Encounter at Farpoint (8 page)

“And you, Mr. LaForge—Captain DeSoto thought very highly of your navigation on the
Hood
. Why did you request transfer to the
Enterprise?
”

LaForge’s quick smile flashed enthusiastically. “Who wouldn’t, sir? The biggest, newest, fastest starship in the fleet—”

“Commanded by the best captain in the fleet,” Riker interrupted smoothly. “Right, Mr. Hughes?”

Hughes colored with embarrassment, red crawling up his neck, flaming his cheeks and hairline. Riker had heard the “old burrhog” remark. Hughes met Riker’s eyes bravely, but his reply was a sheepish “Yes, sir.”

LaForge had been darting surreptitious glances at the viewscreen. “She’s overdue, you know, sir,” he said suddenly.

“That’s not like Picard—what I’ve heard of him, anyway.” Riker frowned, concerned.

“Was there something you wanted us for, sir?” LaForge asked.

“Yes.” Riker dragged his attention back to the two young officers. “I’m contacting all
Enterprise
personnel in transit here on Farpoint. Starfleet is very interested in this station, and I’m trying to put together a preliminary report to give Captain Picard. I’d like you to keep me informed on anything unusual you notice.”

“Unusual, sir? Like what?”

Riker considered the question. The answer wasn’t easy to define. “Anything you can’t explain. Anything that seems out of the ordinary. Incidents that may seem like . . . well, almost like magic.”

“But this is a modern station, sir,” Hughes protested. “Magic—”

“It’s an alien-built station, Ensign. We don’t know much about the Bandi, and I suspect we should have found out a lot more before this.”

A soft chime sounded on the station’s public address system, and a pleasant female voice announced, “Commander Riker. Please come to
Groppler
Zorn’s office. Commander Riker, please come to
Groppler
Zorn’s office.”

“Excuse me,” Riker said to the others. They nodded quickly, and turned back to the viewscreen.

The administrator’s office was in the old city that abutted the modern station. A slidewalk carried Riker diagonally across the widest part of the complex; and when he stepped off, he had only a pleasant five-minute walk to reach his destination. The corridors of the old city were narrow and high—rather like the Bandi, Riker reflected. They all looked to be about sixty Earth-years old, even the ones Riker knew to be younger. It might have been their grayish skin that lent them such a look of age; certainly their tall, thin frames suggested the fragility of old bones.

Zorn’s assistant escorted Riker into the
groppler
’s office. Zorn was waiting behind a huge, elegant desk of unusual configuration. Its drawers seemed to fit into the highly polished wood with an almost organic grace and beauty of line. The rest of the furniture—the desk chair, the side tables, the occasional chairs, even a graceful cabinet—were of different shapes but made of the same burgundy-toned wood. A beautiful selection of Earth fruit stood in a silver bowl on the desk.

The administrator rose and extended his left hand to Riker. They had met when the initial group of personnel in transit to the
Enterprise
beamed down to Farpoint. Apparently, the fine points of shaking hands had eluded Zorn, and he had gotten the procedure confused. Mumbling apologies when Riker automatically held out his right hand, Zorn switched hands and managed to get his fingers and thumb in the right position to execute the courtesy.

“I came as soon as I could,
Groppler,”
Riker said, settling into a chair opposite Zorn.

“Thank you.” Zorn sat down and pushed some translucent message tabs around his desk. “Your vessel
Enterprise
is overdue.”

Riker flicked a look at the wall chronometer behind Zorn. “By an hour and forty minutes.”

“Ah. Yes. That was the scheduled arrival time. This is unusual, is it not? I had understood Starfleet ships had the reputation for unusual punctuality. Especially this
Enterprise
of yours.”

“That’s right. If nothing interferes.”

“Of course.” Zorn nodded and hesitated. “But what could possibly interfere with a starship?”

“You’d be surprised,” Riker said quietly. “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ ”

“Ah. I am afraid I do not understand.”

Riker studied the Bandi administrator thoughtfully. Zorn was a product of his planet-bound heritage. The Bandi had detected the initial contact team in their midst almost immediately and had subsequently shown an instantaneous grasp of starship travel and communication and the fact of the Federation’s presence. Yet the concept of the
dangers
inherent in space travel seemed to elude them as completely as the ritual of handshaking.

