The Last Stand - Brad Ferguson [68]
“Ah.”
“Let’s drift over thataway.”
“Lead on, Dex.”
Together, they moved slowly through the crowd, taking their time and nodding pleasantly at everyone who looked their way. No one questioned their presence.
The crowd was thickest at the room side of the main table, which was long and ran the width of the bistro at that end. The couple in red was sitting in the center of the far side, and each was talking with the people sitting nearest to them. The male suddenly looked up briefly and, spotting Riker, gave him an uncertain smile. Riker returned it with a broad grin. That seemed to reassure the male in red, who returned to the conversation he was having with the person on his right.
“I just made eye contact with the groom,” Riker muttered to Troi.
“Do you still think this is a wedding party? Are you sure we’re properly dressed for it?”
“Very funny.”
“I thought we’d established that red didn’t have anything to do with weddings,” Troi reminded him. “Rosco thought we were already married, remember? This celebration must have something to do with the coming attack on the Lethanta.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Riker. “It’s something else, something important to these people, and there’s only one remaining possibility that seems likely. Damn. I wish I could use the tricorder just for a second.”
“Let’s try to get a little closer to the table,” Troi said. “Maybe we’ll overhear something.”
Suddenly there was a cry of pain. “Ouch!”
Riker had stepped on someone’s foot—was still stepping on it, as a matter of fact. He moved back quickly. “I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized. “My fault entirely.”
The foot belonged to a young male. “Hull, you could hardly help yourself in here,” he replied in friendly fashion. He was slurring his words a bit. “What a mob!”
“You’re very gracious.”
“Gracious?” the young male said. He grinned. “That’s not a word I hear very often, at least as applied to my own unworthy self. No, I’m just in a good mood, I guess. How do you happen to know the delighted dyad?”
He had to mean the couple in red. “We’ve worked together,” Riker said carefully.
“Ah, too bad. You’ve gone ahead and mentioned work.” The young male wagged a finger at Riker in mock warning. “Well, I won’t report you to the porty palice—sorry, I mean the party police—as long as you promise not to do it again.”
Riker chuckled appropriately. “All right, I won’t.”
“Excellent. By the way, I’m Wiggin Ship’s Defense Design Maker Journeyman, not that I want to talk about work.” He bowed slightly.
“Pleased to meet you, Wiggin,” Riker said. “I’m Dex Portside Sanitation Systems Supervisor, and this is my spouse, Pralla Portside Consumables Monitor.”
“Oh, hull,” Wiggin said, straightening. “I beg your pardon, Dex Portside Sanitation Systems Supervisor. I assumed—well, never mind. Blame the sinarrtha. I sometimes have a little too much for my own good.” The young male bowed again, this time more deeply.
“It’s a party, Wiggin,” Riker said quickly. “Relax. Please think of Pralla and me as friends.”
“Yes, please do,” Troi said quickly.
Wiggin looked up. “Really?” He seemed surprised. “Well, if you shay so—say show, I mean. I’d be pleased to, actually. I guess it is a special day. I didn’t know Agrell and Twesla knew, er, I should say ‘were acquainted with,’ supervisory personnel.”
“We value all our friendships,” Riker said vaguely. “We’re very happy for Agrell and Twesla, of course.”
“We surely are,” Troi said brightly. She decided to risk it. “They’ve waited a long time for this.”
“I’ll say they have!” Wiggin said, perhaps a little too loudly. Heads began turning in their direction. “Everybody stands around and waits while the wasted protocol board decides when and where we can eat, sleep, and break wind!”
“Let’s leave,” Troi said quietly to Riker.
“I agree.” The drunken Wiggin had suddenly grown rather obnoxious, and Riker knew that the one thing he and Troi did not need now was to be noticed. They slowly began moving away from Wiggin, as if the press of the crowd were forcing them apart.
“Look!” Wiggin suddenly cried. A group of Krann