Star Trek: The Crouton Generation
Season Four Episode

Polgara: Thrice happy she who hides from pomp and power
In sylvan shade or solitary bower;
Where verdant visions greet her weary eyes--

Her Communicator (Iluvanna): Shore-leave's off; prepare to Croutonize.

[Which she does, reappearing in the Croutonizer Room.] Polgara: How dare you interrupt--

Iluvanna: Sorry--we're rounding everyone up. [A small slug-like creature falls out of one of the folds in her robe, and Iluvanna bends down to examine it. When Polgara follows his lead, several more of the creatures shake out of her clothing.] Looks like you've attracted quite a following there. [Iluvanna picks up one for a closer look.]

Polgara: I don't understand--why didn't the biofilter pick them up?

Iluvanna: The biofilter's just for small, internal things. It'll do wonders if you've got dysentery or Rigelian blood-crud, but it won't help you a bit if you've just got fleas. For that, we need something a bit more subtle. [Pulls out a phaser.]

Polgara: Wait a minute--what the--

Iluvanna: Trust me--I'm a trained Croutonizer Technician. [Adjusts phaser setting] Hmm . . . Is it supposed to be one-point-seven, or seven- point-one? Oh well . . . [Fires, point-blank and wide-beam, at Polgara. The cone-shaped beam continues for several seconds, during which time Polgara, while entirely unharmed by the phaser energy enveloping her, is growing increasingly annoyed.]

Polgara: Are you quite finished?

Iluvanna [checking his watch]: Almost . . . eighteen, nineteen, twenty. [Releases trigger.] That should about do it. [Four or five of the little slugs fly out from between Polgara's shoulder blades, quite obviously under their own power.] Hmm . . . well, let's try again. [Adjusts phaser, resumes firing. After a few seconds, the phaser starts to splutter and flicker.] What the--

[The phaser ceases to function entirely. Iluvanna squeezes the trigger a few more times, but it is no use. He opens the frontal phaser casing, revealing several dozen slug bodies. Some are charred, some are squashed, but the dozen that fly out are most definitely alive.]

The Wrath of Jones

Guest Starring:
Gerard Depardieu as Jones
Susie Plakton as Rosalind
Charles Notar as Ardrys

With a Special Appearance By:
Richard Stans as Lt. Mondegreen

Kleber [Entering, toweling off his head]: It's not that surprising, Captain. I mean, while I find the sea-world of Merquon calm and relaxing, it would be positively dangerous for those crew members who cannot breathe under water.

Kabeta: Still, twenty planets does seem a tad . . . excessive. On the first ship I was on, a shore-leave meant everyone went down to the same planet.

Furd the Nurd: Ah! Luxury! At least ye had shore-leaves. On my old ship, when the crew wanted a vacation, we all went into the rec deck and played bingo for two days.

Thokk: Luxury! At least ye had bingo. On my planet, the only entertainment we had was to hit each other with rocks. And we liked it. Particularly when the person getting hit was really obnoxious.

Kleber [Looking over Kabeta's shoulder at the planet list]: Besides, it's not really twenty planets. Look--[brushes a slug off the list and points to what had lain under it]--this one's a starbase, not a planet.

Kabeta [reads]: Starbase 6502. [Ponders:] What kind of creature would take shore leave on a starbase?

[Scene: The Arcadia Theatre, conveniently located at the end of the shopping arcade on Starbase 6502. Scattered throughout the audience are Redshirts, in yellow shirts, of course. We focus in on two such, conversing.]

Mondegreen: . . . so while it may not offer the green fields or sandy beaches of a planet-side leave, a starbase also offers you less chance of being turned into a cube and then crushed.

Unimportant Crewmember: Your colleagues seem to have followed the same reasoning--half of Security seems to be here. [Pointing:] There's Smith, Brown, Chang . . . Ah, those great names, never to be forgotten.

Mondegreen: My colleagues? . . . Ah, so that shirt you wear is Engineering- yellow, not Security-yellow?

Unimportant Crewmember: Indeed--my motive in coming here is not self- preservation; I'm just here for the show.

Mondegreen: You enjoy historical drama? I'm quite a history buff myself, actually . . .

Unimportant Crewmember [making a dismissive gesture]: The play itself I can take or leave--I'm here to see the great Thestor on stage.

Mondegreen: The great Thestor? I don't believe I've heard of him.

Unimportant Crewmember: Then you are in for a rare treat tonight. Such a dynamic range! Such gesturing! Such a drop-kick! Such . . .

[The lights go down, cutting off Unimportant Crewmember's exposition. An airy four-note melody plays. The stage-lights go up revealing Thestor, a ponderous figure in the costume of a Starfleet Captain of over a hundred years past. Thestor, after bowing to the energetic applause of the audience, begins the role of Kirk.]

Thestor [Gesturing wildly]:
Space!
[Dramatic pause]
The Final Frontier.

A Voice [From the midst of the theater]: Wretch! Have I not forbade you to play here?

Thestor [Frightened]: Jones! Now, now, now--

Voice: A perfect triolet! But your performance lacks something. Go rehearse it some more -- elsewhere!

Thestor [Trying to continue, in a voice of no great assurance]: Space . . .

Voice: Is the best possible environment for such a talent as yours. Your voice would finally be done justice by the acoustics of a perfect vacuum, and the theatrical world would be given an immeasurable gift when your last breath finally escaped from your voluminous lungs. [Jones-- for it is indeed he--emerges from the crowd.] Of course, the same effect might be achieved by puncturing the balloon. [His hand is at his make-shift scabbard.]

Thestor [Desperately attempting dignity]: Sir, when you insult me, you insult the Muse!

Jones: Which one? Dysterpe--the muse of overdone music? Or Transurania, the muse of mistaken astronomy? Pollyhymnia, muse of parroting? [He finally notices that Thestor has escaped.] What is this? I have been cheated! I pay good money to see a theatrical performance--and the stage is empty. How shabby--how unalterably shabby! [His nose, having (like most body parts) no sense of irony, has grown quite, quite long. In fact, its apparent size is still greater, for it is borne boldly outwards, as Jones has assumed a not-quite-perfect imitation of the Standard Heroic Kirk Pose (Non-Equestrian).]

Mondegreen [standing up]: Ahem . . . Your pose is wrong.

Jones [leaping down to face Mondegreen, frumious]: What did you say?

Mondegreen: I said, your pose is wrong.

Jones [calming somewhat]: Oh, my pose . . .

Mondegreen: Yes . . . it's nothing really major--I just have a thing for historical accuracy. Anyway, you've certainly got the heroic speechifying down pat; your prose is strong, and --

Jones [uncalm again]: Sir, you mock me!

Mondegreen [confused by Jones' anger]: Not at all--your consonants are crisp and aspirated, and your vowels are clean and resonant. Particularly your long O's--

Jones: Enough! What is your name, sir?

Mondegreen: Lieutenant Richard Mondegreen, of the U.S.S. Heisenberg.

Jones [Drawing his sword]: Then, Lieutenant Mondegreen, you shall die exquisitely, at . . . Wait a minute, nothing rhymes with Mondegreen.

Unimportant Crewmember: How about "Rhonda Green"?

Jones: Shut up! How can I compose a Limerique Extempore when--[His question is cut off by the sound and sparkle of every Heisenberg officer in the theater being simultaneously beamed up. When Jones realizes what is happening, he becomes even more enraged.] Federation Bastards! [He raises his sword.] So help me, by the stars in the heavens and by the dirt of my native land, I shall hunt thee down. I--

[Rosalind enters, pushing a refreshment cart loaded with all manner of edibles.]

Rosalind [to Jones]: Calm down, brother--you're theeing again. [She holds up a petit-four.] Have something to eat--it'll settle your bile.

Jones: I do not wish to calm down. I--[She is looking at him quite sternly. Grumbling:] Very well . . . [He walks over to the cart, and takes a small glass of water, a single grape, and, from the pasta salad, one macarono. After consuming these, he is indeed somewhat calmer.] So, what's new, sis?

Rosalind: I'm to be married!

Jones: What? That bastard Ardrys has finally worn you down?

Rosalind [laughing]: Heavens, no . . . And it's not nice to talk about the base commander that way.

Jones: Base he may be, but my commander--never. So, who's the lucky fellow, then? I don't suppose you've finally latched on to someone respectable--say, a privateer or mixicologist . . .

Rosalind [cautiously]: Well, he's a Starfleet officer, stationed on the U.S.S. Heisenberg.

Jones [bitter]: How nice. A swaggering, tin-plated--

Rosalind: . . . And he's a Baronet . . .

Jones: Correction--carpet-plated. What a combination: Starfleet and the Society for Chivalric Atavism . . .

Rosalind: No, no, not an SCA-Baronet, a Baronet-Baronet. You know, the real kind.

Jones: The melodrama-and-family-curse kind?

Rosalind: Right.

Jones: How charming. Tell me, when can I meet this Baron of yours?

Rosalind: Baronet. The twenty-seventh Baronet Ruddigarb. [Looks around.] Actually, I was supposed to meet him here . . .

Jones: I wouldn't hold my breath. In a dramatic display of the courage and sticktoitiveness for which Starfleet officers are known throughout the galaxy, the entire yellow-clad subset of our audience decided, shortly before you arrived, that they would rather be elsewhere, and consequently beamed back to their ship--the Heisenberg, I suppose, it's the only ship in port. I would guess that your Baronet was among them. [He notices her face has fallen.] Come, come--did you really expect steadfastness from a Starfleeter on shore leave? You may have been his fiancee, but I doubt he was yours. Starfleet personnel are notorious for this sort of thing; heck, they say the captain of the Heisenberg--Kabeta of the sapphire eyes--has a suitor in every empire in the Galaxy. And when you add in the Titled Nobility factor--

Rosalind: He wouldn't just leave me. There must be some explanation. If I could just talk to him ...

