’re looking for.”

Tain studied the fellow’s face for a moment. As far as he could tell, the Zartani was telling the truth.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said reasonably. “I guess I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

The manager appeared to relax a bit.

Tain eyed him a little longer. Then he left, his men following in his wake.

Time is running out, he told himself. He had to find Demmix soon, or risk losing him to the human.

And Tain wasn’t a very good loser.