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Responding only with the barest attention he must give to a superior officer, Sandy Leonfeld lowered himself as noncommittally as possible to the edge of the bench nearest him. He did not face the table fully, but sat on the end of the bench. Nor did he eat.

“Go ahead, gentlemen,” Picard ordered. “We must keep our strength up. Alexander, eat something.”

“I don’t want anything.”

Picard tucked his chin and gave the boy that look all children understand. “Regardless.”

Pouting at full warp, Alexander flung himself onto the bench and ripped off a chunk of cheese, then smelled it and grimaced, determined not to have a good time.

The cheese was moldy, the cider was stale, the bread was crusty, and Picard began to regret the damned accuracy of the holodeck as he realized he wasn’t hungry, but had just committed himself to setting an example. He tentatively bit into the bread, expecting to get the juicy end of a weevil, when abruptly the holodeck entryway opened again.

He looked up. “Freeze program,” he said, but the computer didn’t respond. Once again everyone around him blinked in confusion, and then all Klingon broke loose.

Worf walked through the entryway into the keeping room of the cabin, with First Officer Riker close behind.

“Computer, freeze the program,” Picard repeated more firmly, but not soon enough.

Striding freely under a ceiling so low that his brow ridge almost scratched it, Worf presented a vision so monstrous that Amy Coverman screamed at the sight. Jeremiah jumped to protect his wife as the holodeck program twisted itself into knots, trying to compute the psychology of 1777 American colonists reacting to a Klingon.

“Demon!” Amy’s aunt flew around the table, passed the fireplace, and scooped up the kettle of soup from the hook—luckily not directly over the fire—wheeled back, and creamed Worf directly in the face with the pot.

Barley soup splashed across Worf’s entire head and cascaded down his shoulders to drench the front of his Rogue uniform. His mouth had been open, about to speak, and now came down upon a sprig of greenery lingering on a lip. Riker sidestepped just in time to avoid the splash.

“Great God above!” Jeremiah intoned.

Sandy Leonfeld vaulted toward his rifle and drew it to his shoulder, aimed and—

“No, no!” Picard plunged across the table like some kind of wild athlete, just gracefully enough to slam the rifle off its aim with the palm of his hand.

Then the grace played out, and he landed on top of the plate of bread, with his face in the cheese.

He lifted his head enough to shout out, “I said, freeze program, blast it all!”

The people in the cabin froze in position at last.

“Blast!” Picard rolled over and squeezed between Wollard and Alexander. “Hang this archaic technology!”

Someone caught his elbow and kept him from tripping over the bench, and he looked up to see that it was Riker.

Worf stood in the middle of the room, dripping, his arms slightly fanned outward, his uniform drenched; he smelled of barley. He looked around at the setting. “What is this? This is Earth! The Day of Honor is a Klingon experience! And why did this relic strike me with a tub of stink!”

Stifling a grin, Picard stepped toward him, wiping cheese off his face. “I believe you’ve been promoted to the supernatural, Mr. Worf. This is an old style program. You have to be listed as a participant at the beginning or the computer doesn’t know what to do with you. If we had any doubts that the safeties aren’t functioning, we know it for certain now.”

“I was wondering why you deflected that rifle,” Riker mentioned. “Are you sure you want to keep this up?”

“Captain!” Worf interrupted. “What is all this!”

Riker smiled, and his eyes twinkled with mischief. “It’s the American Revolutionary War. The captain lost a ship. Didn’t you, sir?”

“This was my idea,” Alexander said, stepping forward into his father’s sphere of disgust.

Worf slapped his wet hands at the slowed figure of Mercy. “But this is supposed to