“It doesn’t matter,” Riker said. “A good many things can put a starship behind schedule.”

“Yes.” Zorn smiled pleasantly. “But I trust we have made your waiting comfortable?”

“I would say luxurious.” Riker watched as the administrator shrugged it away as if it were of no moment. “Would it seem ungrateful if I ask for some information?”

“As you wish.”

“I find it interesting that in the midst of your ancient culture you’ve managed to build a completely modern trilurium and duraplast staging station. The energy supply to your fabrication facilities must be as abundant as I’ve heard.”

Zorn smiled enthusiastically, his teeth flashing whitely in his gray face. “Geothermal energy is the one great blessing of this planet. I will have all the details of our energy source sent to your quarters.”

“Thank you.” Zorn was so unforthcoming with that information, Riker was sure whatever he provided would be next to useless. “But it still seems incredible that you’ve built this huge station so rapidly and so . . . so perfectly suited to our—to Starfleet’s needs.”

Zorn delicately scooted the bowl of fruit across the desk toward Riker. “Would you care for something, Commander? I am told these fruits are considered an Earth delicacy.”

“Well, if there’s an apple there. . . .” Riker glanced over the selection. He saw grapes, oranges, bananas, pears, peaches, tangerines, strawberries . . . but no apple. “I guess not,” he said, disappointed.

“I am sorry, Commander.”

“It doesn’t matter. What I was saying was—” He glanced past Zorn to the credenza behind the desk and stared. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Zorn turned his head to follow Riker’s gaze. There was a second bowl of fruit there, and a gleaming red apple surmounted the pile.

“Ah. Yes. There was another selection here. Please help yourself.”

Riker rose and moved around Zorn’s desk to pick up and examine the almost glowing red apple. “I swear I didn’t notice this.” He sniffed it, and the sweet aroma that filled his nostrils instantly reminded him of the apple tree that had grown in his family’s back yard when he was a boy.

“Does your failure to notice it make it unwelcome?”

Riker shook his head. “Not at all,
Groppler.”

Zorn smiled confidently. “I trust it will be the same with Farpoint Station, Commander. A few easily answered questions about it won’t make Starfleet appreciate it less.”

Riker eyed Zorn thoughtfully.
Too smooth an answer
, he thought.
Too glib
. He took a bite of the apple, its tangy tartness arousing his tastebuds as he chewed it. Zorn waited for a reply, and Riker took his time before he finally said, “I’m sure it won’t, sir.” He held up the apple and smiled. “This is delicious. Thank you.” He turned toward the door and tossed a final line over his shoulder. “Good morning,
Groppler
Zorn.”

Zorn boosted himself out of his chair as the door closed behind Riker. He turned around and hissed angrily at the empty room.

“You have been told not to do that.
Why
can’t you understand? It will arouse their suspicions. . . .” He folded his arms firmly. “. . . and if that happens, we will have to punish you. We will, I promise you!”

Hughes had discovered the soda fountain tucked in a corner of the vast shopping area of the station. Geordi LaForge loved it. It was an exact duplication of the most traditional soda fountain he had ever seen. The marble-topped counter; the taps for soda water and syrup; the covered bins for ice cream cartons; dishes of nuts, cherries, chocolate and candy sprinkles; the high stools on the opposite side of the counter—every detail was correct.

The two young officers sat at the counter enjoying the ambiance. LaForge noticed that the ceiling fans that swished the air around were beautiful reproductions of early 20th Century wooden-bladed fans. The counterman, wearing striped shirt and white pants and a white fore-and-aft cap, handed Hughes a sundae that LaForge considered pretty plain. A thick cone of vanilla ice cream decked in a coat of fudge syrup and capped with a crown of frothy whipped cream sat in a lacy silver sundae dish.

Hughes grinned happily at LaForge. “I’ve been waiting for one of these. The
Hood
just doesn’t have a good ice cream maker. It always tastes synthetic.” He dipped into the concoction, savored it, and his eyes closed as he murmured in delight. “Oh, my. . . .”

