The Eyes of the Beholders - A. C. Crispin [21]
“That’s the one. And a sandwich, please. Grilled Swiss with bacon and tomato.”
“Coming right up,” she promised, and she turned away to program the food service selector.
Ten-Four’s hostess was an enigma to most of the starship’s crew. No one even knew precisely which planet she came from. Jean-Luc Picard had personally selected Guinan to run the relaxation center for his ship. Obviously the captain had encountered her before, but if he knew any more about her, it was obviously not information he had any intention of sharing.
Guinan placed the food and drink before the young officer and smiled, one of those gentle, enigmatic smiles that made Wesley wonder, not for the first time, just how old the hostess was. Physically, she appeared to be about Geordi’s age, in her early to mid-thirties, but Wes knew she had to be older than that. Exactly how much older was a definite puzzle. At times, she seemed nearly as young as he was, but at other times—especially when he gazed into her brown eyes—the young man felt as though she had lived for centuries and seen nearly everything there was to see.
“You looked pretty pleased with yourself when you came in here,” she remarked as he dove into his food with the typical enthusiasm of a teenager.
The young officer nodded around a mouthful, chewed appreciatively, then swallowed. “I was. I mean, I am. The captain gave me an assignment, and when I finished, he said I’d done an excellent job. And”—Wes paused for effect—”he said it right in front of Commander Riker!”
Guinan looked suitably impressed. “High praise indeed,” she murmured. “So, what’s our mission status?”
Wesley shrugged. “The captain called it a breathing space. There’s an alien tractor field of some kind that’s towing us toward an unknown destination. But at the moment, the captain wants to let it pull us, see where it’s taking us. He figures we’ve got plenty of time to break free later.”
Guinan refilled the teenager’s glass without being asked. “The captain usually has a good reason for his decisions.”
“Of course,” Wesley said, then popped the last bite into his mouth. “Terrific sandwich,” he said, rather indistinctly. “Thanks, Guinan.”
“Want another?”
Wes considered for a moment, then a wide grin flashed on his normally serious features. “Why not?”
When the second sandwich had been dispatched as quickly as the first, Wesley sat back in his seat, watching the hostess as she served Lieutenant Worf to a generous helping of Klingon gagh. Wesley glanced at the plate, then hastily averted his eyes. He still couldn’t get used to the idea of eating things that moved.
Commander Riker must have nerves of steel, he thought, repressing a shudder, to be able to go and serve on a Klingon ship and eat in their mess hall. He must also have a cast-iron—
His thoughts were interrupted by a voice. “Hello, Wesley.”
Wes turned on his stool to see Data standing at his elbow. The android was holding several sheets of paper that appeared to be covered with, of all things, handwriting. “Oh, hi, Data. Have a seat.”
“Thank you, Wesley, I believe that I will.” He sat down on the next stool. Guinan glanced over at them inquiringly to see whether they wanted anything (Data did not need to eat or drink as humans did, but he was able to, and sometimes joined his friends in a toast), but both officers shook their heads.
Wes eyed the pages his friend was holding curiously. “What’ve you got there, Data?”
“I have a section from the novel I am currently writing, Wesley,” the android replied. “I came to ask you if you would consider reading it and giving me your opinion. I have done some extensive revision since seeking Commander Riker’s thoughts on the quality of my story.”
Wesley hesitated, taken aback by the request. “Uh … I don’t know, Data. Engineering and science are my strong points, not literature, I’m afraid. I took a test on twentieth-century poets last week, and I completely messed up the section where I had to identify the mythical and biblical references in T. S. Eliot’s work. I don’t think I’m qualified