Jones [struck by inspiration]: Hmm . . . It so happens that I have some, um, unfinished business on the Heisenberg . . . A debt I owe to a certain security officer. What say, while I'm there, I retrieve your Baronet? If his love is as true as you believe it is, I'm sure he'll be eager to return to you.

Rosalind: Would you really do that? [Jones nods. Rosalind removes one of her earrings, an almost perfect silver sphere. She hands it to Jones.] He gave them to me the night we pledged our love. Take it to him, so he'll know I sent you.

Jones [examining the bauble with a merchant's eye]: Heavens! This must have cost him all of two-and-a-half credits. True love, indeed!

Rosalind [angering]: Just go!

Jones: Indeed! To the Heisenberg--[He draws his sword]--to retrieve your love, and to slay my Lieutenant! Tally-ho! [He dashes off, his sword held high.]

Rosalind [calling after him]: Wait a minute--slay who?

Jones [Out the door and way down the corridor by now]: Tell you later--don't worry, I'll have time to do both . . . [His voice trails off in the distance.]

Jiapa [consulting a form in front of her]: So, Bart . . .

Mondegreen: That's not my name.

Jiapa: I'm sorry . . . So, Bartholomew, what seems to be--

Mondegreen: No, no. My name is Richard Mondegreen. My title is Baronet Ruddigarb. [He takes the sheet of pseudopaper, and points to an entry.] See, that Bart. is under "Titles, Non-SCA." [He examines the page.] You know, this is a really lousy printing job.

Jiapa: The phaser printer is down--something about it being jammed up with slugs . . .

Mondegreen: I didn't realize it was coin-operated.

Jiapa: No, *slugs*--little slimy . . . [Regaining control of the conversation] So, Richard, what seems to be the problem?

Mondegreen: I am Doomed to Die.

Jiapa: Ah. Members of the Security staff often feel that way. [She reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out Starfleet Standard Counseling Pamphlet 786.4b: "So Your Shirt is Yellow: Dealing with Security Insecurity."] Why don't you read--

Mondegreen: No, no. As a Security Officer, I am merely doomed. I can handle that. I laugh at doom, though not very loudly. As the twenty-seventh Baronet Ruddigarb, however, I am Doomed. Jiapa: Back taxes?

Mondegreen: No, a Family Curse. There's a song, traditional in my family, which explains it better than I could. [He sings the Curse Song:]

In days gone by, when pet-
ty nobles bred like rabbits,
A certain Baronet,
Had quite appalling habits:
A lady's hand he'd take,
They'd cuddle by the lake,
He'd lead her on,
And then begone;
In short, he was a rake.

That was the truly horr'b-
Le first Bart. Ruddigarb.
His practised art:
To break a heart.
The first Bart. Ruddigarb.

One lass (to whom, of course,
He'd promised speedy marriage)
Turned out to be a sorc-
Eress of prideful carriage.
When over she was thrown,
And she found out he'd flown,
She cast some charms
Upon his Arms,
And this she did intone:

"Each Baronet of Rud-
Digarb, from now, e'er after
Shall curse his noble blood
And his ancestor's laughter;
Each, when to wed he'll try,
Shall hear my mocking cry:
He'll never see
The canopy--
Instead, he'll simply die.

Thus Curs-ed are my woo-
Er and his sons, and so on
The Curse came sadly true
--One maiden came to grow on
The Bart., and plans were made;
The wedding feast was laid.
The wedding bells
Soon turned to knells--
His heart met someone's blade.

E'er since, the curse's barb
Has speared each Ruddigarb;
Each one who'd wed
Becomes a dead
Ex-Bart. of Ruddigarb.

Jiapa: I see. [She leans back in her chair, and taps her fingers together.] Tell me, what made you decide to seek counseling now? You've surely known about this for some time.

Mondegreen: I'd never given it much thought before, but now the Curse has started to come true. While on shore leave at Starbase 6502, I fell in love with the most lovely, charming Berjraqyan maiden . . . Rosalind. We were engaged to be married, but a few scant minutes before we were to meet to go to our wedding, I found myself Croutonizing onto Transporter Pad 17.

Jiapa: We'll speak to the Captain at once--surely we can delay our schedule by half a day or so, to make time for a wedding.

Mondegreen: But don't you see? This is Fate we're dealing with. The unexpected beam-up was just the start; no matter what we do, the Curse will not allow me to be married before I die.

Jiapa: Nonsense, Lieutenant. You're safe on your own ship; the chances of anything--or anyone--killing you are remote in the extreme.

Rosalind: . . . and then he ran off, shouting about killing some Lieutenant.

Ardrys: Well, if your brother says he's going to kill someone, it's reasonably certain to happen. You didn't happen to note which way he was going, did you?

Rosalind: Straight down Corridor 86; my guess is he made a beeline for Public Croutonizer 7J, and beamed straight over to the Heisenberg from there.

Ardrys: I'll alert them right away. [Puzzles.] You know, I can't help wondering why you're telling me about this--I mean, the last time your brother killed someone in a duel, you were right there as his second. Have you suddenly joined the Federation? [There is a smirk in his eyes.]

Rosalind: Hardly--I just don't his petty vendettas interfering with . . . a certain project I sent him out on.

Ardrys: Project? [He is looking at he inquisitionally.]

Rosalind [uneasily]: Well . . . [She decides to get the whole thing out in the open, and consequently does so in one breath.] He's-supposed-to- find-Richard-Mondegreen-Baronet-Ruddigarb-and-bring-him-back-to- the-Base-so-that-Richard-and-I-can-get-married. [She looks into his face for a reaction.]

Ardrys [taking the news quite restrainedly]: Well. Congratulations. On the wedding, I mean.

Rosalind [surprised that he is taking it so well]: Thank you . . .Um . . . I don't suppose--I mean I know Starfleet communications are for Starfleet business, but--could you get a message to Richard for me, to come back? I mean, in case my brother doesn't get through.

Ardrys: Oh. Um, certainly. Yes. Well, congratulations. Again. And . . . I'll get right on this. Right. Well . . . um, goodbye.

[A few members of Base Security escort her out.]

Furd: Is not.

Aoki: Is too.

Furd: Starfleet is not a military organization. [He clears his throat.] We are merely a combined service, with an accent on research, that happens to arm its ships with weapons sufficient to destroy entire planets.

[Ensign Metag and Lt. Cmdr. yaz-pistachio, embroiled in their own conversation, sit down at the same table.]

Metag: It's all right here in the M3-DZQ26-P78-4 form.

Aoki [to Furd]: See--gratuitous bureaucracy is the first symptom of the military mindset.

yaz [overhearing]: This is not gratuitous bureaucracy; Starfleet Command has simply gotten sick and tired of starship crews altering the configuration of their ships in bizarre, experimental ways. Apparently, they're still in a tizzy over there about the Silmaril incident. Anyway, they're insisting that every major new alteration be accompanied by some sort of documentation, and the signatures of at least three people in Sciences/Engineering. It's supposed to guarantee that any such alterations are safe and sensible.

Furd: Or that any starship has at least three insane crew members.

yaz: Well, they'd have to all be insane in the same way; I doubt that even this ship could produce three people like that. Anyway, even bureaucracy can have its uses. For example, it has come to my attention that Ensign Metag here has made major alterations to the construction of the ship. In previous times, all I could have done would have been to ask him for an explanation; an explanation which would probably have been incoherent, and would certainly have included sufficient irrelevant history that I would have had to shoot him. Now, with his M3-DQZ26-P78-4 in hand [He takes the page from Metag], I can see who authorized the changes. [He looks at the three initialings at the bottom.] Okay, I assume one of these M's is you, and the other is maya.

Metag: Actually, they're both me--if you look at the date, you'll see that when the form was signed, maya had left already.

yaz [still looking at the page]: And the third signature is YAZ--I sure didn't sign this!

Metag: Oh, I'm sorry--that's a typo. It was supposed to read YAY; it's an expression of enthusiasm on my home planet.

yaz: Let me get this straight. You initialed this by putting down the equivalent of "Metag! Metag! Hurrah!"?

Metag: Well, yes . . . I mean, when you've only got a one word name, you have to add something when you initial a form--a one-letter signature just gets lost in the shuffle.

yaz: So you have lain twenty kilometres of tubing--

Metag: Warp-transference coils, actually.

yaz: Sorry, corrugated tubing throughout the ship, cluttering every hallway, filling every Jeffreys tube almost to the point of impassability, all without any authorization whatsoever? Good Heavens, man, why?

Metag: Well, it all started some two hundred years ago . . .

Furd [to Aoki]: See, now if this were a military organization, we actually could shoot him.

Metag: It was during Captain Hikaru Sulu's first mission--before he became famous for his intercession in the Karibuvian Civil War . . .

Aoki [to Furd]: On the other hand, we are equipped with phasers, so unlike in most civilian situations, we have at least the theoretical ability to shoot him.

yaz: It probably wouldn't work--phasers have been going on the fritz all over the ship. Those slugs seem to have been getting into everything.

Aoki: Not everything, surely. The computers have been working just fine.

yaz: Well, let's see. We've had at least five reports of phaser failure due to slug contamination. Then there's the phaser printer, the phaser coffee maker . . . You know, I'm detecting a pattern here. [Polgara joins the table; a stream of airborne slugs trails her, like her own private army.] Polgara, that aura of yours--it operates on roughly the same frequency as a phaser beam, right? [He aims his phaser--wide angle and low power--at her. As he adjusts the frequency control, beautiful interference patterns appear and shimmer in the air.]

