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From: BS_EKER@PAVO.CONCORDIA.CA
To: jfy@cis.ksu.edu
Subject: A submission for the archive.  I've gotten positive feedback so far.
Date: Thu, 21 Oct 1993 13:01:10 -0500 (EST)

"Prankster"

by Bryan Ekers


Prolog

     "Captain's Log, stardate 45921.2.  While it may be unseemly to
complain about receiving an easy mission, the crew and myself are
feeling the boredom that always accompanies the routine.  A simple
patrol across this sector, visiting Starbases 145 through 152,
hardly rates as our most exciting tour of duty, and the temptation
is to wish that something will occur to break the monotony."

     Picard yawned, stretched and left his ready room.  On the
bridge, he glanced around surreptitiously.  He saw Ensign Mason
tapping his fingers on the helm station in a repetitious, uncon-
scious manner.  At the weapons station, Lieutenant Worf glared at
his quiet monitors while alternately clenching and stretching his
hands.  There was something catlike about the gesture, something
dangerous.  Picard walked over to him.
     "Nothing to do, Lieutenant?" he asked innocently.
     Worf started slightly, then snapped ramrod straight. 
"Situation report negative, sir," he growled.
     "Well, don't let it get you down."
     Worf's face darkened momentarily.  "Sir.  A true warrior can
withstand all things, including idleness."
     Picard suppressed a smile.  "Of course."
     The turbolift opened behind Picard, and he glanced over his
shoulder.  Commander William Riker had just walked on to the
bridge.
     "Ah, Number One," said Picard.  With a nod, he turned away
from Worf, who stared darkly at his captain's back.
     Picard strode over to Riker.  "You have the conn."  Riker
nodded and was about to address the bridge crew when Picard caught
his arm.  Riker looked back at the captain expectantly.
     "And Will?  I hope your shift won't be too taxing."
     Riker smiled broadly.  "I think I can handle it, sir."
     Picard nodded and walked into the turbolift.  Once the doors
shut, Picard released the jaw-breaking yawn he'd been holding back.
He yawned again and leaned into the wall.
     "Destination, please," prompted the turbolift's computer.
     "Hmm?  Deck eight."
     At once, the lift began to hum.  Picard brought his hands up
to his eyes and began to rub them.  This duty was boring!
     He only dimly heard the familiar whine of a transporter beam,K
and paused for a moment, puzzled.  He brought his hands away fromK
his face.
     And immediately recoiled.  The presence of the garishly
dressed man, his face only centimetres from Picard's startled him
badly.  The man had black, unruly hair.  Stuck in the middle of his
pale, not-handsome face, his button nose twitched slightly.  His
eyes met Picard's, then crossed. 
     "Hello, Captain," said the man lightheartedly.  "I'm your new
tenant."
     Picard opened his mouth to form his first question when
something white and soft was thrown into his face.  He couldn't
help but taste some of the substance, which was cold and very
sweet.  Immediately he began to wipe the stuff off, and his fingers
touched a dough-like shell covering his face.  This crumpled away
easily.
     Through the white coating, Picard could dimly see the man
smile sadly at him, touch something on his wrist and disappear. 
The effect was exactly the same as the Enterprise's transporters. 
Picard angrily wiped as much as he could of the remaining white
fluff from his face and flung it away.
     Even with his limited historical knowledge of such things,
even though the exact method had been out of fashion for centuries,
Picard knew immediately what sort of attack had been made against
him.
     He'd been hit in the face with a cream pie.

     Lieutenant-Commander Data approached the turbolift doors.  As
usual they opened almost immediately.  What was not usual was the
sight of Captain Picard, wiping some sort of white cream from his
face.  It gave Data's positronic brain pause.
     "Sir?" he started hesitantly.
     Picard glared up at Data and curtly said: "Close."
     The turbolift doors immediately obeyed.  Data was left in the
corridor, a look of abject confusion across his pale face.


to be continued...
     In the briefing room, Lieutenant-Commander Laforge could not
quite believe what he'd just heard.
     "Hit with a what?"
     "A cream pie," offered Data helpfully.  "A Terran desert, with
a double use in certain comedic forms of entertainment of the
twentieth century.  To hit another person in the face with such a
device was considered a humorous act-"
     Worf, sitting nearby, growled deep in his throat.  "It is a
most insulting act.  In the Klingon Empire, treating one's enemies
in such a fashion is to consider them unworthy of respect."
     Laforge glanced over at him curiously.  "Klingons hit each
other with pies?"  Across the table, Doctor Beverly Crusher and
Counsellor Deanna Troi looked at each other and began to giggle. 
     Worf, however, nearly snarled.  "No.  To attack someone with
food would be beneath even the lowest Klingon custom.  It is a-"
     The door opened and Picard and Riker walked in.  Crusher and
Troi covered their mouths with their hands to smother the laughter.

Data, Worf, Laforge and Transporter Chief O'Brien began to stand
but were stopped by a subtle gesture from Picard.  Dressed in a
clean uniform, he walked around the table and settled into the head
chair.  Riker sat down to his left.
     "I'll be brief," said Picard tersely and sourly.  "Twenty
minutes ago, a humanoid male used our own transporters to beam
himself into my turbolift car.  There he..." the muscles of
Picard's jaw tensed as he ground his teeth, "...assaulted me,
clearly as a joke.  He then escaped by the same method.  Your
reports...?"
     There was silence for a few seconds.
     "Uh, sir?" started O'Brien tentatively.
     "Yes, Commander?"
     "I've checked the records.  There hasn't been any unauthorized
use of the transporter within the last month.  We could go back
further, if you think there's any point, but..." he let the
sentence trail off.
     Picard nodded impatiently.  "I am not imagining this incident.

The intruder did use the transporter.  Theories?"
     O'Brien shrugged.  He had no idea how someone could use the
transporter without leaving a record.
     Worf leaned forward slightly.  "He could have beamed over from
another ship."
     Riker frowned.  "There aren't any ships within range."
     "A cloaked vessel, perhaps," was Worf's reply.
     Picard shook his head.  "The man I saw wasn't Romulan, and I
have no idea why they should choose to engage in some meaningless
prank.  Especially this far into Federation territory."
     Data digested the conversation of the last few minutes and
began to form hypotheses in descending order of likelihood.  "Sir."
     Picard looked over at him.  "Yes, Mister Data?"
     "It is possible that this individual has found a way to mask
his use of the transporter.  If this is the case, it would be very
difficult to trace him.  Alternately, the intruder may be a crew
member, or collaborating with a crew member."
     Picard's hand drifted up to his face, where he had just
cleaned away the last of that damned pie.  "On your second point,
Mister Data, I know the faces of all my crew and this man is not
one of them.  As for collaboration-"
     "None of my staff would take part in this, sir," interrupted
Chief O'Brien.
     "-there isn't anyone I can think of who would..." Picard
paused and glanced sharply at Riker.
     Riker noticed his captain's scrutiny, and raised his hands in
a defensive gesture.  "Don't look at me, sir.  I was on the bridge,
remember?"
     Deanna Troi smiled to herself.
     Data stared at Picard blankly, as usual.  "All the other
theories I can form have a probability less than point one percent,
sir.  The most likely of these is that this is another intervention
by Q." 
     At the mention of that omnipotent pest, Picard almost
recoiled.  "Doubtful.  Even though this sort of low humour is
hardly beyond Q's limited sensibilities, I cannot see why he would
take such an approach.  No, I think we'll go with your first idea,
Data.  The man must be able to use the transporter without leaving
a obvious trail but I can't believe he left no trail at all. 
Mister Data, Mister Laforge, Chief O'Brien, I'll expect the three
of you to find out how this intruder is using the transporters and
how to stop him.  Counsellor?"
     Deanna Troi leaned slightly toward Picard.  "Captain?"
     "Can you sense anything...unusual aboard ship?"
     She shrugged.  "No, Captain.  The crew is bored, that much is
certain.  A man such as you describe should stand out like a beacon
to me, but I sense nothing."
     "Very well.  Do what you can.  That's all."
     The crew got out of their chairs and filed out the door. 
Riker, the last one, stopped and walked back toward Picard.
     "Sir?"
     "Yes, Number One?"
     "Is this too taxing for you?" asked Riker, obviously fighting
down a grin.
     Picard gave the coldest stare imaginable.  "Get out."
     Riker tapped a point behind his left ear.  "By the way, sir,
you missed a spot."
     Picard's hand darted up to the point Riker indicated.  His
fingers came away smeared with whipped cream.
     "Get out!" he snarled.
     "Yes, sir."  Openly smiling now, Riker walked from the room.

     Later, Riker walked in on Data and Laforge in transporter room
three.  They, along with Chief O'Brien, had taken the unit apart
and were scanning, it seemed, every single component.
     "You've been at it for two hours," he said.  "Progress?"
     O'Brien looked up at Riker.  "None, sir.  We've checked all
the other transporter rooms and have come up negative."
     Riker nodded grimly.  "I don't quite see how this is possible.

Surely there must a record of some sort."
     Laforge pulled himself out from under the transporter console.

"Well if there is, sir, it's very well hidden.  It's like Data
said, whoever this guy is, he's masking himself.  And doing a good
job.  We may never find out exactly how he does it."
     Riker frowned.  "Keep at it.  If anyone needs me, I'll be on
the holodeck."
     "Yes, sir," replied Data.  Riker let them get back to their
work.

     Riker stopped briefly at ship's stores to pick up the ap-
propriate costume and made his way down to the holodeck.  His spurs
clanked as he walked, and his boots made his stride satisfyingly
loud.  His blue jeans were dusty and faded perfectly, as was his
vest and hat.  In his backpack, he carried the requisite pan, pick
and shovel.
     All he needed for some good, old-fashioned prospecting.
     He reached the holodeck and pressed a button on the control
panel.  "Computer, run program Riker 6-A.  Stikine Creek, Alaska,
circa 1863.  Local tavern."
     There was a momentary pause.  "Program loaded," stated the
computer.  "Enter now."
     "Thanks," said Riker brightly.  The heavy doors slid open with
a hydraulic sigh.  Riker passed though and they closed behind him.
     Yes, this was perfect.  He had stepped back almost five
hundred years to this place.  Around him, prospectors seeking their
wealth from the first big Alaska gold strike were playing cards,
smoking, drinking or watching the three lovely dancers on the
stage.  A piano player was dishing up "Oh! Susanna" off-key.
     Riker grinned hugely.  This was great.  Alaska had been built
during the gold rushes, just like California fourteen years
earlier, after Sutter's Mill.  This was the true America, he
reflected.  Oops, not America.  This was still a Russian territory,
not to be sold to America until 1867.
     There was an empty stool at the bar.  Riker took it.  A
gigantic bartender, in shirt-sleeves and with his hair parted down
the middle, strode over to him.  He blew a stinking cloud of cigar
smoke before derisively asking: "What'll it be?"
     "Whiskey, straight."
     Riker waited until the bartender walked away before he allowed
himself to cough on the smoke.  After a few seconds, the hack
subsided and Riker looked around again.
     A shot glass was slammed down on the bar near his elbow. 
Riker looked at it, then up at the bartender.
     "That'll be twenty cents."
     Riker had though far enough ahead to get some contemporary
currency made up by the replicators, in addition to his costume. 
He slipped the bartender a quarter.  "Keep the change."
     The bartender sneered, and bit the coin to test it.  "Okay." 
He walked away.
     Riker knocked the whiskey back.  He was all right for a few
seconds before the another coughing spasm caught him.  When it
subsided, he examined his empty shot glass.  "Smooth," he commented
in a rasping voice.
     A hand fell onto his left shoulder.  Riker looked around and
came face-to-face with another man, dressed like himself.
     "Say," said the man in a broad, friendly voice.  "You're that
Riker fella I've heard so much about, ain'tcha?"  The image's
accent was thick and did not sound entirely realistic. 
     Riker nodded and smiled.  So the computer was starting to make
it interesting.  "Yup.  And what's your name?"
     "Wells, m'boy.  Halder Wells."
     "What can I do for you?"
     "Well, Riker m'boy.  I just wanted to shake your hand.  Put
'er there!"
     Riker placed his right hand in Wells's.  An electric shock
instantly lanced into his palm.  Riker cried out in pain and
surprise and yanked his hand away.
     Wells held his palm up so Riker could see the small device
that had delivered the sting.  "Joy buzzer, m'boy.  All the rage. 
Say, you look tired.  Take a load off."  Abruptly, he gave Riker a
hard shove to the chest.  Riker flew backward and crashed squarely
onto a card table.  Around him.  He could hear the holographic
poker players yelling in protest.
     "Hey!" cried Riker.  "Freeze program!"
     The action in the bar was instantly silenced.  The dancers
froze in mid-kick, the piano player in mid-key.  Riker crawled out
of the wreckage of the table and glared at the frozen Wells. 
"Computer, why is this image acting this way?"
     There was a momentary pause before the computer's voice
answered.  "The indicated image is not a hologram."
     Riker paused.  "What?"
     "That's right, m'boy!" yelled Wells, suddenly re-animated. 
Before Riker could react, Wells had pushed a cream pie into his
face.  Riker struggled with it for a moment, then wiped the thing
away.  There was genuine fury in his voice.  "Why, you-"
     Wells smiled, touched something on his wrist and vanished into
a transporter beam.  Riker was left facing nothing.  Furiously, he
yelled.  "Exit!"
     The holodeck doors opened, leading back onto the corridor. 
Riker stalked through, leaving the halted program behind him.  He
headed for the turbolift.  He wiped ineffectually at the whipped
cream on his face, only smearing it further.  His spurs, which he'd
been so proud of earlier, sounded now like contemptuous laughter.
     Before he reached the turbolift, its doors opened and Data
stepped out.  The android froze as he saw the costumed Riker, his
face smeared with cream.  Riker brushed past him into the turbolift
car.
     "Sir?"
     Riker ignored him.  "Close!" he said loudly.
     The turbolift doors slammed shut, leaving Data in the cor-
ridor, alone and confused. 
     "Captain's Log, supplemental.  A second attack by our mys-
terious prankster has been made, this one against Commander Riker,
while the Commander was enjoying a session on the holodeck.  The
man identified himself as Halder Wells, and I have ordered
Lieutenant Worf to run a check through Records.  Meanwhile, I will
examine the scene of this latest incident and investigate."

