There were orchids on Romulus, Tuvok knew. Perhaps it was because it was familiar that she was attracted to it. Or perhaps it was that she had never had the luxury of caring for one herself. An illogical impulse to make her a gift of the orchid at the end of their mission teased at a corner of his mind.

In any event, the sight of the young face, bereft for once of its ever-watchful sideways glance or almost as familiar scowl, complemented by the exotic shape and bright splash of color provided by the orchid, was pleasing to behold. Near space was quiet for the moment. Tuvok sat back from his console and gave Zetha his complete attention.

“A herring is a fish, often used for food on human worlds,” he began. He saw her frown, wondering what fish had to do with the disease they tracked, but to her credit she waited for his explanation. “When it is smoked or cured prior to consumption, its ordinarily gray flesh turns red. It has a distinct odor. When training hunting dogs, humans traditionally set red herring in their paths in order to condition them to ignore false data and continue to pursue their prey.”

He watched her process it, the fine-boned face and mobile mouth contorted with concentration. As he had learned to do with his children, Tuvok waited for the next question, suspecting it would not be about fish or hunting dogs.

“They’re violent, aren’t they? Humans, I mean,” she said. “As violent sometimes as Romulans. Not like Vulcans.”

“Some are,” Tuvok acknowledged. “Just as I am certain there are some Romulans who are not. It is wiser not to judge an entire species by a few examples.”

Zetha’s shoulders hunched slightly, as if she wondered if she was being reprimanded.

“As for Dr. Crusher’s use of the term ‘red herring,’ ” Tuvok completed his thought in order to let her know he was not reprimanding her. “It has come to mean any false evidence set in one’s path to distract one from the object one is searching for.”

“I see,” Zetha said and then, as this extra datum was added to her education, she smiled.

The smile was a gift, and Tuvok recognized it as such. Acknowledging it, he returned to his scanning.

“If it were up to us, we’d become part of the Empire, but we’re stuck here in the middle of some arbitrarily drawn-up ‘neutral zone,’ and so it’s not allowed!”

The speaker was an angry bureaucrat named Jarquin whose office the landing party had been referred to in order to obtain the proper travel permits. Selar and Zetha had taken the two chairs in front of his desk. Tuvok, snow dripping from his boots, stood behind them.

The office was oppressively warm, as might be expected in a region inhabited by vulcanoids where it snowed eight months out of ten. Jarquin’s taste in decorating was decidedly Romulan. Despite the climate, he had somehow managed to acquire fresh hothouse flowers, arranging them in the minimalist Romulan style. The geometric light sculptures had no doubt been imported from the homeworld. A human would have called the look Art Deco. Narrow buttress windows framed by dark blue patterned drapes set high up in the thick walls looked out over a public square that might have been anywhere on Romulus, except for the ever-swirling snow.

“Our young people grow up and emigrate,” Jarquin grumbled. “There’s nothing to keep them here. The Empire allows a certain quota every year to complete their educations or find work on the homeworld. My own sons were among them. Most decide to settle and never return. They do it to get away from the damned snow.”

“Of course,” Tuvok remarked.

The three outworlders were dressed in “fur”-lined parkas, replicated to look as close to what the natives wore as possible without actually being made of fur. Their boots were also authentic, right down to the retractable cross-country skis built into the soles, the best means of local transport in a city where the snow fell so fast and so often that there was no point in clearing it. Citizens merely skied on top of it to reach their destinations. The tall, slope-roofed buildings lining the streets had multistoried windowless basements that were used to store food in the winter, because these levels were uninhabitable in the cold months; a bright-green “snow line,” twice the height of a tall Quirinian in the season when there was no snow, was painted around the foundations to show how far an average winter’s accumulation reached.

Jarquin glowered at the snow, closed his eyes, cleared a space amid the datachips on his desk, folded his hands and sighed. His features—the hawklike eyes and upswept brow ridges, the characteristic bowl-shaped haircut, even a tendency to fat in his middle years—were more Romulan than Romulan.

“Tell me what it’s like. Is it true it’s warm enough in summer to swim in the lakes and rivers? Is it true that when all the moons are in the sky, it’s as bright as day? Do you know how rarely we can even see the sky on this world?” He did not give any of them a chance to answer before he went on. “I read a book about Romulan butterflies once. Can’t imagine what it must be like to see such delicate, multicolored things actually flying through the air. Here they’d freeze in mid-flight!”

The mere memory of the illustrations in the book was enough to make his eyes moist. He shook himself as if shaking the snow off his shoulders and demanded once again: “Tell me what it’s like!”

Speak up!Zetha told herself. It’s situations like this for which you’ve been sent along as cover, because the Vulcans can’t provide the detail you can. He may only be making conversation, awed because he so rarely meets what he thinks are true Romulans, or it may be a ploy to test who we really are. It all depends on you now. Say something!

Back on the ship, Sisko was less than happy. While he was willing to accept input from his crew, Admiral Uhura had put him in charge, and he hadn’t expected Tuvok, of all people, to try to undermine his command decisions. But Tuvok had decided the antihuman sentiment on Quirinus was strong enough for Sisko to remain on Albatross.

“I figured we’d work in shifts,” Sisko said when the subject first came up. “Selar and I, you and Zetha. That way there’s always someone here to monitor the landing party in the event there’s a problem and we need to beam up in a hurry.”

“This will be the first time Selar and I have to pass as Romulans,” Tuvok pointed out. “I would prefer Zetha accompany us. And, as security officer, I am compelled to point out that you would be put at unnecessary risk on Quirinus.”

Disgruntled though he was, Sisko had to concede that Tuvok was right. It was ironic, though, that the Vulcans, who hated the cold, were obliged to go, but he had been looking forward to a visit to Quirinus and was forced to stay behind. He and Jennifer had gone cross-country skiing in Calgary once before Jake was born; he’d been a natural at it, and wanted to try it again.

Well, so what?he thought. This isn’t a vacation, and it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without Jennifer, anyway.

He contented himself with running diagnostics and keeping a weather eye on the three onscreen blips among the several thousand heat readings in the city below whose safety he was responsible for. That was another thing. Except for the rare occasion on Okinawawhen his name came up for bridge duty—and he always made it a point to request gamma shift, when things were usually quiet—he had never been responsible for people’s lives before. It was one thing to make command decisions onboard a ship, particularly one as small as Albatross,but seeing those three small blips on his screen made him feel almost as vulnerable as they were. He liked that not at all. And suddenly he was not alone.

“Mr. Sisko?” It was Dr. Crusher’s voice, soft as always, but it made him jump. Dammit, he thought he’d shut the holos down! He was beginning to feel like a Romulan, under scrutiny all the time. “Got a minute?”