It was a bright sunny morning and, as such, completely unacceptable.

That is, until Jeeves shimmered in with one of his celebrated potions.

I don't know how the man does it; there one is, feeling as grim as a corpse, and then Jeeves neatly pours out a capful of his own blushful Hippocrene, half nectar, half opium, and half TNT, and I don't mind if that's too many halves because the end result still makes one feel like strewing daisies all across Picadilly.

"Jeeves," I roared in a manly way. "I am myself again. You can now draw my bathwater."

"Very good, sir, and if I may permit," -- he extended a silver salver -- "a gentleman has left his card."

Whistling merrily, I took the card from ye olde silver s.

Odd. Very odd indeed.

"This chappy appears to not have a name."

"Sir?"

"He simply signs his name *Q*." I turned the card over. "And, look here, Jeeves, he wants me to give him lunch."

*********************************************

For reasons I have never been able to fathom, Chez Wooster has always attracted those souls more rightfully housed in a looney hatch. "Yes, my good man, get declared *non compos* and then go visit Bertram" must be the watchword among London's more fun-loving psychiatrists.

And "Q" was no exception.

Since Jeeves was in the galley churning out the eggs and b. I was the one who had to open the door and let in a tall broad-shouldered American number in an alpaca coat with a filmstar haircut (him, not the alpaca coat). And soon after we were sitting together at my table and getting ready to put on the old nosebag.

But we were not the fastest of friends.

No, not yet the fastest of f.s because this Q kept veering wildly between touching me up for favors and sneering at my humble living apparatus.

"Oh, I always do that," he said quite as if he had read my mind. "I always do that too," he added and then lit up one of my gaspers.

Must be some typical lunatic thing, I decided.

Still, the code of the Woosters demands hospitality towards strangers even if the hospitable one feels a bit of a mug.

"Q, you haven't take a bite of your strawberry omelette. It's really quite good."

He looked down at his omelette as if he had never seen one before. "It's good?"

"I assure you. Jeeves has a very tender hand with the breakfast munch."

"Well, then, Jeeves! Jeeves! Bring me fifteen strawberry omelettes."

And it was only the calm exterior of Jeeves streaming into the breakfast nook that kept me from stabbing this Q with a fork and then fleeing for my life out the window.

"Sir, I will bring you your first six omelettes momentarily. However, as I must then visit the local dairyman for more eggs, let me inquire if you require anything else before I depart?"

I told you before, I don't know how the man does it.

"Jeeves, I've heard all about you!" yelped Q.

Of course, I'm not surprised. Jeeves is consulted by most of London's best and brightest on all matter of causes. Yet one must ask: how had this Yank heard of him? And I said as much.

"You don't remember? Ha, I'm not surprised, given the number of times you went to the well, you addict. Your old friend Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright invited me to the Drones last night. And, as we were betting on who could carry a spoon of peas in his mouth the farthest, I found out all about you, Bertie Wooster, which is of no matter, but Catsmeat also told me about your fabulous man Jeeves and his gigantic brain. I *was* impressed."

Ah yes, the Spoon-and-Pea Regatta. It was all coming back to me now. "How'd you meet Catsmeat?"

"In New York, he was a guest," Q gave me an enigmatic look. "At my club." He paused again. "The Continuum."

I lifted a well-formed eyebrow. This Continuum was no doubt some typical aluminum-walled Yank affair whose members stayed up all night smoking ink-colored cigarettes.

Dismissing Jeeves with a gentle nod so he could prepare all those omelettes, I then got to the beef of the matter: "What has all this to do with me?"

"Your Aunt Lwaxana is going to Jean-Luc Picard's place next weekend, and you're going with her, or so you told us last night. See, I absolutely must catch up with this Picard, and I thought I might hook a invitation with you." He leaned in. "And then, while I'm down there with your man Jeeves, I'll get him to use his tremendous organ to plot . . . my getting in thick with Picard."

Gentle readers, I want to add a little aside about my Aunt Lwaxana. Mainly, that she is not really my aunt. I mean, it's quite true that Lady Lwaxana Troi was indeed once married to Uncle Malcolm, a cadet member of the Wooster caravanserai, but she's married a lot of chaps.