“What?”

“It’s just like the ice cream my grandma used to make on the farm. Try some?”

“Nah.” LaForge tilted his head, dreaming . . . remembering. “Nobody could make what I’d really like to have.” The counterman watched him, listening intently. “There was only one place—in my home town—that ever made a chocolate sundae with peanut butter fudge syrup and a mound of blue whipped cream and a cherry on top.” He shook his head and sighed softly. God, those were
good
.

“What was the significance of the blue whipped cream?” Hughes asked.

LaForge grinned at him cheerfully. “Who knows? That’s just how they
had
to be. Last time I had one was before I left for the Academy my first year—”

The counterman reached out and gently placed before him a chocolate sundae in a traditional tulip glass, the ice cream topped with peanut butter fudge syrup, a satisfyingly high mound of blue whipped cream, and a bright red maraschino cherry on top. LaForge studied it thoughtfully for a long moment, then he picked up the spoon and tasted a big mouthful.

Hughes watched curiously. “Is it—”

“Perfect,” LaForge sighed. “Just like magic.” Then, realizing what he’d said, he looked at Hughes. Hughes stared back.
Just like magic
.

“I think we ought to talk to Commander Riker,” LaForge said.

“Right,” Hughes said, standing.

“Hold it,” LaForge said, clamping a hand on Hughes’ shoulder. “After I finish this.”

The mall foyer was a dazzling construction of trilurium and glass, light and airy and decorated with tastefully arranged clusters of trees, shrubs and flowers, some of them Earth plants and others of alien origin. A number of Starfleet officers passed to and from the mall area through the foyer. Most of them were visitors from the
Hood
, Riker knew, down for the opportunity to look around the station. All personnel transferring to the
Enterprise
had been given transit quarters on Farpoint Station.

As he entered the foyer, he spotted Dr. Beverly Crusher and her son, Wesley. Crusher would be the
Enterprise
’s new chief medical officer. Riker knew her career record was so outstanding she had achieved the position after only thirteen years in Starfleet. She was also one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

“Dr. Crusher!” he called out.

Wesley looked around and then back at his mother. “It’s Commander Riker.”

Dr. Crusher slowed to allow Riker to join them, but she did not smile. She was naturally reserved with strangers. Riker had only met her briefly on a few social situations aboard the
Hood
on its journey out to Farpoint. She wasn’t one for small talk, and after seeing how she dealt with the lines unattached male officers had offered her, Riker had decided not to approach her in that way.

He had noticed on first meeting Beverly that her face and figure would ensure that she always looked at least ten years younger than her actual age. But her deep blue eyes reflected not only a quick intelligence but a strong, vibrant personality. If she was retiring around strangers, that was her business.

Wesley, her auburn-haired son, was small, compact and brimming with the same lively intelligence, multiplied by at least four. He was only moderately good looking, but he glowed with enthusiasm for life and had a cheerful, forthcoming personality. Riker had had a few talks with him about starship technology on the trip out. Wesley asked thoughtful questions, and Riker had discovered the boy
listened
to the answers.

“Hello, Wesley. Enjoying your stay at Farpoint Station?”

“Yes,
sir
.”

Riker realized that Beverly had acknowledged his presence and was waiting for him to proceed. “I saw you and thought I’d join your stroll. If I may.” He smiled charmingly.

Beverly seemed dubious—and uncharmed. “We were planning to do some shopping.”

Riker persisted. “I’ve been meaning to visit the mall myself. If I’m welcome?”

“Of course.” She began to move to the glass doors that let into the covered airy mall. Riker strode beside her, with Wesley trailing a little to the rear, studying the two adults.

The mall followed the same theme as the foyer—sun and air, pleasant vegetation and colorful, fragrant blossoms. It was dotted with attractive shops and brightly decorated booths which dispensed food, beverages, and merchandise of all kinds. The Bandi merchants were all attentive and almost too polite to the Starfleet personnel who were buying their wares. Beverly scanned the immediate shops and booths, weighing her interest in them and ignoring Riker.

“Mom’s not really unfriendly, sir. She’s just shy around men she doesn’t know,” Wesley said guilelessly.