Kleber [happening by, and sitting down]: That is so cool.

yaz: It's just as I thought. These slugs are attracted to phaser and phaser-like energy.

Polgara: So these things have been following me around because of my aura? [yaz nods.] Pyndra-klaa! [Her aura is gone, and so are the interference patterns. yaz shuts off his already-faltering phaser.]

Kleber: I didn't realize you could turn it on and off like that.

Polgara: Of course. I'm a sorceress.

yaz: Now, we already know a phaser beam doesn't kill the critters; my guess is, they feed on phaser energy, and use it to reproduce. [He has gotten the back of his phaser open. About a hundred slugs spill out, about half of which are alive.] Yep. No way that many got in to the phaser--I would have seen. Most of these slugs must have been born in there.

Kleber: So every time someone fires a phaser aboard ship--

Aoki: --or uses the phaser printer--

yaz: --or operates the phaser splenograph, we get more slugs.

Kleber: So we can stop their reproduction just by banning phaser use aboard ship. But that doesn't tell us how to get rid of the ones we have. [Thokk enters, bearing a tray stacked high with sautˇed slugs, and is seated. Kleber muses:] A nice idea, but probably difficult to implement in practice.

Furd: How can you eat that?

Thokk: Chopsticks. [From his pocket he produces an ancient-looking pair, and also a salt-shaker. He sprinkles some salt on his entree. It vanishes.] AAAAAAAUUUGHHHH!

yaz: Now, that's an idea--we just sprinkle the decks with salt to a depth of . . . oh, no.

Polgara: What's wrong?

yaz: Sprinkling the decks won't do it. Ensign Metag, over here, has recently put in what amounts to twenty kilometres of pipe, all over the ship--a perfect hiding spot for our little friends.

[Everyone turns to glare at Metag, who has been speaking all this time, completely obliviously to everything going on around him.]

Metag: . . . Volume III, except for the footnotes. But I digress. The point is, Ship A managed to disable the artificial gravity system of Ship B, with only two photon torpedoes. Naturally, when I read this, I was in shock--AG systems are usually indestructible. The only way I could see to avoid that possibility was to make our system distributive; use transference coils instead of relying upon plain-field gravity spread . . . Why are you all staring at me?

yaz: Have you heard a word we've been saying? [Metag clearly has not.] It seems that because of certain transference coils that shall remain nameless, we are unable to implement a solution to the slug situation.

Metag: I, um, see . . . [The glares have become more intense, and Metag is increasingly uncomfortable.] That's an . . . interesting problem . . . [Metag is slowly getting up.] Let me . . . er. . . sleep on it. [He makes a mad dash for the door, nearly trampling Jiapa and Mondegreen on their way in.]

Jiapa [sitting down at the table, and motioning for Mondegreen to do likewise]: Lieutenant, I'd like you to meet Polgara. [Mondegreen bows slightly.] Polgara is a sorceress.

Mondegreen: Really? I thought sorceresses always had auras around them.

Polgara [a bit annoyed]: And just how do you come to know so much about sorceresses?

Mondegreen: Oh, I come by it honestly--my family has a Sorceress's Curse on it.

Polgara [concern replacing annoyance]: Really? [She gingerly touches the tip of his nose with her fingertips.] It's true--a genuine Type Seventeen Line-of-Descent Curse. I haven't seen a case like this in ages. Would you mind if I collected some of your fingernail clippings? [She is already peering into his eyes with a magnifying glass.]

Jiapa: Actually, we were wondering if perhaps you could do something about it. You know, like a cure or something.

Polgara: Hmm . . . Do you have any details on the origin and content of the curse? [Mondegreen produces several copies of the sheet music to the Curse Song, which are duly passed around to all present. Polgara, on receiving her copy, scans it quickly and shakes her head.] Sorry. You see, when a sorceress lays a curse like this, she means it to stick- -and since she's an expert on magic, she can build in defences against any kind of magical cure. Generally, the least likely person to be able to help is another sorceress.

Kleber: Might we try a legal attack, then?

Mondegreen: I beg your pardon?

Kleber: According to this [he holds up the music], every Baronet of Ruddigarb dies before marriage, right?

Mondegreen: Indeed--I come from a long line of bachelors.

Kleber: Then no Baronet of Ruddigarb leaves behind legitimate offspring.

Mondegreen: True--I also come from a long line of ba--

Kleber: Then I don't see how there could have been any Baronets after the first--a noble title cannot pass to illegitimate descendants.

Mondegreen: Interesting. [To Polgara:] What do you think?

Polgara [again shaking her head]: Unfortunately, the curse as stated clearly assumes that the title passes from father to son, regardless of legitimacy. As indeed it has historically--you bear your father's title, for example, even though you are, legally speaking, not entitled to it, and, for that matter, neither was he.

Mondegreen: So because the curse assumed that by-blows could inherit, it automatically became true?

Polgara: Precisely. Now, if the curse had been created by William Schwenk Gilbert, or some such legalistic mind, you would probably be able to remove it just by pointing out the legal error. It wouldn't work on a Sorceress's curse, though, unless that sorceress were also a lawyer.

Mondegreen: Let me get this straight: A magical cure won't work because the layer of the curse was an expert in magic, and a legal cure won't work because she wasn't an expert in law?

Polgara: Basically.

Mondegreen: So what can I try?

Polgara: Well . . . you might try General Cussedness--I've heard good things about it.

Mondegreen: General Cussedness?

Polgara: A condition characterized by bitterness, temper, and the refusal to quit even when what you're doing doesn't make sense. It's supposed to be very powerful, magically speaking, or so I've heard--I've never experienced it myself.

Mondegreen: Hmm . . . General Cussedness . . . [He attempts a grimace, and fails miserably.] Lemme go practice this a bit. [Just as he leaves, Kabeta enters, and takes his seat.]

Kabeta: Bad news, people. I've just been speaking with Commander Ardrys of Starbase 6502. Apparently, a merchant named Jones, probably armed with a sword, has beamed aboard the Heisenberg, and intends to kill one of our Lieutenants--it's not clear whom. He's also looking for one Lieutenant Richard Mondegreen, Baronet Ruddigarb, with intent to carry him off. Do any of you know a Mondegreen?

Thokk: He just left. Thokk go get . . . sorry, I'll go get him. [Dashes out the door.]

Jiapa: Which brings up another point--Lieutenant Mondegreen is engaged to be married to someone on Starbase 6502. Would it be possible to stay in port long enough for him to do so?

Kabeta: (*Sigh*). Staying in port is easy--but he can't leave the ship. Commander Ardrys got wind of our vermin problem, and put the Heisenberg under quarantine. All ship-to-base transports have been rendered impossible, under Quarantine Directive Four.

Furd: Impossible, or just illegal?

Aoki: Impossible-- Quarantine Directive Four means our computer won't let anyone transport to the base unless it receives the unlock code from their computer.

Kleber: Can they do that?

Kabeta: It's a bit extreme, but they're well within their rights--quarantines are a serious business.

Thokk [re-entering]: Mondegreen's gone. Don't worry, though, I'll track him down. If he takes a single step, I will be listening for it. If he heaves a single breath, I will be smelling for it. If he--

Aoki: Pandora, hon, where's Lieutenant Mondegreen?

Pandora: In his room, tiger, #245.

Kabeta: All right, then: Thokk, round up a couple dozen security people, armed with phasers--

yaz: Um . . . that might not be such a good idea. [To Furd:] Would you hand me your phaser, please? [Furd does. yaz sets the phaser for stun, and fires. Not only does the beam flicker out almost immediately, but it attracts a cloud of slugs from all over the mess hall.] At the lowest setting, a phaser beam lasts a couple of seconds, but on stun it is both almost useless, and [he is attempting to wipe slugs off his hand] a positive disadvantage to its user. I can't imagine the effect a "kill" setting would cause.

Kabeta: Right. We'll have to make an announcement about that. No phasers until we get the slug problem cleared up.

Furd: Won't that be tipping our hand a bit? I mean, if Jones is already aboard ship, won't he hear the announcement too?

Kabeta: The safety of the crew comes first. The advantage of having Jones think we can use phasers is vastly outweighed by the disadvantage of having our own people think so ... [To Thokk:] How well do you think the Security staff can function without phasers?

Thokk: Well . . . I can probably put together a squadron of swordsmen--I mean, all the fencing that gets done on this ship must have some purpose.

Kleber [shaking his head]: No good. I've met--well, shot, actually--this Jones. At the time, he was on the point of defeating Commander Scribonia in single combat. [Everyone at the table whistles appreciatively.] If he's not a Wizard, he's darn close. Snark might be able to beat him, if he weren't still vacationing on Vinica, but I doubt any other crew member--or group of crew members--could beat Jones in a swordfight.

Furd: What we need is a plan . . . [He pulls out a napkin, and starts sketching] . . . and you'll go over here, and then the pizza . . .[more sketching] . . . and that's when you [he turns to Kabeta] use your secret ability to turn into a wolf . . . at will.

Kleber: Shh! Not everyone at this table knows that Kabeta has the secret ability to turn into a wolf . . . at will.

Aoki, yaz, Polgara, Jiapa, and Thokk: Well, I do.

Kabeta [annoyed, standing up to address the rest of the Officers' Mess]: Is there anyone in this room who doesn't know my secret?

Entire Room: You mean your secret ability to turn into a wolf . . . at will? [Kabeta sighs.]

Furd [who has been continuing all this time]: . . . and thus by using the standard Qintoc Flanking Maneuver . . .

Aoki: Is that the one where you blow up all of your own fortifications?

Furd [ignoring him]: . . . and that should do it. [He turns to Kabeta.] Well, what do you think?