     Picard, Data, Laforge and Riker, now back in uniform, con-
verged at the door of the holodeck where the attack had taken
place.  Data examined the holodeck computer terminal and addressed
Picard.
     "Sir, it will be possible to play a recording of the assault. 
The computer automatically makes a record of events within the
holodeck for its reference library.  I have loaded the program and
we can run it at any time."
     Riker looked pained.  "Must we?"
     "I'm afraid so, Number One," answered Picard.
     "Enter when ready," suggested the holodeck computer.  The
doors slid open.
     Inside, the tavern setting was frozen exactly as Riker had
left it.  The investigating team moved off to one side.
     "Computer," said Data.  "Rewind the events specified."
     Riker saw himself, decked out in scruffy prospector gear and
smeared with whipped cream, walk backwards from the holodeck door
into the bar.  He saw himself stare furiously at empty air and a
few seconds later Halder Wells appeared directly in front, as if by
transporter.  Riker's image said something, incomprehensible by
virtue of being pronounced backward, and a crumpled pie crust flew
up from the floor and condensed perfectly over Riker's image's
face.  A second later, the pie was pulled off Riker's image's face
by Halder Wells.  The pie came away perfectly, leaving no stain or
residue.  Wells's image put the pie down on a barstool and froze
like a statue.  There was some backward conversation between
Wells's image, the holodeck computer and Riker's image, in that
order.  Riker's image collapsed downward and back, and scrambled
into the remains of a shattered table.
     "Freeze," said Riker, the real one.  The drama before him
stopped dead.  "Jump back to the moment the images of Riker and
Wells first meet, and replay normally."
     There was a pause and the scene shifted slightly.  The image
of Wells had his hand on Riker's image's left shoulder.  The scene
began.
     "Say," said the Wells image in a broad, friendly voice. 
"You're that Riker fella I've heard so much about, ain'tcha?"
     "Fast forward," said the real Riker to the holodeck.  The
handshake and joy buzzer shock rushed by, as did the shove into the
table.  Riker shook his head when he saw the pie slap into his
image's face.  "Resume."
     The recording assumed normal speed.  Riker's image had wiped
the pie from his face and glared at Wells.  "Why, you-"
     Wells smiled and touched his wrist.
     "Freeze!" yelled the real Riker.  "Immediately after this, he
transported out."
     Laforge stepped forward and examined the frozen image of
Wells.  The man was touching a device on his left wrist and Laforge
examined it carefully.  It was only barely adequate; a simple
visual inspection of a recording could never compare to a detailed
laboratory analysis, but only a few seconds passed before Laforge
realized the device's origin, purpose and implications.  He shook
his head in admiration.
     "This is a transporter override.  He can seize control of any
standard Federation transporter within range and beam himself to
any preset location.  I knew they were working on this, but I never
expected to see it.  It's supposed to remove the need for a
transporter operator."  He looked at Picard.  "If he has one of
these, he'll use our transporters whenever he wants, and there's
nothing we can do about it."
     Picard glanced at Riker, then back at Laforge.  "What about a
security lock?"
     Laforge shrugged.  "I don't think so.  A device this
sophisticated can override anything we install.  It was supposed to
be used only in emergencies, so it has priority over everything. 
Obviously he's modified it, since it no longer leaves a record of
his transports."
     "What's his effective range?" asked Riker.
     Laforge replied grimly: "The same as the transporters, sir,
about forty thousand kilometres.  It's easy to see how he came
aboard; he just beamed in, probably at the last Starbase we
visited."  
     "Sir," said Data.  "If we cannot stop his override, it is best
if we stop the transporters."
     Picard considered briefly.  "Agreed."  He tapped his com-
municator badge.  "Computer, shut down all transporter systems."
     Laforge came back to the .  "I'm afraid that still won't work,
Captain.  Wells must be on emergency standby all the time.  He can
turn the transporters on and off at will.  What we can do, though,
is physically take all the transporters off line.  With Chief
O'Brien's and Data's help, I can have that done in under an hour. 
We'll have to have the transporter rooms guarded afterward, so
Wells can't sneak in and put them back on line, but Worf can
arrange that through Security."
     Picard considered again, and slowly nodded his head.  "Make it
so, but it seems like a great deal of effort to go to stop a man
whose only damage has been some wounded pride.  We'll be at
Starbase 149 in two days, and we'll need the transporters back on
line by then.  Number One, do you feel confident that you and
Mister Worf can catch our prankster in that time?"
     Riker grinned and cracked his knuckles.  "It will be a
pleasure, sir."
     "One minor point, sir," said Data.  "Wells has established a
pattern.  It is possible that his next target will be myself.  I am
third in command."
     Riker smiled faintly.  "I wonder how you'll look with a cream
pie in the face."
     Data replied in all calmness.  "I shall do my best to avoid
such a fate, sir."

     A whispered conversation abruptly stopped when Commander Riker
entered Ten-Forward, the main crew lounge.  He glanced at the
silenced patrons coldly and walked up to the bar.
     The mysterious bartender, Guinan, calmly approached him.  He
regarded her for a moment, then asked: "Does everybody know?"
     "About the holodeck incident?" she said mildly.  "I think so,
but we could take a poll-"
     "No!  Sorry, I'm a little sensitive about it."
     "Obviously.  But we can talk about something else."
     "Good."  He paused.  "Like what?"  
     Guinan started to answer when a soft voice behind Riker in-
terrupted.  "Don't bother, Guinan.  I can sense there's nothing
else on his mind."
     Riker turned and saw Deanna Troi.  He smiled to her and ges-
tured to the seat beside him.  She sat down.
     Guinan nodded politely to Troi, and turned back to Riker. 
"Would you like something to eat?  I just had a new food syn-
thesizer installed and I'd like to break it in."
     Riker's eyes screwed up and his nose crinkled.  "I don't know
about being a test subject," he commented, tongue-in-cheek.
     "Relax.  What would you like?"
     "Something as far from a cream pie as possible."
     Guinan lips writhed momentarily.  "There are some new Klingon
delicacies programmed in."
     Troi winced.
     Riker reflected.  "Nothing new, not tonight.  I'll take some
gah, though, lightly seasoned."
     Guinan found this humorous.  "Lightly seasoned?  That's like
asking for a low-power supernova."  Unnoticed by the three, the
door opened and a conservatively dressed man entered.
     Riker, Troi and Guinan continued to make small talk, but Troi
was the first to stop.  She shuddered slightly and began looking
the room over.
     Riker noticed her reaction.  "What is it?"
     She seemed distracted.  "Something unusual, something in this
room."  Her eyes lighted on the conservatively dressed man.  Riker
followed her gaze.
     "Hey!" he yelled.  "That's him!"
     The man looked up at Riker expectantly.  "Yes?"
     Riker jumped from his seat and approached the man, Halder
Wells.  His fist clenched.
     "You're dead," said Riker calmly.
     "Oh?" said Wells.  "Actually, that stench is your breath."
     Riker lunged but Wells saw the move coming.  He touched his
wrist briefly and disappeared.  Riker flew through empty air and
crashed onto a table.
     "Uh-oh," said a childish voice from across the room.  "Riker
fall down, go boom."  Halder Wells had transported only a short
distance this time.  The crowd in the lounge seemed too confused to
react.  With a fast sweeping gesture of Wells's arms, two pistol-
type weapons slid down his sleeves into his hands.  He opened fire
on the crowd, spraying water everywhere.  There were sharp cries of
protest from people hit by the annoying torrent.
     "Whoa, look out!" warned Wells as he released a handful of
loud but harmless firecrackers.  The room began to fill with acrid
smoke.  There was more yelling and now some coughing.  Wells tossed
a small white ball, which struck a wall and exploded softly into a
cloud of white dust.  Immediately, hapless patrons caught in the
fog were stricken with massive skin irritation, forcing them to
scratch.
     Wells laughed insanely and caught Riker neatly in the face
with a tomato, even as the Commander was preparing to lunge again. 
Riker knocked the vegetable away and continued his attack. 
Unconsciously, he hesitated for a moment, fearing another wild
lunge would be as useless as before.  This gave Wells a chance to
disappear again.
     Troi, watching the chaos with an expression of wonder, felt a
tap on her shoulder.  She turned and came face-to-face with Halder
Wells.
     "Is that Riker guy boring you?  Why don't the two of us..." 
the sentence trailed off.  Wells's expression blanked, his whole
body seemed to clench momentarily.
     "Betazoid," he hissed, as though he'd been caught by surprise.

He touched his wrist and disappeared. 
     Troi was shocked by the man's behaviour, since she sensed it
was at odds with his mindset.  Around her the chaos was still un-
derway, even though its instigator had left.
     The door to Ten-Forward opened, and Commander Data paused in
the corridor when confronted by the disarray inside the lounge.  He
examined the scene briefly before locking his gaze on Riker, who
had returned to Troi's side.
     "Sir," began the android, almost sermonizing.  "With a few
observations of social protocol, gatherings such as this would not
degenerate to such a degree, and-"
     Troi and Riker glanced at each other quickly before looking
back at Data.  "Close!" they yelled simultaneously.
     The door slammed shut in Data's face.  His expression was one
of confusion.

     Over the next hour, various things happened.

     Lieutenant Skinner watched as the ensigns took their seats. 
When he had their undivided attention, he glanced down at his
podium and examined the viewer controls.  The blue button would
call up the first page of his radiation protocol lecture notes.  He
pressed it.
     The reaction was astounding.  The entire group of ensigns rose
as one, shouting in surprise and pain.  Skinner looked at them, his
mouth hanging open in shock.
     Ensign Merch pulled a small tool from his pocket and dug into
the seat of his chair.  He unearthed a small device, designed to
administer a painful electric shock.
     Some ensigns were staring blankly at the viewer.  Skinner
recovered slightly and turned to look at the viewer himself.
     Instead of the title page of his lecture notes, the message
"Halder Wells was here" was blazoned across the screen.

     Technician First Class Goldman sighed.  Once again, he had
destroyed his uniform in the lab, this time with a dropped beaker
of an experimental bleaching agent.  He ambled back to his
quarters, slipped out of his yellow uniform and examined it.  The
white blotches of bleached cloth were scattered all over the pants.

He sighed again and fed the uniform into the disposal unit.  Then
he went over to the replicator unit and went through the familiar
rigmarole.
     "Standard duty uniform sized to my specifications, Technician
First Class Alec Goldman, authorization three one four one five
nine zulu."
     At once, a new and neatly folded uniform materialized. 
Goldman put it on without a second thought.
     As he made his way back to the lab, he couldn't understand why
people were giggling as he passed.  He didn't waste too much
thought on it, though.
     Finally Technician Piedmont, who Goldman had always considered
a galaxy-class jerk, ran up and firmly booted Goldman in the rear. 
Goldman spun around in fury.  "What's the big idea?" he demanded.
     Piedmont snickered and said: "Look at your back."
     Frowning, Goldman turned his head as far as he could and saw
nothing unusual.  He backed toward one of the shiny black computer
panels on the walls of the corridor, hoping to use it as a mirror. 
There was a pattern on the back of his uniform.  In the reflection,
it looked like:

          KCIK
           EM
          DRAH

     It took him several seconds to decode the message.  When he
succeeded, he angrily turned away from the still chuckling Piedmont
and stalked back to his quarters.
     The next ten uniforms he replicated had the same message
printed indelibly on the back.  The eleventh was different.  It
said:
          HALDER WELLS
            WAS HERE


     Supply Technician Ross popped open the seals on the crate.  He
was expecting to find pressure suits.  Instead, an old-style boxing
glove on a powerful spring leaped out at him, catching him squarely
in the face.  He was stunned more by sheer surprise than the
impact.  A small label was sewn to the glove.  On it was printed:
"Halder Wells was here."
     
