“Garak!” Why was Entek in Pythas’ office? At his desk?

“Where’s Pythas?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“How did you . . . ?” We were cut off in the middle of his question. His stunned reaction revealed that contact with me was the last thing he expected. I immediately scrambled the transmission to mask my code, but they had other ways of resealing their integrity. Where’s Pythas? I repeated to myself. Had Entek replaced him as head of the Order? Had my last possible link been broken? I had to focus my breathing and reestablish my tenuous truce with the circumstances . . . and with the despair that hovered like the Corillion Nebula.

Entry:

In the middle of today’s fitting my client broke down. It was an extraordinary moment. She confessed that she had just received word that her father had died. As her grief spilled out she also revealed that she had separated from her husband just before the negotiations began. It seems that he was a philanderer who had betrayed her trust from the beginning, and that she had tried for years to deny the truth of their relationship. I was nonplussed. This outpouring of emotion . . . I offered her a glass of kanar,and to my surprise she accepted it . . . and several others. Out of courtesy, of course, I joined her.

I don’t do well with the kind of emotional exchanges humans seem to engage in regularly, and I have little sympathy for those who confuse the responsibilities of family with their duty to the state; but I confess that I am deeply moved by this woman’s plight. Here is a highranking officer in the Federation hierarchy–a politically astute woman able to converse with depth and intelligence on any subject–revealing intimate details of her life to me, her “tailor.” At one point she looked at me and asked me to hold her. I did. As I tentatively put my arms around her, I was so afraid of her need that I tried to keep her body at a distance. She would have none of it. She collapsed against me, and the sobs that convulsed and rolled through her body found correspondence in mine. I bit my tongue until I could taste blood in the effort not to surrender. Gratefully, the door to the Promenade was closed.

Eventually she regained her composure. She was embarrassed by her behavior and apologized. I assured her that apologies weren’t necessary. I suggested that we finish our business for the day and pick up again tomorrow. She agreed and left. I didn’t report this meeting to my contact. I just stood in the shop as mute and frozen as one of my display dummies. The one dominating thought was that I looked forward to our next appointment. The near empty bottle of kanarwas sitting on the desk and I decided to finish it. Oh yes, I sighed, getting involved with a subject of investigation. Violation of a cardinal rule. I laughed. Enabran would be very disappointed with me. If he thought I was sentimental before. . . . I emptied the bottle, but I still couldn’t get this woman out of my thoughts.

Entry:

She didn’t keep our appointment today. Instead, two Federation investigators, one human and one Vulcan, came to the shop and asked me questions about her. The short human, with a face like a hungry vole, was openly suspicious and at times insulting, while the Vulcan conducted himself with a formality I’m sure must have been encoded in the rules regulating Federation investigative procedures. I quickly realized from their clumsy methods that they knew nothing. Their unskilled questions told me that they were investigating a newly discovered and serious breach of security surrounding the negotiations. Because of my contact with her, I was a suspected source of this breach. When they asked why we met so often and what we discussed, I assured them that as a plain and simple tailor our conversation dealt with the business at hand and nothing else. When I suggested that their uniforms looked a little worse for wear, they sniffed at the suggestion, dismissed me as someone obviously lacking taste, and left the shop. They don’t have a clue. Where do these people learn their craft? A holosuite program?

However, I was concerned about her. The investigators were probably checking on all members of the Federation’s negotiating team–but I wondered if the stress she’d been experiencing had betrayed her. I waited until afternoon, and when she still didn’t appear I closed the shop and went to Quark’s to see what I could discover for myself.

Unless I have business I rarely go to Quark’s; I have little tolerance for noise and stupidity. So when he saw me he assumed that I had another proposition, and I observed him shift into his engage mode. After all, he was making a tidy sum from the shop. I rejected his offer of kanarand asked for red‑leaf tea instead. This put him on the alert; he didn’t know what I wanted, and his Ferengi suspicions were aroused. As I weighed how best to enter his information bank, the same two Federation investigators entered the bar and asked to speak with Quark. I pretended I had never seen them before, and I’m sure that they thought I was just another Cardassian. To humans we all look the same.

They moved out of earshot with Quark, but I could see that he was initially defensive with them. The suspicions I had aroused in him were now directed at the investigators. I’m sure he assumed that one of his “enterprises” had violated Federation law. But he calmed down, and after a short while the investigators left and Quark returned to where I was sitting at the bar. I didn’t have to say a word; he was eager to share the experience.

“One of the Federation negotiators is a spy!” His eyes were bulging with drama.

“Really?”

“Yes. I’d heard something about this two days ago from a . . . a source,” he whispered as he looked around. “It seems that the Federation negotiating position is being leaked to the Cardassians, and everything is in an uproar.” Quark’s eyes had a glitter that reflected the concern shared by all the inhabitants of the station. These negotiations would determine their future. My future.

“I’m shocked. Any idea who it is?” I asked. Quark leaned over the counter in that melodramatic and confiding manner of his.

“My . . . source says they have a suspect, but before they make a move they want to uncover the suspect’s contact as well.”

“Contact . . . you mean . . . ?” I gave him my best puzzled expression.

“Whoever’s taking the information and passing it on,” he explained as if I were a child.

“And quite right they are,” I replied. Quark leered at me. I thought he was going to tout me on one of his more salacious holosuite programs.

“What have youheard?” He brought his face even closer to mine. Any interaction with Quark was always a quid pro quoexchange.

“In my shop?” I finished my tea. “My dear Quark, all I hear is the sound of footfalls that drift in from the Promenade.” I smiled and nodded, and made my way to the door.

“Very poetic!” he yelled after me. I’m afraid Quark was as disappointed with my response as I was disturbed by his information.

Entry:

For the second night in a row I didn’t sleep. On my way to the shop that morning I felt a tension in the atmosphere. Was it just me, or was the Promenade in a remarkably unsettled–even agitated–state? It was certainly swarming with people and creatures of all sorts. At the Replimat I debated whether or not to stop for what passed there as food. However, my favorite table–ideally placed directly opposite the airlock doors that lead to the docking ring–was empty, and I decided to indulge myself and order an Idanian spice pudding. I enjoyed sitting there, watching the comings and goings of every traveler to and from the station. It’s very relaxing . . . and sometimes very rewarding, when people appear whose whereabouts are valuable information.

I had no sooner settled into my seat with my pudding when I heard the sounds of a commotion coming from the middle of the Promenade. It was still crowded, and I couldn’t tell what was creating the disturbance. I took a bite of pudding and turned back to the source of the noise–and there she was. The pudding turned to chalk. The crowd had momentarily separated her from her escort, the two investigators and Constable Odo, and she stood there, looking at me with an expression that froze my blood. Not angry, not reproachful. . . . not even disappointed. An even expression, relaxed, clouded by that tinge of sadness I had first noticed when we discussed Gul Dukat and the expected morality of Cardassian men. My first thought was that she must be a formidable negotiator. My second was that she was about to expose her “contact.” But she just continued to look at me with her intelligent, gray eyes as if my skin were transparent and she could see all the way down to the bottom of my soul.