Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [19]
“All well and good, Mr. Worf,” said the doctor. “But that doesn’t explain how—”
“This is pretty impressive,” called Ben Zoma, who now seemed to be twenty meters away. “I’m going to pick up the pace.”
And pick up the pace he did. After a moment or two, he was sprinting—going all out. But it did not diminish the veracity of the illusion. From Worf’s point of view, Ben Zoma’s figure gradually dwindled.
“As I was saying,” the Klingon continued, “the diodes dictate what one sees. Not only by creating pure images, but by altering the way one perceives other elements. The electromagnetic fields, for instance. The converted-matter objects. And, of course, other participants. his
Greyhorse grunted. “I see. The polarized interference patterns come together to act as a lens— making the moving participant appear farther away than he or she really is.”
“Precisely, Doctor.”
“And if we were to go running after him,” said Morgen, “the treadmill effect would come into play for us too. So we could never close the gap between us unless we put in a lot more effort.” “Or he stopped and allowed us to catch up,” suggested Greyhorse. Worf confirmed it: “That is the general idea, yes.” By then, Ben Zoma must have tired of testing the holodeck’s capacity for illusion, because he had turned around and was running back. To his credit, he had yet
to break a sweat. His breathing had barely even accelerated. “I understand,” said Morgen, “that holodeck programs may be customized. Even created from scratch.” This time, he was addressing Worf directly. There was no way the Klingon could help but meet his eyes.
Worf could feel the instinctive reaction rising within him. It took an effort to stifle it-to keep it from being obvious. “That is true,” said the Klingon.
Morgen’s eyes, bright yellow, narrowed the slightest bit. “Have you created programs, Mr. WorP.”
Inwardly writhing under the Daa’allyit’s scrutiny, Worf nodded. “I have,” he confirmed.
Morgen seemed about to ask something else. But it never came out. For a fraction of a second longer, he regarded the Klingon. Then Ben Zoma had returned from his run.
“Whew,” he said, wiping his brow where a faint sheen of sweat had finally emerged. “Not a bad workout.” He turned to Greyhorse. “So? Satisfied?”
The doctor looked around, nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Quite satisfied.” He turned to Worf. “Thank you for your patience, Lieutenant.”
“It was my pleasure,” said the Klingon. He looked up at the sky again. “Save program.”
Abruptly, Ander’s Planet vanished, leaving in its place the stark yellow-on-black grid of the unadorned holodeck. The visitors took it in, seemingly as intrigued by the naked space as by the illusion. Worf allowed them some time to look around. Then he indicated the door with a gesture. “This way, gentlemen.”
As he exited, he thought he. could feel Morgen’s eyes boring into his back.
What was the question the Daa’Vit had been about to pose? In the cavernous engine room of the Enterprise, Geordi and Simenon stood side by side, gazing up at the mighty matter-antimatter core. On the catwalk above them, engineering personnel went through their daily diagnostic routine.
The Gnalish grunted. “You know,” he said, “I’ve pictured this a thousand times in my head. Had to, in order to teach advanced propulsion at the Academy.” He grunted