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Crusher darted an amused glance at him. “I’m glad you’re along for the ride, Ensign.”

This was not a ride, but a mission. Nonetheless, the Vulcan saw no point in correcting his companion at this juncture.

He remained silent while he and Crusher disrobed. It was not a particularly pleasant experience for Tuvok.

Vulcans, after all, were intensely private people and he was no exception. While it was illogical to be ashamed of the way one’s body happened to have formed, neither was Tuvok in the habit of divesting himself of his clothing at the drop of an invitation.

He went through a quick mental exercise to quiet his unusually charged thoughts and reestablish calm. It helped, though not as much as the ensign would have liked.

When both he and Crusher had finished undressing, they glanced at each other’s face-carefully avoiding the possibility of glancing elsewhere. The commander cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “let’s go.” Then he crossed the room and opened the door in the far wall.

Steam rushed out and enveloped them, and for a moment Tuvok couldn’t see. Then he made out some shapes in the warm mist and realized what he and Crusher could expect there. A wave of relief washed over him.

The House of Comfort was not a house of prostitution, the Vulcan told himself. It was a bathhouse.

The man he presumed was Pudris Barrh was lounging in a steaming pool of what appeared to be green slime. However, as the Melacron shifted his position in the pool, it became obvious that it was merely water that had been treated with something-Tuvok couldn’t be certain what.

When the air cleared for a moment-a byproduct of their entrance-the Vulcan was able to get a better look at their host. He was rather corpulent for a Melacron, it seemed, and more pale-looking than most.

As thick, sludgy ripples made their slow way outward from Barrh’s generous torso, he waved to Tuvok and Crusher. “Please, gentlemen, join me. We’ve not met yet, but there are few better places to get to know someone than in The House of Comfort!”

Barrh threw back his head and laughed loudly at his joke. The commander laughed as well.

“No weapons, of course,” the Melacron told them, wagging a chubby forefinger in their direction. “No distractions of any kind. Just good fellowship, engaging conversation, and business.”

“Of course,” Crusher responded.

He and Tuvok exchanged a quick glance. Taking a deep breath, the human walked up the carpeted stairs and placed first one foot, then the other, into the hot, liquid muck.

The ensign had little choice but to follow suit He assured himself, as he sank up to his chest in the thick, surprisingly pleasant-smelling stuff, that there was really no logical reason T’Pel ever had to become acquainted with this misadventure.

Besides, he reflected, there was quite a good chance that the majority of his and Crusher’s actions would be classified. He had to confess that he found some comfort in the prospect.

“Now,” said Barrh, surveying them with slitted eyes, “my associate says you have something profitable to offer me?”

“That’s our hope,” said the human. He let the liquid lap at his chin for a moment before continuing. “My name is Marcus. I’m told by someone who should know that you’re the rider of one Bin Nedrach.”

The Melacron rumbled deep in his throat. Casually, Tuvok lifted his arms out of the water and placed them on the back of the tub, just in case he had to reach for Barrh quickly.

“If you had come a few weeks ago,” said the Melacron, “you would have been right. I am no longer the bastard’s rider.”

“Problem?” Crusher was almost cheerful.

“You could say that,” Barrh replied with a note of bitterness hi his voice. “We had a little … disagreement over a commission. I don’t keep steeds I can’t control, Marcus. Surely you understand that?”

Crusher nodded. “Naturally. Still, it’s a pity.”

“But he’s not the only steed in my stable,” their host continued. “I’ve several who will-“

The commander affected a look of disappointment and