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Paris grunted. "The Day of Honor."

"Yeah, that one."

The flight controller regarded him. "Harry, my man, you've become quite the detective. You know that?"

"So that is what this is about," Kim deduced.

Paris held his ground. "Can't say. It's confidential. And besides, B'Elanna would kill me if she knew I'd told anyone about this."

Swiveling his monitor around, he tapped out a new command on his keyboard. The image on the screen changed. Now Fek'lhr was a fully fleshed-out figure placed in a cavern setting.

"Very nice," Kim said. "What is it?"

"You're the detective," his friend answered. "You tell me."

The ensign shrugged. "The basis of a holodeck program?"

Paris's eyes widened. "You're better than I thought."

Kim stroked his chin. "A holodeck program ... to commemorate the Day of Honor. That's it, right?"

The flight controller put his arm behind him and pretended someone was twisting it. "You forced it out of me," he rasped.

The ensip nodded. "And it's a surprise?"

"Not really. B'Elanna started it. I'm just adding some finishing touches for her. You think she'll like Fek'lhr?"

Kim winced. "You might want to tone him down a little."

Paris swiveled the monitor back and took another look. "I think you may be onto something." He tapped out another command on the keyboard. "There we go. A little less Fek'lhsh."

"Anyway," said Kim, "I came here to ask you something."

His friend was squinting as he considered his creation. "Fire away, Harry. What's on your mind?"

The ensign told him. "Actually," he explained, "it was Bandiero's idea. But it sounds like fun."

"That it does," Paris agreed. "Count me in. Just let me know when."

"Will do," said Kim, his mission accomplished. He patted the flight controller on the shoulder. "Good luck with Fek'lsh."

"Fek'lhr, " Paris said, correcting him.

The ensign chuckled. "Whatever."

Then, leaving his friend to his Klingon enterprise, Kim turned down the corridor and headed for Neelix's quarters.

Paris arrived at the holodeck just as It. Carey was completing his repairs. The engineer seemed amused.

"You know," he said, "most people aren't as eager as you are. You must have really missed this thing."

"With all my heart and soul," Paris told him. Carey snorted. "Pight." Then he replaced the panel on the bulkhead. "All yours, Lieutenant."

"Thanks. I'm forever in your debt."

"Goes without saying," the engineer replied goodnaturedly. Then he gathered his tools and walked away.

Paris approached the interlocking holodeck doors and said, "Institute program Torres Alpha Omicron."

The doors opened, revealing a dank, fog-laden cavern. Torches were stuffed into crevices at intervals, creating enough light for him to see where he was going. But the place needed something more.

"Let's see," Paris said. "How about some candles-the long, twisted kind? And a little more of a breeze?"

At his command, the place filled with clusters of twisted candles. Their flames wavered and smoked in the mildew-ridden breeze.

"Better," he decided.

Paris looked around. What else? The sound of krad'dak drums? Abindo pipes? A chorus singing Klingon war songs?

That might be a little too much, he told himself.

But certainly, there had to be an interrogator. Visualizing the figure he had come up with-not Fek'lhr, in the end, but merely a large and imposing warrior-the flight controller described the character to the computer.

A moment later, the interrogator appeared. He was big, all right, and meaner looking than Paris had envisioned. But that was all right. B'Elanna wouldn't think much of him if he wasn't mean-looking.

"And give him some assistants," Paris said.

Instantly, a half-dozen warriors appeared behind the interrogator. Somehow, that seemed like too

many.

"Make it just two of them," he ordered.

The computer was quick to respond. All the assistants except two disappeared.

It went on like that for some time. Little by little, Paris added to the program, drawing on his research into Klingon traditions to devise