Kabeta: It sounds like a plan.

Aoki: It sounds like a military campaign.

Furd [to Aoki]: Not at all. [Everyone is leaving, presumably to carry out the plan.] An adherence to elementary tactical principles is in no way necessarily indicative of militarism. [Everybody at the table, except for Furd and Aoki, has left.] Face it--Starfleet is *not* a military organization.

Aoki: Is too.

Furd: Is not.

[On hearing this, Jones climbs out of an air vent near the ceiling, and lands on his feet on the floor. He walks down the corridor with a confident air. As he rounds a corner, he encounters Kleber, seated at a table, upon which are two goblets, a bottle of grape juice, and a tray of Starfleet Issue Square SynthePizza, kept piping hot by a Starfleet Issue Square SynthePizza Warmer.]

Kleber: I'm afraid I can't let you pass.

Jones: I see. Now, I know you can't use your phaser.

Kleber: Right.

Jones: Do you have a sword?

Kleber: No.

Jones: A bladed weapon of any sort?

Kleber: No.

Jones: Perhaps a blunt instrument, or some sort of electrical device?

Kleber: No.

Jones: Do you, in fact, have any weapon at all?

Kleber: No.

Jones: Ah. Let me see if I have this straight. I wish to go by, and you cannot allow that. You have no weapon, and I have a very big sword. [He draws it.] . . . Forgive me, but I only see one way this situation can possibly be resolved.

Kleber: But surely you would never strike down an unarmed opponent.

Jones: True. And for me to get by you--

Kleber: You would indeed have to strike me down. So it appears we are at an impasse.

Jones: Hmm . . . Then there is but one way to resolve it--a duel of wits. I trust you are armed in that respect?

Kleber: Let me put it this way. Have you ever heard of Plato and Aristotle?

Jones: [Thinks.] No.

Kleber: See?

Jones: Very well. Pour the grape juice. [Kleber fills the goblets, while Jones removes a vial from his pocket.] Open this and inhale, but be careful not to touch. [He passes the vial over to Kleber, who holds it to his nose.]

Kleber: I smell nothing.

Jones: That's because you're not inhaling.

Kleber: Would you inhale an unknown substance handed to you by a lunatic who's trying to kill one of your fellow crew members and kidnap another one?

Jones: True enough. [He takes the vial back.] What you are refusing to smell is xylocaine liquid. It is odoriferous, tastes terrible, and is one of the more potent oral anesthetics known to man. [Jones takes the goblets and turns away, busies himself for a moment, then turns again with a goblet in each hand, and very carefully puts one goblet in front of each of them.] Your guess--where is the xylocaine?

Kleber: Guess? I think. I ponder. I deduce. Then, and only then, do I guess.

Jones: The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we drink the juice and the anesthetic does its work and we find out who is right, and who talks funny for the rest of the day.

Kleber: And I suppose whoever wins this contest gets his own way on the issue of you passing me by?

Jones: Yes. And that pizza you've got there.

Kleber: And . . . the pizza. You're not in the Non Sequitur Society, are you?

Jones: I was, but Monday follows Sunday, you know? Come, come, make your choice.

Kleber: It's all so simple. All I have to do is deduce, from what I know of you, the way your mind works. Are you the kind of man who would put xylocaine into his own glass, or into the glass of his enemy?

Jones: You're stalling.

Kleber: Stalling? I've barely even begun stalling. Now, a great fool would put the xylocaine into his own goblet, because a great fool would count on his ability to juggle and pratfall and otherwise distract his opponent long enough to switch the glasses. [He looks into Jones's eyes]. I can tell from the look in your eyes that you're not in the SCA (though your sister is) and are thus not in the Fool's Guild, so I can clearly not choose the juice in front of me.

Jones: Keep going.

Kleber: I intend to. Now, xylocaine comes from Earth, and Earth is entirely peopled by Terrans, and thus, being Terrafied of losing this contest, you would put the xylocaine as far as possible from yourself. so I can clearly not choose the juice in front of me. But then, you must have suspected I knew the origins of xylocaine, particularly since the vial has a "Made on Earth" label on it, so I can clearly not choose the juice in front of you.

Jones: Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.

Kleber: Now, several months ago, when you were about to skewer Commander Scribonia, I casually shot you, so your thirst for revenge would probably lead you to instinctively put the xylocaine into my goblet, so I can clearly not choose the juice in front of me. However, judging from the intense look of rage that your eyes have suddenly acquired, and the fact that you are now attempting to throttle me, I suspect that you did not realize until (*gurgle*) now that it was (*gasp*) I who shot you, and thus that bit of information (*gllll*) cannot have entered into your decision at all. (*gasp*) Please unhand me--this (*gurgle*) is a battle of wits, remember? [Jones grudgingly complies.]

Jones: (*grumble*) Are you quite finished?

Kleber: Only to the extent that I now know where the xylocaine is.

Jones: Only a genius could ha--[He sees, behind Kleber's back, a leftover hippopotamus skipping gaily down a side corridor.] What in the world could that be? [While he is distracted, Kleber switches the goblets.] I could have sworn I saw something. [Kleber begins to laugh.] I don't understand what's so funny.

Kleber: Tell you in a minute. But first, let's drink--you from your goblet, and me from mine.

[They do so.]

Jones: You guessed wrong.

Kleber: You only think I guessed wrong. That's what's so funny. I switched goblets when your back was turned. You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is "Never get involved in a naval war on Vulcan," but only slightly less well known is this: [he picks up a perfectly square slice of pizza] "Never go in against a Speaker for the Dead when Sicilian pizza is on the line." [He takes a huge, triumphant bite out of the *extremely* hot pizza--with the standard side effect.] AAAAAUUUUGHH. [The goblets are empty, so he downs the rest of the bottle in one gulp.]

Jones [sardonically]: Are you all right?

Kleber: No, I'm naugh augh wigh! [The top of his mouth is a bit burnt.]

Jones: As I recall, [he is deliberately elocuting very precisely] the contest was to see who would end up talking funny. I believe I have won. [Quick as a wink, he has leapt over the table, and is on his way.]

Dancers: I ache for the sight of your sword, dear,
And to call you milady/milord, dear,
Let's dress like Celts
And wear bunny pelts
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.

May our light be a flame, not a flash, love
May the Pox never make us act rash, love
Try not to laugh
When I calligraph
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.

At your command
In armor here I stand,
My sword is in my hand--Ouch!
Next time, I'll hold the hilt.
The fight is fierce
(To quote from Ambrose Bierce).
So long--I gotta pierce
That guy there, in the kilt.

I think that my cloak's out of period
(I got the design from Lem's Cyberiad),
But none can assail
My dominant mail
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.

I met a Knight
When I ate at your table;
Or, a stag rampant sable
Were the arms that he bore.
And we had quite a fight
Whether it was a wagon,
Or (as he claimed) a dragon,
That he drove to the War.

We'll cook leg of lamb, not knishes,
And try to stretch out the loaves and fishes;
And then we'll draw lots
For who'll clean the pots
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.

I'll sew a seam,
And make my armor gleam,
And anything you deem
Authentic, I shall try;
I'll brew some beer,
And then some sheep I'll shear,
Because it is, my dear,
A terrific day to dye. (Sorry.)

So sew me a gown made of satin;
Speak English, pretending that it's Latin,
Or use "thee" and "thou,"
And "Zounds"--with an "ou"--
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.

[Ardrys enters the room, followed by four members of Base Security. He spots Rosalind, and goes over to her.]

Rosalind [not looking up from her sewing]: Tell your friends to wipe their feet before coming in.

Ardrys: Rosalind, we're on a Starbase near the edge of the Galaxy. We're two hundred parsecs from the nearest mud.

Rosalind: That's not my problem. I'm not the one coming in here with my own private army. [Ardrys motions for the redshirts to wait outside. Once they have left, Rosalind finally looks up at him.] Is it really necessary to have your dogs following you everywhere you go?

Ardrys: On a Federation Starbase--

Rosalind: Mainly populated by non-Federation traders.

Ardrys: --which is run by Starfleet--

Rosalind: Or rather, by a single Starfleet Commander, and the redshirts under his command.

Ardrys: Look, it's not as if it's some kind of military dictatorship--

Rosalind: No?

Ardrys: Starfleet is a non-military organization.

Rosalind: So you keep telling me. (*sigh*) Look, you obviously came here for a reason. If you've got news about my brother, spill it. If you're here to press your suit one more time, let me get back to my sewing.

Ardrys: Very well. Your brother has been spotted aboard the Heisenberg. The details aren't quite clear, but apparently he has succeeded in injuring- -nonfatally--one Lieutenant Kleber. For some reason, they weren't quite specific on just how this happened--I can only assume it was a swordfight of some sort.

Rosalind: That idiot! If he's going to put off bringing Richard back just so he can take his petty revenge, he ought to at least get the job done right! Nonfatally injured, indeed! [She is fuming, as we have never seen anyone fume, except Jones.]

Ardrys [backing off, a look of terror in his eyes]: Yes . . . quite. [He is halfway to the door]: Um . . . interesting outfit you're sewing--Tudor, is it?

Rosalind [icily]: No.

Ardrys [almost at the door]: Well, um . . . good to see you again. [He escapes.]

Thokk [picking up another bowling ball, from a stack of around twenty]: I didn't have to miss, you know.

Jones: I don't believe you.

Thokk [angering, and hefting another ball]: What?

Jones: I honestly don't think you could hit me if you tried. [He makes a quick dive forwards, narrowly avoiding getting beaned with another ball.] See?

Thokk: [Another ball already in hand]: I'll have you know I made the rockthrowing quarterfinals on my home planet, four years running. And those weren't rattan rocks, either.