     Ensign DePalma was having a nightmare.  In her sleep, she
became convinced the Angel of Death was sweeping down on her.  She
began to toss and turn.  Her blanket was damp with her sweat.
     She reached the border of consciousness, but found no escape. 
Her eyes snapped open.  She saw the Angel of Death standing over
her, beckoning gently with a skeletal hand.
     She screamed.
     Several minutes of heart-racing terror passed before she
realized the "Angel of Death" was only a hologram.  Printed on the
sleeve of the illusion was a small message.  It said:
     "Halder Wells was here."

     And so it went... 
     It was very hard for Picard to control his anger.
     "So."
     There was danger in that one word.  Riker glanced briefly down
at his feet.  Geordi Laforge and Chief O'Brien were looking
studiously away from Picard, at the various furnishings, carpeting
and decoration of the conference room.  Data and Troi, however,
looked directly at the Captain, Data because embarrassment was
unknown to him, and Troi because she had something to say and was
waiting for the right moment.
     Before that moment came, Worf walked into the room and ad-
dressed Picard.
     "Sir, Security reports still another incident.  This is the
thirty-third within the last hour."
     Picard sagged.  He hated to ask, but had to.  "Where?"
     "The women's locker room, deck fourteen.  Ensign Martin
described it as a `stink bomb'."
     "Uh, Worf?" started Laforge tentatively.  "How long ago was
this?"
     Worf stared down at him.  "Eight minutes."
     Laforge nodded, and turned to Picard.  "Captain, five minutes
ago, Chief O'Brien and I shut down the last transporter.  There
shouldn't be any more trouble."
     Picard gazed sadly at Laforge.  "I somehow doubt it,
Commander."  He slammed his fist down on the table in sudden fury,
making the others in the room jump.  "Damn the man!  Mister Worf,
order your people to stun Wells on sight."  Picard calmed instantly
and regretfully.  "What am I saying?  Belay that, Mister Worf, or
we'll have crew members shooting each other."
     Worf stiffened.
     "I apologize, Mister Worf," offered Picard.  "I know you're
doing all you can.  How long before you have the information on our
uninvited guest?"
     "Wells's record will be relayed to us from Starbase 85 within
the hour, Captain."
     Picard nodded.  There was a momentary silence.
     Troi saw her opportunity.  "Sir?" she interjected.
     "Yes?"
     "I've sensed something very strange about Halder Wells.  His
actions are chaotic but his thought processes are not.  He's very
focused, in fact."
     Riker glanced at her curiously.  "A well-organized maniac?"
     "I sense something very fraudulent about this whole affair,"
she continued.  "Wells isn't really insane, but may wish us to
think so.  He was confused momentarily when he recognized me as a
Betazoid.  I think he's afraid I would see through his charade."
     Picard nodded and tapped his fingers on the table.  "So he's
not insane.  He could be a vainglorious fellow, trying to prove how
clever he is by thwarting us."
     Troi shrugged.  "His ego is large enough to make that a pos-
sibility.  I wasn't able to sense anything else during my brief
encounter, and the crew's growing agitation is making things more
difficult.  I would advise you not to underestimate him, Captain."
     "I agree," offered Data, speaking for the first time.  "There
are areas of the ship, such as Engineering, which can be instantly
isolated from the transporters with containment fields.  Wells has
conspicuously avoided all such areas, although many of them could
be considered prime targets for sabotage.  He is not behaving
randomly."
     Picard reflected.  "Other opinions?" he asked the .
     "Is he is insane, he deserves treatment," rumbled Worf.  "If
he is sane, he deserves a slow death."
     "I'll second that," concurred Riker.
     "Really, gentlemen," said Troi in mild reproach.

     It was somewhat later when Data returned to his quarters.  At
once, he sat down at the computer console and continued his work.
     The sound of the transporter and the throwing of the pie were
almost simultaneous.  With his computer reflexes, Data dodged aside
neatly, allowing the dessert to sail past his shoulder and strike
the wall.
     "Damn, I missed!" cried a voice.
     Data looked up at his assailant.  He was dressed in a colour
pattern which to Data's eyes appeared discordant and chaotic.  He
was carrying a brown backpack and wearing pointed-toe boots.
     Data got to his feet and approached the man, who he knew to be
Wells from the holodeck incident.  At the first sign Wells was
going for his wrist-worn transporter device, Data would seize him.
     "Halder Wells, you are under arrest," intoned the android. 
"The charges include, but are not limited to, assault on Starfleet
officers; misuse of Starfleet property; trespassing-"
     Wells smiled and shrugged.  "Aw, you're breaking my heart."
     Data paused.  "It is not my intention to cause injury to your
cardiovascular system in any way."
     Wells shook his head.  "No, no.  What I mean is; do you think
I'm scared?"  Wells feigned fright.  "OOOOOOO, the big, scary
android's out to get me.  OOOOOOO.  I'm shaking."  He began to sway
back and forth, as if daring Data to grab him.
     Data did.
     "Did anyone ever tell you -- ah!"  Wells cried out in surprise
and pain as Data quickly locked a powerful hold on his wrist.  He
tried and failed to pull his hand free, then attempted to make
light of the situation.
     "Nice grip you've got there."  With his free hand, Wells tried
to pry Data's fingers away, to no avail.  He then bit Data's pale
hand, which was equally ineffective.
     Data touched his communicator.  "Bridge, this is Lieutenant-
Commander Data.  I have apprehended Halder Wells."
     Wells smiled darkly.  "Have you?  I mean, have you really?" 
He pulled a device from his pocket, no larger than a small hand
phaser, and thumbed one of its buttons.
     At once, Data's eyes sparked.  The computer console had a
similar reaction, and exploded in an overload.  The overhead
lighting panels flickered.  The pneumatic door began to open and
close randomly.
     Outside in the hall, computer wall panels blew outward, some
smoking, some actually on fire.
     Over the electronic din of dying machines, Wells said: 
"Sorry, old chap."  Data, now frozen into immobility, was easily
pushed away and fell stiffly backward to the floor.  "And don't
worry about the pie, I always carry a spare."  Wells dropped the
small scrambler to the carpet, reached into his backpack and pulled
out a small, flat box.  He pried it open, pulled out a cream pie
and calmly pushed it into Data's unresponsive face.  He then went
to the door, which was still opening and closing, opening and
closing, and made a timed leap out into the hall.

     Wells's record had arrived from Starbase 85.  Worf had been
dictating his report from his station on the bridge.
     "Halder Wells, born on Earth, Los Angeles."
     "That figures," muttered Riker.
     Worf looked back at his monitors and did not see the reaction
at the ops station.  Ensign Ro's hands had tightened at the mention
of Wells's name.  She glanced over her shoulder at Worf, Riker and
Picard.  Almost immediately, her eyes were back at her station, but
she continued to listen.
     "Wells has a record of petty theft and mild neurotic
behaviour," rumbled Worf in the contemptuous tone of voice he
reserved for all thieves and neurotics.  "He has served penal terms
twice, for a total of three years.  His last known location is the
Daystrom Corporation's Research and Development Centre on Starbase
113, where he held a job as assistant researcher, Stardate 45301.3.

He disappeared after a major fire which destroyed the Centre.  Also
missing were several military prototypes."  Worf's eyes darkened as
he tried to call up more information.  "The prototypes were
considered top secret.  I cannot get a list of what was taken."
     Picard nodded.  "Work on them, Mister Worf.  Contact Daystrom
himself if you have to.  We need to know what sort of devices Wells
has in his possession."  He glanced significantly at Riker.  "This
would explain a great deal."
     Riker nodded.  "Like where he got his transporter remote."
     Picard reflected.  "If he could rob the Daystrom Corporation,
he must be very clever indeed.  Which may, more than anything else,
explain our difficulty in catching him."
     Worf stiffened.  "My security teams are continuing the search,
sir."
     Picard grinned slightly.  "No offense, Mister Worf.  Please
continue."
     "Sir," said Worf coldly.  "No violent crimes are listed in
Wells's record, although some very erratic behaviour was reported
by-"  A beeping interrupted him.  It was followed by Data's voice.
     "Bridge, this is Lieutenant-Commander Data.  I have ap-
prehended Halder Wells."
     Worf glanced lightly at Picard, before an alarm seized his
attention.  "Captain!  A massive systems failure on Deck Sixteen. 
In Commander Data's quarters."
     Laforge looked over from science station one.  He'd been
trying to modify the ship's internal sensors to track down Wells,
so far with no success.  "Data's in trouble?"
     At once, Picard headed for the elevator.  "Number One, Mister
Worf, Mister Laforge, with me.  Worf, have a security team meet us
at Commander Data's quarters."  While Worf sent out the order,
Picard glanced around the bridge.  "Ensign Ro, you have the conn."
     "Aye, sir," she replied in a flat voice.  Still pensive, she
left the ops station and took the Captain's chair.
     "Don't get too comfortable, Ensign," said Picard as the
turbolift doors closed.  Ro's bland reaction seemed strange to him.

"Deck Sixteen," he said to the turbolift.  "And what is the
location of Commander Data?"
     The computer paused longer than usual.  "Commander Data's
location cannot be ascertained."
     Laforge shook his head.  "The computer can't read anything
within the affected area."  He pulled a small tricorder from his
pocket and activated it.
     The turbolift opened on Deck Sixteen and the four officers
rushed down the corridor.  Laforge started his tricorder scan.
     "Some sort of interference.  I can't read the type, but..." 
He smacked the side of the tricorder.  "My unit's malfunctioning. 
It won't-"  he stopped dead in his tracks and stared wildly for an
instant.  "Wait a minute, I can't see.  My visor's stopped
working."
     "Stay here," said Riker.
     "Sir?"  Laforge turned toward Riker's voice.  "Sir, Data's my
friend."
     Riker glanced at Picard, who nodded.  Riker took Laforge's
hand and led him.  The four continued to Data's quarters.
     As they neared it, they saw confused crewmen milling around,
jabbering about the failures.
     "Stay calm," commanded Picard as they passed.  "Get a repair
crew up here," he said to one man.
     They reached Data's quarters just as three security guards
came bounding down the hall from the other side.  Worf and one of
his men held the door open while the others entered.  Directly
after, Worf drew his phaser.  He glanced at it, and even under the
unsteady lights he could see it was useless.  He put it away,
shaking his head.  He looked inquiringly at his men.  Their weapons
were also nonfunctional.
     "What's going on?  Describe it," said Laforge.
     Picard walked over to the prone Data and wiped away the pie
with his hands.  He had to shout over the din.  "Data's been
immobilized.  I don't know how.  Computer systems all over the room
are failing and the lights are flickering."  He glanced up and saw
the food synthesizer spitting out desserts at random.
     Laforge nodded.  "There must be some broad-band interference. 
Look for a transmitter."
     Riker picked up the small device Wells had left behind and
placed it in Laforge's hands.  "Is this it?"
     Blindly, Laforge ran his fingers over the small machine. 
"Yes."  He examined it for a few seconds and pressed a button on
one side.  At once the electronic chaos ceased.  Laforge started
slightly, like a normally sighted man exposed to a sudden bright
light.  "It's over."  He saw Data and rushed over to him.  His
tricorder, now functional, was used to get some preliminary
readings.
     "Worf, help me take him to Engineering."
     Worf nodded and slung Data over his shoulder.
     Picard looked at the transmitter in Laforge's hand.  "What is
that thing?"
     "Can I explain on the way to Engineering, sir?  Data needs
immediate repair."
     "All right.  Number One, take charge of the security team and
begin your investigation."
     Riker nodded.  "Aye, sir."
     Picard, Laforge and Worf, carrying Data, walked through the
door and were gone.

