Unification - Jeri Taylor [36]
“You’re moving about in a very—android man-ner.”
“I am sorry, Captain,” replied Data immediately. “I will be more careful.”
“And don’t call me ‘Captain.’” “Yes, Cap—” Data cut himself off. “I understand.” Then, looking around in as human a manner as he could summon, he said, “I have located the spot where they were standing.”
Picard removed his arm from Data’s shoulders. He realized that such camaraderie was not typical of the Romulans. “Where?” he asked.
To his surprise, Data now put his arm around Picard’s shoulders and led him a few doors down the street. “It is here,” he said. “At this doorway.”
Picard looked at a small sign near the door, which, being written in Romulan, was indecipherable to him. To his relief, Data dropped his arm and moved forward to read the sign. “A legal intercessor’s office,” he announced. “The name is similar to Pardek’s. It would appear to be one of his relatives.”
Picard reached out and tried the door; it didn’t yield. “Not open for business yet,” he guessed.
“Nevertheless,” Data ventured, “it would be my recommendation that we keep this location under observation. I have clearly determined Pardek’s routine. On days when the Senate is not in session, he invariably comes to this section after the median hour.”
Picard quickly glanced around, looking for a reason they could stay close to this office without attracting attention. He saw, within close range, people eating at a cluster of tables—a dinglh, or food center. He turned back to Data. “Very well, why don’t we take the opportunity to try some of the local cuisine.”
They moved casually toward the food court, passing as they did some Romulan soldiers. They were hard-looking men who strolled indolently along the street; Picard and Data kept their eyes straight ahead, and had no idea if the soldiers took notice of their passing.
Every patron of the food court was standing at the small tables that dotted it. Picard and Data did the same, and were immediately approached by a dour woman with small, piercing eyes. She inspected them carefully.
“What do you recommend?” asked Data easily.
“Soup,” was her terse reply.
“That sounds very appealing,” Data assured her. “I will have soup.”
The woman’s stern look swung to Picard. “Soup is fine,” he said.
She moved off and Picard turned nonchalantly and glanced toward the soldiers. They were still nearby, talking in hushed tones. He turned back and saw the woman approaching them with two bowls. Picard looked at her and asked in a friendly voice, “Do you know what time the intercessor’s office across the way opens?” “Why do you want to know?” Her voice was flat. “I need his services. He was recommended.”
There was a brief pause, and then the woman said, “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“We are here for the day,” Data interjected smoothly. “From the city of Rateg.” “Rateg,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
Picard tried to stay calm. If this woman was suspicious, and the soldiers only a few feet away… “Why do you say that?” asked Data.
“You don’t sound like you’re from Rateg.”
“Ah,” said Data, on sure ground here, “it is a misconception that all Rategs speak with a particular inflection. In fact, there are twelve different—”
“We come from several kilometers outside the city,” interrupted Picard evenly. If Data got into the detailed complexities of his voluminous research, they would be quickly uncovered.
The woman drew back and studied them for a moment. “Or perhaps,” she offered, “you come from the security forces, to watch the intercessor’s office. Is he in trouble?” “Madame, you are mistaken.” Picard was genuinely surprised.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” she shrugged. “I don’t know when he opens. Eat your soup. Courtesy of a loyal establishment. Jolan tru.”
She moved off and Picard breathed a