Jones: Pretty wimpy planet, then.

[On the "th" in "then", he ducks just enough that the bowling ball only grazes his hair, before continuing on to smash in a wall-panel behind him. The lights go out, so that when the sparks cease flying, the corridor in entirely dark. At this point Metag emerges from his room door, which happens to open onto this particular stretch of corridor. Metag has clearly just been woken up from a deep sleep (he is wearing syntheflannel pajamas, for one thing)--or, rather, this would be clear if we--or anyone else--could actually see him.]

Metag: What the Froje is going on here?

[Thokk, at the mention of Froje's name, runs away screaming for reasons much too involved to go into here (see The Doh is Violent, now available on videotape).]

Jones: Just a wee bit of darkness, my musclebound adversary. I'm sure even you realize the futility of hurling bowling balls at a target you can't see.

Metag: Um . . . I hadn't really planned on doing so, but thanks for the advice.

Jones: Don't mention it. [He goes on.] You will note that we now truly have a fair fight--your strength against my sword. [In the silence following that last sentence, the faint steel-against-steel sound of a sword being drawn can be distinctly heard.]

Metag: Fair fight? My strength against a sword?

Jones [amused]: Can it be? The Samson of the hallway has become a coward? [Muses to himself:] Of course, his voice has gotten noticeably higher since the lights went out . . . [Fully stentorian again:] Come now--it's not as bad for you as it looks. Since we are both deprived of sight, I daresay the first of us to find the other is nearly certain to prevail, regardless of the relative strengths of steel and sinew.

Metag: I'm still not entirely happy with the odds . . . Suppose instead we enter into a battle of wits. It ought at least to be more interesting than a game of Blind Man Bluff to the death.

Jones [invisibly delighted at the thought of entering into a battle of wits with Thokk]: Indeed! A battle of wits it is. I don't suppose you've brought any grape juice with you?

Metag: I never touch the stuff, myself--Kleber's the drinker. [Ponders.] I can never keep proper score in the Question Game--suppose we play the Riddle Game?

Jones: First one not to guess a riddle loses?

Metag: No--the first one to guess a riddle wins. House rules.

Jones: Well, all right. It is your ship. I'll even grant you the first opportunity to guess:

My first is in ocean, but not in canoe;
My second's in hoes, but it isn't in shoe;
My third is in ugthrho, but isn't in through;
My whole (so says Billy) has caused much ado.

Metag [thinking]: No . . . nope . . . Sorry, I'm drawing a blank.

Jones: Nothing's coming to you?

Metag [shakes his head]: I guess not. Oh well, my turn:

Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall
Ninety-nine bottles of beer;
When ninety-two bottles just happened to fall
Nobody shed a tear.
Of the bottles left, I saw but two
In Jericho as it fell,
And four in Hebron; tell me true
Where was beer seven? Well?

Jones [ponders a while, then guesses]: Milwaukee?

Metag: Where?

Jones: (*sigh*) Never mind. Okay, here goes:

As I was going to St. Ives
I met a cat with 7 lives
(For 2 had rendered it deceased
For being such a meddling beast).
It passed me by; 'twas off to see
Its favorite saint, in Canterb'ry.
Now tell me, if you have the wit,
What was the gender of that kit?

Metag: Beats me--I was absent the day they covered cat sexing at Starfleet Academy. [He pauses, searching his mind for a difficult riddle. Finally, in desperation:] What have I got in my pocket?

Jones: What kind of riddle is that?

Metag: You don't like it? I'll give you three guesses.

Jones [gleefully]: I only need one. Ready?

Metag: I suppose so.

Jones: It's a trick question! Starfleet uniforms don't have pockets!

Metag: Sorry, wrong. It so happens I'm wearing pajamas.

Jones: That's impossible--before the lights went out, I saw you, and you were wearing ... [The light dawns, figuratively speaking.] Um, you wouldn't happen to be a strapping barbarian type, about six-foot- something-and-a-half, would you?

Metag: I don't think so. [Suddenly alarmed:] Why--have you seen anyone like that around here lately?

Jones: Yes, I--[Metag is now running away, screaming. Jones is momentarily confused, then shrugs and continues on his way.]

Rosalind: Come.

Ardrys [entering, bearing flowers]: Sorry to disturb you, but I think we need to talk--alone.

Rosalind: Is that why you have four guys with phasers just outside my door? [Ardrys is now wearing an "I knew I shouldn't have come here" look.] . . . Never mind, force of habit. At least you left them outside, this time. [She takes the flowers and, finding no water close to hand, puts them in some ink.] So, what's on your mind?

Ardrys: Um . . . [Looks at the contents of the pestle.] What is that, anyway? Woad? Or are you planning to illuminate a manuscript?

Rosalind: It's war paint. Come to the point, man.

Ardrys [taking a deep breath]: It's about your fiance. It's been . . .how many hours now? Wouldn't you think he'd have come back by now, if he were planning to?

Rosalind: Or sent a message.

Ardrys: Right, or sent a message.

Rosalind: Thank you for your concern, but please rest assured that he will come back.

Ardrys: But if he doesn't?

Rosalind: If he doesn't? [A smile comes to her lips.] Well, I suppose I shall have to--how does the saying go?--hunt him down and kill him.

Ardrys: I don't suppose you would . . . ahem . . . consider me as an alternative to homicide?

Rosalind: Let me be perfectly frank. I have never loved you, and have told you this on at least seventeen separate previous occasions. Ever since you have begun plotting against me and my future happiness, however, I have loved you even less.

Ardrys: What?

Rosalind: You clearly never sent a message to Richard, like you promised to. Moreover, judging from your reaction when I mentioned the possibility of him sending a message to me, it is clear that he has sent several--I can't tell whether it was five or six, without better measurements of how much your pupils constricted. [Ardrys is trying to protest.] Stop waving your hands--I don't know semaphore. [Ponders.] Now, I don't know how you kept Richard from beaming back . . . it's probably something devious, but not particularly subtle . . .

Ardrys: I--I don't know what you're talking about . . . I've never heard such . . .

Rosalind: Commander, you may not believe that in the short space of time I have known my fiance, I have come to know him and what he is capable of. Have no doubts, however, that in the seven years that you have been running this base, I have come to know what you are capable of.

Ardrys [coldly]: Have you indeed? [He turns, and walks out, without bidding goodbye.]

Jones: Great Scott--how many of these things are there? [He rounds a corner, and finds himself facing Matt Ender, about three meters away.] Oh, no . . . not another battle of wits . . .

Ender: No fear. [He draws what appears to be a perfectly ordinary sword. He bows.] Matt Ender at your service. And though my wit may be sharp, I think you'll find my blade is sharper.

Jones [In his element at last]: My wit and my blade are sharpened upon the same stone, so while we fence, I'll make you a Limerique Extempore.

Ender: I made a Limerique once . . . [Looks stricken] . . . but it died, it died!

Jones: Silence! [He declaims:] "Limerique of the duel on the Good Ship Heisenberg--"

Ender: Aye, she is that.

Jones: Shush--I'm being ironic. "Bluppity-blubbity Heisenberg between Jones and an Avifelinoid" . . . Let me choose my rhymes . . . Begin!

[The fight begins.]

The alien being Matt Ender
Loves his ship, and would like to defend her
That's an error--to wit,
The ship is an "it";
It is not of the feminine gender.
(As I end the refrain I shall hit.)

This mistake by the errant Matt Ender
Is but one among twelve corrigenda.
He is also a twit,
A buffoon and a git;
To this list there are eight more addenda.
(As I end the refrain I shall hit.)

[Ender tries using the Bonetti defence, which makes no sense given the carpeted floor. Jones has a clear advantage, and he's only finished the second verse.]

He maneuvers, does our Matt Ender
Like a drunkard who's out on a bender,
Or an overwrought cit-
Izen throwing a fit,
Or a mouse that is caught in a blender.
(As I end the refrain I shall hit.)

[Ender is up against the wall now.]

Ender: You are better than I am.

Jones: So it seems. But if that is true, then why are you smiling?

Ender: Because I know something you do not know.

Jones: And what is that?

Ender: The rotational dynamics of quantum manifolds in locally Euclidean n- space.

[And with those words, he switches the phase-blade he is wielding into two- dimensional mode. Before Jones fully realizes what has happened, Ender's weapon has taken a chunk out of his. Jones parries Ender's next thrust flat- to-flat, but in such a position the infinitely thin edge of Ender's blade is still lying against the flat of Jones's sword, and with a quick twist of Ender's wrist another small fragment of Jones's weapon is freed, to fly off into a corner. Jones somersaults away, to regroup. The battle is not over, though, so he can't close the Limerique just yet. He commences another triptych.]

Jones: The ever-sagacious Matt Ender
Has rendered his weapon more slender.
Doesn't matter a bit,
Not one jot, not one tit-
Tle--'tis fat that my weapon shall render.
(As I end the refrain, I shall hit.)

[Ender is upon Jones again, and strikes. Jones parries Ender's attack--with the tip of his sword against the flat of Ender's, so that the deadly edges of the phase-blade never contact Jones's merely metal weapon. Ender thrusts again, and Jones again parries in the same strange-looking way. The battle is again joined, more heated than ever.]

For my sword, when it runs through Matt Ender
Shall be hot as a fireplace fender;
When on Ender it's lit,
It shall burn like the pit
Of Gehenna in all of its splendor.
(As I end the refrain I shall hit.)

So be very afraid, dear Matt Ender
Your reduction is on my agenda.
Be fainthearted and jit-
Tery, fearful and skit-
Tish--and other terms, definienda.
(As I end the refrain I shall hit.)

