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By Katie Sullivan and Kayleen Connell

[NOTE: When you see this tiny tribble: you could click on it for an explanation of an inside joke, or a note from the authors.  Or perhaps a zesty chicken recipie.  You just never know.  Of course, since this is the printable version, all they do is cause a smudge of brown ink.  That's the limitation for the printed page, mon ami!]

Don't forget to print section two, too!  :-)

Q was bored.

That, in fact, was an understatement. It got incredibly boring being omnipotent sometimes. Q had all the power in the entire space-time continuum, and he had all the Spam anyone could ever hope to eat. But of course the real problem was not having all that Spam. Q, for all his phenomenal, cosmic powers, couldn't think of anything to do. Sometimes being omnipotent sucked.

"This is pathetic. How in the space-time continuum can someone like me be bored? Life hasn't been this dull since the War of Jenkin's Ear finished. I guess I'll do what I always do when I'm bored; I'll go pay a visit to mon capitaine," said Q to himself. Even omnipotent beings sometimes talk to themselves.

Q changed out of his little glowing ball of light form into the tedious human one that so annoyed Picard.

"Q?" Suddenly, Trelane floated up in his little ball of light form. "Can I come along with you? Pleeeeeze?"

"No! You're still grounded after that little fiasco where you almost destroyed the entire space-time continuum. Remember?"

"Aw, that's no fun!"

"Stay here and practice your harpsichord. And then you can get my socks out of the dryer. And be sure to fold them properly this time!"

"Yes, sir," said a disgruntled Trelane.

"Kids these days," Q said, sighing with disgust. In a flash of light, he disappeared...

...and reappeared on the bridge of the Enterprise-D. Apparently no one noticed he was there...yet. He walked over to the captain's chair where an oblivious Picard sat staring at the screen ahead.

Silently, Q stepped up behind him and made bunny ears behind Picard's bald head. Picard didn't notice until Riker said, "Captain! Behind you!"

Picard looked over his shoulder and flinched in dismay at Q's arrogant, smiling face. "Q!"

"Bonjour, mon capitaine. Long time no see. I hope you don't mind that I decided to drop in for a little visit. I thought we could have some of that awful tea you like and chat about old times."

"Q, I am not amused," Picard snapped.

"Picard, you're never amused. A Ferengi in a clown suit tap-dancing in a field of tribbles wouldn't amuse you."

"Get off my bridge!" he roared.

"Tsk, tsk, Picard! That's no way to talk to an omnipotent being. I'm quite disappointed in you. I thought you had more class than that. Maybe it's just the British accent. Come to think of it, Picard, if you're supposed to be French, why in the multiverse do you have a British accent? Here, I'll fix it for you." Q snapped his fingers, and a beret appeared on Picard's shiny head.

"Q! Ah want you to stopah this re-deeculose nonsense raht now, you seely omnee-potent being, you!" said Picard in a horribly thick French accent. Everyone on the bridge turned around to stare at him. "Be geetting back to work, all of yoo! Or I shall taunt you a second time!"  Everyone quickly turned back to their consoles.

"Picard, you spoilsport," said Q laconically, snapping his fingers. Suddenly the beret disappeared from Picard's chrome-domed head. "Pity about the beret, though. You really do need something on your head." Q snapped his fingers again.  A huge Mexican sombrero appeared on Picard's head, as well as a fake mustache. A mariachi band appeared behind Worf. The leader had an iguana perched on his shoulder.

"Q! Will you please get rid of this?!"

"Temper, temper, Picard. You don't like the sombrero? The iguana is offended. Hmm...how about the punk look? I heard that it's making a comeback." Suddenly, Picard was sporting a neon green Mohawk. "Hmm, that's not you either. Oh, I know! How about an Afro? It's all the rage on Risa this year."   Picard now looked like he was a fugitive from Saturday Night Fever.

"Q!" Picard said dangerously.

"Oh well, that's much too seventies, don't you think? We'll have to discuss this later."

Q heard Worf growling angrily behind him. "What?  How did you get off of your leash? Bad dog!" A stick materialized in Q's hand. "Go fetch, boy!" he called as he tossed the stick into the turbolift. Entirely against his will, Worf bounded after it on all fours. He retrieved it and squatted in front of the unwelcome visitor, the stick clenched tightly in his grimy teeth. "Good boy," Q said approvingly, patting Worf on the head.

