But he also knew that he could not surrender his other concerns about Ezri. He would continue to be there for her, to give her guidance when she asked for it, and to help and love her through it all. But when she returned to duty, he would also watch her.

Watch, and worry.

26

Quark listened to the sounds of the bar—a fair number of voices, but neither enough rings of glassware nor enough groans of loss at the dabo wheel—and he realized that he actually missed Dr. Bashir and Chief O’Brien. Of course, the 57th Rule of Acquisition—“Good customers are as rare as latinum; treasure them”—never proved more true than when good customers abandoned you. Even though they were Starfleet types, Bashir and O’Brien had at least known how to drink and spend money. They might not have gambled enough to satisfy Quark’s appetites, but darts had been a thirsty game for them.

Quark glanced from behind the bar over to the corner where the dartboard still hung. Dr. Bashir still played occasionally, but things had certainly not been the same since the chief had gone back to Earth. “Earth,” Quark muttered. “Hew-mons.”He shook his head in disgust.

Grabbing a rag, he began to wipe down the bar, lamenting his middling fortunes as he did so. Since the Europani and the convoy crews had departed the station, business had sunk to a steady but unspectacular level. As he had expected, the presence of the Gryphoncrew on the station had done little to improve profits, and the absence of Defianthad actually hurt them. Quark still hoped that commercial traffic through the wormhole would eventually resume, but he did not, as a rule, put much stock in hope. The 109th Rule of Acquisition said about dignity what might just as well have been said about hope: that “and an empty sack is worth the sack.” At this rate, Quark would wither and die in the bar decades from now, having earned just enough profit to pay for his Certificate of Dismemberment and maybe, just maybe, a little memorial plaque for the corner. “It can replace the frinxing dartboard,” he mumbled to himself.

“Dabo,” came the cry of several voices from across the room, and Quark peered over to see only a handful of gamblers around the wheel. Treir, long, slender, and deliciously green, stood over the dabo table, her scant outfit clinging alluringly to her body, its iridescent fabric titillating the eye by allowing just enough jade skin to show through without causing a riot. But only just. She had been one of the few bright spots in the bar recently—though he paid her dearly for that brightness—usually generating a good turnout around the dabo wheel.

As Quark continued to swab the bar, he saw Grimp approach carrying a tray with several glasses of varying shape, size, and color. One of them, an orange-tinted flute, stood almost completely full. Grimp came around the bar and started to unload the empties onto the recycle shelf. Quark wiped his hands with the rag and tossed it beneath the bar, then walked over to Grimp and pointed at the full glass. “What’s this?” he wanted to know.

“Argelian sparkling wine,” Grimp said. “Lieutenant McEntee wanted to try it.”

“She wanted to try it?”Quark asked, already jumping ahead and knowing what he would hear.

“Ah, she, ah, she didn’t like it,” Grimp stammered. He had loaded all of the empty glasses onto the shelf, and now he lifted the flute and reached to put it there as well. Quark seized his wrist and stopped him, the sparkling wine splashing over the rim of the glass and onto both their hands.

“She did pay for it, though,” Quark demanded. “Right?”

“Well, ah, since she didn’t drink it—”

“Grimp, you fool,” Quark said, raising his voice. “I’m running a bar here, not a charitable taste-testing facility.” The waiter flinched at the loud words, his eyes squinting and his shoulders hunching. Grimp’s cowering reminded Quark of his own brother, back in the good old days when Rom had worked in the bar, before he had become station engineer, before he had become—

But that was a subject Quark did not need to think about right now; his mood was sour enough without having to think about how Rom was currently working to destroy Ferengi culture. He released Grimp’s wrist, and said, “Go back and charge her for the drink.” The waiter hesitated, obviously not wanting to confront the Gryphonofficer. “Charge her,” Quark insisted, “or it’s coming out of your salary.” Maybe he would dock Grimp’s pay anyway, he thought, for either impertinence or incompetence—or maybe for both. Grimp put the flute down on the recycle shelf, the glass clinking against another, then slunk with his tray back out onto the floor.

A movement drew Quark’s attention, and he looked down to the end of the bar near the entrance. Seated there, Morn held up a tall, blue, and empty glass, wiggling it in Quark’s direction. Thank the Blessed Exchequer that there are some constants in the universe,he thought. He quickly retrieved the rag and wiped the sparkling wine from his hand, then ducked beneath the bar and pulled out a short, bulbous bottle. An emblem of the First Federation adorned the import hologram around its squat neck. Quark removed the stopper from the clear bottle as he strode over to Morn, who had deposited his glass in front of him. Quark poured out a healthy serving of the bright orange tranya.“Well, my friend,” Quark said as he sealed the bottle back up, “I hope you’re having a better evening than I am.”

Morn offered a sideways glance—very nearly a leer—at a lithe Mathenite woman sitting beside him. He winked at Quark, then raised his replenished glass, obviously about to make a toast. Before he could, though, a loud crash and the clatter of breaking glass filled the bar.

The bottle of tranyastill in hand, Quark raced out to find Frool sprawled on the floor. The waiter still held a tray in his outstretched hands, pieces of broken glass scattered out in front of him in many colors. Quark lowered himself to his knees beside Frool to be sure he was all right. The waiter had somehow hurt his leg last week, and he had been limping around ever since. Quark had warned him to be careful, but he clearly had not listened.

Frool rose to his feet—Quark rose with him, a hand steadying the waiter’s back—and brushed himself off. “I’m all right,” he said. He pointed to the shattered glass on the floor. “Sorry about that.”

“Frool, you gimp,” Quark said, and his words filled the bar, which had quieted at the sound of the crash. Quark turned and raised his arms out in front of him, gesturing with his fingers to his customers. “Everything’s all right, folks. Nothing to see here. Just go back to your drinking and gambling.” He looked over at Treir and saw again the empty seats around her. “Plenty of room at the dabo wheel,” he added. Slowly, the noise level began to increase as people returned to what they had been doing—mostly talking, Quark assumed, since none of them were drinking, gambling, or spending enough.

“I’ll clean that up,” Frool said, indicating the bits of glass on the floor.

“You do that,” Quark said. “And it’s coming out of your wages.” Frool nodded resignedly and moved off. Quark looked to the customer nearest him—Ensign Ling from ops, seated at the bar—shrugged, and said, “You just can’t get good help these days.” He started to head back behind the bar, but then another eruption of sound accosted him.

“Dabo,” came the yell of mingled voices. Quark reached past Ensign Ling and put the bottle of tranyadown on the bar, then hurried toward the dabo table. As he walked, the heavy clink of latinum drifted to him. Normally a beautiful sound, in this context—Treir counting out somebody’s winnings—it made him sick.