[Jones has--slowly but surely--backed Ender against the wall again.]

Ender: You can't win, you know.

Jones: Why? Because you're the Good Guys? Because the Federation must always prevail? Because you're fighting for Mom, Cranapple Pie and IDIC?

Ender: No. Because of this.

[He switches the phase-blade once more, to one-dimensional configuration. When Jones thrusts, the tip of his sword contacts an infinitely thin wire of force, and promptly develops split ends. Jones somersaults in retreat--and begins one more triptych.]

That's a very strange weapon, Matt Ender--
Do you own it, or is it a lender?
Does it come from a kit?
It must cost quite a bit
At your local bizarre-weapons vendor.
(As I end the refrain I shall hit.)

Now, I'd like to be friendly, Matt Ender--
As a merchant, I like a big spender,
But I must pick a nit,
For my sword you have split,
And to me swords are not dividenda.
(As I end the refrain I shall hit.)

[Jones has been continuously dodging Ender's attacks through all of this. Such is his agility that he is constantly just out of Ender's reach--but then again, he cannot lay a sword on Ender either.]

So I must strike you down, O Matt Ender;
I am not, at this time, your befriender.
This I say, though I flit
(Just for now), I admit,
Like that guy in The Pris'ner of Zenda.
(As I end the refrain, I shall hit.)

[Throughout all of his dodging, Jones has been sizing up his opponent carefully. He now begins the refrain:]

Matt Ender

[He dodges left, and then right.]

Surrender

[He ducks under the phase-blade, and then leaps over it]

You've heard all my venom,

[Still dodging madly, he raises his sword as if to impale Ender upon it.]

prepare for my spit;

[He rolls a few feet away. Ender pursues.]

As I end the refrain

[When Ender is almost upon him, Jones suddenly leaps up.]

I

[In a flash, he scrapes the flat of his sword against Ender's one-dimensional blade, causing a ribbon of metal to fly off--]

Shall

[--and cover Ender's eyes. In a split-second, Jones sizes up his temporarily blinded opponent, lines up his shot, and:]

Hit!

[Jones carefully removes his sword from Ender's body, and continues on his way. Ender tries to stand up, but finds this impractical, due to the sword- sized hole through his body. He weakly examines the paper-thin sheet of metal that was his undoing.]

Ender: Curses! Foiled again!

Rosalind: Go away.

Ardrys [sitting down at her table]: You weren't at your apartment when I came back.

Rosalind: Yes, I figured that when you decided to get tough I ought to have plenty of witnesses. [She looks at her watch.] 7:42--right on schedule. Tell me--do you have five, or six guards posted at each entrance? [She takes a sip from her mug.] I doesn't matter, you know--my Richard will come for me.

Ardrys: Oh, I think he'll be on the Heisenberg for a good while longer.

Rosalind: Why should I believe you?

Ardrys: Believe this. [He hands her a sheet of pseudopaper, with Biohazard-- Quarantine Directive Four in large friendly letters at the top. It is a printout of the declaration of quarantine against the Heisenberg.]

Rosalind [scanning the page]: You Starfleet people are so helpful--a form for everything, and everything with its form. [She leans over to Ardrys and whispers:] Tell me, have you ever seen a Tribble Riot on a Starbase?

Ardrys: A what?

Rosalind [at the top of her voice]: You mean to tell me there's a TRIBBLE INFESTATION on Starbase 6502?! [She now has the attention of the entire cafeteria. She holds up the quarantine notice, and an uproar breaks out among the crowd in the cafeteria, in which the only distinguishable word is "tribbles-tribbles-tribbles," which continues in the background all during the following:] Citizens of Starbase 6502! Heed the warning before it's too late! Watch for the tell-tale signs of TRIBBLE INFESTATION! Did you set your roll down for a minute, and find it missing? Are there only three pieces of Zymoveal on your plate, when you usually get four? Did something cute and furry just run by [she points] there? [There is a scream in back.] If so, my friends [she stomps twice on the table]--

Ya got
Tribbles!

Crowd: Oh we've got
Tribbles!

Rosalind: Right here in Vittle
City!

Crowd: Right here in Vittle
City!

Rosalind: With a capital
T and that rhymes with
Phi and that stands for
Food.

Crowd: That stands for
Food!

Rosalind: We've surely got
Tribbles!

Crowd: We've surely got
Tribbles!

Rosalind: Right here in Vittle
City!

Crowd: Right here!

Rosalind [Stomp!]: We must stamp them
Out--and stamp out
All their rapacious
Brood!

Crowd: Their children's
Children gonna be
Tribbles!

Rosalind: Oh, we've got
Tribbles; we've got
Terrible, terrible
Tribbles--that beast is a
Pest--that's been the
Case since the first one
Cooed!

Crowd: First one
Cooed!

Rosalind: Oh yes, we got
Tribbles, Tribbles,
Tribbles!

Crowd: Oh yes, we got
Tribbles here--we got hungry
Tribbles!

Rosalind: With a
T!

Crowd: With a capital
T!

Rosalind: Gotta rhyme it with
Phi!

Crowd: That rhymes with
Phi!

Rosalind: And that stands for
Food!

Crowd: That stands for
Food!

[By now, Victual City is a madhouse, with people running everywhere, chasing imaginary tribbles. In this confusion, Rosalind makes her escape.]

Hertzman: Well, it's starting to heal.

Kleber: Yes, doctow, but wiww I be abwe to sing opewa?

Hertzman: I don't see why not.

Kleber: Funny--I nevew could befowe.

[Metag enters.]

Metag [hoarsely]: Doctor . . . I've just been running through the corridors screaming and... my throat is killing me.

Hertzman: I'll get you some tea and honey. [She is about to head for the Phaser Tea-o-matic, then corrects herself, and starts up the Emergency Backup Electric Teapot instead.] It shouldn't be long now- -it's probably still hot from when Lieutenant Thokk came in here with the same thing. [Metag looks around the room in wild alarm.] Don't worry, Lieutenant--he's left already.

[The teapot whistles, and Hertzman pours Metag a cup. He looks at the steam rising, and a strange look crosses his face.]

Metag: Um . . . I think I'll take this back to my room. [He leaves, leaving the untouched cup of tea, Earl Grey, hot, behind.]

Kleber: What's his pwobwem?

Hertzman: Well, Lieutenant Thokk and Ensign Metag really . . . don't get along . . . there was some sort of disagreement between them during the Doh crisis, as I recall . . .

[The door opens, and Matt Ender half stumbles, half tumbles into sickbay. He is bleeding--or the equivalent--from both ends of his sword wound.]

Hertzman: Good Heavens! [She and Kleber haul Ender onto a Sickbay bed. She wheels over the Nucleonic Viscerogram, a cumbersome, but indisputably non-phaser-driven, diagnostic device.]

Ender: It's just a flesh wound.

Hertzman [peering into the NV screen]: Lieutenant, you have a hole through your body that . . . misses your ileum and passes between your agamemnon and your menelaus without hitting either one. . . narrowly avoids spleens seven through twelve inclusive. . . goes right through a five-millimetre gap in your pinnic nerve without touching either side . . . doesn't even sever any blood-vessels larger than grade 7 . . . [She looks up from the screen.] You're right--it is just a flesh wound. Whoever did this to you managed to find a path through your thorax that doesn't touch a single vital organ. Have you been getting into barfights with surgeons again?

Ender: Not quite. [He winces slightly for effect as Hertzman applies what is, in fact, a completely painless anesthetic.] Though I'll admit, I didn't ask Jones whether he had any medical credentials . . .

[Thokk bursts in, with Kabeta, unconscious, slung over his shoulders.]

Thokk [hoarsely]: I found her like this in a corridor on Level 2. [Hertzman has already placed Kabeta on a bed, and the NV over her. She is peering at the screen.] Oh Captain, my Captain . . .

Hertzman: Found it. [She points to the screen. It gives a false-color view of Kabeta's innards, in which her stomach appears as a bluish cloud, within which Rosalind's silver earring appears as an evilly glowing green sphere.] Heavy metal poisoning. [She injects Kabeta with a syringe-full of Antargentone, and the Captain regains consciousness.]

Kabeta: It happened so fast. I was at my checkpoint--How has the Furd Plan been going, anyway?

Kleber: Weww, um . . . he got by me.

Thokk: Me too. [He is hanging his head.]

Ender: And me.

Kleber: I think the pwobwem was, he passed ouw checkpoints in exactwy the opposite ordew we expected him to.

Kabeta: Anyway, I was waiting in Corridor 73a, in wolf form. I was trying my best to look intimidating--I didn't really want to find out whether teeth and claws were a match for a sword--so I really went all out: hair on end, teeth bared, the standard wolf tricks.

Kleber: Bitchin'.

Kabeta: He came up to me--stared at me a few moments--and then he recognized me. Something about my eyes . . .

Kleber: That's twue--wooves don't have bwue eyes, even ambew-fwecked ones. And he's cewtain to have seen youw eyes befowe--on news wepowts, if nothing else. Thewe awe cewtain disadvantages to saving the Fedewation too often.

Kabeta: The point is, the intimidation idea didn't work, and I was forced to stop him physically. I leapt on him--

Ender: Before he could draw his sword?

Kabeta: As far as I know, he didn't even try. He took this--whatever-it-is--

Hertzman: It's a silver earring.

Kabeta: Out of his pocket, and forced it down my throat. I suddenly grew weak, and then lost consciousness.

Kleber: Doggone.

Jones: Hello. My name is Jones the Merchant. You . . . actually, it's been so long, I've forgotten what it was you actually did. Prepare to die.

