Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [81]
Wesley looked at Simenon’s feet. For the first time, he realized that the Gnalish was barefoot.
“So, young man, have you followed me in here for a reason? Or just to chat?”
Wesley smiled, a little embarrassed. “Geordi—I mean Commander La Forge—wanted me to make sure you were all right. You didn’t show up in engineering this morning.”
“If I was all right?” Now it was Simenon’s turn to smile. “He could have found that out over the intercom. Commander La Forge just wonders what I’m doing in this holodeck when we have a problem to solve.”
The ensign nodded. “I guess that’s another way of putting it.”
“And to solve a problem,” the Gnalish went on, “we must stand around the master situations monitor, looking ominously at one another.”
Wesley winced. “I don’t think that’s exactly—”
Simenon dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “It’s all right. You need not defend your Commander La Forge. At his age, I would probably have approached it the same way.” He regarded the ensign. “However, I am older and wiser now. And I know that the best way to approach a problem, sometimes, is to forget about it entirely.” He indicated the scarlet forest with a sweeping gesture. “To play a little hooky, as your Earth expression goes.”
He began to walk down the path. Wesley just watched him, not knowing exactly what to do. Should he continue to badger the Gnalish? Or consider his mission completed and return to engineering?
Suddenly, Simenon turned around. “Well?” he asked. “Are you coming or not?”
The ensign hesitated for a moment. “Me?” he repeated lamely.
The professor snorted. “I don’t see anyone else standing there.”
What the hell, thought Wesley. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break—just a short one.
He started after Simenon.
“That’s better,” said the Gnalish.
“Where are we going?” asked Wes.
“Down to the lake. Where else?”
It wasn’t very far. A couple of twists in the path, and they were there, the water reflecting the splendor of the trees that towered all around it.
Simenon stopped in the vicinity of a small pile of stones—one which he had gathered some time before, apparently, or else simply programmed into the scene. Abruptly, without a word to his companion, he knelt, his ruby eyes darting around until they fixed on something a meter or so away. Using his tail to sweep the ground, he brought his find closer to him—and when it was close enough, picked it up with his fingers.
Another stone. The Gnalish examined it. But after a second or two, he tossed it away. Watching the whole strange scenario, Wesley couldn’t help but chuckle. It seemed so funny for an Academy professor to be squatting barefoot and scavenging for rocks.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Simenon, abruptly indignant. “It takes time to select the right specimens.” Holding yet another one up at eye level, he turned it around, inspecting it from various angles.
“The right specimens?” the ensign echoed. “Right for what?”
The Gnalish put the stone down in the pile and began to scrutinize another.
“For skimming, of course.”
Wesley looked at him. “What’s skimming?”
That got the Gnalish’s attention; he looked up. “You mean you don’t know?”
The ensign shrugged. “Should I?”
Simenon looked at him as if he’d just eaten one of the rocks. “Should you? Of course you should. Weren’t there any lakes where you grew up?”
Wesley thought about it. “I…I guess so. But that was when I was really young. I’ve spent a lot of time on starships since my mom joined Starfleet.”
The Gnalish looked a little sad—or was that the ensign’s imagination? “You mean,” he said, “you’ve never skimmed a rock? That’s absurd! Every youngster skims rocks.” He shook his serpentine head. “Well, we’ll have to rectify that gap in your education right now.”
He picked up one of the rocks he’d put in the pile—a small round one with one flat side. Aligning one of its edges with the inside of his scaly forefinger, Simenon took a couple of steps down to the edge of the lake,