     Soon after Picard, Riker, Laforge and Worf had left the
bridge, Lieutenant Warren arrived.  It was his shift, and Ro was
pleased to yield the bridge to him.  Her own shift was over, and
she quickly returned to her quarters.  Most of all, she wanted a
quiet place to sit down and think.
     Halder Wells.  She had known about the intruder aboard the
Enterprise but had no idea it was him until she heard Worf say his
name.
     Halder Wells.  He was physically unattractive, even
forgettable, but the man had cunning and a way about him.  They had
met briefly six years ago, on a ship ordered to carry military and
civilian convicts to the penal colony at Starbase 85.  He was
attracted to her, she knew, although she was too moody and hostile
to take much notice.  Within a hour, though, he had softened her
enough to make her laugh at his jokes.
     All too soon they were separated.  She had not seen or thought
about him since.
     "Oh, you bastard," she said flatly, shaking her head.
     "Well, that's not nice," said a voice behind her.
     She leaped out of her chair and whirled.  Halder Wells stepped
from the shadows.  He smiled amiably and approached her.
     "It's been a while, Ro.  Five years?"
     Through clenched teeth, she replied: "Six.  How long have you
been there?"
     He seemed amused by her reaction.  "Not long.  I came here
right after I visited Commander Data.  Boorish fellow.  I wonder if
they'll be able to repair him."
     His words sparked a sudden fury within her.  "You damn fool. 
What did you do?"
     "Nothing that wasn't deserved.  Oh, come now.  I can't believe
the android means anything to you.  Or that idiot Riker.  Or
Picard, for that matter.  Is this the same Ro I heard damn all of
Starfleet?"
     "No, I'm not the same.  These people do mean something to me,
Halder.  They mean a chance to escape my past.  And since that past
includes you..."  Her fingers brushed the intercom.  There was no
answering beep.  She frowned and tried again.
     "Don't bother," he offered.  "Starfleet intercoms break down
so easily.  Especially with a little help."  He dangled the torn-
out innards of the intercom before her like a mistletoe, then
dropped them to the carpet.  He had moved closer to her; too close,
she felt.  She began to back away slowly.
     "Maybe you never realized how much I liked you, Ro," he said
in a conciliatory tone.  "You've got that nasty, self-interested
streak in you.  I love that.  You can come with me when I leave
this scow.  I'll be rich soon, and we won't need anyone or anything
again.  You want to start over?  We could go to a frontier planet. 
We could-"  his hand shot out and seized her wrist, an instant
before she would have touched her communicator badge.  "Not smart,
my dear," he said with cold fury.  With his free hand, he swatted
the badge away.  It flew across the room.
     "Oh?" she asked.  "How about this?"  She drove her knee
squarely into his groin.  He collapsed neatly and without a sound.
     Tearing away from his weakened grip, Ro dove after the
communicator badge.  For a moment, she lost sight of it.
     Where the hell is it? she thought.  She knocked a small table
aside, revealing the tiny gold badge.  She reached for it.
     "No!"  Recovering with frightening speed, Wells lunged for
her.  His fist smashed heavily and powerfully into her right eye,
sending brilliant flashes of light and pain through her head.  She
fell clumsily over a chair, striking her cheek and tearing her
sleeve.
     He stood over her for a moment, regaining his calm.  She
looked up at him, her vision blurry and red-tinged, and the sight
of his face, with the lighting panels above and behind, was dark
and terrifying.  He glared down at her.
     "You've made your decisions, Ro.  I hope you can live with
them."  He touched his wrist and disappeared.
     Ro had witnessed continual violence throughout her childhood,
as members of her race had been calmly murdered by Cardassian
troops.  Still, she felt sick and shaken and the inside of her
cheek was cut, allowing her to taste her own blood.
     Mastering her emotions, she stood up and staggered from her
quarters.  In the hall, she gave the computer panels a rough
backhand slap.  "Where's Picard?" she demanded.
     The computer's calm response made her want to scream. 
"Captain Picard is in turbolift seven.  Destination: Engineering."
     With a run that grew steadier with each step, Ro rushed to the
turbolift. 
     In the turbolift, Laforge explained to Picard.
     "It's a broad-band transmitter, like I thought.  It sends out
a massive wave of interference on the microwave part of the EM
spectrum, as well as Thurman particles.  Perfect for scrambling
electronics.  I've read about these, but I didn't think I'd ever
see one.  The Daystrom Corporation's working on some pretty
advanced stuff."
     Picard nodded.  "What's your prognosis for Commander Data?"
     Laforge shrugged helplessly.  "I can't say, sir.  I'll have to
take a closer look."
     The turbolift doors opened.  Laforge led Worf to a worktable
and indicated he should lay Data out on it.  Engineering personnel,
always curious, began to gather around.
     "Barclay," said Laforge to one of them.  "Hand me that circuit
scanner.  And the hand laser."   The man nodded and passed the two
items over.  Laforge quickly checked Data over, getting better
detail than the tricorder offered.  Then, and this had always made
Picard slightly squeamish, he popped open a section of Data's
scalp, revealing the android's intricate circuits.  Laforge made a
few minor patches with the laser and checked his work with the
scanner.  "Good," he said quietly.  "Good."
     Picard peered at him.  "Mister Laforge?"
     "The damage is localized, and Data's own self-repair circuits
have kicked in.  He should be okay..."
     Data's eyes snapped into focus.  He sat up abruptly.
     "...now," continued Laforge.  "Data?"
     Data opened his mouth and issued forth a racket of scrambled
sounds.  He turned his head slightly to the left, then back.  His
right hand began to twitch but quickly subsided.
     "You are under arrest," he said automatically, his eyes
darting jerkily about the room.  "The charges include, but are not
limited to, assault on Starfleet officers; misuse of Starfleet-"
     "Data," said Laforge directly into the android's ear.  "Data?"
     Data's head swivelled sharply to face Laforge.  "Geordi?" he
asked innocently.
     "Yeah, it's Geordi," replied Laforge.  "How are you?"
     "I will function.  Where am I, please?"
     "Engineering."
     "I understand."
     "Mister Data," interjected Picard.  "What happened to Halder
Wells?"
     "Halder Wells?" repeated Data.  "Halder Wells, Halder Wells,
Halder Wells."  His head snapped upward, facing the ceiling, then
down again.  "Halder Wells."
     "I'm afraid he'll be like this for a few minutes, sir," said
Laforge.
     Picard nodded.  "I understand."  He backed away from the
table, pulling Worf with him.  Engineers crowded forward for a
better look at Data.
     "Mister Worf," said Picard in a low voice.  "This matter is no
longer amusing."
     "I never thought of it as such, Captain," replied Worf.
     "Yes, I know.  Wells has now caused actual damage and I am
inclined to give this matter highest priority.  We are about twenty
hours from Starbase 149.  I expect Wells to be in the brig by then.

Put all your people on this.  Find him."
     Worf nodded.  "Sir."
     "And Mister Worf?"
     "Sir?"
     "If Wells resists arrest," Picard paused, "you have my permis-
sion to use whatever level of force you see fit."
     Worf almost smiled.  "Aye, sir."
     Rapid footfalls caught Picard's attention.  Ensign Ro was
running full tilt at him, and unsteadily stumbled to a halt mere
centimetres away.  She was breathing rapidly.
     "Whoa, Ensign," said Picard in a friendly tone of voice.  When
he noticed her bruised eye, missing communicator badge and torn
uniform, his expression darkened.  "What is it?"
     "Sir," she said in a voice barely under control.  "I've seen
Halder Wells.  In my cabin.  Sir..." she struggled with the next
words.  "I know him.  I met him years ago."
     Gingerly, Picard touched her wounded face.  "He struck you?"
     "Yes, Captain, but it's nothing," she shied away from his
hand.  "He's planning, sir.  He's planning something big."
     "Sir?" Laforge's voice drifted over to Picard.  "Data's ready
to give his report."
     Picard said over his shoulder:  "Just a moment, Mister
Laforge."  His attention back on Ro, he ordered: "Report to sickbay
at once.  You can give me your report later."
     "Captain, I'm all right, and-"
     "Now, Ensign."  Picard looked around him.  Worf, he might need
later, but...
     "Lieutenant Barclay."
     Barclay, unlike the rest of the Engineers, had been watching
Picard and Ro instead of Data.  For an instant, he looked startled
and wanting of a quick escape from Picard's gaze.  "Sir," he
replied at last.
     "Are you busy, Lieutenant?"
     "Uh, no.  No, sir."
     Picard nodded.  "Good.  You will escort Ensign Ro to sickbay."
     Ro wasn't listening, but massaging her rapidly-swelling eye. 
Worf leaned over to her and said softly:  "I will do the same to
Wells, if you wish." 
     Ro smiled painfully.  "Thank you, I'd rather do it myself."
     Worf nodded respectfully.
     Barclay had moved to Ro's side.  "Uh, Ensign?  Shall we?"  He
gestured in the general direction of the turbolift.
     Ro looked up at him.  She had seen him before, usually
drinking alone in Ten-Forward.  She understood he was a loner, a
social outcast.  She knew the feeling, although for opposite
reasons; he was shy, she was contemptuous.
     Her vision blurred slightly.  She rested a hand on Barclay's
shoulder to steady herself.
     "All right," she said quietly.  "Let's go."
     Picard watched them leave and moved back to the table.  He
forced a smile and asked: "How are you, Mister Data?"
     "Operating within acceptable parameters, Captain," was the
automatic reply.  "Halder Wells transported into my quarters.  I
arrested him.  He immobilized me.  Report ends."
     Picard glanced questioningly at Laforge.
     "Sorry if he's a little terse, Captain," explained Laforge. 
"He's not yet at full speed and...wait a minute.  Data, Halder
Wells transported into your quarters?"
     Data turned sharply to face Laforge.  "That is correct."
     "That's impossible.  I shut down all the transporters myself. 
He couldn't have..." Laforge paused for a moment, struck by a
realization.  "Damn!  Captain, I forgot all about the cargo
transporters.  I just shut down the passenger models."
     Picard's expression hardened slightly.  "We'll go down and see
the quartermaster."
     Laforge looked morose.  "Yes, sir.  I'm sorry."
     "That is an unnecessary emotion," said Data as he climbed off
the table.  Laforge smiled, and placed the laser in Data's
outstretched hand.  With precision, the android sealed the seam in
his scalp.  "I am operating at ninety-eight point six efficiency,
Captain.  I will be fully recovered within seven point three
minutes.  I request permission to accompany you to the cargo level.

I wish to give any contribution I can to the pursuit of Halder
Wells."
     Picard nodded and paused.  "A desire for revenge, Mister
Data?"
     Data looked slightly surprised that Picard would suggest such
a thing.  "No, sir.  Halder Wells is a destructive and uncontrolled
influence on this ship.  It is against regulations to allow him
free reign."
     "Agreed," nodded Picard.
     Data glanced over at the crowd of engineers.  "May I borrow a
cloth, please?"  When someone handed him one, he efficiently wiped
the traces of whipped cream from his face.
     Picard touched his communicator badge.  "Commander Riker,
Chief O'Brien, this is Picard.  Meet me on the cargo level.  Mister
Worf?"
     Worf nodded, and followed Picard, Laforge and Data back to the
turbolift.

     Chief Petty Officer Jackovich couldn't believe it.  Here he
was, running the quartermaster detail with his usual efficiency,
and the Captain, no less, comes down and tells him to stop!  He
regarded Picard almost balefully.  He had more years in Starfleet
than this pup!  With a barely concealed dislike for officers in
general, Jackovich patiently explained that what Picard wanted was
impossible.
     "...and we can't shut down, even for a day.  Captain, do you
know what goes on down here?  Do you?  Every two minutes, at most,
we get a request from Sickbay, or Life-Sciences, or Biophysics,
or..." he glanced at Laforge, "...Engineering.  Calls from every
part of the ship, demanding cargo from us.  Behind that portal (he
pointed at a huge door, tightly sealed) is every perishable item
not in immediate use.  Say sickbay wants germ cultures.  They give
us the request, we tell our computer, we beam it out the hold and
straight into the lab.  When they're done, they tell us and we beam
the remainder directly back into the hold.  The computer sorts
everything for us, and packs it all in the smallest space possible.

