Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [87]
The ensign grimaced. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Simenon pick up another rock. “Aye, Commander.”
“Then get down here on the double. You can tell me in person what you found so enthralling that you—”
Geordi was interrupted by a high-pitched yelp that made Wesley whirl in alarm. His first thought was that the Gnalish had fallen into the water and was drowning. Of course, that was unlikely given his reptilian anatomy—but that didn’t come to mind until moments later.
In any case, Simenon wasn’t in any trouble, aquatic or otherwise. He was just standing there with a strange expression on his face. A wide-eyed, open-mouthed sort of expression.
“Wes? Is everything all right?” Geordi asked.
The ensign looked at Simenon. “I think so,” he replied. He tilted his head to get the Gnalish’s attention. “It is all right—isn’t it, Professor?”
Suddenly, Simenon’s features broadened into a smile. “You’re damned right it’s all right,” he said. He looked up. “Mr. La Forge—make some tea. We’ll be there in a minute.”
Wesley regarded him. “Make some tea?” he echoed.
“I like tea,” said the Gnalish. “Who do you think introduced your captain to Earl Grey?” He hurried past the ensign on his way to the holodeck exit.
Wesley fell in after him. “But—that sound you made—”
Simenon dismissed it. “I always make that sound,” he shot back over his shoulder, “when I’m about to save the ship.”
As Riker entered the turbolift, leaving sickbay behind, he knew that the place where Cadwallader had been attacked would yield no physical evidence of what had taken place there. The curving stretch of corridor had already been restored, the phaser-scarred sections of bulkhead replaced, and the bloodstains leeched from the floor covering.
But he still wanted to see it again for himself. He had the feeling that if he stood there long enough, if he gave sufficient thought to the details imparted by Morgen and Dr. Crusher, he would find an angle that Worf’s security teams had overlooked.
At worst, he would feel as if he were making a contribution. The idea that there was a killer aboard had certainly concerned him before—but Cadwallader’s close call brought the problem closer to home. Now it was personal.
“Deck Seventeen,” he said. Though he couldn’t feel it, the turbolift started to move.
A moment or two later the doors opened. He stepped out.
And saw Ben Zoma kneeling in the middle of the corridor, eyes narrowed, intent on something in the distance.
The captain of the Lexington looked up as Riker exited the lift. He seemed surprised—but just a little. And he made no effort at all to cover up his interest in the place.
For a second or two they just stared at each other. Then Ben Zoma cracked a smile. “Fancy meeting you here, Commander.”
The first officer refrained from smiling back. “Mind if I ask what you’re doing, sir?”
The older man stood, winced, and massaged the back of his neck. “Damn,” he said. “There’s that tightness again. The old body’s not what it used to be—though I’ll deny it if you tell anyone I said that.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Riker reminded him.
“True,” Ben Zoma said. “That was rude of me. On the other hand, I think you know why I’m here. I imagine it’s the same reason you’re here—to go over the scene of the crime. To see if there might not be something the others overlooked.”
Riker nodded. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
“Just a few minutes.”
“And?”
Ben Zoma shook his head. “No brilliant insights—unfortunately.” He gazed past Riker. “The killer came from that direction—more than likely was already waiting for Cad and the others when they came groping for the lift in the dark.” His nostrils flared. “I wish he were here now. And I wish I had a phaser too.”
Riker regarded him. “Not exactly the kind of talk Starfleet encourages in its captains.”
“No,” agreed Ben Zoma, “it’s not.” He turned back to the first officer. “But then, there’s no one around to hear it but the two of us.” He cocked his head. “And if it were Dr.