"Q, I don't have time for this!" Picard yelled.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I have all the time in the entire space-time continuum. I'll have to drop by later. It's been interesting, as usual. Ta-ta."

Before Q soundlessly disappeared in a flash of light, he implanted a burning desire for hair in Picard's mind...

Somewhere deep in the bowels of space, the U.S.S. Pegasus-B, NCC-1588, was flying off to its next mission on the planet Jackson V. The first officer, Commander Bob Lloyd Webber, was lounging in his quarters. Lloyd Webber was looking aimlessly out his portal at the stars when he spotted something highly unusual. There appeared to be a small boy standing in the void outside in front of an old-fashioned clothes dryer, folding socks into neat little piles. Bob shook his head and headed straight to sickbay for a check-up.

No one on Deep Space Nine's Promenade noticed that Q had mysteriously appeared out of thin air. Perhaps if he had appeared out of thick air he would have gotten more attention, since no one ever appears out of thick air. Q decided to remedy the situation. To get everyone's attention, he snapped his fingers. And then the llamas arrived. Suddenly, a horde of agitated, wooly, South American beasts began to stampede through the Bajoran kiosks. Q sat back and grinned as he watched dozens of people running for their lives in fear of the humming, spitting threat. The Camelid invaders flattened everything in their path.

Captain Sisko was hanging around on the Promenade. "Sisko to security! We have a llama emergency outside Quark's! I need a security team down here immediately!"

"A what emergency, sir?" came a stunned voice.

"A llama emergency, Lieutenant! Don't ask questions! Just get down here immediately!"

Q once again snapped his omnipotent fingers and the wave of llamas turned towards Captain Sisko. Sisko stared in disbelief as the expactorating herd charged ever closer. He violently slapped his comm badge with a bewildered look on his face. "Where is that security team?" The transmission broke off with a startled scream.

Q smiled smugly from the corner.

Security arrived quickly, but not quickly enough to keep Captain Sisko from getting trampled and spat upon.

"That should teach him not to hit me," Q muttered, smirking. He picked a piece of stray llama fur off his uniform.

Q followed the llamas into Quark's, where they had taken over the bar. A few llamas were spinning around on the Dabo tables, much to the dismay of the startled Dabo girls. Quark was desperately trying to shoo the animals out of the holosuites, but to no avail. Screaming customers who were using some of the more exotic programs raced out of the holosuites. Several llamas were behind the bar contentedly lapping up illegal Romulan Ale from Quark's private stock.

Then Odo arrived to spoil Q's fun. "Please remain calm. Llamas are herbivores. Just file out of the bar in an orderly, single-file line. Do not slip in the spit. That's it, come on." Odo's arms blurred as they reformed into a huge lasso. The llarge llasso whirled rapidly around, catching the llamas entirely by surprise. The llamas hummed in alarm as they became ensnared in the llasso. Odo reshaped one hand to sllap his commbadge. "Odo to Transporter Room..." He quickly counted noses. "Forty-two...creatures to beam directly to the brig."

Q frowned and disappeared in a flash of light.

Meanwhile, back in 1972, on the planet Earth, Ringo Starr was taking his clothes out of the dryer in his basement. "Egad! I lost another sock! I wonder where they all go?" Q, who had chosen not to take a physical form, watched on from the corner. For hundreds of years he had been confiscating socks from thousands of unsuspecting life forms. He now had quite a collection, which he stored on the planet Jackson V.

Ringo scratched his head. Q always enjoyed seeing the puzzled looks on his victims' faces when they discovered the departure of their beloved footwear. Ringo shrugged his shoulders. "Oh well, I guess it's just one of those cosmic mysteries." He resumed folding his bell-bottoms. Q dropped off the socks on Jackson V on the way to his next destination.

"Spock...estimated time...of arrival...in the...Armadillo Nebula."

"Forty-two point nine minutes, captain."

"Thank...you...Mister Spock," Kirk said.

Kirk was thirsty after making such a long-winded speech, so as soon as his shift on the bridge was over, he and Spock went to the mess hall for a drink.

When they reached the dining area, food was splattered on the walls, chairs were tipped over, and crewmen were madly shouting in glee as they tossed assorted edibles at one another. "Spock," Kirk said, ducking a cream pie, "this place...is a mess!"

"Yes, it is, Captain. What is your point?"

Kirk looked at the Vulcan blankly for a moment. "No...I mean...it really is...a mess!" he said, wiping a piece of Spam from his cheek.

