Free Force and Motion by Jeffrey Lang

the consideration, gentlemen, but I’ve really come to see Ben Maxwell. If you could page him, we’ll clear out of here and . . . is that Guinness?”
    â€œIt is a dry stout, sir,” Finch said, tugging a stopper from the mouth of a large brown bottle. “Made in my own lab. One of the advantages of knowing a great deal about microbiology is you can always find the means to get the little buggers to dance when you call the tune. Can’t claim it came all the way from Dublin, but it’s a fair approximation of the venerable beverage. Would you care for a half-pint? It should pair nicely with the duck.”
    â€œWell,” the chief hemmed, “to be polite. Seeing as you’ve gone to the trouble.” He watched the large man carefully pour the beverage into a glass. “No, that’s too much. No, wait. Very nice pour, yes.” O’Brien accepted the proffered glass and sipped appreciatively. “That’s lovely, thanks. But, about Ben Maxwell . . .”
    â€œHe’s on his way, Chief O’Brien. He’ll be with us as soon as possible. He might even want to join us, though I believe it’s rather early in his day for him to want to enjoy a libation.” He slurped the foamy head off his own glass and smacked his lips. “But perhaps not. I’m afraid I don’t know as much as I might about Ben’s proclivities.”
    Nog looked down and was mildly surprised to see he was now holding a mug of something deep red andslightly foaming. He took a sip and found the flavor pleasant, though this might have been partly because his upper palate had gone immediately numb. “What do you think of that, Commander Nog? It’s a wine made from unga­berries. I’ve never developed a taste myself, but some of my Ferengi investors swear by the vintner.”
    â€œIth verra nith,” Nog said, but then stopped speaking to concentrate on sucking on his tongue so he could get some feeling back into it. “Thank kew,” he continued. “Ith . . . it’s very nice of you to greet us in this fashion, but I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage. You know who we are, but . . .”
    â€œOf course!” Finch bellowed. “Of course, of course! How ridiculous of me! Introductions! Just because your fame has preceded you doesn’t mean we should make any such presumptions. Well, in my case, anyway. I can’t think of a reason in the world why you should know Sabih.” He presented his associate. “Sabih Ali, my director of communications and marketing. Recently of . . . where are you from, Sabih?”
    â€œNew Samarkand,” Sabih offered.
    â€œNice town,” Finch added. “Good restaurants.”
    â€œYes,” Sabih agreed flatly. “And universities, hospitals, shipyards, my home . . . ”
    â€œYes, yes,” Finch said, waving his hand dismissively, already moving on. Sabih frowned and narrowed his eyes. “And I, of course, am Anatoly Finch, the director and owner of this temple of inquiry.” He bowed at the waist with his arms extended out to each side like a pair of wings. Finch was surprisingly flexible for such a large man, the crown of his head dipping down as low as his knee.
    â€œOwner,” Nog said.
    â€œYes,” Finch replied, a small smile—practically a smirk, Nog thought—playing around his lips.
    â€œIt’s always strange to hear a . . . well, a hew-mon use that word,” the Ferengi said. “At least, with any depth of conviction.”
    â€œIs it?” O’Brien asked, lowering his glass from his mouth. He had a small foamy mustache on his upper lip.
    â€œIt is,” Finch said. “I know precisely what you mean, Commander Nog. Precisely . Sometimes, I feel I have to apologize when I use the word in the presence of humans. Well, Terrans.” He nodded toward Sabih. “And