Mondegreen [ceasing to practice grimacing]: (*sigh*) I had a feeling you'd be back . . . Um, you wouldn't happen to have a personal rule against striking down an unarmed opponent, would you?

Jones: Actually, such a rule is present in my personal code of ethics. However, since you've got a sword up there on the wall, you don't count as unarmed.

Mondegreen: I don't understand . . .

Jones: Well, of course not. It's a code of ethics. If it were easy to understand, it wouldn't be much of a code, now would it? [His face grows solemn.] I recommend you take down the sword, and start practicing with it, because in fifteen seconds I'm starting this duel whether you do or not. [Mondegreen doesn't budge.] Come now--it's a very nice sword. [Jones looks down at his own much-the-worse-for-wear weapon.] Certainly better than mine.

Mondegreen: Thank you. It belonged to the eighth Baronet. Actually, the eighth through thirteenth Baronets died in duels wielding that sword.

Jones: Sorry to hear . . . Wait a minute--you're not the Baronet Ruddigarb, are you?

Mondegreen: One and the same. [He looks at his watch.] Well, hurry up-- you're keeping Fate waiting.

Jones [in acute distress]: I . . . can't kill you. [He is clearly going through the torments induced by revenge denied.] I promised my sister I'd bring you back to marry her. [Mutters:] The worst part is, I'd finally come up with a rhyme for "Mondegreen."

Mondegreen: Rosalind is your sister?

[Jones reaches into his pocket for the earring Rosalind gave him, then realizes he has already used it in his fight with Kabeta.]

Jones: Of all the--[He flies into a rage.] May the soil of my native planet consume--

Mondegreen: It's all right, I believe you--you've got her temper. Unfortunately--well, there are a couple of problems involved in you bringing me back . . .

Jones: So, you do intend to throw over my sister--I knew she couldn't trust one of you Starfleet bastards. [He raises his sword angrily.]

Mondegreen: No, no--you misunderstood. I would like to come back with you, more than anything else in the world, but . . . well for starters, this ship is under quarantine--nobody can beam out.

Jones: Then we'll bring her here. Next problem?

Mondegreen: Then there's this curse . . . [He points to a beautiful illuminated manuscript on the wall--first owned by the fourth Baronet--which is a blackletter rendition of the Curse Song.]

Jones: Seven, maybe eight hundred credits . . . Oh, right, read it. [He does so.] So none of the previous Baronets of Ruddigarb has lived to be married--that means that the past twenty-five Baronets have all been by-blows . . .

Mondegreen: Yes . . . that's why no two of the keepsakes in this room--[He gestures to a wide array of objects on display, each from a different Baronet of Ruddigarb.]--are labeled with the same last name.

Jones: I always suspected my sister was going to marry a Federation bastard . . .

Mondegreen: The point is, this Curse has been operating with remarkable success for the past twenty-six generations, and I have no reason to believe that twenty-seventh time's the charm.

Jones: Ptui! I spit on your Curse. Are you going to let this Curse run your life, or are you going to fight it?

Mondegreen: How do you fight a Curse?

Jones: Same as you fight a mortal--the blade. [He draws his sword.]

Mondegreen: Fight a Curse with a sword? That doesn't make any sense.

Jones [sparks almost flying from his eyes]: Does it make sense that you and your entire family have been Cursed for the indiscretion of a single ancestor? Does it make any sense that your children, and their children, shall have to bear this contemptible burden for all time? [Sings:]

Do you hear your fathers cry,
Cursing the Curse, within their graves;
They are demanding that you free your sons
To be no more its slaves.
As the vacuum cold of space
Boils the blood within your veins,
So will the chill of naked steel
Melt away their chains.

Slay Atropos--ne'er again
Shall she divide you from your mate;
With Lachesis also slain
Your own life-thread you're free to plait--
You'll soon put an end
To this sinster bend
In your fate!

Do you hear your fathers shout,
As you refute what's been fortold;
As you force Clotho at her spinning wheel
To spin you threads of gold?
They rejoice to see their line--
Properly linear once more--
Run through your sons, and grands, and nine
Times ninety more.

Mondegreen [in awe]: Taking up arms, against a completely immaterial Curse! It's such a spendid example of--

Jones: Genius?

Mondegreen: General Cussedness. [He is convinced.] Very well, we'll do as you say. The first thing is to communicate with the base, to tell Rosalind to come aboard . . . I haven't had much luck lately getting a message through to Rosalind on the regular ship-to-base channel--I guess your starbase commander must really be a stickler for regulations about personal communications.

Jones: I can think of many reasons for him to keep the two of you out of touch, and that is but one of them. I tell you what--I'll get Rosalind here, provided you do me one favor.

Mondegreen: What?

Jones: Try and wear civies to the wedding--I hate the thought of that ugly yellow shirt showing up in my copy of the wedding picture. [He exits, and runs off.]

Mondegreen: Civies? [He shrugs.]

Jones: Exit code . . . exit clearance override . . . and today's stardate . . . [The door opens with the loud "cachungk" that is standard for doors that are not meant to be opened. Jones slips through.]

Mysterious Andorian Maiden [running up the Starbase 6502 corridor on the other side of the door]: Don't close it! [Jones doesn't. As the woman gets closer, he recognizes her.]

Jones: Rosalind! [It is indeed she, in disguise. She is dressed in the garb we saw her sewing earlier, which is now recognizable as standard Andorian female attire, and her face is painted blue with the stuff we saw her grinding. We haven't seen the antennae before.] Is that any way to show up to your own wedding?

Rosalind: Wedding--so you were able to get through to Richard? [Jones nods.] Well, [she indicates her costume] it couldn't be helped. Ardrys and his goons are after me.

Jones: Shall I . . . dispose of them?

Rosalind: (*sigh*) Just distract them 'til I get hitched, okay? It's not good for a sword to get too much blood on it.

Jones: Rosalind, after today, this sword--[He pats his scabbard.]--is retired.

Rosalind: No more duels?

Jones: Um . . . no, I just need a new sword. [Still sighing, Rosalind disappears into the door, and slams it behind her with an enormous locking "Clang". Jones removes a handkerchief from his pocket, and ties it around his face. Soon Ardrys and a half-dozen redshirts arrive. Jones adopts a silly tone of voice, and addresses them:] Ho, good friends, I have just arrived from Earth . . .

Kabeta: What I don't understand is where Jones could possibly have got to.

Furd: I suppose we drove him off--when push comes to shove, there's nothing like a well-organized plan of attack.

Kabeta: Commander, every time one of us went up against Jones, we lost.

Furd: Well, sure, we lost all the battles, but we won the war. [He looks around nervously to see if Aoki is within earshot.]

Kabeta: But--even if we did drive Jones off, where could he have gone to? We're under quarantine, remember? He couldn't have beamed off. He must still be hiding somewhere on the ship . . . I don't like it. I know Lieutenant Mondegreen claims he's cleared up everything, but Jones still strikes me as a homicidal lunatic.

Hertzman: Well . . . I can understand your antipathy towards the man, but look at the pattern: He never touched Lieutenants Kleber and Thokk or Ensign Metag; He intentionally gave Ender only a minor injury--

Kabeta: Intentionally?

Hertzman: I defy anyone to put a sword right through someone's body, and accidentally cause as little damage as Jones did. Finally, when he was fighting you, instead of simply cutting off your head with his sword, he just gave you a little silver knockout drop. No, if he's mad, there is a method to his madness--he seemed intent on killing Lieutenant Mondegreen, and nobody else. And now that he's apparently not even trying to do that anymore, I doubt we need to worry about him too much.

Mondegreen [approaching Kabeta]: Pardon me, Captain, but . . . about that speech you're going to give--the one about how ever since the days of the first wooden sailing ships, captains have had the privilege of performing weddings? [Kabeta nods.] Well, I've got a bit of an interest in history--because of my family history, you see--and, well . . . it isn't true.

Kabeta: I beg your pardon?

Mondegreen: Back in the days of wooden sailing ships, captains couldn't perform weddings. They were commonly thought to be able to--which is probably why they can now--but it was just a myth . . . Anyway, I was wondering if you'd mind not delivering that particular speech.

Kabeta: I'm sorry--it's Starfleet Regulations: "Any wedding which shall be performed by a Ship's Captain must include a recitation by said Captain of Standard Prematrimonial Remark 356.7a." [Mondegreen is unhappy.] Look, if it bothers you so much, you can have Lieutenant Kleber perform the ceremony . . . [Hearing his name mentioned, Kleber comes over.] It's probably just as well--I'd hate to be a party to the promulgation of a myth.

Kleber: A what?

Kabeta: A myth! Myth!

Rosalind [running in]: Yeth? [Her eyes and Mondegreen's meet. They embrace. When they release each other, there are faint traces of blue paint upon Mondegreen's cheek.]

Mondegreen: Oh, my adored one!

Rosalind: Beloved boy!

Mondegreen: Ecstatic rapture!

Rosalind: Dearest . . . I think we had better get this show on the road.

Mondegreen: Of course. [He suddenly snaps out of his love-induced reverie, and an anxious look crosses his face--the look of a man who, though brave and true, has the very real fear that his Family Curse will cause a sixteen ton beam to spontaneously fall onto his head.] Lt. Kleber?

[Kleber mounts the podium. He is wearing his clerical hat, and consequently looks very impressive. He reads from a thick tome.]

Kleber: Mawidge. That dweam within a dweam. It is mawidge that brings us togethaa . . .

Mondegreen: Um . . . is all of this really necessary? [He is growing more and more anxious by the minute.]

Kleber [holding up the book]: Stawfweet Weguwations. "Any wedding which shall be puhfawmed by a Speakaa faw the Dead . . ."

Rosalind: All right--just be quick about it! [She is starting to get, not anxious, but steamed. This is even more impressive than Kleber.]