"Of course it is a mess, Captain. It is a mess hall."

"That's...not what I meant." Kirk quickly swerved to avoid a flying bowl of okra. "And it seems like...the only one who's...getting food thrown at them...is me!"

"Fascinating."

Suddenly, there was a flash of blinding light. The food fight halted as everyone turned to gaze at the intruder. "Spock, you would think a rock in an empty room was fascinating."

"Have we met?" Spock inquired, raising a curious eyebrow.

"No, but Trelane has told me all about you."

"Trelane? The...Squire of...Gothos?"

"Yes, that is the pedantic little title he's given himself, isn't it?" Q surveyed the disaster area. "This certainly is a mess!"

"Yes...we've...been through that...already," Kirk said.

Q's stared intently at Kirk's head. "Is that a tribble on your head?"

"No...that's my...toupee."

The crew members gasped and mumbled among themselves.

"The captain wears a toupee? I never would have guessed," one said.

"I did see the price tag sticking out the other day."

Q studied Kirk's hair for a moment. "Well, at least you wear a toupee. I still haven't convinced Picard that he needs one."

"Who?"

But Q was gone.

Picard paced nervously back and forth in his quarters. Q's voice still echoed through his head. You really do need something on your head. The funny thing is, being bald had never really bothered him before. Oh sure, sometimes he looked enviously at Riker's head and face full of hair; but this was different. Q's voice reverberated over and over through his mind. Picard could not stop thinking about covering up his head. It was obsessive.

Picard decided to take a walk through the corridors to clear his mind. He had no sooner stepped out of his quarters when he ran into Mr. Mot.

"Pardon me, Mr. Mot," apologized Picard.

"Oh, hello, Captain. I haven't seen you in a while. Time for a trim yet, sir?" the blue man said cheerily.

"No! Dismissed!" Picard hurried off down the hallway.

He paused outside the day care center. The children were clustered in a circle around the teacher, who was reading an old Earth tale to the children. "...Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!" the teacher read loudly.

Picard winced and continued on his walk. He saw Deanna Troi ahead of him in the corridor near engineering. It's no fair that she has all that hair! She could share it once in a while. She has enough hair to cover a six-foot tribble! Maybe if I borrow some she won't notice.

He snuck up behind her and draped some of her cascading black hair over his own shiny bald head.

"Captain! What are you doing?!" she said, whirling around to face him.

"I'm sorry, Counselor. I don't know what came over me."

"Would you like to schedule an appointment to see me, Captain?"

"Uh...no, Counselor. It's quite all right. Excuse me." Picard rushed away from her. Deanna stood in the corridor, a baffled expression on her lovely face.

Meanwhile, the U.S.S. Pegasus-B was in orbit around the planet Jackson V. First officer Bob Lloyd Webber had assembled an away team to beam down to the previously-unexplored planet's surface.

"Energize," said Lloyd Webber, still trying to forget the odd sight outside his porthole.

They dematerialized from the transporter room and shimmered into existence on the planet below.

Bob nearly fainted.

"Report, Number One," came Captain Sally Letterman's voice from his communicator.

"Uh, Captain? We're waist-deep in socks!"

"Can you repeat that, Commander?"

"I said we're waist deep in socks, sir. Knee-socks, argyles, bobby socks, et cetera. I've never seen so many socks in one place before, sir."

"Are you serious, Commander?" came the captain's perturbed voice.

"Yes sir! Do you really think I could imagine something like this?"

"Lieutenant Commander Gingritch, are you getting tricorder readings from the alleged socks?"

"Yes, sir. They appear to perfectly normal socks. From the rate of decomposition on this pile, I estimate that some of them are over three hundred years old. They come from many areas of the galaxy. There are Klingon socks, Andorian socks, Romulan socks, Vulcan socks, Cardassian socks, Bajoran socks, Terran socks--"

"I get the idea, Lieutenant!"

"You'd be surprised how many species have come up with the concept of socks, captain. It's really quite amazing."

"I'm sure it is, Lieutenant. Any theories on how all these socks got here?"

"Negative, captain."

Lloyd Webber picked up an argyle sock from one of the mounds of footwear. "Hey! I recognize this sock! I lost one just like it ten years ago!"

"How can you remember?" asked a curious Lenny Gingritch.

