Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [61]
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 IT’
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 young-ster 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, stopping only when the water was lapping gently at his bare feet. Then he leaned his upper body at a funny, almost awkward kind of angle-and sent the rock flying with a flick of his wrist.
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,