Imzadi. Part 15

Riker looked puzzled at that. "Why did you think so?"

"You're not Deanna's type. I know her, I know the kind of background she comes from. Her taste would run towards someone more intellectual-no offense."

"None taken," said Riker, although he wasn't entirely sure how to react. "But I'm hardly a mental midget."

"Oh, I didn't say that you were. Far from it. You're an extremely bright fellow. But you just don't think along the same lines she does. She's a gentle rainstorm, and you're lightning in a bottle. I doubt either of you would have the patience with the other to get anything going."

"Actually, we're going to be seeing each other again. Tomorrow, in fact."

"No!"

"That's right."

"Up to you, Captain. I just hope that you're not counting on Deanna to be the one who breaks your streak of celibacy while on this fair planet."

"I have no intention of being celibate, Mark," said Riker, leaning forward and dropping his voice. "And if you absolutely must know... she definitely wants me."

"Nonsense."

"It's true. She just hasn't admitted it yet. But she'll come around."

"When? On her deathbed?"

"A lot sooner than that."

"Never happen."

"it will, Mark. Bet on it."

Roper looked at him with mischief in his eyes. "All right. One hundred credits says you never 'become intimate' with her."

Riker laughed in disbelief. "Mark! I'd never bet on anything like that! It's... it's cra.s.s, it's tasteless, it's..."

"Two hundred credits."

"It's a bet."

Roper raised a warning finger. "And no funny stuff. No getting her drunk. Has to be utterly mutual. You can't force her."

"Force her! Mark, I've never 'forced' a woman in my life. Honestly, now. What do you take me for?"

Roper patted the top of Riker's hand. "Captain... I believe I've taken you for two hundred credits."

CHAPTER 19.

The Betazed museum of art was a tall, impressive building, and extremely ornate. Deanna and Will stood outside as she explained to him the history of the structure, the design work and theory that had gone into it. She spoke at length for some minutes.

Riker, for his part, was happy that she was once again wearing her hair down, and that the outfit she was wearing was more flattering to her figure. Much of what she said barely registered until finally she turned to him and said, "Why am I bothering?"

"What?"

"You don't seem at all interested in what I'm saying, Will. I'm trying to explain to you why this building is, in and of itself, a work of art."

"And I'm trying to explain to you, Deanna, that I can only appreciate one work of art at a time."

"And right now you're still appreciating me."

"I guess so, yes."

She sighed, took him by the hand, and said, "Come on." She pulled him toward the building and through the large columned doors.

Inside there was music playing, loud and sonorous, and it sounded somewhat like organ music.

It was coming from a large, multiple-piped instrument in the middle of a great rotunda. Seated in circles around the musician were various Betazoids, who were listening to the music. their eyes closed, their faces blissful. Riker looked around and tried to get a feeling for what was going on. The music sounded okay to him, but nothing particularly special. He couldn't understand why it seemed to be affecting the listeners so deeply.

He looked at Deanna, and she, too, appeared to he totally taken by it. Her eyes were half-lidded, and she was swaying slightly to the tones. Riker whispered, "Are you all right?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Her stare was almost incredulous, as if she couldn't believe that he was still capable of speech. "This is soul music," she whispered. "Listen to it, Let it pervade you. What does it say to you?"

He listened. He let it pervade him.

"What is it supposed to say?" he asked.

With an irritated noise, she pulled at him and dragged him off down a large corridor.

The air in the cavernous building was cool. Riker looked around, trying to take things in. His eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he kept trying to find something that would he startling and revolutionary to him. Something that would give his innermost thoughts a voice and fill him with understanding. Nothing in particular seemed to leap out at him, however.

Deanna led him into a room and made a sweeping gesture.

Paintings hung on the walls. All of them appeared to be what Riker would term "abstract"... that is, they didn't seem to be pictures of anything in particular. In front of every single painting was a small bench, and in a number of instances, Betazoids were seated on the benches staring intently at the works.

"I come here once a week," whispered Deanna. Her voice, although it was as low as she could possibly make it, still attracted glances from the occupants of the room. Silent communion was the norm here. People looked from her to Riker and then back to her, and their expressions changed from mild irritation to understanding tolerance... and even, in a couple of cases, a degree of pity-much to Riker's annoyance.

"Once a week? Why?"

She led him over to one work in particular, which was concentric splashes of red, blue, green, white, black, and a couple of colors that Riker didn't recognize. Here, in one of the more far-off sections of the room, no one else was sitting nearby at the moment.

"Because, Will," she said quietly, "it's one of the methods I use to stay in touch with myself." At his blank expression, she continued gamely, "in order to fully understand others, you must learn to understand yourself. Only by being in touch with what motivates you can you then grasp what motivates others."

"I studied this in the Academy. The course was called Dynamics of Command."

"Commanding who?"

"Other officers. Crewmen."

"Yes, well, you see... here the only person you're trying to command is yourself. Now... I want you to look at the painting and tell me what it says to you."

"This is supposed to talk to me, too? Can't anything on this planet keep its mouth shut?"

His comment came out sounding a bit more sarcastic than he would have liked, but Troi appeared undeterred. "On Betazed, we believe in full communion. Communion with each other. Communion with our world. But before any of that can occur, we must have communion with ourselves."