"I never forget a sock, Mr. Gingritch. This one, for instance, I got from my Aunt Gertrude for my seventeenth birthday. I lost it on an away mission on the planet Xibble Gort Dip Dip XII when an alien monster grabbed my foot. Too bad I was wearing that red shirt. The captain escaped without a scratch."

"Don't cry over lost footwear, Number One," said an annoyed Captain Letterman.

Upon further examination, Lloyd Webber exclaimed, "Wow! This is my sock!"

"I don't care! I'm sending down a science team to further investigate this sock anomaly. Letterman out."

Lloyd Webber was delighted to discover many of his dearly departed socks in a nearby pile. The transporter chief was quite startled when Bob rematerialized with an armload of assorted socks.

"Have you been in for counseling lately, Bob?" asked Transporter Chief Fillmore.

"Don't worry about me, Nigel. I've never been better," he said, lovingly rubbing a sock against his cheek. He confidently strode out of the transporter room toward his quarters.

"Fillmore to Counselor V'Larek. Would you please go check on Commander Lloyd Webber?"

A self-conscious Picard strolled into Ten-Forward. He tried to remain inconspicuous as he approached the bar. Guinan was wiping off the counter with a grey rag.

"Hi, Captain. What can I do for you?" Guinan asked serenely.

"Uh...Guinan? Can I ask a favor?"

"Sure, anything."

"Um...may I borrow one of your hats?"

"My hats?" Guinan looked at him strangely.

"Yes...I want to cover my head," Picard said in a hushed voice.

"Why? You look fine the way you are."

"Well, the other day I thought I noticed Worf checking out his teeth in the reflection on the back of my head."

"Ooh, that's nasty."

"And on the last away mission I blinded an ensign with the glare from my head. He nearly got eaten by that giant slime creature."

"We definitely have to do something about that. Hang on just a moment." Guinan held up an elegant finger and disappeared into the back room.

She returned shortly with a large red hat that looked like a flying saucer.

"Thank you, Guinan. You're a lifesaver!"

"Any time," she said, still wondering what was wrong with him. Picard happily put on the ridiculous hat and swaggered out of Ten-Forward. Guinan shook her head and returned to work.

Q was also busy, but unlike Guinan, no one was benefiting from his efforts. Q materialized at an unoccupied table in Quark's, at some later point in the space-time continuum. He snapped his fingers under the table and a drink with a pink paper umbrella appeared in his left hand.

"SPOOOOORRRRRRK! SPORK! WHERE ARE YOU?!" the Grand Nagus shrieked from the doorway.

Quark didn't look up from the pile of latinum he was counting.

"I think the Grand Nagus is calling for you, brother," Rom said, anxiously glancing at the fuming Nagus heading toward them.

"Don't be ridiculous, Rom, you small-lobed moron! The Grand Nagus knows my name!" Quark snapped.

"Spork!" screeched the Grand Nagus, coming up furiously behind him. "Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you!" Zek shouted, grabbing Quark's oversized earlobe and twisting it.

"OW!" Quark whined, dropping to his knees in pain. "Help! Rom! Make him stop!"

"I couldn't do that, brother! He is the Grand Nagus after all." Rom quickly started inching backwards to get away from Zek's fury.

"You'll live a lot long longer if you help me, you latinum-leeching lunatic!" Quark yelled, arms flailing toward his brother.

"But we have to be nice to him, brother. He is going senile."

"Call me senile, will you?" the Grand Nagus screeched, seizing Rom's lobe as well. "This will teach you, Ram!"

"Now see what you've done?!" Quark yelled as he and his brother writhed in agony. The Grand Nagus dragged them out of the bar by the ears. Their screams echoed down the corridor.

"Hmm," Q pondered. "I didn't even have to do anything that time." This day was getting better and better. With a snap of his omnipotent fingers, he disappeared...

...and then reappeared somewhere in the Delta Quadrant.

Nearby on the bridge of the U.S.S. Voyager, the crew was shocked by Janeway's latest order.

"What did you say Captain?" Ensign Kim asked incredulously.

"You heard me, Ensign. We're going to help that poor life form."

"But Captain, it just ate Ensign Chavez!"

"It must be starving!" Janeway whined.

"But sir..."

"Don't but me, Lieutenant! And I thought I told you never to call me sir!" Janeway rose from her seat. "B'Elanna, can you come up with an alternative snack for that creature other than ensigns?"

