Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [82]
The rock sailed over the water, hopping high into the air three times before it finally sank some twenty meters away. The Gnalish turned back to Wesley, looking quite satisfied with himself.
“That,” he instructed, “is how one skims a rock.” He returned to the pile, bent, and picked up a replacement. Then, straightening again, he offered it to Wesley.
“Care to try it?”
The ensign took the rock and tried to fit it into the curl of his forefinger as Simenon had done. The edge cut painfully into his skin.
“No,” said the Gnalish. “You’re holding it too tight. Let it rest on the side of your middle finger.” And manipulating Wesley’s hand, he showed him what he meant.
The ensign nodded. That felt better. Trying to lean as Simenon had, he looked at the Gnalish. “Now I just throw it?”
Simenon shook his head. “You don’t just throw it. There’s a knack to it.” He pantomimed the procedure with his own empty hand. “You see? The bottom of the rock must be held parallel to the surface of the lake. And when you release it, you put a backspin on it—so that it remains stable when it hits the water.”
Wesley went through the motion a couple of times until he felt he’d gotten the hang of it. Then he turned toward the lake, drew the stone back, and flipped it out over the water.
It turned sideways as it flew, made a loud plunk when it hit the lake, and sank like a—well, like a stone. The ensign frowned.
Simenon sighed. “I can see we’ve got some work ahead of us.”
Riker had expected to see Beverly Crusher presiding over sickbay. It was only after he walked in and saw Dr. Selar standing there giving orders that he realized Crusher had gone off duty. A few minutes ago, he calculated—the same time his own shift had ended.
Usually, he was on top of little things like that. But right now he was a little preoccupied.
He waited patiently for Selar to finish her other business. When she finally saw him standing there, she didn’t seem the least bit surprised. “Commander,” she said, inclining her head slightly by way of a greeting. “I was told you might be coming by.”
That caught him a little off his guard. “Really?”
“Yes. Dr. Crusher mentioned it.”
“Oh,” he said. “Right.” Boy, he really was preoccupied, wasn’t he?
The Vulcan indicated the barrier behind which Cadwallader’s biobed was situated. “You wish to see our patient?”
He nodded. “If it’s not a bad time.”
“Actually,” Selar told him, “it is not a bad time at all.” And without further ado, she led him back to the critical-care area, where they stopped as she leaned around the barrier. “Commander?”
“Mmm?”
“A visitor for you.”
A rustling of the bedcovers. “By all means,” the patient said, “let him in.”
Riker smiled. Cadwallader’s voice was stronger than he had expected it would be.
But Selar didn’t allow him to go right away. “Please be brief,” she advised. “Her progress is exemplary, but she looks better than she feels. We must help her conserve her strength.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t wear her out.”
The Vulcan gave him a wary look before departing to attend to her duties. Riker watched her go.
Then he came around the barrier and found Cadwallader looking up at him. She was propped on a pillow, her arms entwined across her chest.
She wasn’t as pale as when he saw her last. But he remembered what Selar had said about that appearance being deceiving.
“You look rather comfortable,” he told her.
She shrugged. “I suppose—considering I took a phaser beam not so long ago. Isn’t modern medicine wonderful?”
He looked into her eyes. They had that old sparkle.
“Listen,” he said, “I promised Dr. Selar that I’d stay only a min—”
Cadwallader frowned. “Bugger Dr. Selar,” she told him. “I’m in much better shape than she thinks. Stay as long as you like.”
His eyes narrowed in mock-reproach. “I think Dr. Selar deserves a little more respect.”
Cadwallader grunted. “Dr. Selar deserves a good