We don't go into the hold, there's no reason for it.  The whole
area is a giant stasis field.  Now you want us to shut down our
transporter?  It can't be done."  He glanced at Data.  "Commander,
please!"  Data was typing commands into the cargo transporter's
computer.  Jackovich looked like a man in distress; he didn't like
anyone touching his system.
     "Captain?" opened Data.  "Although there is no specific record
of Wells's transports, I have uncovered an interesting fact.  This
system maintains a log of the chemical composition of every item
transported."
     "Of course it does," said Jackovich impatiently.  "It's a
safety precaution."
     Data ignored the interruption.  "There is a recurring record
with the following characteristics:  sixty-five percent oxygen;
eighteen percent carbon; ten percent hydrogen; three percent
nitrogen, and lesser amounts of calcium, phosphorous, potassium and
other elements, as well as certain metals like titanium, iron and
nickel.  Also, materials used in the making of garments.  The
profile is consistent with a seventy-kilogram human, carrying
various metal tools and wearing clothes made of synthetic fibres."
     Jackovich looked over Data's shoulder.  "We don't handle
passenger traffic."
     Riker looked over Data's other shoulder.  "Surely he didn't
beam into the hold."
     Data quickly checked.  "The records show a pattern, either to
or from..." he paused as he considered the read-out.  "Guest suite
one."
     Riker nearly exploded.  "He's been living in a guest suite?!"
     Data looked at Riker plainly.  "So the facts would indicate,
sir."
     "The nerve of this man," muttered Picard.  "Well, this stops
right now.  Chief Jackovich?"
     "Sir?"
     "Do you have a standard transporter pad available?"
     "Well, yes, sir.  Right over there."  He pointed to a mid-
sized platform against the opposite wall.
     "Very good.  Phasers on stun, gentlemen, we're going to trap
our Mister Wells at his own game."  He stepped over to the pad and
centred himself on it.  "Well, come on," he beckoned to the others.

"We'll beam into the guest suite and take him by surprise."
     Riker smiled at the idea.  "Yes, sir!"  He, Laforge, Data and
Worf stepped on to the pad.  Riker and Worf drew their phasers.
     "Chief O'Brien, if you would do the honours," said Picard.
     "Yes, sir."  O'Brien started to set the controls.
     "Oh, and Chief?  Once we beam out, shut down all the cargo
transporter units.  We don't want our prankster to slip away
again."
     Jackovich frowned even as O'Brien said: "Yes, sir."
     Within a few seconds, the officers dematerialized.  Jackovich
turned to one of his assistants with a sullen expression.  "Look at
'em!  They have no idea how this ship is really run.  Officers!" 
He paused, and glanced at O'Brien, wondering if perhaps he had said
too much.
     O'Brien noticed Jackovich's expression.  "Don't worry, some-
times I feel the same way.  Well, you heard the Captain, begin
shutdown."
     Jackovich flinched.  "All of them?"
     "Yes, all."

     The guest suites were comfortable and spacious, even when the
guest was uninvited.  Upon materializing, Worf immediately began a
fast reconnaissance of the various rooms.
     "Wells is not present," he reported to Picard.  "But there is
evidence he has been here recently."
     Picard nodded.  "Begin a scan for-"
     "Greetings, greetings, my dear friends and hosts!"
     The five of them were confronted with a small man, no more
than thirty centimetres tall.  It was a projection from the suite's
holographic unit, a prerecorded message from Halder Wells.
     "Let me congratulate you on tracking me this far.  I can see
this will be a true challenge, to avoid the hounds as long as I
can.  If Captain Picard is among you, let me offer this suggestion;
get a hairpiece.  No ship's captain is complete without one.  Oh,
and Commander Riker, if you are there?  Lose the beard.
     "I am sorry about the damage to Commander Data and Ensign Ro,
but they did engage in attacks on my person.  That sort of brutish
behaviour is no fun at all.  I prefer this to be a game of wits. 
Catch me if you can.  Oh, and by the way; in addition to this
recording, your presence has also activated the timing device on
the rather ingenious explosive I have concealed somewhere in this
room.  You have about fifteen seconds before it goes off.  Good
luck.  Or should I say, good-bye."  The image faded.
     At once the officers reacted.  Picard hit his communicator,
ordering a damage control party to the guest level.  The others
were already turning over furniture, knocking paintings from the
walls, searching frantically.  Laforge snapped out his tricorder
and began a quick scan.
     "There!" he yelled, and pointed to a vase.  Worf immediately
grabbed and smashed it.  A small metal sphere rolled onto the
carpet.  Worf grabbed it and hugged it to his chest.
     "Run!" he roared to the others.  "My body will protect y-"
     The device exploded.

     Data wandered briefly among the white clouds which obscured
all vision.  "Captain?"
     At once, he was answered by a huge, angry sound.  He walked
toward it and found Worf, who seemed to be having some sort of
spasm.  The Klingon would take a breath and it would explode from
his nose and mouth with a loud bellow.  Data heard other, less
violent sounds around him.  The clouds slowly settled and he could
see Picard, Riker and Laforge.  All of them were suffering the same
effects.  Data noticed the clouds were made up of a white dust,
which settled on the carpet and his uniform.  He examined it
briefly.
     "Intriguing.  A finely granulated substance designed to cause
an irritation of the nasal passages forcing a violent expulsion." 
He pondered this, locating the correct term.  "Sneezing powder." 
He guided Picard and the others from the room.

     In sickbay, Doctor Crusher examined Picard's eyes.  "The
powder is harmless, thankfully, and a simple irrigation of the
nasal passages was enough.  There should be some eye irritation,
but drops can handle that.  Worf got the worst dose, of course, but
even he responded well to treatment.  He's gone back to the bridge.

Geordi returned to Engineering, but Will is still here, and one of
my medics is looking Data over.  It could have been a lot worse."
     "Hmm, yes," agreed Picard.  "That could easily have been a
real explosive, or a toxic substance.  This man delights in
humiliating us, it seems.  Damn him."
     Beverly Crusher nodded.  "Any idea where he'll strike next?"
     Picard didn't want to admit it, but he had none.
     "It's impossible to say and..." he paused, and smiled.
     Crusher noticed his smile and responded with one of her own. 
"What?"
     "I don't know," replied Picard.  He chuckled.  This set
Crusher off with the giggles.  "I don't know why I'm laughing.  
This-" a spasm of laughter interrupted Picard's sentence.  "-this
isn't all that funny!"  He could no longer sit upright and slouched
down in the chair.  Crusher collapsed to the deck laughing
hysterically.
     "What's going on?" asked Riker from across the room.  He
nodded courteously at the medic who had been checking him out and
walked over to Picard and Crusher.  "Why are... why are..." seeing
Picard and Crusher down laughing suddenly seemed incredibly funny
to him.  Within seconds, he was on the floor as well, rolling and
clutching his sides, unable to catch his breath.  His medic was
giggling in a high-pitched, almost irritating fashion.
     Data watched the medic who had been dusting him off collapse
in hysterics.  He stared at the man for a moment, then walked over
to Picard, a puzzled expression across his face.  He easily lifted
Picard to his feet.
     "Sir?  Sir?"
     Picard's body was limp in laughter.  Data gently let his
captain back down to the floor.  The android considered for a mo-
ment, then walked over to a table.  On it were several medical
tricorders.  He picked one up and took a few readings.  At once, he
knew the cause of this debilitating laughter.  He tapped a button
on a computer console.
     "Environmental control."
     "Working," responded the computer.
     "Remove the excess concentration of nitrous oxide from the
sickbay and replace with fresh oxygen."
     "Working."  Data heard the pneumatic hiss of the sickbay's
concealed vents.  Riker, Picard, Crusher and Crusher's staff
continued to laugh for several seconds before declining into mild
giggles, and then nothing.  Data watched as the humans began to
breathe the fresh air deeply, gradually returning to their senses.
     "What...what happened?" gasped Crusher.
     "Nitrous oxide, Doctor," replied Data.  "Commonly known as
laughing gas.  I have no doubt the environmental controls will show
signs of tampering."
     "Halder Wells again," muttered Riker.
     "So it would appear, sir."  Data helped Riker to his feet, and
extended the same courtesy to Picard and Crusher.  
     Picard brushed himself off, straightened his uniform and tried
to regain his dignity.  "Thank you, Mister Data," he said moodily,
and stalked from the sickbay.
     Data nodded briefly to Riker and Crusher, and followed Picard.

"Sir," he called when he spotted the Captain in the hall, quickly
walking away from sickbay.  He followed.  "Sir?  Perhaps it would
be best for you to wear an environmental suit to protect you from
further annoyance."
     Picard didn't respond but his facial expression, which Data
couldn't see, was an irritated glare.  He entered the turbolift.
     "Sir?  Sir?"
     "Close," said Picard gruffly.
     The turbolift doors slammed shut in Data's face, leaving the
android slightly startled and alone in the corridor. 
     "Son of a bitch!" hissed Ro.  "Computer, freeze program."
     At once, activity on the holodeck ceased.  Perfect images of
Picard, Riker, Worf, Data and Laforge were halted in mid-
conversation.  Ro's eyes skipped between them, and settled on
`Picard'.  She shook her head in a mixture of disgust and wonder.
     "Clear," she ordered.  The images vanished.  She turned to
leave but hesitated.  "Computer, generate an image of Halder
Wells."
     The figure appeared almost instantly; a perfectly lifelike
image of the man she hated.  She pondered it for a moment, then
lashed out, smashing the figure's face with her right fist.  As it
realistically crumpled to the floor, she watched it with cold eyes.

The therapy had not helped; she would have to wait for the real
thing.  "Computer, give me the location of Captain Picard."

     Picard's eyes flickered briefly over the meter-wide image of
Halder Wells on the conference room viewer.  It was a mug shot,
taken just after his second arrest.  He looked wistful and calm, as
though this was a mild inconvenience.
     "Number One?"
     "Sir."
     "Your report."
     Riker's jaw tightened.  Almost like he was facing a Death
Tribunal, thought Worf.
     "Sir, I personally conducted the sweep of guest suite one." 
He paused.  "There were no clues to Wells's present location or his
ultimate intent."
     "None?" interjected Picard in surprise.  "He can't be that
good."
     Riker was choosing his next words carefully.  He felt
compelled to try to save face before Picard and Worf, yet was
constitutionally unable to lay blame at the feet of his own
subordinates.  Steeling himself, he prepared to take complete
responsibility.
     Before he could do that, however, the conference room door
hissed open.
     Picard looked up, surprised that anyone would barge in.  When
he recognized Ro, he was both irritated and intrigued.  She had
never shown such audacity before, and Picard knew she would not do
it now unless she felt she had valid reason.
     Riker didn't see it exactly that way.  "Get out of here,
Ensign." he barked.
     Ro ignored him and glanced at the viewer, which still showed
Wells's face.  "Good, you're talking about him.  I have something
to add."
     Riker was about to repeat his order when Picard silenced him
with a gesture.  "Let's hear what she has to say, Number One."
     Ro nodded to Picard.  "Sir, were you aware that Halder Wells
has created holographic copies of you, Mister Riker, Mister Worf
and other key officers?"
     Picard's eyebrows shot up.  "I was not."
     "They're perfect copies, created with information taken
directly from the psychological profile of each officer.  Wells
created them so he could test out strategies on them."
     Riker's expression was one of mild disgust, as though she had
just suggested Wells could fly and walk through walls.  "There's no
way he's good enough to make perfect copies, and besides, the-"
     "-psych profiles are restricted." interrupted Ro wearily.  "Is
that what you were about to say, Commander?  The holodeck's
computers thought you would react like that.  In fact, Wells has
tried a variety of approaches, just to see how his holodeck copies
would respond.  Using trial and error, he's managed to pick the
best strategy.  You all think he's some kind of lunatic.  That's
exactly what he wanted you to think.  And you're right about the
restrictions, Commander, but you only know half the story."  She
took a deep breath, anxious to rattle off her next few sentences
uninterrupted.  "As far as computer security is concerned, this
ship has two distinct systems.  The one that covers all vital and
tactical information relating to weapons, shields, life-support,
communications, warp drive, sensors and so on is codenamed KAL-32. 
The other system covers everything else, like transporters,
turbolifts, holodecks, replicators, in fact everything geared to
the comfort and convenience of the crew, including, I might add,
all personal information, log entries and medical records.  That
system is known as the HGW-54."  She paused to take another deep
breath.
     "Your point, Ensign." interrupted Picard.
     "My point, sir, is that every system sabotaged by Wells is
covered by the HGW-54.  Oh, and for your information, the names of
these systems is not arbitrary.  The letters represent the initials
of the system's chief designer.  The KAL-32 was conceived by
Katherine Alice List, at the Daystrom Corporation.  The HGW-32?" 
She glanced at the others slyly.  "By Halder Greshem Wells, also
from Daystrom."  She waited for the predictable explosion.
     "What?!" blurted Riker.  He had half-risen to his feet without
realizing it, and now threw himself back into his chair in
resignation.
     "On Earth." continued Ro, "I believe the term `back-door' is
used to describe a secret password a computer writer inserts into
his programs, so he can access them at a later date.  By examining
the ship's computer, I have found one such password.  I believe
there are more.  Lieutenant Worf?"
     Worf looked almost sick.  He nodded.
     "You've been keeping accurate and detailed logs of your search
parties' results, haven't you?"
     He nodded again.
     "Wells has been reading those entries, which is how he's kept
one step ahead of you, all along."  The words "you idiot" were not
spoken, but hung in the air after Ro's sentence.
     Worf seemed to spring from his chair.  He stood over Ro, his
hands balling into fists.  "You will not speak to me in such a-"
     "Enough!" bellowed Riker.  "Worf, sit down.  And as for you."
he pointed accusingly at Ro, "You will show proper respect and
restraint."
     Worf, with an effort, pulled his glare away from Ro and sat
down.  Ro rested her hands in her lap and stared at them.  "Wells."
she began in a quiet voice, "was considered an excellent programmer
by the Daystrom Corporation, despite his criminal record.  Now's
he's turned his talents against us.  He doesn't want accolades; he
could have earned them at Daystrom.  He wants money.  When he
confronted me in my cabin, he said he'd be rich soon." 
     "Rich." repeated Picard thoughtfully.  "Computer."
     "Working." replied the computer.
     "Compile a list of all items aboard ship with an appraised
value of, say, at least five hundred thousand credits."
     The screen listed sixty-seven objects.  Picard considered. 
"Mister Worf?"
     "Sir."
     "Could you put extra security on these items?"
     Worf regarded the list balefully.  "Not without crippling my
search parties.  Sir."
     Ro opened her mouth to make a derisive comment about how
effective those search parties had been even at full strength, but
Riker managed to catch her eye first.  She instead decided to be
calm and helpful.  "There are objects of military value aboard,
like codes and schematics.  Wells could sell to the Romulans or the
Ferengi, maybe even the Cardassians.  It might be something we
don't think is valuable at all."
     Again, Picard considered.  "Whatever he is planning, he'll do
it without our computers." he said firmly.  "Mister Worf?"
     "Sir."
     "Institute a level three computer terminal security alert."
     Riker and Worf looked at him in surprise, while Ro seemed to
wince.  "
     "At once, sir."  Worf nodded deferentially to Picard and
Riker, snubbed Ro, and left the room.
     Riker looked inquiringly at Picard.  "A level three alert,
sir?  Isn't that a little drastic?  Only about thirty people on the
Enterprise have level three computer clearance.  I don't even have
one."
     "The inconvenience will not be crippling, Number One. 
Everyone can still use the computers, but only those thirty people
will be allowed high-level program access.  We can keep track of
them very easily.  For the rest of the crew, it simply means no new
recipes for the replicator and no new fantasies in the holodeck. 
They will have to get by with existing files."
     Ro tried not to look at Picard like she would look at some
unbelievably arrogant insect.  "Sir, it cuts a lot deeper than
that.  Doctor Crusher won't be able to update her medical files-"
     "She will survive, Ensign."
     "Commander Laforge has been trying to modify the internal
sensors to track Wells.  Maybe he has a level three clearance, but
some of his staff doesn't.  That makes it harder for-"
     "Nevertheless, it is how we will proceed."
     Ro could hold off no longer.  "Sir, it won't work.  You're
still acting too conventionally.  You'll never-"
     "Steady, Ensign!" barked Riker.
     "Please, you're not listening." said Ro with growing
agitation.  "You just don't understand the mentality involved, sir.