"Why are you singling me out? Lwaxana must be aunt by marriage to at least twelve men in my set."

"Because last night, Wooster, you boasted in a filthy way about your costume, and, frankly, I felt then -- as I feel now -- that you are just asking for it."

I lifted my head. This temperamental chap had struck a delicate nerve in Bertram's frame. See, to be honest, as soon as I had heard about Picard's majestic wuzzamaroo, I had gone out and obtained a most excellent costume from the well-known theatrical costumers McNeelix Ltd. Sinbad! I was to be Sinbad, complete with ginger beard *a la mode*! And, while no standards are higher than mine, one can sacrifice much in the way of common gentility for a chance to be Sinbad. "Sinbad's a champion costume, I'll have you know. Besides, what's your costume?"

"I'm still thinking," he said in a sullen way. "Big game hunter, maybe. It could be a joke, see, hunting the Picard. Haha."

"Haha," I echoed, but without any real cheeriness. No, not with any real cheeriness because, despite the chance to swank about as Sinbad for a full evening, the very thought of Chateau Picard filled me with dread. Reports of its deadly proprietor had been filtering into London for years. Jean-Luc Picard, the lord and m. of Chateau Picard, was supposed to be the meanest man in England.

And, from my vast experience, that meant a lot.

**********************************

So after sending Jeeves ahead on the train, Q and I loaded up the old two-seater in order to puff on over to Chateau Picard.

Although I was having second thoughts about this whole affair.

"What exactly is your business with this man Picard anyway?"

"Stop this moving vehicle! I feel quite ill!"

"Strawberries will do that, Q, when eaten in the profusion you employed. Now buck up."

Q sighed heavily. "Did you know your aunt wants to marry Jean-Luc? Don't you think you should stop her?"

"I won't stand in her way. She's not my aunt, plus she's over twenty- one, to put it mildly."

"But lots of other women want to marry him too. It hardly seems fair."

"Anyone I know?"

"We'll probably see Beverly Crusher lurking about there. She's the one who looks like a dishrag. Plus there's a Hollywood movie star who is so famous she has only one name. Her storied infatuation with Jean-Luc has caused her to charter an aeroplane just to put in an appearance."

"I don't care if she has no name at all. More power to the lot of them," I said. "Let romance thrive."

"Listen here, Bertie, is your heart completely made of ice!"

Stomping on the brakes to avoid the act of cutting down a rustic swain in his prime, I looked down at my chest. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I have a . . . sister, yes, Wooster, a sister, and this sister and I are the sole survivors of a once mighty family. I had hoped by grafting the hardy Picard strain to our forlorn rootlets that the name of Q might still resound through the universe."

I guess it would be different if you actually knew the chap.

"Of course," Q continued, "if Picard marries any of these other skirts, the deal's off."

**************************************

The sound of hideous feral screeches broke out as we zipped through the massive iron gates of Chateau Picard.

Q looked alarmed, but I fixed him with a frosty stare. "Q, calm yourself. That's just the sound of the wild Deanna as she roams through the brush; she's my cousin thrice-removed and Lady Lwaxana's only child." Then I blew an imaginary speck of dust from the imaginary Mechlin lace of my imaginary sleeve. "Where's the old spirit of `76?"

(See, Deanna was an old story to me. Lwaxana had pinned many hopes on this appalling child, all of which centered on the marital field, Lwaxana's favorite field of endeavor. Even Bertram had once been the victim of Deanna's basilisk stare. Thankfully, I could breathe freely again because the banns had just been announced anent her and some number named Fatty Riker, and I had been given to understand that Fatty was a keeper.)

Thus, it didn't surprise my eyes at all to see Deanna come whooshing out of the hedge while pursued by the huffing and puffing Fatty.

And they were both giggling and shrieking in a most unbecoming way as they flew past us.

Somehow I already felt exhausted with the charms of Chateau Picard.

A moment later, a listless redhead trailed through, fiddling with a tiny nosegay and sighing deeply and, well, listlessly. A decided pain in my side made me aware that Q was attempting to communicate with me via his elbow. "Was I not right? Is that not Public Dishrag Number One!!!" he hissed.