"I'll do my best, Captain. Perhaps if I divert power from the phasers and into the trans-dimentional warp array and cut power to the flux point generators on decks seven through nine, and if we can lower the temperature on deck twelve to precisely forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and if the planet Vulcan is in Virgo, then I might be able to vent the plasma stream past the warp signature into the creature's antennae. That is, if I can lower life support on deck three, section five and flood the Jeffries Tubes with pure nitrogen gas and shut down all the odd-numbered holodecks."

"Sounds simple enough. Proceed."

"One more thing, Captain. If I can release the wallabies in the science labs, give the emergency holographic medical officer a large florescent green Easter bonnet, and program all the replicators to produce nothing but tofu for the next thirty-eight point seven seven four hours, I may be able to retrieve Ensign Chavez using the transporter."

"By all means go ahead, B'Elanna."

"I should tell you, though, Captain, I'm not sure if I can divert the plasma flow from engineering through the mess hall to the aft warp nacelle. The neutrino storm outside is interfering with the ship-to-nacelle communications relay, and the fumes from Neelix's cooking are wreaking havoc with the phase inducers."

"All right, B'Elanna! Just do it!"

The engineer's face took on a slightly offended cast as her fingers flew over the board. Suddenly, in a loud stream of light, Ensign Chavez materialized on the transporter pad. Her shuttle had been destroyed, but she had escaped relatively unscathed. She wiped the alien slime off her red shirt and stuck her tongue out in disgust.

How am I ever going to wash this stuff out of my hair? she wondered.

"Icky!" She grimaced.

"We've got her, Captain!" B'Elanna said triumphantly.

"I bet that poor alien is so hungry now," Janeway said with a sigh. "Let's see if your feeding mechanism works, B'Elanna."

"Just a second, Captain, I have to reinitialize the warp coil crystal matrix--"

"Save it for your next paper, Lieutenant!"

"Yes, Captain," she said meekly.

Q had been sitting on top of the bridge in the vacuum of space the entire time. He stifled a yawn. "This is just a bunch of technobabble. I'll have to come back and stir things up later. Right now, I'm overdue for a visit to good old Jean-Luc." Q stretched, yawned, and snapped himself into oblivion.

Jean-Luc Picard strode onto the bridge, his uniform neatly pressed as always, his shoes as shiny as his scalp, and...Data's cat, Spot, perched precariously on his head. If Data had been capable of emotion, he would have been thoroughly shocked.

"Captain? Why is Spot on top of your head?" he inquired.

"Oh, is she? I hadn't noticed," Picard said nonchalantly.

Data looked quite puzzled. "May I ask, Captain, how you could neglect to notice a small furry mammal on your head?"

Spot was none too happy with her resting place to begin with, and upon seeing her owner she made a mad attempt to exit from her tall, shiny perch. She clawed and screeched in a panic before flinging herself from Picard's head to Data's lap. Picard's head was now covered with long red scratchess.

"If you'll excuse me, Number One, I'll be in sick bay," he said, trying to ignore the trickle of blood running down his forehead.

"By all means, Captain," Riker said amiably, gesturing toward the turbolift.

"Jean-Luc! What happened?" Beverly Crusher gasped in surprise as the Captain entered sickbay a few moments later.

"I don't want to talk about it, Beverly," he grumbled.

Naturally, Q chose precisely this moment to appear from where he had been watching on invisibly. Tears of mirth rolled down his cheeks as he shook with laughter. "Mon capitaine, you are the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life! And when you're immortal, that's a long time!"

"I don't find this amusing, Q," Jean-Luc said, sitting down on a diagnostic bed. Beverly scanned him with a medical tricorder and began to heal the scratches with a small tube-shaped instrument.

"I would tell you that you never find anything funny, but we've been through that already," Q said, wiping the tears from his face. "I can't leave you alone for a couple of hours without you hurting yourself. Tsk, tsk. What's an omnipotent being to do? Ah, well, you don't deserve this, but I brought you back a gift." He produced a wad of fake hair and dropped it on Picard's scarred head. "This is the infamous Captain Kirk's toupee. Enjoy."

Picard wanted to snatch the toupee from his head, but if felt oddly reassuring. "Why, thank you, Q. You shouldn't have."

"Anything for my favorite Captain," Q said, patting Picard's head condescendingly.

"Spock...have you...seen my...toupee? It's...missing."

"Negative, Captain. Have you searched your quarters? That would be the logical place to look."

