He hated balalaika music, hated it with a passion. However, he would put up with it just this once. And not because he had to. He would put up with it specifically because he didn't have to.

As he sat at his solitary table on a candlelit balcony overlooking the beach, sipping at his vodka and pushing a pitted olive around his plate, a woman emerged from the dining room within.

By local standards, she was quite beautiful, with alabaster skin and pale blond hair woven into a bun. She wore a safari outfit, though she had probably never been on a safari in her theoretical life.

"The nights are beautiful here," she said.

He shrugged. "I suppose... if you like that sort of thing."

She gazed at him from under long, straw-colored lashes. "Don't you?"

"I guess I don't have much of an opinion," he admitted.

"How strange," she said. "An attractive man like yourself, alone on a night like this... usually has opinions about a great many things."

He smiled at her. "If I'm not mistaken, you came into this place with such a man. I'll bet he's wondering where you are even as we speak."

She moved and the moonlight glinted off her hair. "Perhaps he is. And he certainly does have his share of opinions. It's just that I'm a little tired of them."

"I see," he told her. "And now you'd prefer to hear some of mine."

"You're a very clever man," she observed. "You catch on quickly."

"Yes," he agreed. "I do. And for just a moment there, you were almost interesting. But..." He smiled politely. "I think that moment has passed."

The woman's eyes went wide. "How dare you...?" she gasped. For a moment, she seemed on the verge of slapping him in the face. But in the end, she decided not to, and simply disappeared back into the dining room.

Oh well, he told himself. I guess that's the way the flaxen-haired tourist bounces.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two figures hopping around down below -- removing their shoes, he gathered. As he watched, they slipped away from the mellow, orange circle of light that emanated from the tavern. One was male, one female; one broad-shouldered and big-boned, the other comparatively slender.

He knew them, of course. Knew them quite well, in fact.

They were both barefoot as they made their way along the margin of the sea, leaving wet footprints in the sand. From time to time, one of them would reach for the other's hand, then let it go again. It was obvious that they were still in the courting stage, feeling each other out, uncertain of how far to take this evening without overstepping some unstated boundary.

Such a waste of time. If they wanted to procreate, why not do so? Why this elaborate and confusing ritual, when they could be spending their time on more valuable pursuits? On the improvement of their backward race, for example?

But no. Not them. All they could think of was their own, petty concerns. He shivered at the inanity of it. At the sheer, unmitigated ego -- a subject on which he was quite the expert.

The breeze ruffled the stars in the clear night sky, bringing him the primitive scent of the prize-winning goulash cooking in the kitchen below. It would have made his mouth water, if his mouth had had the propensity to do such things.

Of course, it didn't. But then, he wasn't really here to soak up the scenery -- or the local vodka, for that matter. He was making his plans -- weaving his web like a big, fat, black spider, strand by dangerous strand.

And the best part was they had no idea what was coming... no idea how it would affect their puny lives, or what role he would play in it. They didn't even know he was here in their holodeck fantasy, or they would have put their shoes back on and railed at him to leave them alone.

Humans liked their privacy. They liked it a lot. And even if these two weren't completely human, they still shared that particular trait.

So he remained a part of the scenery and tolerated the balalaika music. Soon enough, he consoled himself, they'd be dancing to his tune. And not just the two fainthearted lovers on the beach, but the whole kaboodle of them.

A waiter emerged from the dining room. "May I get you something more?" the man asked, in his twentieth-century Russian dialect. "Some dessert, perhaps? We have lovely fruit."

He looked up at the waiter. "No, thank you," he replied, in the same dialect. "I'll be leaving in a moment. Places to go, things to do, Starfleet officers to torment. You know how it is."

The waiter didn't, of course, so he just smiled. "If you are leaving," the man suggested, "may I bring you your bill?"

He nodded. "Why not? We've all got to pay the piper sometime, don't we?" He frowned as the music swelled to even more infuriating levels. "Or in this case, the damned balalaika player."

According to the ship's computer, the Eskimos of Earth's North American continent had sixteen words for snow. In that light, it had always seemed strange to Worf that his own people, the Klingons, should have but one word for honor.

The word was batlh. And for all its simplicity, it was forced to cover a wide variety of situations.