Then Jean-Luc Picard himself, accompanied by Lwaxana, came into view and fixed us with a choleric glaze. No wonder Picard provoked such strong language. He looked at us the way a dog's owner looks at the dog when it brings a dead squirrel into the parlor.

I mean, not matey at all.

"Q, what are you doing here?"

"Jean-Luc," Q said, utilizing a great deal of the old oil, "how pleasant to see you again. I was just in the neighborhood and decided I'd drop in. I wanted to see how my favorite human in the whole universe was doing."

As this did not quite gibe with the revealed truth, I was rather astonished. But all my emotions were but dust in the wind because of what happened next. It seemed the chilly beams of Picard's eyes were fixing directly upon Bertram.

"Who's this riffraff?" he growled.

"Jean-Luc," wheezed Lwaxana, "that's Bertie Wooster, my nephew by marriage. I bet he's come up here with Q to attend your masqued ball. I understand it's all the talk of London."

Which it was, but not talk Jean-Luc would be happy to hear.

Picard slit his eyes at me. "Wooster. That's a familiar name."

"Perhaps you recall my article `What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing' in a recent number of "Milady's Boudoir" or you may have heard . . ." I babbled in a dignified fashion.

"Stuff it, you chatterbox. I recall only too clearly now. Watkins Basset -- does that name mean anything to you? Justice Basset, I believe, is the name you know him by. Oh, he and I have played squash together for many years. Yes, I recall how frequently your name came up. Bertram *The Cad* Wooster: He'll Steal Anything That's Not Nailed Down. Even the police and their serviceable headgear are not safe from your stickiest of fingers. Well, none of those shenanigans will go over here as they do in London. If anything turns up missing . . . it'll be the law of the land that you have to answer to. The Law of the Land." And, in order to punctuate this outburst, Pop Picard crossed his massive forearms in a meaningful way.

"Jean-Luc," chimed in Q, "sometimes I feel the only reason I come here is to listen to those beautiful speeches you make!"

Truth to tell, Pop Picard did set an excellent table; from soup to nuts, it was heaven, but only if you discount the barnyard squalls of Deanna and Fatty. Fatty was trying to feed Deanna bread pudding with his own fork, and she was being difficult about the whole matter.

Meanwhile, Q engaged in all sorts of nattering. "Jean-Luc, you're looking well. Upon my word, quite like nature's last word."

"Stop this, Q." Then Picard glared at me just to keep in practice.

"Jean-Luc, you don't mean any of this," Q said petulantly.

But he said no more, because the sun was suddenly blocked from our view.

"Ah, here's our newest guest," Picard said in the sudden blackness.

We all looked up apprehensively at the darkened doorway.

At all eight feet, five inches, and four hundred and sixty pounds of newest guest.

"Mr. Worf, my friend," Pop said and started shaking a hand the size of a sink.

I cast a look at Q, who leaned in and gave me the sotto-voce lowdown on Mr. Worf. Seems Worf was of Russian descent; although not the brightest bulb in the candolier, he had gotten ahead by braining any number of innocent boyars during the Revolution. Currently, however, Comrade Worf seemed to be canvassing a much bigger problem than Soviet quotas.

Because the big black daisy eyes of Deanna were lighting on him in a gossamer and sickly way.

"I am so pleased to meet you," she sighed like a cheap tire losing air.

"And I you," intoned Comrade Worf in a voice that made gravel out of the collective hillsides.

********************************

After dinner, all the company exeunted to various locales. I myself chose the underside of an apple tree hoping to calm my nerves with a cigarette and Mother Nature.

But it didn't work out that way.

Deanna was just like her mother in one important aspect, i.e. the more: the merrier. She'd been engaged for donkey's years to walk to the aisle with hundreds of men, Bertram included, and, while she appeared to have settled upon Fatty as the chosen one, apparently that was only until the next homo sapien was launched.

Now the countryside echoed again and again with Deanna's immoderate squawkks of pleasure, as Comrade Worf and Fatty pushed her around in a wheelbarrow and slid with her down random haymows.

Oh, Woman, as that chappie Whats-his-name always says.

