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The captain’s opponent was clearly an expert with the foil, flicking it about with deadly accuracy. But Picard was no novice, either. He had studied in some of the most famous fencing dens on Earth, under some of the most exacting masters. Before long, he proved himself equal to any assault his adversary cared to mount.

Then, after about thirty seconds or so, the fellow’s attacks began to speed up. It became clear to the captain that his opponent had been testing him to that point, gauging his skills. And now, having educated himself on that count, mustached Jean was beginning to fence in earnest.

Still, Picard kept up with every cut and thrust. He foiled every attempt to bind his blade. And all the while, he looked for an opening, an opportunity to beat his opponent with minimal risk to himself.

But then, was that not what fencing was all about? Anyone could become a swordsman on the physical plane. But the mind game, the contest of wills and wits … that was another matter entirely.

Picard barely noticed the cheering of the crowd. He was too intent on keeping up with the play, too focused on seeking a weakness he could capitalize on before his opponent discovered one in him.

Their blades whipped back and forth as if they had a life of their own. It was lunge and parry, counter and retreat, over and over again. Each exchange was a thing of beauty even to Picard himself, though he had little time to appreciate it.

And then he spotted his opening. The other Jean, a little fatigued perhaps, had lowered his blade a couple of inches. Picard pretended to launch an assault on the fellow’s shoulder.

Seeing it, the other Jean reacted, bringing his weapon up to fend Picard off. But the captain’s true target wasn’t Jean’s shoulder at all. In midlunge, he dropped his blade and came in under his opponent’s armpit.

Not hard enough to hurt him, of course, but hard enough to pierce his white, ruffled shirt and break the skin beneath it. After all, the game was first blood.

“Alas!” Picard bellowed suddenly, commiserating with his adversary as fencing tradition demanded.

The other Jean took a step back and raised his sword arm. Clearly, the fabric of his shirt had been pierced. And there was a bloodred mark just to the side of the hole.

Eyeing Picard with a mixture of disappointment and admiration, the fellow hesitated for a moment. Then he brought his blade up to his forehead and swept it down smartly in a fencer’s salute.

“You’ve won,” the other Jean conceded.

“So it appears,” Picard replied, returning the salute with one of his own. “But it was well fought.”

His opponent nodded. “I thought so, too.”

A hearty cheer went up from all assembled, shaking the very walls of the place. And before it died, someone had thrust a glass of wine into the captain’s hand. From the background, he could hear the stirring strains of ancient France’s national anthem.

As the patrons of the Captain’s Table clinked their glasses and put their own words to the music, Picard wondered at their careless enthusiasm. What kind of place was this? he asked himself.

He had a thought. A very disillusioning thought, at that.

Could this be his old nemesis Q at work again, showing off his vaunted omnipotence for some purpose the captain couldn’t begin to fathom? He searched for Q in the crowd, but couldn’t find him.

Suddenly, the captain felt an arm close around him like a vice. He looked up into dancing eyes and a dense, white beard and for a moment just a fraction of a second imagined he was face-to-face with Santa Claus. When the stranger laughed, filling the room with his mirth, it didn’t do anything to dispel the illusion.

“Why, you’re more solid than you look,” the big fellow guffawed. He thrust a meaty paw at Picard. “Name’s Robinson, lad. Just Robinson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The captain took the man’s hand and found his own enveloped. “Jean-Luc Picard. The pleasure is mine.”

“There’s a lad,” Robinson rumbled. He pulled the captain in the direction of a table