For instance, there was the sense of honor that accompanied a promise kept, or a job well done. There was the standard of honor that encouraged warriors to die bravely. And there was the principle of honor that presided over a government, or a ship, or even a marriage bed, when all parties dealt openly and fairly with one another.

It was this last sort that occupied Worf's mind as he escorted Deanna Troi from one of the Enterprise's holodecks. For as much as he enjoyed her company, it did not come without its share of... inconveniences.

"That was an incredible program," said Deanna, smiling as she looked up at him.

The Klingon nodded. "I am glad you approve. I have always found the Black Sea at night to be a most... stimulating experience."

His companion rolled her eyes at him as they walked down the stark, metallic corridor. He wondered what he had said to occasion such a reaction.

"Worf," she moaned, "we were strolling barefoot along the beach while balalaika music played in the air. A sea breeze washing over us... stars in the sky... a full moon rising... and the most you can say is 'stimulating'?"

He groped for a more appropriate response. "It was...very stimulating? Extremely stimulating?"

Deanna shook her head in mock disapproval as they approached a turbolift. "Honestly, Worf. If you weren't such a delightful companion..."

Entering the lift, she instructed it to take them to deck eight. As the doors closed, the Klingon looked at her. She looked back. And, unable to help himself, he looked away.

Strange, wasn't it? He would rather face a roomful of Romulans than speak of certain personal concerns... even with someone like Deanna, who was bound to understand them. Hell's blasted battleground... if she didn't, who would?

"The truth is," said the Betazoid, obviously changing the subject for his benefit, "I don't spend nearly enough time in the holodecks. I should take my own advice and use them to relax."

Worf thought about his holodeck calisthenics program. "Most times," he confessed, "I use them for other things besides relaxing."

Deanna chuckled softly. "Yes," she said. "I've heard." As the doors opened, depositing them on deck eight, they stepped out. The entrance to her quarters was just opposite the lift.

"Next time," she went on, "I'll choose the program. If you like the Black Sea, you're going to love Lake Cataria on Betazed. Especially the aurora... the way it folds and twists and changes from blue to violet to a sullen orange. And the scents that come out of the forest that surrounds the lake... You'd really enjoy it."

For a moment, as they stood outside her suite, their eyes met and established a bond. Worf basked in the scent of her, in her warmth, in her beauty. He felt his discomfort slip away... and decided this was as good a time as any to mention his misgivings.

"Deanna," he began, "perhaps before there is a 'next time,' we should discuss... Commander Riker."

She grinned playfully. "Why? Will he be coming along?"

Worf frowned. This was a serious matter, and she didn't seem inclined to make it any easier for him.

"No," he said. "But I do not wish to... I mean, it would be unfortunate if he..." He took a breath, started again. "If you and I are going to continue to... to..." He gave up. "I do not want to hurt his feelings."

Deanna took his hands in hers. "Worf... I think it's all right to concentrate on our feelings. Yours... and mine."

Her smile was contagious. Gazing into her eyes, reassured, he began to forget about Commander Riker -- and everything else in the world. As he leaned over to kiss her, she lifted her lips to his.

But before they could touch, the turbolift doors opened with a hiss -- and the captain burst out of them. Worf stared in disbelief. Not only was Picard uncharacteristically wide-eyed with panic, he was wearing nothing but a blue-and-white striped bathrobe!

"Counselor!" cried the captain.

Coming between her and Worf, apparently oblivious of what he had just interrupted, Picard gripped Deanna by her arms.

"What's today's date? The date?" he demanded.

"Stardate four-seven-nine-eight-eight," the Klingon said, interjecting the answer.

Letting go of the Betazoid, Picard turned away from them and mulled it over. He seemed to be having enormous difficulty, considering the simplicity of the concept.

"Four-seven-nine-eight-eight..." the captain echoed.

Deanna looked at him. "Sir, what's wrong?"

Picard's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure," he told her. "I don't know how... or why, but..." He shook his head. "I believe I'm moving back and forth through time."

A chill ran up along Worf's spine. His relationship with Deanna would have to resume its progress some other time. It was clear what honor demanded of him.

Looking up at the intercom grid, he called on Commander Riker.