*********************************

Still, there was a silveresque lining to this particular cloud, i.e. the ball where I could display my Sinbad costume.

I couldn't wait for Pop Picard to growl, "Let the revels begin."

And quite the phantasmago-what-you-say it was.

One and all had broken the barriers of rationality in trying for a good costume. Pop Picard was dressed as an Italian gondolier, a condition I can only ascribe to the lowered standards of the post-war period, and he was arm-in-arm with Lwaxana, an overblown Marie Antoinette. And this is to pass over the other guests, including two birds amusingly clad as Holmes and Dr. Watson standing over by the refreshments tray.

And I of course was the center of all eyes as Sinbad, and I would have received my due of warm applause if it hadn't been for a renewed round of howls and teehee's from, you guessed it, Deanna, Fatty, and Comrade Worf. Deanna wore a cunning little Columbine outfit, Fatty was a somewhat rotund and earthy Pierott and Worf was lurching about as an utterly terrifying Harlequin.

Still, Pop Picard, for all his monstrousness, did appear to like a good throwdown as well as the next man. He even had a splendid little four-piece orchestra in the corner, and much freehearted stomping was going on.

However, not seeing any damsel worthy of Sinbad's attentions, I instead gravitated to the refreshments tray and helped myself to some wafers and sardine spread, not to mention a gallon-sized container of champagne cocktail.

"I say, nice party, eh," I observed to Sherlock Holmes who was standing there with Dr. Watson.

"Yes, very nice." Then, after a mild pause, the chap added, "I'm not really Sherlock Holmes."

"Bally luck that. Still, I'm not Sinbad either."

"My name is Mr. Data, and my Watson-like friend here is Geordi laForge."

"How d'ye do? I'm Bertie Wooster. How do you know our host?"

"Ah, we were all in the . . . navy together."

Well, that at least explained the gondolier get-up.

Then the woman known as Beverly Crusher came in.

Life is quite hard enough without seeing Beverly Crusher in a sad little nurse costume, but there it was and a man could only say to himself: courage, Bertram.

Besides, I was going to need that courage since, at just that instance, there occurred another unnerving addition to Pop Picard's party.

An arachnoid number with two tiny hostile dachshunds was standing expectantly in the doorway.

"Vash!" the thunderous tones of Pop Picard rang out from his crocodile mouth. "Everyone, look who's here, Vash, the silver screen vamp!"

All the company applauded merrily and I would have too, but didn't quite make it due to a misunderstanding between a tea cracker and myself.

Then Vash started making the rounds, heartily snubbing Lwaxana and Beverly and exerting a great deal of skeletal charm on Pop P., etc. It made one puzzle over words that might rime with "vamp" and "vash" until she slinked up to me. "You're Q's latest friend, eh? Well, where is the blighter?"

Did Q know everybody and everything?

But that question got shoved back into the dusty recesses of the brain a la Wooster because that was the exact second Lwaxana cawed, "Where are my pearls!!!"

"Pearls!" cried *tout* the company.

And who should step in but Sherlock-qua-Mr. Data! "Let us look at this logically. Who is not here?"

And everyone turned to me.

"I am here, amn't I?"

"But where is your lanky friend, also known as Q?" Pop Picard said and started menacingly stalking toward me.

"He's upstairs and I shall fetch him anon," I said, breaking the four- minute-mile record.

And I slid immediately upstairs to Q's chamber, bypassing Pop Picard's many domestic accessories, including the single most intimidating fish-in-a-fishbowl I'd ever spied.

******************************

Fancy my surprise when I found Q standing in front of the mirror wearing nothing but his combinations and a set of beautifully strung pearls.

He greeted me with a cheery "Hullo, sailor, new in town?"

"Q, what's all this?"

"Oh, just figuring out a costume. You know, Bertie, I could come to him as a woman."

The sons of The Drone are well trained. Not a single cell of my facade betrayed my intuition that this was the fruitiest scheme to shuttle across my ken in quite some time.

But again he seemed to read my mind. "Not that I should be asking you, Wooster, because if you aren't a dunce the size of Gibraltar, I'll eat my wig." "Q, all the chat downstairs is about a disappearing set of pearls, which seem to have miraculously appeared up here."

