Unification - Jeri Taylor [63]
Nobody did. “Who would want a Vulcan ship?” asked Riker, not letting him wriggle away.
“Hypothetically speaking?” Omag’s eyes were wide in mock seriousness.
“Hypothetically speaking.”
“I never learned to speak hypothetical.” Omag tilted back his head and howled with laughter, spray-ing bits of matter over the table as he did. The women followed suit, laughing merrily.
Riker had had enough. He picked up the edge of the table and tilted it so that all the food and drink slid down and descended on top of the Ferengi and his women. They erupted in shrill shrieks of rage and dismay, leaping to their feet and brushing ineffectual-ly at their sodden clothes.
Riker heard the music stop behind them. He moved toward the startled Ferengi, now looking ridiculous with food dumped all over him. “Are you crazy?” the man screeched. Riker grabbed him by his lapels and raised him off his feet. It was an effort to do so, but his adrenaline was pumping. He could sense Worf at his back, watching for any move from the patrons.
“Let me explain what’s going to happen if you don’t tell me about that Vulcan ship,” he began, in a calm voice. “Your passage rights through this sector will be revoked. But more than that, I’ll be very unhappy.”
The Ferengi, his feet dangling inches over the ground, looked at him with a mixture of loathing and fear. “I delivered it to a Barolian freighter,” he gasped.
“At what coordinates?”
“I don’t remember.”
Riker tightened his grip and the squat little man wheezed desperately. “Ow, watch it… you’re stretching my neck.. 2’ “Coordinates?”
“At Galorndon Core. Near the Neutral Zone. That’s all I know. I swear it.” His face was turning a strange purplish color.
Riker threw him back into his seat, directly on top of a creamy tart, which squished as the fat man landed on it.
“Enjoy your dinner,” said Riker pleasantly. He turned to smile at Amarie, and as he and Worf started to leave, he picked up a napkin from a nearby table. He flung it toward Omag, and it landed on the wretched little man’s lap. Riker was pleased to see that even Worf grinned at that.
Amarie stared at the scene of mayhem in dismay. The two Starfleet officers were gone, having left be-hind a powerful Ferengi ship dealer who was now sitting in the middle of his own dinner. The two concubines had disappeared, cleaning themselves up, she supposed. But what distressed her was the realization that this was not a night when Omag was going to leave a sizeable tip. He’d been roughed up, humili-ated, and doused with food and drinkmhe probably couldn’t wait to get out of there and he wasn’t going to feel like throwing money around when he did.
As she looked over at him, she found herself feeling sorry for the runey little toad. He looked pathetic, daubing at himself with a napkin. The waiters had finally reappeared and were doing their best to clean up the food, and Shem hovered and clucked uselessly. The table and floor looked like a giant baby had just eaten dinner there, slopping food everywhere.
Without conscious thought, Amarie rose and went to Omag, took the napkin from his hand, and began wiping his head for him with one hand, his shirt with another; another patted his shoulder. “Too bad, Omag,” she crooned. “Don’t let it get you down.” She tenderly wiped the folds of his huge ears.
“I’ll hire guards. I’ll go after them.. 2’ he was sputtering in his rage and distress.
“Pumply, they’re long gone from here. They got business to do and they’re already on their way. Besides, you don’t want to waste your time on petty little runes like them. You could buy and sell them a thousand times over.”
Omag frowned, reflecting on this. “It is true,” he pronounced.
“You just settle down and forget about them. The evening is young and I haven’t even got warmed up with ‘Melor Famagal.’ We’ll get you set up at a new table and order some champagne. You ever try the fried Caldor eel? No? Oh, pumply, you haven’t lived…”
She continued clucking over him, gently leading him to another table, all four