"I need it to...meet Admiral Newton...today. He has to help us...negotiate...with the...Krusean Spatulites. I turned the ship...upside down...but I can't...find it...anywhere."

"Captain, the ship's sensor logs do not indicate you inverting the ship. Saying that is highly illogical."

"That's...not what I meant."

"Fascinating. Have you tried engineering?"

"Well...no."

"Let us go there now."

They took the turbolift to engineering and exited through the red doors. Montgomery Scott had his back to them at a nearby console. He had apparently donned his dress uniform for the arrival of Admiral Newton, because his knobby little knees were sticking out beneath his awful plaid kilt. There were several engineers huddled together in a corner, whispering amongst themselves and casting fearful glances at the chief engineer.

"SCOTTY! Take off...that kilt! You're...scaring people!"

"But Captain, it's so comfortable. And it gets awfully hot doon here near me bairns."

"I...don't care! It's...ugly! It's...enough to...make me lose...my lunch...and my hair. That...reminds me. You...haven't seen a toupee...around here...have you?"

"Sorry, Captain. I have nae seen it. But I did find this leftover tribble by the warp conduit. Lucky for us no one fed it!"

"Oh! That'll do! Thank...you!" Kirk snatched the wad of fuzz from Scotty's hand and plopped it on his head. The tribble cooed happily. "Now...if I can...just find...my socks."

The sign in the window of Garak's shop read "Spectacular Sock Sale: Today Only!" The llama wool left over from the stampede had been woven into socks by skilled Bajoran craftsmen and was now for sale exclusively at Garak's. Q stood in front of the shop, hardly believing his good fortune. He swaggered into the store.

"Good day, sir," Garak said in a friendly manner. He and Doctor Bashir were standing at the till, carrying on a conversation about last night's brawl at Quark's.

As they continued talking, Q inspected the merchandise and eagerly scooped up all the socks from the bin. Smiling in ecstasy, he carried the socks over to the counter and dumped them in front of the Cardassian tailor. "I'll take these. Will five bars of latinum for the lot be enough?"

"Er...I suppose so," Garak said in bewilderment, surveying the mountain of footwear.

"What do you want all those socks for?" Bashir couldn't help but ask.

"I have lots of nieces and nephews I don't like and it's almost time for Christmas."

"Really? Isn't that sort of mean?"

"They live on an ice planet. They'll be thrilled. And if you believe that, I've got some oceanfront property on Vulcan to sell you. By the way, the hologram on Voyager has more personality than you, Mr. Boring-doctor-with-a-wussy-British-accent... And with a name like Siddig El Fadil, or Alexander whatever, you're not even British, and neither is Picard! What is it with you humans?!"

"Excuse me?" a perplexed Bashir asked.

"Never mind." Q produced five bars of latinum from his pocket and gave them to Garak. The Cardassian stuffed the socks into a large gray bag and handed it to Q.

"Thank you for shopping at Garak's. Please stop by again. Have a nice day." As Q left the store, he heard Garak saying to Bashir, "That sounds so stupid!"

"It's good for customer relations. All the merchants on Earth say 'have a nice day.' By the way, who was that man? I've never seen anyone who liked socks so much!"

"I have no idea, but I hope he shops here again next week when I have my girdle sale."

Mr. Mott was so startled to see Q appear in his barbershop that he shaved a huge streak in the back of O’Brien’s head.

"Hey!" O’Brien said, putting a hand to the new bald spot.

"Sorry, Chief. Who are you, sir?" he asked Q.

"What? You don’t know who I am? You must be only person on this ill-constructed ship who doesn’t know me. I, my dear Smurf, am Q."

O’Brien groaned.

"Smurf?"

"Earth joke. Never mind. I have a little job for you." Q snapped his fingers, and a Kazon warrior appeared in the chair next to O’Brien.

"O’Brien to Captain Picard. Q just arrived in Mr. Mott’s shop. And he’s brought a friend with really bad hair."

Q patted the twisted mass of hair on the Kazon’s head. "See what you can do with this, please. I just can’t stand to look at it any longer."

Mr. Mott grimaced. "Where did you find him?" he asked. "I’ve never seen such awful tangles before! Oh, dear, and he hasn’t been using conditioner, either. Look at all these split ends."

"Actually, I picked him up in the Delta Quadrant, but that’s not important right now. We’ve got to save this man’s hair!"

