“Be careful with that, Ro. It can be tricky if you aren’t used to them. Increase the resistance gradually,” Treir advised.

Ro nodded in acknowledgment and locked one of the grav weights on her wrist.

Distracted by Treir’s point-flex-bounce rhythm, Quark paused, straining to recall what started the discussion in the first place. He admired Treir’s unapologetic advocacy of her own interests, but her unpredictable demands certainly slowed the pace of doing business. Then his brilliant idea reoccurred to him. “Due to an unforeseen change in plans, the bar has three hours of available holosuite time.”

“Didn’t I tell you that last-minute date scheduling is a surefire way to end a relationship before it starts?” Treir rolled over onto her stomach, grabbed her foot with her hand and pulled it up to her shoulder. She repeated the stretch with the other leg, maintaining her balance between the counters all the while. “Ro, I think you might have the setting on that weight too high…”

“My evening with Lieutenant Ro has been rescheduled,”Quark clarified. “Leaving us with a prime business opportunity.”

Ro activated the grav enhancement field with a quick flick, sending her arm plunging to the floor like a falling rock, dragging her along with it. “That was predictable,” she said to the tile pressed against her cheek.

“Can we please focus?!” Quark growled.

An uncharacteristic silence descended on the bar. Servers paused, protectively hugging their drink-filled trays since Quark deducted broken glassware and spilled beverages from their salaries; gamblers peered from behind the tongowheel and over the dom-jottable, hoping for a front seat view of any fight that might break out; diners tossed tips onto tables, eased out of their chairs and closer to the door. Even big, brawny Hetik froze over the dabo wheel.

“As you were, everyone!” Treir said, dropping off the counter. “The house announces a complimentary round of Orion ale!” A cheer went up through the bar as she ordered several pitchers from the replicator and began filling mugs. Servers whisked by to collect the libations as swiftly as Treir poured.

Quark extended a hand to Ro and helped her up off the floor. “We’ll send out a stationwide notice advertising that we’re auctioning off this rare and valuable holosuite time—” he said to Treir.

“In half-hour increments,” Ro suggested, brushing smudges off her uniform.

Quark continued, “Highest bidders have the company of the dabo girl—”

“Or boy,” Treir said.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. The dabo personof the customer’s choice. We’ll have a stampede by day’s end.”

“Good idea. If you want me to proofread the notice, let me know.” Treir finished pouring the last round of complimentary drinks and strolled toward the door.

“The idea was for you to write the notice!” he shouted at her back.

“Break time,” she said apologetically. “I’ve got a few laps around the docking ring to cover before my next shift.’

Watching as Treir disappeared into the Promenade crowds affirmed Quark’s deep belief in the incompatibility of females and finances. No sense of timing in females. A business proposition required tending, to be cultivated like a rare cheese. How typical for Treir to run off, just as the real work started. She confirmed why females proved most useful when naked, in the mud, wombs rented out. Quark retrieved another Gamzian glass snifter from the box and began polishing it. “I do notneed my notices proofread.” Ro would validate him. As females went, Ro was surprisingly like a male.

Ro shrugged. “Last time—”

“Weren’t you here on business, Lieutenant?” Quark said, irritably. Maybe she wasn’t as malelike as he’d hoped.

“Right. Business.” She checked her chronometer. “Damn! I’m running late,” she said, rising from her barstool. “Wanted to give you a heads-up. The Narsilwon’t be able to dock until tomorrow.”

Quark blessed his excellent eye-hand coordination when the glass he held threatened to slide out of his grip. “What is it with bad news and station management today. You collectively wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“The captain of the Narsildidn’t file a flight plan until an hour ago. We’re not permitting any unscheduled dockings or departures until further notice,” she said as she headed for the exit.

He followed after, walking beside her. “I have a load of Matopin rock fungi on that ship, Ro. It festers if it isn’t put into proper storage so if the Narsil’s cargo bay needs decontamination—”

“Oh, yeah,” Ro said. “Speaking of food, Colonel Kira requested that you send up a catering menu to Ensign Beyer. Minister Shakaar assigned her to oversee the planning of a diplomatic reception.”

The portrait of Kira as a domesticated female doing female business—for once—at the bidding of her male superior had a certain appeal to Quark. “What’s the occasion?”

As Ro outlined the parameters of Kira’s latest assignment, Quark ran his thumb up and down the glass stem, mentally calculating the number of VIPs and high-powered individuals likely to be in attendance; he found the potential bottom line very attractive. “We’re talking a lot of guests then. Starfleet, Cardassians, Bajorans, Trill, Andorians, Alonis…. Numbering in the two to-three-hundred range?”

“More or less. I suppose,” she answered.

The list of high-priced, exotic delicacies he could dazzle the delegations with boggled the mind. And the bill? The Bajoran government would have to loot the temple treasury to cover his costs…unless…unless he could parlay this catering job into a more lucrative business opportunity.

So what if Bajor succumbed to all the money-free, hearts-and-flowers flourishes forced upon them by joining the Federation? Quark was confident that Cardassia would never embrace the Federation’s do-gooder ideals. The Great River wasn’t dammed up, merely diverted. Granted, there were issues with starvation and disease, but soon enough the Cardassians would be ripe for the picking. He’d dealt with them before (a bit on the chilly side—every client had its quirks) and being a good Ferengi, he’d adapted. Ply them with a little kanarand he could sell them anything.

This could work.

If Ghemor—or Shakaar for that matter—planned on hosting many more occasions like these, their governments certainly would want the finest food services in the sector. Quark’s Bar: Official Hosting Services to Wormhole Worlds. Had a nice ring to it. He could have a snazzy logo designed. Maybe wrangle an honorary title of some kind or another. This little party had the potential to provide a means of securing his future (not to mention unloading more than a case or two of yamoksauce that wasn’t too far past its expiration date to be palatable). The Material Continuum always provided to those willing to navigate its rapids. A toothy smile spontaneously filled his face. “I’ll send the menu up immediately. I’m certain I can come up with something especially pleasing to all the parties.”

“Thanks, Quark.” She took his free hand and squeezed it appreciatively.

“You know, Laren, I’m acquainted with more than a few Cardassians,” he said, hoping he already had an “in.” “Who’s Ghemor got coming?”

“Someone Colonel Kira worked with in the Europani crisis, a Gul Macet,” she paused, studying Quark’s face closely. “But the delegation is being headed by a woman, Natima Lang.”

He gulped, glanced at Ro, and hoped he’d had the presence of mind to avoid gaping at the mention of hername. Of course she knows about my special connection with Natima. She’s playing me like a Trillsyn lara and doing a damn fine job of it to be sure,he thought, shivering in delicious anticipation of their upcoming night out. The potentialities of a woman who could outmaneuver him had a powerful allure.