[Kleber timidly]: Have you the wing?

[Mondegreen starts to rummage fruitlessly through his pockets. Finally, Rosalind removes her one remaining earring, and hands it to Mondegreen.]

Rosalind: With this ring, I thee wed.

Mondegreen: Are you sure? I mean, won't this break up the . . . [He halts in mid-sentence--he has been told where the other earring has ended up, and he really doesn't want it brought up again. He attaches the earring to his tie, as a tie tack.]

Kleber: Bwessed be the ties that bind. Do you, Wieutenant Wichaad Mondegween, Bawonet Wuddigaab, take this woman, to have and to hold, to wuv, honaw and chewish, fwom this day fowaad, as long as you both shall wiv? [On this last word, Mondegreen blanches slightly.]

Mondegreen: I do.

Kleber: Do you, Wosawind the Muhchant, take this man--

Rosalind: I do.

Kleber: Then by the powaa invested in me by the United Fedewation of Pwanets, I now pwonounce you--

[Just then, a deafening, though semimusical, sound reverberates through the Chapel/Bowling Alley--it is a vague approximation of the Anachronism Tango, in fact--and Kleber's last words go undelivered.]

Lieutenant Stoops [in a voice sufficiently resonant to be just barely audible above the din]: Good Heavens! That sounds like a steam calliope the size of a starship!

[Lt. Cdr. yaz-pistachio motions everyone to remain calm, and goes off in search of the source of the noise.]

Metag: Thank goodness! [He is still in his pajamas, and is perched atop the Z- 29 Gravy-Tater (tm) Artificial Gravity Device, in front of what appears to be a crude metal box with an even cruder keyboard on top of it. When he takes his hands off the keyboard, the "music" stops. The floor is covered uniformly with slugs to a depth of about a meter and a half--or at least it is until several gallons of the things spill out the door, keeping it from closing and ruining yaz's shoes.]

yaz: What the . . . How the . . . Why the . . .

Metag: Well, it all began in the Officers Mess, when it became clear to me that I had to come up with a solution to our slug problem. [yaz is still too much in shock to interrupt the long version of the story.] I slept on it, but that didn't really help--I was woken up in the middle of a dream about Real Analysis--and it wasn't until a while later that I came up with the solution--steam!

yaz [bewildered]: Steam?

Metag: Right! What better way to get the slugs out of the Gravitational Transference Coils than by steaming them out? I disconnected the coils from the Artificial Gravity Device, and hooked them up to a steam generating device [he affectionately pats the crude box in front of him] of my own design. Naturally, I had to test the AG device to make sure it hadn't been damaged during the disconnection. The button and sledgehammer tests went fine, but when I fired a phaser set on maximum vaporize at it, [he gestures to the ocean of slugs around him] this happened.

yaz: You--you--[He can't seem to find an appropriate word.] Didn't you hear when we were discussing . . . no, that's right, you didn't, I remember. But didn't you hear the announcement . . . no, you were probably sleeping then. (*sigh*) So that din you were making was some kind of distress call?

Metag: Right--I'd never tried to swim through a sea of slugs, and I wasn't keen to try. [He indicates his pajamas.] I didn't have my communicator on me, so I decided to use the steam controls [he indicates the keyboard] to generate an audio signal. Sorry about the "Anachronism Tango"--it's the only piece I know for unaccompanied steam calliope. [He is about to finger the keyboard again, then thinks better of it.] I figured all that steam had to produce some sound, but I didn't realize just how good the acoustic conditions were. That could be a problem with the steam idea . . . [He pulls out an envelope and starts figuring on the back of it.]

yaz: We've got more urgent things to take care of. I figure with the phaser blast you let out, we must have almost every slug on the ship here, and with the steam you've been running through the pipes--sorry, Transference Coils--for the past few minutes, any that didn't make it here are dead. I suggest we shovel the slugs that have spilled out back in here--luckily, they seem to be pretty inactive now, probably because they've just eaten so well--and shut that door.

[Just then a Pandora Synchronization Ping rings out.]

Jones: Thank you, thank you. That was a dance they do on Earth, to celebrate the annual spaghetti harvest. [At this last whopper, Jones's nose grows another inch, finally shoving his mask aside.]

Ardrys: Jones! So this is all some kind of clever charade, intended to distract me from my quarry!

Jones: It's too late now, your toadship. By now, she has already married her true love. [He chortles.]

Ardrys: We'll just see about that! [He punches a few buttons on the hatch, and it opens.]

Jones: Ah--my sister's rejected you, so you're off to propose to Kabeta! [He guffaws.] A good, and common plan! [He laughs, loud and long.]

Ardrys [Whirling, enraged, toward Jones.]: I . . . have had . . . enough of you!

Jones [applauding]: Excellent, excellent performance. The great Thestor couldn't have done it better. Now try "I need my pain." [Jones draws his sword.]

Ardrys [drawing his phaser]: Jones, Jones . . . try to understand. [He clicks the phaser into maximum vaporize position.] Starfleet isn't a military organization [he points the phaser point blank at Jones], but, well, when you've got the weapons [his thumb is on the trigger], sometimes, heck, you've just gotta use them.

[Ardrys fires. Simultaneously, a Pandora Synchronization Ping can be heard ringing out through the still-open hatchway.]

Kleber: Now . . . where was I?

Mondegreen and Rosalind: Man and wife! Man and wife!

Kleber: Ah, yes . . . man and wife. [He starts to walk away.]

Mondegreen: Um . . . may I kiss the bride?

Kleber: Oh . . . wight . . . [He looks through his book for the passage to that effect, but doesn't find it. He consults the index, but finally has to give up.] Hmm . . . I guess it's not a kissing book. [He looks at the happy couple.] Aah, go for it. [They do. Since kissing was first invented, there have been exactly seven kisses that have been judged most perfect, most pure. This is not among them, but it does deserve a special award for extreme congeniality.]

Mondegreen [after he emerges, with an almost entirely blue-coated face]: I don't suppose anyone has a bouquet . . .

Rosalind: One step ahead of you, love. [She breaks off one of her fake antennae, and from it pulls a bouquet of what would be white roses were they not ink-stained blue. As she throws the bouquet, a Pandora Synchronization Ping rings out. The roses seem to be heading right for Kabeta, when suddenly, in the blink of an eye, an enormous . . . something . . . flashes by at just above head level, intercepting the roses in midair and carrying them off. From the corridor the whatever- it-is disappears down, we hear a soon-muffled scream.]

Rosalind: I just wanted to thank you two for your wedding presents.

Jones: I've told you before, and I'll tell you again--I didn't plan for him to fire a phaser at me, and I certainly--

Rosalind: It doesn't matter--just seeing Commander Ardrys like that . . . buried under a ten-foot high heap of slugs . . . with a little bouquet of roses on top . . . I'll treasure that memory forever.

Kabeta: Well, rest assured, when Ardrys comes out of shock, he has a court- martial waiting for him. Starfleet tends to frown on its officers setting up little dictatorships of their own.

Jones [once Rosalind goes to speak with some other guests]: And your wedding present ... let me guess . . . [He moves his hands as if he is shaking a box.] Well, it's big . . . metal . . . populated . . .

Kabeta: I'm not giving her the Starbase--even setting her up as Base Commander isn't within my authority, though I suppose my recommendation will hold some weight . . . How did you guess, anyway?

Jones: I've been around you Starfleet types long enough to know how you think. By setting up a civilian--a non-Fed, yet--as Commander, you diffuse any resentment Ardrys might have caused among the civilian base population. Meanwhile, due to the recent nuptials, Starfleet still has a highly-placed presence on the base. And, of course, I'm less likely to do something rash and violent if it would harm my sister's position. [He shakes his head.] Starfleet! Defender of freedom and appointer of Governors throughout the Galaxy!

Kabeta: I'm not going to apologize if Starfleet disapproves of people running around sticking swords into other people. I've seen too much . . . [She stops.]

Jones: And I'm not going to apologize for my--what was the term Mondegreen used?--General Cussedness. A temper and a sword may not fit in at your Federation functions, but they have seen be through some difficult times, one hundred twelve insults, attacks on my honor, and now one battle against a Family Curse. Your Big Happy Fleet has, on the other hand, done nothing except try to govern me.

Kabeta: (*sigh*) Do you hate everyone in Starfleet?

Jones: Of course not. The redshirt bastard who married my sister is family now--I can't hate him. [He pauses.] And of course, some Starfleeters, through an accident of birth, have the most incredible blue eyes, with amber flecks. [He shakes it off.] And a suitor in every empire in the galaxy.

Kabeta: That's not--that's just--

Jones: Don't worry--I won't tell any of them I gave you my ring . . .

Kabeta: (*sigh*) You sure know how to charm a woman--I've never seen such a master of the art of unpleasant conversation.

Jones: And my options? To tell lovers' lies, and woo with flattery? [He turns so that his profile is facing Kabeta. His nose--which in the time since the wedding has returned to its conventional size--is thrust forward particularly prominently.] A fine figure of a suitor I should make. [He turns back to her.] What should I say to you, for example? [He strikes a gallant, pseudoKirkic pose, and speaks in a gallantish tone:] I never meant to hurt you, even when we were locked in mortal combat. Your eyes . . . are blue indeed, and I am lost in them. [He resumes his normal attitude.] Is that charming enough, or should I bring out the heavy artillery?

Kabeta [annoyed]: Just. Go. Away.

Jones: As you wish. [He turns a military right face, and, after the briefest of pauses, walks away. During this pause, we notice that since we last saw him in profile, his nose has not lengthened one iota.]

THE END. FOR NOW, AT LEAST.