"I beg your pardon! These are my treasures, you worm. Merely the tiniest sliver of the vast Q family jewels." I looked around Q's chambers where the remains of many discarded costumes were forlornly strewn about. I could see a deflated deep sea diver, a withered cowboy suit, even what looked like a limp and boneless snake. "Q, put on your costume, whatever it may be, and come downstairs to declare your innocence."

"I'll need a suitable frock."

"Perhaps you could borrow one from Vash."

Then there occurred a moment when Q gave a ripely American oath and afterwards glared at me. "So she did come along?" he finished. "Yes, and she and Pop, uh, Jean-Luc Picard seem to have hit it off something smart."

Q looked in the mirror and put his hand to his neck. "It was a mistake. I never should have picked human. I knew it the moment I said it. To think of a future in this shell. Forced to cover myself with a fabric because of some outdated human morality. To say nothing of being too hot or too cold. Growing feeble with age . . ." he murmured.

"Is that another poem, Q?"

"How rude!"

"Stuff the visionary excess, don your festive poncho, and get declared innocent," I said. "That might be the safest way."

"Look here, mon tete de gras, if you can't take a little bloody nose, maybe you ought to go back home and crawl under your bed. It's not safe out here. It's wondrous, with treasures to satiate desires both subtle and gross, but it's not for the timid," and he spun on me. "You have no earthly, do you? Maybe it's time to give you a little taste of what I'm talking about," and he moved so fast I didn't even feel my bean hit the carpet.

****************************************************

I opened my eyes.

Thank goodness for the natural sang-froid that infects the Wooster soul, or else I'd have been clawing at what appeared to be the closed lid of a coffin.

Buried alive. A fine thanks for all I'd done.

Buried alive. Well, wouldn't one and all heave mighty tears when they discovered that?

Still, no use letting it get to me. As I might as well take advantage of the latest turn of fate, I closed my eyes to get a little nap.

When all of a sudden I heard a rhythmic thumping.

No doubt some enemy of the state of Wooster was dancing upon my grave.

Dashed cheek of it really.

I opened my eyes again.

And realized I was going to have to face a number of facts.

To wit:

A) Coffins aren't four feet wide.

B) Coffins don't have rows of metal springs embedded in their lids.

And, most damningly, C) you can't see pink chenille drapery to the east when you're buried alive.

So it was possible that my being buried alive had not, for the most part, been a real success. Because my whereabouts gave every indication of being under a bed.

Right down to the clouds of dust and a ladylike little spider eying me as competition for web space.

And, as I lay there, the rhythmic stumbling continued.

Then it dawned on me. I *was* under a bed, indeed under the very bed where an unknown malefactor had laughingly strewn Lwaxana's pearls throughout the bedding. I even heard the unmistakable voice of Pop Picard crying out, "oh, yes, there, there, there, oh my God, there!"

Deucedly excitable chap. Then I heard Q bray: "Yes!"

And apparently they found all the pearls because the stomping suddenly stopped.

"Nice work!" Pop Picard said.

"Yessirree. Now back to the party, mon amour."

(Fool Q thought "mon amour" meant "Mr." en Francais. That's the American educational system for you, all pottery lessons and cardboard stand-ups of Miles Standish. I must say I enjoyed having the last laugh.)

Then Picard continue: "Q, it wasn't until I saw you in that costume that I realized the vastness of your . . . appeal. The scales have fallen from my eyes!"

"Why, thank you, Jean-Luc, I was afraid these weren't my colors, but I must have guessed wrong. Who would have thought you would have been so moved by a man in a Sinbad costume!"

Sinbad! I stealthily felt myself! Nothing to cover the Wooster frame but the fine Egyptian cotton of my underthings. Q had stolen my costume!

"Did you know that loathesome fleabrain Wooster had tried wearing the very same costume to my party? Haha! He looked like the cat's breakfast! But you're a different story, Q. Say, did Wooster pinch it from you?"

"He most certainly did!"

