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The Ethnasian jerked his head again. “Keep looking. She’s on the other side of that Moqausite.”

A moment later, the Moqausite moved and I saw her. At first, it was only her back I spotted, with her red hair cascading down it. Then she turned around and I got a glimpse of her face.

Her eyes were a languid blue, her lips full and expressive, and she had a spray of girlish freckles across the bridge of her chiseled nose. It was the visage of a poetess, perhaps, or a dreamer. She didn’t at all look the part of a veteran transport captain.

“That’s our woman?” I asked our informant, unable to quite keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely,” said Torlith.

Worf scowled. “You said she would not arrive until later.”

“She doesn’t,” said the Ethnasian, “usually.”

I watched her move among the other denizens of the tavern, all of whom were male. She was slender and graceful, yet sturdy in a way. After a while, she joined a longhaired Orion and a wiry-looking human a man with a scar across the bridge of his nose.

Part of her crew? I wondered. They didn’t seem to show any particular deference to her.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“They call her Red Abby,” Torlith told us. “If she’s got another name, she doesn’t use it.”

Worf leaned closer to the Ethnasian. “And she was your source with regard to Brant’s kidnapping?”

Torlith nodded. “Of course, she didn’t say how she knew, but she seemed pretty certain of it. She’s put out a call for experienced hands so she can follow in what she says are Brant’s footsteps.”

Interesting, I thought, continuing my observation of the woman’s interactions at the bar. Interesting indeed.

“And where do these footsteps lead?” the Klingon demanded.

“How should I know?” Torlith replied in an attempt at humor. “Red Abby’s the one who’s shipping out, not me.”

It was fairly obvious the woman was seeking the same treasure as Brant’s abductors. I said as much. “Why else go after him?”

“As you say,” our informant agreed, “it seems pretty obvious. In any case, you’ve got a golden opportunity on your hands.”

“What’s that?” Worf asked.

“Just say you’ve heard she’s looking for a crew. If you’re lucky, Red Abby will sign you up and take you right to Brant and maybe the Hoard of Dujonian, to boot.”

My companion eyed Torlith. “If we’re lucky,” he echoed.

The Ethnasian nodded again. “Yes.”

“And why are you not offering to sign up yourself?” Worf inquired. “Are you not eager to make yourself rich?”

Torlith laughed. “Because, if you must know, Klingon, I don’t believe in the Hoard. I think it’s a one-eyed sailor’s tale, made of wind and weather and not much else.”

“Of course,” I interjected, “none of that really matters at least with regard to our mission. The important thing is that we find Brant and extricate him from his captivity.”

“If he is a captive,” Worf reminded me.

“Yes,” I said. “If.”

“Of course,” Torlith agreed. “Brant’s your objective.” His black eyes slid slyly in my direction. “But be honest, Picard. In the back of your mind, where you’re more man than officer, aren’t you hoping Red Abby’s got a line on the Hoard after all? And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a chance to lay your eyes on all that treasure?”

I was honest, as he’d asked. “I don’t deny it. But my mission remains the same, treasure or no treasure.” I glanced at Worf. “Let’s get going. We’ve a new captain to meet.”

My officer grunted at the irony and got to his feet. I did the same. Together, we made our way to the bar. We hadn’t gotten more than halfway before Red Abby noticed our approach.

Her companions noticed it, too. The Orion made no move, but the human’s hand drifted to his belt, beneath which he probably had a weapon.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” the woman asked us.

Her voice, like her appearance, was smooth and even a little seductive. But her tone was that of a businesswoman.

“We’ve heard you’re looking for some experienced hands,” I told her. “My name’s Hill. My friend here is called Mitoc.” They were names I’d made up during the hovercar ride, mine inspired by