Captain's Table 02_ Dujonian's Hoard - Michael Jan Friedman [2]
For one thing, the Maquis had entered the mix, using guerrilla tactics to make it known they weren’t going to accept Cardassian rule treaty or no treaty. Like it or not, that compelled Starfleet Command to formulate a whole new line of policy.
Hence, the strategic conference on Madigoor IV, which Picard and Gleason had been asked to attend. But in its first day, the conference had dealt little with practical matters such as where and how the Maquis might strike next and more with a host of attendant political considerations.
“We owe ourselves a little relaxation,” Gleason insisted with a smile. “A little diversion, if you will. And there’s no place in the galaxy as diverting as the Captain’s Table.”
“Yes,” Picard responded. “You told me. A pub to end all pubs.”
“An understatement, I assure you.”
The captain ignored the remark. “At which point, if you’ll recall, I said my pub-crawling days were well behind me.”
“That’s right,” Gleason agreed. “And I told you this pub would make you change your mind.”
Truth be told, Picard had had another reason for trying to decline his friend’s offer. He’d had a lot on his mind lately an awful lot and he still needed to sort it out.
However, there had been no arguing with the man. So Picard had accompanied him a decision he was rapidly beginning to regret.
Looking around again, all he could make out were vague shapes. Fortunately, none of them were moving, so there was no immediate danger. But the fog was getting denser by the moment.
“I’m sure you’re right,” he told his companion reasonably. “I’m sure this Captain’s Table is a perfectly wonderful establishment. But if we can’t find the place …”
“Oh, we’ll find it all right,” Gleason assured him. He frowned and peered into the fog. “It’s this way,” he decided, though he sounded even less sure of himself than when they’d left the conference facility. “Yes, this way for certain, Jean-Luc.”
And he started off again. With a sigh, Picard followed.
But after another ten minutes, they still hadn’t gotten where they were going. A little exasperated by that point, the captain took Gleason by the sleeve of his civilian garb.
“Listen,” he said, “this is absurd, Neil. At this rate, we’ll be wandering these streets all night.”
Gleason scratched his head and did some more looking around. “I just don’t get it,” he replied at last. “Last time, it seemed so close to the conference center. And now …”
“That was a year ago,” Picard reminded him. “Maybe it’s closed down in the interim. Or moved.”
Gleason didn’t say anything, but his look admitted the possibility his friend was right.
“At any rate,” said Picard, “this is looking more and more like a wild-goose chase. And as someone who has actually chased a wild goose in his youth, I can personally attest to the fruitlessness of such an endeavor.”
Clearly, Gleason wasn’t as sure of himself as before, but he still didn’t seem willing to admit defeat. “Look,” he sighed, “maybe if we just go on a little farther …”
Having reached the end of his patience, Picard held his hand up. “You go on if you like. I’m going to call it a day.”
Of course, he was so lost at that point, finding the conference center would be no mean feat. But at least he knew the place still existed. That was, unless the Madigoorans had hidden it as well as they’d hidden Gleason’s pub which seemed fairly unlikely.
Gleason squinted into the fog. “It’s here somewhere,” he insisted. “I could’ve sworn it was … ” Suddenly, his face lit up. “Right there!” he announced triumphantly. And he pointed.
Picard followed the man’s gesture. Through the concealing, befuddling fog, he could make out a whimsical sign handpainted in bright colors. In flowing Madigooran characters, it read G’kl’gol Ivno’ewi.
Gleason translated. “The Captain’s Table.” He held his arms out like a performer seeking applause. “You see? I told you I’d find it.”
“So you did,” Picard