"What's the painting called?"

She stared at him in confusion. "What?"

"What's it called? What's the name of the painting? At least I'll have some clue to what the artist was trying to put across if I know what he called the d.a.m.ned thing."

"The 'd.a.m.ned thing' doesn't have a name. That would be presumptuous... it would be as if the artist were trying to impose his own worldview upon the viewer."

"Terrific. Look, maybe we can start with another painting? Something that looks like something?"

He started to rise and she pulled him back down again. "Will, you're not even trying. You said you were going to cooperate."

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I'll try, all right?"

The problem was, every time he looked at her, he kept thinking about trying to get her clothes off. But he knew that such unguarded thoughts were only going to get him into trouble again. So, gamely, he focused on the picture again.

It was swirls. Splashes of color. No matter how long or how intently he looked at it, it still looked like jumbled paints and nothing more.

"You're trying too hard."

He blew air through his lips in exasperation. "First you tell me I'm not trying at all, and now you tell me I'm trying too hard. Now which is it?" He looked at the painting. "Would you mind telling me what it is you want of me?"

Then he fell two strong fingers at the base of his skull, squeezing together and ma.s.saging him. Deanna's arm moved in a steady, circular motion.

He started to feel tension that he didn't even know he had ebb from him. He was glad that he couldn't see his face because he had the distinct, detached feeling that he had a rather goofy expression at the moment.

"Now," she said softly, "while you're relaxing... look at the painting and tell me what you see. Learn to look below the surface, beyond the superficial. What is there to learn from the painting... and what can we learn from ourselves?"

His head swayed back and forth in gentle rocking motions. He stared at the painting for what seemed an eternity.

"I see..."

"Yes?"

He was silent for a moment and then said, "I see... paint swirls."

She stopped the rubbing. "That's it?" she said with flat disgust.

"That's it. I'm sorry." He turned to her, not sure whether to he more irritated with himself or with her. "You wouldn't want me to lie to you... and I doubt I could, even if I wanted to. I see paint swirls. Big, goopy paint swirls."

"Goopy? This is a word? Goopy?"

"I don't have much taste for abstract art. When I look at something, I like it to look like something."

She paused, her hands carefully arranged on her lap. "Tell me, Lieutenant. As you further explore the galaxy, you will inevitably run into things that don't took like anything you've ever imagined that anything could look. What are you going to do in those instances? Are you going to decide that they're inferior somehow? Or that there's something wrong with them? How are you going to judge? By their degree of goopiness?"

"In those instances, when encountering new life-forms beyond my experience, I'll have instrumentation to help me. Sensor arrays. Medical scans. Instantaneous translators and communications devices. I won't have to-"

"You won't have to depend on yourself."

"Now I didn't say that."

"No, you didn't. But that's what it boils down to, Lieutenant. And believe me, you're going to find yourself in situations where all the instrumentation in the world isn't going to do you a bit of good. They can guide you, but you're going to have to rely on something beyond that. As a matter of fact, I'll wager that there will be times when you have to act in ways that are contrary to what instrumentation is telling you... that are contrary to what people are telling you, for that matter. And you have to be fully conversant in why you think what you think, because otherwise you're going to find yourself heading down the wrong road."

"Thank you for your opinions, Miss Troi... drawn, no doubt, from your many years of experience with Starfleet."

"I don't have to be experienced with Starfleet, Lieutenant, in order to be aware of the importance of knowing your own mind."

"Really?" He took her hand in his and squeezed it firmly. "And what does your mind tell you about your feelings for me? Hmmm?"

She met his gaze levelly. "It tells me that perhaps we have to begin with something a bit more fundamental than this." She stood. "Come on. We're getting out of here."

"Where are we going?"

"Back to basics."

The tree towered over them, its trunk brown and gnarled. There were no leaves on it, and its branches seemed to stretch up forever.

The trunk was so twisted that climbing up it was easy. Deanna did so and gestured for Riker to follow. He climbed, relieved that this was at least something that was mildly entertaining... particularly because he liked watching the play of Deanna's muscles under her tight clothes.

She stopped at a point about ten feet above the ground. Large branches stuck out in either direction. She sidled out onto one, and when Riker started to follow her, she shook her head and indicated that he should go in the other direction. With a shrug he did as instructed.

"Your problem, Lieutenant, is that the demands of your body have too much sway on your mind," she said once they were both perched on their opposite branches.

"What do you mean?"

"Your attraction to me, for example. Indeed, your attraction to most women, I would think. It's purely hormonal. It's being fueled entirely by your s.e.x drive, which is biological, not intellectual. But you are more than willing to turn your intellect over to the requirements of your biology."

"What about what you were saying before? About love at first sight being something you believe in? Where does biology figure into that?"

"It doesn't. Love at first sight is spiritual. You're too primal for that. "

"You're saying-he smirked slightly as he spoke-that I'm incapable of falling in love with someone at first sight because I think with my glands and that automatically pushes out all higher emotions?"

"That's correct."

"Well, thanks a lot, Miss Troi."

"it wasn't a compliment," she said primly. "Higher emotions are what separate us from the lower orders of life."

"Is that all?"