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For a long moment, she gazed into the water just below her. She studied her gray, antennaed reflection, found renewed faith in the determination that was plain on her own golden-eyed face.

Armed with it, fortified with it, Ulassi closed her eyes for a long moment. Then slowly, almost reverently, she brought forth the vial of death that she had safely packed in her waist pouch.

Strange, she thought, holding it in the sunlight. It was so small a thing-just a few milliliters of liquid-and yet it would eventually bring about the deaths of thousands…

And in time, a great and terrible war.

Squatting, Ulassi opened the vial and poured its contents into the water. Only a few drops per thousand liters of water were necessary to achieve the desired goal. There was something sacred in the potency of the poison, she thought dreamily. Something wonderful and outrageous, like the judgment of a wronged, angry god.

For now, sadly, it was her own people, the Cordracites, who would have to perish. She was sorry about that, but there was little she could do about it. Sacrifices were needed if she was to bring about the changes that would save her planet as a whole.

And soon enough, Ulassi thought… soon enough it would be the disgusting, single-nostriled Melacron who would be dying. Then Cordra III would disentangle itself from the grip of Melacron V and stand, proud and whole and independent once more.

As the thick black poison dissolved into the city’s water supply, she said a prayer… for herself, for her father, for all those whose deaths would bring about her world’s liberation. She prayed that they would die quickly and without pain.

“Long live Cordra III!” Ulassi whispered aloud, tears filling her eyes at the righteousness of her cause.

Then, with a start, she realized what she had become. She was a hero now, wasn’t she? A hero like Risaab of Golluk or the Sisters Noraddis or the Ten Warriors of Hitna’he. Someday schoolchildren would sing songs about her and old people would write her name in their graves.

The thought made Ulassi smile as she climbed back up the face of the cliff and started back to her father’s domicile.

Chapter Ten

“WELL,” SAID COMMANDER CRUSHER, mainly to break the uncomfortable silence into which he and Tuvok seemed to have fallen, “there she is, in all her bacchanalian glory.”

“The House of Comfort,” the Vulcan observed warily.

“The House of Comfort,” the commander confirmed.

“It does not,” said Tuvok, “look very comfortable.”

For the briefest of seconds, Crusher wondered if the ensign had made a joke. Then he dismissed the notion. As usual, it seemed, Tuvok was simply being literal.

Viewed from outside, The House of Comfort looked every bit as dark, dilapidated and unappealing as The Den had looked-maybe even more so, though he wouldn’t have thought that possible. The commander hoped that the interior would prove more attractive.

Like an actor assuming a role, Crusher set his jaw and again began looking at things as “Marcus” would. A Starfleet officer might feel uncomfortable about entering a house of prostitution, but Marcus wouldn’t hesitate. Marcus, if he actually existed, would probably be comfortable in this sort of environment.

At the very least, he wouldn’t have a wife and a small son back in Federation space, the thought of whom made him feel guilty. Putting the thought aside, the commander walked forward and flung open the door.

A wave of moist, warm air rushed out to meet him. It was saturated with a variety of alien scents-many of them surprisingly pleasant, some a good deal less so.

Crusher wondered at the high level of humidity in the place, but chalked it up to the idiosyncrasies of the patrons. The same for the soft, cloying music of unknown origin that seemed to waft its way around him. In any case, he had to admit that the ambiance was a welcome change from the rank, hostile environment of The Den.

“Welcome to The House of Comfort,” said a soft, husky voice.

The human turned and saw where it had come from-an attractive