If he has access to our computer, then he knows everything about
this ship, including its security.  Wells has predicted you would
put in a computer alert, he-"
     "How do you know what Wells has predicted, Ensign?" asked
Picard.
     "Because I predicted it, too, and your holodeck replica
confirmed it.  Wells knew this was coming, and he must have planned
for it.  That alone is why you can't do it.  By putting in this
alert, you're increasing the chaos level aboard ship.  You're
making it easier for him."
     Picard stared at her coldly.  "Despite your general dislike of
your fellow officers and crew, Ensign, they are equal to the
problem."
     Out of sheer frustration, she smacked her palm onto the table.

"Dammit, sir, not when the problem includes you!"
     "Hey!" yelled Riker.
     "That will be all, Ensign!" snapped Picard.  "You are
dismissed."
     She pursed her lips for a moment, apparently swallowing
anything further she had to say.  She nodded to Picard and quickly
left the room.
     When the door had closed behind her, Riker asked: "Shall I
file an insubordination report, sir?"
     Picard glanced sideways at him.  "No." he replied flatly. 
"You're free to go, as well, Will."
     When he was alone, Picard removed the component list from the
monitor and again faced the meter-wide portrait of Wells.  There
was a mind behind those dull-looking eyes, he knew; a mind in many
ways similar to Ro's.  He doubted he would ever understand either
of them.

     The cargo level was in a state of chaos.  Officers and crewmen
argued loudly with the harried supply staff, who were trying to
deal with the requests, no, demands, as quickly as possible.  There
was a steady stream of supply crew in and out of the hold.  They
were coming out clutching a precious supply of something-or- other
and trying to deliver it to whoever wanted it.
     Chief Petty Officer Jackovich was close to pulling out his own
hair.  He did what he could to hold the chaos in check but it was
getting away from him.
     "Brownstien!" he yelled.
     The crewman on his left jumped, startled.  "What?"
     "Dammit, you're supposed to be retrieving Engineering sup-
plies, not medical!"
     Brownstien stared down at the package in his hand.  He had
just retrieved it from the hold.  "You mean these aren't tritanium
filaments?" he asked in a confused and fatigued tone of voice.
     "No, those are test tubes."  Jackovich snatched the package
from Brownstien with such force that it slipped from both their
grips and flew into the wall.  There was a definite sound of
shattering glass.
     Jackovich stared at it for a moment.
     "Brownstien?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice calm.  "How
long have you been on shift?"
     "Uh, about seven hours."
     "Listen to me.  Go to Ten-Forward.  Stay there for an hour. 
Relax.  Come back.  Got that?  You're useless to me if you keep
making mistakes.  Now go."
     Brownstien paused.  "But what about-"
     "Just go!" bellowed Jackovich.
     Brownstien cringed for a moment.  "Okay."  He wandered down
the corridor, past the throng of demanding crewmen.
     One of the crewmen was strangely silent.  He stared at
Brownstien intently for a moment with light brown eyes set in
bland, mild face.  Brownstien passed him on the way to the
turbolift.  The crewman rushed to follow.
     The two men entered the turbolift together.  Standing beside
each other, it was apparent that they were of similar height and
build.  They were both wearing gold Starfleet uniforms and they
both had black hair.
     "Ten-Forward." said Brownstien wearily.
     The other crewman had been behaving nonchalantly to
Brownstien, but suddenly looked at him in mild surprise.  "Hi." he
said brightly.
     Brownstien, with no sign of recognition, glanced over at the
crewman, then automatically offered his hand.  "Hi, I'm Crewman
Brownstien.  And you are...?"
     The crewman shook Brownstien's hand but wore an embarrassed
expression.  "Sorry, Brownstien.  I thought you were someone else."
     Brownstien nodded.  "I get that a lot.  I guess I have that
kind of face."
     The crewman smiled sheepishly.  "I guess you do."

     The turbolift stopped at deck twelve, and the blank-faced
crewman stepped out.  "So long." he called back to Brownstien. 
Brownstien nodded absently and the turbolift doors closed.  The
crewman quickly and purposefully walked to a small and empty con-
ference room.  Once there, he reached under the table and pulled
out a brown backpack.  He sat down, pulled a flat box from the
backpack and placed it on the table in front of him.  Ignoring the
Daystrom Corporation logo, he snapped it open.  On the inside cover
was a mirror.
     The crewman reached up to his throat and lowered the collar of
his Starfleet uniform, revealing a choker-like necklace ringed with
isolinear chips.  He touched a tiny gold button.
     At once, the man's face began to melt, fade, and dissolve into
static.  The holographic illusion dispelled, and Halder Wells
examined his own features in the mirror.  Not handsome, he knew,
but not ugly either.  Certainly not ugly enough to justify Ro's
rejection.  Ah, well, he mused.  The bitch had her chance.
     He pulled the counterfeit Starfleet communicator badge from
his chest and popped it open, as no communicator badge was ever
designed to do.  Within the unit was a sophisticated array of
recording and playback electronics.  Wells pulled a thin cable from
the inside of the box and plugged it into a socket within the
badge.  At once, the mirror converted to a viewer.  The image shown
was the face of Crewman Brownstien, as Wells has seen him when they
met just a few minutes before.
     "Hi, I'm Crewman Brownstien." said the recording.
     "Freeze." said Wells.  The image complied.  "Analyze and
prepare for download."
     While the kit's computer hummed, Wells removed the choker.  He
examined it briefly and with admiration.  He wished he had invented
this device, but was content to have stolen it.
     When the kit's computer beeped, Wells gently removed the
counterfeit Starfleet badge from the cable, closed it, and placed
it back on his chest.  With equal care, he plugged the thin cable
into a small socket on the choker.
     "Begin download."
     A few small lights on the choker blinked as a complete
analysis of Brownstien's face and voice was received.  Within a few
seconds, the transfer was complete.  Wells removed the choker from
the cable and put it back around his neck.
     "Clear."
     The image of Brownstien on the kit's viewer faded, revealing
the mirror.  Wells again examined his reflection for a moment, then
pushed a tiny blue button on the choker.  For several seconds, his
entire head was bathed in static, which quickly settled into a
perfect copy of Brownstien's face.  The illusion exactly matched
Wells's own facial movements, be they blinks, yawns, smiles or
frowns.  Wells pressed yet another tiny button, a green one.  This
activated the Vocal Modifier Circuit, which would alter the sounds
from his larynx to best match Brownstien's voice.
     Wells smiled, and his facade did the same.
     "Yes, Crewman Brownstien." he commented in Brownstien's voice.

"I guess you do have that kind of face.  And now, so do I." 
     After being curtly dismissed from the conference room, Ro
needed a drink.  Badly.
     When she reached Ten-Forward she instinctively looked for any
leftover damage from Wells's earlier attack.  There was none, but
her inspection brought her eyes across Lieutenant Barclay, sitting
alone in one corner.  A half-smile played briefly across her lips. 
Why not?  she thought.  It's not like my day could get any worse.

     Barclay had been drinking little more than club soda, afraid
of anything stronger.  He had raised his glass high to get the last
drops when he spotted Ro, her hand resting on the chair opposite
his.  He swallowed the remaining soda without tasting it and very
nearly took a bite out of his glass.
     There was detached, almost condescending humour in Ro's face. 
"May I?" she pointed at the empty chair.
     "Uh, su-sure," he gave a vague inviting gesture with his left
hand.
     She settled in and looked directly into his eyes.  She knew
she was making him uncomfortable, but through curiosity, and slight
sadism, decided to see how far she could push him.  "What are you
drinking?" she asked, briefly touching his glass and not
unintentionally, his hand.
     "Al-Altair water," he stammered.  Under the table, his left
hand clawed into his thigh, hoping the pain would force himself
under control.  His eyes slid sideways, escaping from hers and
alighted on her collar, with its single rank pin.  Very suddenly a
clarity and a calmness came over him.  She was an Ensign, he was a
Lieutenant. Why should he be afraid of her?  He swallowed once and
with a clear steady voice said: "I am drinking Altair water.  Would
you care for some, Ensign?" he slightly stressed the last word.
     Deanna Troi had spotted them and walked over to their table. 
"Mind if I join you?"
     "Yes," said Ro smoothly, not taking her eyes from Barclay. 
She was suddenly intrigued.
     Troi walked toward the bar, where a friendlier reception
seemed more likely.  She glanced back and saw Barclay making a
conversational point to Ro, his knuckles tapping aggressively on
the table.
     Guinan spotted it too, and walked over to Troi.  "I saw it
coming, you know."  She pointed at Ro and Barclay with her chin.
     Troi looked at her in disbelief.  "Oh, you did not."
     "Yes, I did."
     "Did what?" interrupted Riker, who had walked up to them.
     Troi glanced at him and was surprised to see him in a wrinkled
and stained uniform.  "Tough day at the office?" she inquired.
     He rolled his eyes.  "I've spend the last ten hours undoing
most of Wells's vandalism."  He rubbed his eyes.  "It's like a bad
comedy."
     "Oh?" muttered Guinan.  "Then check out the drama over there."

Riker followed her pointing finger to one of the back tables and
spotted Barclay and Ro.  The waitress had just delivered drinks to
them, drinks Riker recognized as Vegan Fireballs, three of which
would make Riker sick.  He was amazed as Barclay calmly sipped the
noxious drink.  And Ro!  Ro was actually talking to someone without
offending them.  Or at least Barclay didn't look offended.  If
anything, he looked in rigid control of himself.
     Her mouth hidden by her hand, Troi whispered to him: "Look
under the table."  He did and saw Ro's foot casually brushing
Barclay's instep.
     Riker's reaction was far more emotional than Barclay's.  He
shuddered and tore his gaze from the scene.  His hand immediately
began to rub his eyes again, to convince himself of what he had
just seen and perhaps also to clean away the memory.  "Ro and
Barclay.  Ro and Barclay?  I need a drink.  A strong one,  Now."
     As Guinan whipped up a Double Whiskey Sour, Troi teased Riker.