"That's a crime in any man's book. I've been hoping for some time to reinstate the ancient feudal device of flogging, and this would appear to be a capital opportunity. Wooster better rethink his modus vivendi and how." And then they both swept away in a frenzy of revenge.

I crept out from under the bed.

But I crept with some reluctance because it seemed the luck of the Woosters had finally run out. Not only did it look as if I were to be treated like a galley slave at some point in the future, but it also seemed an outrage had been perpetrated on the pillowy parts of Bertram's person while I was unconscious. I felt exactly as I had the time I rode eighteen miles on a lanternless bicycle through wildest Sussex to fetch Aunt Agatha's door key from her butler who was attending a servant's ball.

Then, out of nowhere, Jeeves shoved into view.

"There are you are, sir. Lady Lwaxana and the rest are looking for you."

"I appear to have lost my costume," I said with some frostiness.

"Perhaps you could borrow one of these, sir," he indicated the haystack of rejected woven goods that Q had left, and, fishing out a black-and-red creation, he added, "This one has a certain quiet dignity, sir."

It looked like something a bellboy might wear, but I appeared to have no choice. I slid it on.

"Are you ready, sir?"

I merely groaned in reply.

"Sir, are you unwell?"

No sense even discussing it. The curse had come upon me; my sole option seemed to be to pad downstairs and rejoin the party.

Still nothing can keep a scion of the clan Wooster down; now that I was decent, a nubbin of a germ of a glimmer of an idea was percolating in the knob of Bertram. "Jeeves, suppose we depart this cursed premises. Who would be harmed?"

"Sir?"

"Start packing, Jeeves, and meet me right out front in ten minutes. No dallying, Jeeves. Our very existence could be at stake."

The garage chez Picard wasn't even locked, I chortled to myself. And the road to Freedom was shining brightly on my inner eye when I sat in my happy little front seat and released my happy little clutch.

The dashed thing wouldn't turn over.

I tried again. And again. And again.

Alas, the sleeve of Bertram is always empty when it comes to tricks to make cars start.

I hopped out and made my tragic way back towards the perfidious Chateau Picard.

And, when I reached its outskirts, I tossed pebbles at the windows of my rooms.

Jeeves appeared.

"It won't start," I hissed.

"What won't start?" shouted a terrifyingly nearby voice.

Which belonged to Pop Picard and he was standing not five feet away while accompanied by both Q and Lwaxana.

And Jeeves with the coolest kind of perfidy closed the window against me.

***************************************

It's hard to quell a company like that when their savage blood is up. As it certainly was when Picard escorted me into the ballroom. You would have thought I was whizzing about with the Bororo Indians down on the Amazon instead of just an hour away from London. I could only pray that their vengeance would be swift.

Then it happened.

Gentle reader, I don't really know how experienced you are with the well-turned clauses of us sentence-scribes. For example, I haven't a clue if you think "what ho!" is a little on the inexpressive side.

Either way, we've come a sticky patch because "What ho!" is the only way I can put it.

So here goes.

What ho! Out of nowhere came a strong and welcome voice crying "here they are", and, bearing in his hand, as did the boy with the banner of strange device who bore it through the snow and ice, was Holmes, i.e. laForge, and he had pearls in his hand.

"I didn't know they were black pearls, Lwaxana," Pop Picard said.

"They weren't!"

"They are discolored," said Mr. Data following in laForge's wake, "because they were found in the oil filter platter at the bottom of Bertie Wooster's two-seater. A bit of time spent soaking in liniment, some artful restringing by the village jeweler, and they'll be good as new."

Now it was my turn to goggle like a fish. "Is that why the car wouldn't start?"

"Most indubitably. See, your man Jeeves asked Geordi, uh, I mean Dr. Watson and myself if we might take a look at your automotive device. We are trained in engine techniques and rated fully functional when it comes to engineering insights. Needless to say, we found the problem with your two-seater immediately. Pearls in the pan, as it were."

Lwaxana was beside herself. "Bertie, You stole my pearls! Jean-Luc, subdue that man and lead him away in manacles!"

Pop Picard began to edge towards me like a tiger towards a particularly toothsome piece of sausage when I spied Jeeves joining the company in his usual modest way.

