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“Hercules?” Culunnh echoed. He cocked his head, obviously curious about the captain’s reference.

“A great hero from one of my world’s mythologies,” Picard explained. “He was charged with seven supposedly impossible tasks. But in the end, he managed to complete them all.”

Understanding flitted over the Benniari’s furred face. Culunnh chirped once, and then again.

“Your Hercules,” he said dryly, “never had to get a Melacron and a Cordracite to stop arguing. Otherwise, he might still be at it.”

Picard acknowledged the truth of the comment. “Perhaps he would at that, First Minister.” He watched the delegates continue to filter out of the chamber, still contending bitterly. “Perhaps he would at that.”

Chapter Six

PICARD HAD NURTURED A HOPE that the afternoon session of the Kellasian Congress would be more productive than the morning session. That hope was dashed when the Cordracite delegation announced that it was absenting itself from the afternoon proceedings.

“For what reason?” Cabrid Culunnh asked.

“To protest the repeated admission of the Melacronai female,” was the indignant answer supplied by Sammis Tarv.

The captain sighed as he watched the Cordracites file out of the chamber with their heads bowed, to the disgust of some observers and the rather vocal approval of others. Clearly, they would not solve a territorial dispute with only one of the disputants present.

“Those Cordracites sure know how to ruin a party,” Ben Zoma observed in a voice only Picard could hear.

The captain nodded. “I imagine they’ve had lots of practice. But then, the Melacron seem no better.”

The afternoon session went ahead without the Cordracites. But as Picard had predicted, it didn’t get very far. In fact, it seemed to him that it took a few steps backward.

Tempers were running too high, the captain observed. Racial hatreds, some old, some new, had replaced rational objectives. No one was listening, everyone was talking, and poor Cabrid Culunnh seemed to get older and more exhausted by the minute.

The Kellasian Congress had become a joke. He could see that clearly now. Perhaps it had been effective before this latest wave of terrorist attacks, but it was effective no more.

Picard sincerely hoped his research team aboard the Stargazer was making headway. He and his first officer certainly weren’t.

At the midafternoon recess, the captain and Ben Zoma departed the podium. Their intention was to use the allotted seventeen cycles-approximately a half-hour of Earth time-to stretch their legs. Debennius II was a lovely planet, after all. Picard believed a brief walk beneath a soft blue sky might clear their minds a bit.

It was not to be, however. No sooner had Picard descended to the chamber’s central walkway than the large Thallonian he had observed earlier appeared suddenly at his side.

“Captain,” said the Thallonian in a smooth, cultured voice.

The human turned to him. “Yes?”

“Permit me to introduce myself,” the delegate told him. “I am Governor Gerrid Thul, here at the congress representing the interests of the Thallonian Empire.” Thul extended a large ruddy hand, demonstrating that he was familiar with human customs.

Picard shook the Thallonian’s hand. His grip was strong and firm, a rarity among aliens who attempted the handshake ritual.

“Jean-Luc Picard,” said the captain, though by now he was certain everyone knew precisely who he was. He indicated his companion. “And this is Gilaad Ben Zoma, my first officer.”

Thul shook Ben Zoma’s hand as well.

“We have seventeen cycles before the war of words begins again,” Thul told Picard. “Might I have a moment with you?” His eyes flickered to the first officer, then back to the captain. “In private?” he added

Picard turned to Ben Zoma.

“Go ahead,” said the dark-haired man. “I should call up to the Stargazer anyway. I need to check on some things.”

The captain nodded, aware of at least some of the matters Ben Zoma would be checking on-all mundane but necessary aspects of ship’s business.