"Oh, come on, Will.  After all It's no stranger than Ro and you."
     He shuddered again.  "I had amnesia at the time," he explained
lamely.
     "Sure, Will," replied Troi.  "Whatever you say."

     Barclay stepped out his chair and stood with proper military
posture.  "Ensign?"
     Ro looked up at him, the merest shadow of a smile on her face.

"Lieutenant."
     "Since Security is unable to find Halder Wells, we will begin
our own search."
     She also stood up.  "Very good, Lieutenant.  And where should
we begin?"
     "My cabin.  At once."  He began to march toward the door. 
Ro's smile broke loose but died immediately when she met the stares
of Riker, Troi and Guinan.  She stared back coldly, glanced at
Barclay and then back at them, as if daring them to comment.  When
they did not, she formally and with dignity followed Barclay from
the bar.
     When they were gone, Riker commented: "I hope Barclay knows
what he's getting into."
     Troi rolled her eyes.  "I hope Ro does, too."

     In the hallway, Barclay's military composure began to crack
when he saw a sad-faced crewman shuffle by.  "Dave?"
     The man barely acknowledged Barclay and brushed past Ro on his
way into the bar.  Ro looked back at him.  "Who's that?" she asked
Barclay.
     "David Brownstien.  He works in supply."
     "He looks terrible," she commented.
     "Well, ever since the Captain ordered the transporter shutdown
and the computer lockout, supply's been working double shifts."
     "Is it that bad?"
     "I was down there a while ago.  The place is total chaos."
     The words total chaos wandered through Ro's head, looking for
something to latch onto.  Suddenly she remembered telling Picard
his security measures were increasing the chaos level aboard ship.
     Making it easier for Wells!
     "Come on!" she yelled, bolting for the turbolift.
     "Wha... Where are you going?" asked Barclay in surprise.    
     She had reached a turbolift.  "Supply level," she yelled to
him and the turbolift's controls.
     Barclay was not a stupid man, merely a socially awkward one. 
In his mind, the events of the last few days suddenly coalesced
into a large web, intricate and well designed.  For one instant, he
looked into the brain of Halder Wells and saw everything.
     "Wait for me!" he dove into the turbolift a split second
before the doors closed.

     The situation on the supply deck was still chaotic.  Jackovich
was dealing with it as best he could.
     Brownstien was suddenly on his left.  "Chief?"
     "What?!"  He did not ask why Brownstien had returned from his
break so soon.  He had no time to ask lengthy questions.
     Brownstien blinked.  "Engineering needs shipment QR3-1 right
away."
     "What?  Yeah."  He tapped Petty Officer Second Class McCaffrey
on the shoulder.  McCaffrey was struggling with the computer,
trying to get the locations of each shipment within the hold.  It
was information she would not normally have to see under any
circumstances; the computer-controlled transporter would normally
take care of these things.  Normally.
     McCaffrey had been at this post for eleven hours.  She was the
only member of the supply crew with a level three computer
clearance; the computer would instantly lock out any other
operator.  She was tired and had bitten her fingernails into stubs.

Her growing frustration had flared up once already, at an
inoffensive junior crewman who had nagged at her with "suggestions"
to improve her computer work, most of which had been inane,
pointless or blatantly obvious.  She had had only one goal in life;
to make Petty Officer First Class.  Now her desire to get away from
this computer panel was running a close second.
     "QR3-1.  Whenever you're ready," growled Jackovich,
interrupting her thoughts with bitter sarcasm.  Her need to blast
him with a hand phaser had now entered the race.  She punched up
the location.
     "About three meters from the aft wall.  Go in, turn left, take
four steps.  The shipment's clearly marked."
     Brownstien nodded.  "Thanks."  He walked into the hold.
     At once, Jackovich and McCaffrey seemed to forget the entire
incident.  There were at least seventy other people standing
around, all demanding their cargo.  Jackovich sighed.

     Inside the hold, Brownstien turned left and took four steps. 
He looked about on the floor among the disarrayed packages.  Around
him, other crewmen were loading up antigravs and streaming in and
out of the hold.
     It took some digging, but Brownstien managed to bring QR3-1 to
the surface.  It was a smallish box, suitable for carrying shoes. 
He tucked it under his arm and left the hold.
     Intent as he was on reaching the turbolift, Brownstien brushed
past Geordi Laforge, who was beginning to lose patience with the
long lineup.  Laforge barely noticed Brownstien, then did a foolish
double take as the man strolled into the turbolift.  To Laforge's
visor, the electronic marvel that more than compensated for his
dead eyes, Brownstien appeared to be glowing.
     "Commander?" said a man behind Laforge.  Laforge glanced at
him and the man pointed forward, to where the line had advanced
almost two meters.
     "Sorry," muttered Laforge as he moved up.  Glancing back
again, he saw the turbolift doors close behind Brownstien.  Shaking
off his confusion, he turned he attention back to the supply staff
at the head of the line and promptly forgot the whole thing.

     Otherwise unnoticed, Brownstien had slipped through the crowd
and entered the turbolift.  "Secondary storage level," he said. 
The turbolift carried him to the very depths of the ship, where no-
one normally went.  Brownstien left the lift and walked a good
distance, following the twists and turns of the access tunnels. 
After a while, he came to an open space, a junction.  He sat down
next to a backpack, left there earlier.
     "Yes!" he shouted triumphantly.  He reached under his collar
and pressed the gold button.  The static faded within a few
seconds, revealing the features of Halder Wells.

     Barely five seconds after "Brownstien" left the supply level,
Ro and Barclay arrived.  They charged from the turbolift and were
immediately frozen in their tracks by sheer surprise.  Seventy or
eighty people were crammed into the small hallway, jostling and
arguing over whose needs were greater.  At the head of the line,
Jackovich was commanding a rapidly sinking ship.  Supply staff
streamed in and out of the hold, delivering, dropping, tripping
over, kicking and occasionally swearing at packages of every size
and description.  No fingerprint or retinal scans were being
requested and no records were being kept.
     "We're too late, aren't we," asked Barclay flatly.
     "Too damn late," agreed Ro.  "Let's go see Worf."

     Lieutenant Worf trusted his second in command, and was content
to let her take charge of the continuing search for Halder Wells. 
He had retired to his cabin and answered no less than ten of
Alexander's "why" questions before shooing the boy away, taking off
his uniform and crawling onto his hard bunk.  He fell asleep
immediately.
     The gentle beeping of the intercom caused his whole body to
clench, a classic sleeping warrior's reaction to any sound.  Not
yet fully awake, he smacked the bedside unit.  "Worf here."
     "Mister Worf, this is Lieutenant Barclay.  I have-" there was
a brief whispered argument on Barclay's side of the intercom. 
"That is, Ensign Ro and I have new information about Halder Wells."
     Sleep was immediately shaken from Worf's mind.  "Come to my
cabin at once."  He turned off the intercom and grabbed his uniform
from the bedside chair where he had earlier draped it.

     Less than a minute later, Worf received Barclay and Ro in his
cabin and heard their report.  When they were finished, he ground
his teeth and felt very much like bellowing in anger.  Instead, he
said: "Mister Barclay, Ensign Ro, you will trace every package that
came from supply.  If Wells has stolen something, I want to know
immediately what it was."  His authority spurred them to action and
they went straight for the door.
     "One last thing," said Worf bringing them up short. 
"Excellent work."  It was not a compliment, merely a stated fact.
     Ro smiled quickly at Barclay as they left the cabin.
     Worf began to brush the wrinkles and dirt from his uniform,
all accumulated from his earlier deck-to-deck, jeffries-tube to
jeffries-tube search for Wells.  He steeled himself.  Ro and
Barclay had it relatively easy, as was appropriate for junior
officers.  The more difficult duty fell to him.  He would have to
tell the Captain. 
     "...and there it is.  Six experimental quadrilithium crystals,
bound for Starbase 150."  Barclay's report to the senior staff had
disturbed them slightly; not the contents but the presentation. 
The man was stiff, formal and efficiently emotionless.  It was a
technique Ro had told him about, forcing his emotions under the
control of his brain rather than his butterfly-plagued stomach or
his sweat glands.
     "What?!" exploded Laforge.  "Do you know how expensive those
things are?"
     Normally, such an outburst from his immediate supervisor would
have brought all of Barclay's fears and self-doubts bubbling back
to the surface.  "They might be worth several million credits to
the Romulans, or the Ferengi," he replied, with no more emotion
than describing the loss of a single transtator or isolinear chip
or other inconsequential.
     "Or the Cardassians," added Ro.
     "Captain," said Worf insistently.  "Wells cannot be allowed to
escape."  Sensing the shift in focus, Barclay sat down next to Ro. 
His self-control rapidly faded and was replaced with a churning
stomach-ache.  Ro briefly touched his forearm, lending support.  He
smiled weakly at her and wiped his sweat-covered palm down his
trouser leg.  He wouldn't be able to take such an extremely rigid
approach again; the aftereffects were too painful.
     "I concur with Lieutenant Worf," commented Data.  "The
Enterprise is only thirty-four minutes from Starbase 149.  My
research on that facility clearly implies that if Wells manages to
beam down to the surface, we will never see him again."
     "Explain, Mister Data," ordered Picard.  "Briefly."
     "Yes, sir.  Starbase 149 is located on the larger continent of
the class-M planet KL-311 and has a developed area of over thirty-
one hundred square kilometres, with extensive networks of magnetic
monorails, commercial aircars and high-speed underground shuttles. 
Of greatest concern to us are Wells's two most probable escape
routes.  The first would be for him to take refuge in any of the
diplomatic consulates established by the Romulans, Ferengi, Gorn,
Tholians, Cardassians or Orions.  Since no comprehensive
extradition treaties exist between the Federation and these powers,
we will be unable to legally pursue Wells should he choose such an
action."
     "Wonderful," muttered Riker.
     "Wells's second choice is to board any of the approximately
three hundred private liners and cargo vessels now in orbit around
KL-311.  Since the base is under civilian management, specifically
the Federation Department of Trade and Transport, we do not have
the authority to stop, let alone search, all outgoing traffic. 
Permission to do so must come from the Department's main office on
Vulcan.  A round-trip transmission to Vulcan will take a minimum of
four days, three hours, twenty-one minutes.  Furthermore (the idea
of a "furthermore"  made Picard's spirit sink even lower), the ease
with which Wells performed the theft implies he has some means of
changing his appearance.  This greatly complicates matters."
     "I knew there was something strange about that guy,"
interrupted Laforge.  He quickly explained the strange glowing
effect he'd seen on the supply level.  "He's using some kind of
portable hologram projector.  But as long as we keep the
transporters off-line, he can't beam down."
     "Yes, but neither can we," replied Riker.  "We've got a
schedule to keep, and limiting ourselves to shuttles will throw us
off.  Wells must know that.  We haven't trapped him, he's trapped
us."
     Picard could see in his mind's eye every aspect of Wells's
intricate plan.  They fell neatly into place and, to Picard,
resembled the board of inquiry he was sure to face when this
damnable business was finally complete.  He sighed.  "This is
absurd.  This man has stolen from us."
     "Yes, sir," replied Data, not recognizing the statement as
rhetorical.
     "And we cannot stop him from escaping."
     "The odds are greatly against us, sir."
     Picard laughed bitterly at the abruptly revealed method in
Wells's madness.  "Suggestions?"
     Ro cleared her throat.  "Sir."
     Picard's eyes locked on hers.  For a brief moment, he believed
he saw madness in her, too.  Madness that drove her to find her own
way of doing things, madness not easily restrained by rules and
regulations.  And deep within that madness was also a method.
     "Ensign?"
     A quirky half-smile showed itself briefly on her face.  "We
may have a slight advantage, sir.  Wells knows he has stolen from
us, but he may not know that we know he has stolen from us."
     Picard stared curiously at her for a moment, his eyes
narrowing.  "You have a plan."
     She made a throwaway gesture.  "Just a riddle, Captain.  How
do you deal with an opponent who is one step ahead of you?"
     Picard shrugged lightly.  "How?"
     "Take two steps."  And she explained.