"Oh, here, I say," I managed to yelp.

And as Pop Picard practiced his relentless routine, I saw Mr. Data and Jeeves conferring and then Mr. Data turning his orbs in amazement at Jeeves.

"Wait a minute. Look at Bertie's hands," he cried out.

Everybody took a long one at my paws and then looked back at Mr. Data.

"The person with oil on his hands is the person who committed the theft." Mr. Data took a theatrical puff of his pipe. "It's all very elementary."

All eyes rolled about the room and stopped at the very same place.

"Fatty, take off the white gloves," Pop Picard said with a certain mildness.

Fatty gave a look like a bulldog when one of those fine animals has been refused a slice of cake.

"I said, take them off," Picard growled and Worf stood up by him with his arms folded as if to underline the request.

And suddenly Fatty was a gnats' eyelash away from hot tears. "I only wanted to get Worf out of the way so Deanna's love would be all mine. I thought a few weeks in stir would turn the trick. I was sure I was putting the pearls in Worf's automobile, but I see I was wrong!"

"Deanna," Worf rumbled. "Is it not an anagram for anodyne?" Then he kissed her hand.

"Crikey," I muttered.

But eerily enough Lwaxana's countenance was radiant, the thought of her daughter's having the jam to enchant not one, but two horrific suitors like Fatty and Comrade Worf having stirred her soul. "I trained you well, girl."

Deanna gave her mother a complicit smile.

"Lady Lwaxana, I'll do anything," now Fatty was sobbing openly. "I really am sorry!"

"Maybe you could give me a little rhumba. After all, we all want this beano to go on."

Fatty turned pale.

"Chokey or rhumba, you decide, Fatty," Lwaxana said.

"Do the fine manly thing, Fatty," Pop Picard enjoined. "Rhumba your heart out."

Q took a position behind Fatty and leaned over near his ear: "Jean- Luc is right, Riker: Prison won't be nearly as much fun as it sounds."

"Strike up the band," Fatty whispered, swallowing hard.

And he steeled himself to take Lady Lwaxana's hand.

Meanwhile, everyone else was pairing off as nicely as Noah's rowboat: Deanna and Comrade Worf, Sherlock and Beverly, Watson and Vash, and then there were Picard and Q going out on the veranda with their cigars.

I myself turned to Jeeves.

"The need to return to London grows stronger, Jeeves. There's nothing for me here."

"Very good, sir. I am still packed from our earlier leave taking."

**************************

Upon my Sam, nothing is more pleasant than one's own bit of England green. Particularly when you can sit in your own bathtub with your own loofah and your own india-rubber duckling.

"Jeeves, how did you know Fatty nicked the gems?"

"Simple deduction. When the great scholar Samuel Taylor Coleridge writes of Shakespeare's *Othello" he discusses the villain's *motiveless malignity.* You could say the mise-en-scene at Chateau Picard differs mightily from Shakespeare's masterpiece in that it is marked by what Coleridge might in turn call *motiveless benignity* The only person with any conflict whatsoever was Mr. Riker. So it was logical."

"Jeeves, Q told me he wanted to confer with you in order to get in Picard's good graces. I expect he got along well enough without you."

"I beg to differ, sir. It was I who suggested he try the Sinbad costume. I reasoned that, since Picard famously cherishes his naval days, the flood of marine memories at seeing Q as Sinbad was enough to seal the case. I hope you will forgive the intensity of my imagery."

"But I was left without a costume!"

"Sir, I must add that the circumstances also set you free of Lady Lwaxana and Lady Deanna and all the rest. I felt it was for the best."

I sat for a while soaking in Jeeves' wisdom; then a thought washed over my brain. "Jeeves, do we have any of those creme wafers left?"

"I shall see, sir."

"You know, even after this most therapeutic soak, I still feel rather as if I have been kicked in the precise place I kicked young Thos when I wanted him in the water."

"Yes, sir."

"Unsettling, hey, what, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir."

"And that Q. Chappy seemed to think he was quite omnipotent."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, the moving f. having writ, keeps on moving, eh? Now about my new checkered trousers with the three inch turn-ups . . where we in our negotiations, Jeeves?"