Odo had no answer for him. He seemed to be startled by everything he saw, as though this was his first encounter with a Bajoran town. Keral’s curiosity grew.

“How did you know him?” Keral asked. “Did you work together?”

“Doctor Mora worked with me,” the man said, but did not elaborate further. Keral decided to forgo any more questions until this man could deliver the message he had promised.

They reached the farmhouse, Odo standing stiffly aside as Keral opened the door. Keral gestured him inside, and the alien awkwardly ducked his head in acknowledgment, stepping past him. A stranger, indeed…although Keral sensed no malice about the creature, and Pol had apparently trusted Odo at least enough to send him to his family. These were strange times; Keral would reserve judgment for now.

Once they were inside, and Odo had looked around for a moment, he began to speak, clearly reciting something he had carefully memorized. “Mora is functioning reasonably well, but he has limitations. His mother and father might like to know that he is thinking of his grandfather today, it being the thirteenth night of the seventeenth moon.”

“The seventeenth moon?” Keral interrupted, confused. These words held no significance for him.

Odo went on. “At the time of the twenty-third Gratitude Festival, Mora was inclined to compensate for the thirty-second rule of the oracle of twelve…”

Keral was dumbfounded, listening to the alien rattle off strings of meaningless names, dates, and places, references to long-dead relatives. Odo was almost finished with his litany before Keral understood what was going on—his cousin had sent a message in code.

“Odo,” Keral said carefully, “Did Pol explain to you the significance of this message?”

The alien man, whom Keral was beginning to find oddly naïve, shook his head from side to side.

“Do you think you can repeat this message?” Keral asked. He walked to his desk, found paper and a graphite stylus.

The alien stared at his rudimentary tools before continuing. “Certainly. Mora is functioning reasonably well, but he has limitations…”

Keral listened more carefully this time, dredging up some long-buried memory, the number code that he and his cousin had made up as children. Of course, it was mostly Pol’s doing, for he had always been the smarter of the two, but Keral thought he might be able to remember just enough of it…He asked the alien to slow down, to repeat the longer sequences, and carefully transcribed them. When Odo had finished, Keral asked him if he could repeat it once more.

As Odo recited the string of words and numbers a third time, it occurred to Keral what it was exactly that was most unusual about this man. He didn’t blink, at least not in a way that seemed to come naturally to him. The third recitation concluded, Keral stared at the strange man for a moment.

“I thank you, for delivering Pol’s—Doctor Mora’s—message to me,” he said, setting the scrap of paper on a nearby table. “I wish you well on your travels.”

The alien stood, unmoving, still staring at the stylus in Keral’s hand.

Keral didn’t mean to be rude, but perhaps Odo needed clearer direction. “You may go now.”

Keral wasn’t sure if the man understood, until he spoke. “I have nowhere to go,” he said in his gravelly voice.

Keral was disarmed. “Well,” he said. “You, ah…you might be able to stay in the village. I could try to find you lodgings. I have to get to the harvest today—perhaps you could help.”

“The harvest,” Odo repeated. “I would like to help.”

Keral supposed there wasn’t any harm in it—an extra pair of hands was always welcome at harvest time. He glanced again at the piece of paper, knowing that he had no time to pore over it now—the harvest would not wait. “Well, then. I will take you to the fields. Come with me.”

The alien obeyed him without another word.

Quark was in a foul temper already when the emaciated Bajoran man, with his one clouded eye, stumbled with a tray of dirty glasses, those left behind by the table of customers who had just departed—the bar’s only patrons this morning. There was nobody in the bar to witness it, and the man managed to catch himself before he lost control of what he carried, but Quark was not feeling like an optimist. He had yet to make profit on drink sales today.

“That’s it!” Quark snapped. “It’s back to the mines with you.”

Rom began to jabber from behind the bar. “He didn’t break anything, brother. It was my fault he stumbled. I didn’t finish cleaning up where Gil Rike’la spilled his synthale.”

“Gil who?” Quark grumbled, before deciding it wasn’t important. “Listen, you,” he said to the old Bajoran, whose name had escaped him, “I’ve given you more than enough chances. I realize you’re old and…and…decrepit…and all that, but I can’t have you stumbling around my bar.”

The man’s voice was little more than a croak. “I’m sorry…I…”

Quark couldn’t stand the sound of it. “Enough!” he yelled. “I don’t want to hear it. Just…get out of here. Go back to the mines!”

“Can I…”

“Get out!” Quark screamed, and the man scuttled off.

Quark’s chest was still heaving when someone behind him spoke up. “That man is too old to work in the mines.”

“And what would you know about it?” Quark sneered, before he could catch himself, before he realized it was a woman’s voice. “Natima,” he said, turning and smiling. It could only be the Cardassian beauty; no other female had spoken to him in…in quite a while. “Miss Lang! How lovely to see you. Would you like a drink?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “The atmosphere in here today—it’s a little heated for me.”

“No, no, not heated, not heated. This is a calming place, a place to unwind,” Quark insisted. “Please, first drink’s on the house. What would you like?”

The graceful Cardassian hesitated for a moment before taking a seat at a nearby table. “I’d like a Samarian Sunset,” she said.

“Of course, of course,” Quark said, snapping his fingers at his brother. “Did you hear the lady?” he shouted, and Rom nodded from where he stood, fumbling at bottles and glassware.

Quark sat down next to Natima. “So, tell me, Natima—may I call you Natima?”

She drew in a breath. “I don’t see why not,” she said, guarded, but not too wary. That was good, Quark thought, or at least he hoped it was.

“Tell me, Natima. Most Cardassians I’ve encountered think I’m too soft on the Bajorans. You seem to have another opinion.”

She looked uncomfortable, and he decided he’d better change the subject. “Forget that,” he said. “Let’s talk about you.”

“Me?” she said. “What would you want to know about me?” Still guarded, though she didn’t look ready to bolt quite yet. Rom arrived with her drink, and Quark took it from him, wanting to ensure that he would be the one to produce the drink’s famous effect. He tapped the glass with a resounding pingand presented it to her.

“You just strike me as someone with a story to tell,” Quark said. “I can spot those types, being in the business I’m in.”

Natima half smiled. “Restaurateur?”

“No, no, the business of people. I’m a people person, you see.”

Her expression went unmistakably sour. “Ah. It would seem that the Bajoranpeople in here might think otherwise.”

There it was again, that odd sympathy for the people her own kind had disfranchised. “It’s not like that,” Quark insisted. “That man—he’s an employee, and I expect a certain level of competence in those who work for me. The Bajorans in general, well, some people would say I’ve been quite…benevolent toward them. Compared to the treatment they receive in the mines…”

Natima shrugged. “It wouldn’t be difficult to improve upon those conditions,” she said, as though she didn’t care, but Quark felt certain he could read genuine compassion in her tone. It was an in, and he ran with it.