     Wells had changed back into his conservative dress and had
used his hologram projector to change his appearance to that of a
scholarly, middle-aged man.  He was packing his phony Starfleet
uniform away in his backpack, next to shipment QR3-1.
     "Attention," came a voice from an overhead speaker.  "This is
Captain Picard.  Due to repeated requests from the crew, I am
ordering the restoration of all transporter service."
     Wells smiled triumphantly.  He put his backpack on and touched
the controls of his wrist transporter override.  Deftly, he set the
coordinates for Starbase 149's main traffic thoroughfare, where a
beam-in wouldn't get a second look.  From there, he could catch any
of a dozen high-speed shuttles, a hundred monorails or a thousand
aircabs.  Long before the Enterprise could arrange for a base-wide
search his trail would be stone cold.  His ultimate destination was
the First-Class Departure Lounge and he pulled a computerized
schedule from his pocket and examined it.  Perfect, he thought. 
There were ten First-Class liners leaving Starbase 149 within the
next hour, and three of them made stops at Rigel IV, where Wells's
contact would accept delivery and make payment.  Who the contact
worked for, Wells did not know or care.
     He checked his cleverly forged passes and pulled out the one
that identified him as a member of the Federation Diplomatic Corps.

The red tab indicated VIP, so getting on a liner without a
reservation would be easy.  He tucked everything away and activated
his transporter override.  He faded out...

     ...and reappeared in a dark room.  He was dizzy and out of
breath.  The transporter effect seemed to have taken a long time. 
As his eyes quickly adjusted to the low light level, the bright
yellow uniform of Geordi Laforge came into focus.  The man's visor
moved slightly as he inspected Wells's face.
     "Holographic projection, all right," commented Laforge. 
"That's him."
     "Uh-oh," said Wells in a small voice.
     "Take him!" yelled Picard.  Instantly Wells's arms were seized
and pinned.  Wells was shocked to see a burly security guard on
each side.  Laforge smiled as he removed Wells's wrist transporter
override and handed it to Chief O'Brien.  Wells's backpack,
containing the valuable quadrilithium, was taken from him and
unceremoniously emptied onto a table.  With a tricorder, Worf
scanned Wells's body and began to fish Wells's equipment and
documents from his pockets.  Most of this he indifferently handed
to one of his men.  One small sphere he passed over was examined by
the assisting security officer who nearly jumped in surprise and
with extreme gentleness put the device in a stasis box and sealed
the lid.
     Worf looked at him strangely for a moment, and the man ex-
plained: "Sonic grenade."  Worf nodded and continued his scan of
Wells for more devices.  He reached under Wells's collar and, not
gently, tore the choker away, nearly snapping Wells's neck in the
process.  The hologram dispelled at once, restoring Wells's normal
appearance.
     "Clear," rumbled Worf, finding nothing more of interest.  He
stepped back.
     Ensign Ro stepped forward to replace him.
     Wells stared at her, then reflexively brought his knees
together for protection.
     She glanced at Captain Picard.  He looked at her, then at
Wells, and then he turned his back, clearly implying that what he
didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
     She nodded gratefully to Picard and regarded Wells for a
moment.  Better not leave any obvious marks, she reflected.  She
winked at Wells with her right eye, now completely healed, and
drove the heel of her hand up into Wells's jaw.  She used all the
strength of her arm and weight of her body and the impact lifted
him slightly off the floor.  His teeth slammed together with a loud
and painful crack, instantly sparking a pounding headache.  He
looked at her with shock in his eyes.  His teeth had caught the
very tip of his tongue and he was now tasting his own blood.
     At the sound, Picard turned around and stepped up to the
pinned Wells.  Again, Ro nodded gratefully to Picard.  She left the
room without saying a word.
     Picard smiled thinly at Wells.  "Throw him in."
     The two security men tossed Wells roughly into a cell and
activated the force field.  Wells stepped forward, still confused,
and received a nasty shock.  He recoiled and looked around.
     "Hey!" he yelled indignantly.  "This is the brig!"
     "You noticed," replied Picard.
     "Wha..."  Wells began to laugh.
     "It was suggested by Ensign Ro," continued Picard, "that we
lengthen the transporter cycle to a full five minutes.  It gave us
time to determine your exact destination and as you materialized on
the planet, you were immediately beamed back up to the ship by a
different transporter unit.  Rather simple, really."
     Wells became interested.  "I was actually on the planet?"
     "Perhaps.  For a millisecond."
     "Then I was beyond your jurisdiction.  You've engaged in
kidnapping."
     Picard held up a hand cutting off further discussion along
that line.  "That, Mister Wells, is for your lawyer to debate, not
I."
     Wells nodded curtly and faced Picard with a crooked smile. 
"Now what?  Are you going to hit me with a pie?"
     Picard snorted contemptuously.  "I wouldn't consider sinking
to your level.  Seeing you sent to a penal colony will suffice."
     Wells began to pace his cell.  "Well, I nearly made it."
     "Indeed," offered Picard.  "You almost intrigue me, Mister
Wells.  You obviously have talent, imagination and drive, yet you
choose to be a criminal.  You betrayed Daystrom and you assaulted
my officers and crew and now it pleases me greatly to see you in
that cell."
     Deanna Troi stepped forward.  "I have one question, Mister
Wells, before the Captain arranges for your incarceration.  Why
would you use such a complicated and roundabout method instead of
a simpler one?"
     Wells looked at her with a serious and intelligent expression
which was also mildly patronizing.  "A simpler approach?  You don't
know what you're talking about.  Under normal circumstances, the
Enterprise's security is more than enough to keep out individuals
such as myself.  So I made the circumstances as abnormal as
possible.  I used the Enterprise's technology against the crew,
forcing them to sacrifice that technology.  That made them
vulnerable in ways they hadn't imagined."  Wells stopped talking
for a moment; his cut tongue was bleeding too much.  He stared down
at his feet for a moment, working his jaw.  Abruptly, he looked up
and spat a dollop of blood at Troi, letting it crackle against the
force field.  He laughed coldly when she recoiled and met her gaze
again, this time with an expression she could not call completely
sane.  "And besides, a `simpler' approach wouldn't have been as
much fun."
     Troi shuddered slightly and looked away.  Wells laughed
sneeringly at her, then turned back at Picard.  "Captain, for the
quadrilithium and the schematics of Daystrom's toys, my customers
would have paid me at least five million credits.  That, I believe,
is roughly forty-five times your annual salary."
     "I believe the ratio is closer to fifty, Mister Wells,"
replied Picard.
     "We'll meet again, you and I."
     "I shall be counting the hours."
     Wells smiled humorlessly and contemptuously.  "I'd be careful,
Captain, if I were you.  I was smart enough to make replications of
all of Daystrom's devices before I came on this little adventure. 
They're hidden away in a safe place.  For example," Wells touched
his left earlobe.  "Were you aware Daystrom was making great
strides in miniaturization?  They had actually come up with a
transmitter no larger than a human cell.  It's virtually
undetectable, and can easily be implanted into the skin.  In the
earlobe, perhaps.  When pressure is applied the right way, it will
send out a single, narrow beam transmission.  The range is limited
to a few hundred meters but even so... If a person was capable of
looking far enough ahead, he could easily plant a sonic grenade in
the main brig power couplings.  If the grenade went off, triggered
by, for instance, a narrow beam transmission, all the force fields
in the brig would fail.  Of course, only a tenth of a second would
pass before the backups kicked in, but in that time, a
preprogrammed transporter override, also carefully concealed, could
easily snatch a prisoner away.  And then the merry chase would
begin again."  Wells's fingers gently caressed his earlobe.  "Good-
bye for now, Captain."  He pinched the lobe.
     Picard, Worf, and Worf's men tensed immediately.  As one, they
took a lunging step forward.
     Wells, still safely held in his cell, laughed hugely at his
own bluff, believed straight to the bitter end.  "And that is why
you'll never forget Halder Wells, Captain," he explained.  "So long
as you think I'm capable of anything."
     Picard angrily smacked the intercom button on the brig's
control panel.  "To all personnel, this is the Captain.  The
problem with the transporters is being corrected and shore leave
will soon be available."  He turned off the intercom and faced
Chief O'Brien.  "Please restore normal transporter service as
quickly as possible.  We do have a schedule to keep."
     "Aye, sir," replied O'Brien.  He rushed from the room.
     As Picard left, he glanced back at Wells.
     The man, damn him, looked wistful and calm, as though this was
a mild inconvenience.

     Lieutenant Barclay's quarters were very tidy, even though
visitors were rare.  He was sitting at his desk, a jeweller's lens
over his right eye.  He was engaged in a minute inspection of an
isolinear chip configuration, hardly a surprising pursuit for an
Engineering officer.  Absorbed in his work, he did not hear the
door chime until it was repeated for the third time.  "Come in," he
yelled, not taking his eyes from his work.  He thought it might be
Peters, with the schematics Barclay had requested.
     "Enjoying yourself?" asked Ro.  Barclay was sufficiently
startled to release his grip on the lens, which dropped squarely
onto the chip array.  He was instantly terrified at the idea he
might have crushed the delicate circuits.
     "Don't worry about it," she said.
     He spun angrily in his chair and glared at her.  "Don't worry
about it?  That's two weeks work, probably destroyed."
     "So?  You have something else to do with your time?"
     He started to make an angry reply but decided instead to ask:
"What do you want, Ro?"
     "Oh, nothing, except I remember you said we were going to look
for Wells in here."
     "Wells is gone.  I saw him beam down in handcuffs yesterday."
     "He might have left a prank behind, some kind of booby trap."
     He smiled thinly.  "Right."
     "You know," she added, reflectively.  "Wells said he loved
me."
     "I'm sure you've heard that before," he replied, mock-crossly.

"After all, you must have had dozens, no, wait, not dozens maybe
but at least one or two admirers on Bajor, and then in the Academy,
or perhaps they all hated you there.  Of course that prison must
have been a real friendly place and then there was-"
     She grabbed a pillow from his bed and threw it at his head. 
When it bounced off and landed on the floor she commented: "Well,
I guess the pillow's safe, at least."
     Smiling, he snatched the pillow and lunged at her with it. 
"Want to bet?"  For the next few minutes, they engaged in a wild
chase around the room, knocking over furniture and otherwise
destroying the neat order of Barclay's cabin.  Eventually, she
caught him with a low tackle and pinned him face-down on the floor.

The jeweller's lens had fallen a meter away and stared at them like
a curious mouse.
     "Say it," she demanded.
     "No."
     She ground her thumb into the back of his neck, forcing him to
yell in pain.
     "Say it!"
     "Okay, okay.  I love yyyyyyyyy..."  her eyebrows raised
expectantly, "...yyyyyour nose."
     She blinked in surprise.  "What?"
     "I have to work up to it."
     She laughed.  "Computer, dim the lights."
     In the darkness, he heard her say: "you can start now."

     "Captain's log, stardate 45930.1.  The chaos caused by Halder
Wells has been cleared and the Enterprise is moving on to Starbase
150, where the quadrilithium will be delivered to Federation
scientists instead of Wells's customers.  I am pleased to report
that Wells himself will likely receive a term of sixteen years for
his crimes against my ship and crew, as well as the Daystrom
Corporation.  He-"

     Picard, in his ready room, broke off his log entry as a small
gift-wrapped box materialized on his desk.  He stared at it for a
long moment and a tiny figure appeared, a hologram image of Halder
Wells.  It was being broadcast from a playback unit on the box
itself.  Curious, Picard listened as the image spoke:

     "My Dear Captain.  By the time you hear this, I will probably
be incarcerated on Starbase 149 and the Enterprise will be making
her way to Starbase 150.  I made this recording for just such a
contingency, and programmed the transporter to deliver this package
to your ready room after a suitable delay.  Thank you for a most
interesting chase.  It was the most enjoyable interlude I've had in
years.  Oh, and by the way; in addition to this recording, your
presence has also activated the timing device on the rather
ingenious explosive I have concealed somewhere in this room."  The
image stared down at the box.  "And here it is!  Three..."

     Picard kicked his chair back, away from the desk.  His hands
shot up instinctively to protect his face.

     "...two..."

     Picard's eyes clenched tightly shut.

     "...one."

     On the bridge, Data was about to enter the ready room for a
consultation with Picard.  Before he could press the call button,
however, he heard a loud explosion.  Discarding protocol, he hit
the override, forcing the door open.
     At once, he was confronted by a thick cloud of white dust. 
Among this, small white feathers were floating about.  Data stared
blankly for a moment, then looked directly into the room.  Picard
was covered thickly with the powder and feathers.  His eyes opened
and resembled two black spots on the white coating.
     "Sir?" inquired Data.
     "Close!" snarled Picard.
     The door slammed shut, leaving Data on the bridge.  A confused
expression was on his pale face.

THE END

Bryan Ekers 1993