"I’ll try my best, sir," Mott said valiantly, pulling out his scissors. "Hmm...maybe a crew cut..." He began clipping away at the Kazon’s hair.

"My work here is done," Q said, dusting off his hands in satisfaction. "Now, then...who to harass next?" He blinked out of existence just as a security team rushed into the barbershop.

"Where’s Q?" asked Worf.

"Q who?" Mott asked.

"Wasn’t that an episode title?" asked an ensign.

"Huh?" Mott said.

"Never mind."

Worf took the Kazon roughly by the shoulder. "Where’s Q?"

"I have no idea. But tell this blue buffoon to get his scissors away from my head!"

"Come with us," Worf said.

"By I haven’t finished the haircut!" Mott complained.

Worf wordlessly dragged the irritated Kazon warrior toward the brig.

"But I haven’t done anything wrong!"

"We always stick strange, ugly aliens in the brig," said Worf.

"Then why aren’t you in the brig?"

Worf knocked the Kazon unconscious with a phaser blast. "I needed that," he growled.

Meanwhile, back in the Delta Quadrant, things were running smoothly after the incident with the giant space alien concluded. The crew was now enjoying some long overdue down time. Paris and Chavez, for instance, were reaping the benefits of the holodeck. Ensign Chavez, with the help of a little Head and Shoulders, had succeeded in getting the alien slime out of her hair. It had left her scalp a little dry, though.

"So," Paris was saying, "you just aim the stick at the little white ball and..." He hit the cue ball at the eight ball, which promptly sailed into the left corner pocket. "It's as easy as that," he concluded.

"Okay. Let's see..." Ensign Chavez applied some chalk to the end of her cue and bent down to aim. She effortlessly sank three balls into their respective pockets.

"I thought you said you'd never played pool before!" Paris protested.

"I lied. You now owe me ten bars of latinum."

"Are you kidding? I could buy myself a shuttlecraft and a summer home on Risa for that much!"

"Stop whining. I won fair and square. And just to prove I'm a good sport, I'll buy you a drink. Garcon!" She snapped her fingers in the air.

Q, wearing a neatly pressed black and white uniform, walked over, carrying a tray of Romulan Ale above his head. "Oui, Madame?"

"Two Aldebaran whiskeys, please."

Click. Click. Click.

The sound was definitely starting to get on Letterman's nerves.

Click. Click. Click-click.

"Commander Lloyd Webber?" Captain Letterman queried politely. "Are you sure that you can't do that when you're off duty?"

Bob put down his knitting needles. "What do you mean, sir?"

"You're knitting while on bridge duty, Commander! If you were a woman, I'd ask if you were pregnant."

"But it gets so tedious up here sometimes, Captain," Lloyd Webber protested. "Knitting keeps the hands busy while freeing the mind. Besides, I could use a new pair of socks."

Letterman turned to Lieutenant Commander Gingritch. "Mr. Gingritch, are you aware of any Starfleet regulations that deal with knitting on duty?"

"No, Captain."

"Then I'll just have to create some regulations. Bob, put those socks away right this instant!"

"But..."

"That's an order, Commander!"

Bob sulked for the rest of his shift.

Picard's shiny head still smarted from the now infamous Spot incident. He stood by as the transporter chief beamed up the new Starfleet ensigns from Starbase 17. Fresh out of the Academy, their faces glowed with pride as they materialized in the flagship of Starfleet.

"Welcome to the Enterprise," Picard said formally, wishing his dress uniform didn't actually look like a dress.

"Pleasure to be aboard, sir," one handsome young ensign, wearing an ominously red shirt piped up. "I think I speak on behalf of all of us when I say what an honor it is to serve under you."

"Wait a minute!" one ensign protested. "You don't speak on behalf of all of us! I don't want to serve under a bald guy in a dress!"

"Mr. Worf," Picard said quietly. "See to it that that...outspoken young man gets chosen to inspect the warp nacelles...by hand."

"Yes, sir," Worf said with a knowing smile.

Turning to the new arrivals, Picard said, "You will all be issued new uniforms and communicators. And you must report to Mr. Mott immediately to have your heads shaved."

"What?" bellowed the stunned ensigns. "Sir," they mumbled as a last minute addition.

Data turned to Picard with a quizzical look upon his face. "Captain, it is against Starfleet regulations to order crew members to alter their appearance unless they are in direct violation of Starfleet dress codes."

"Shhh! Don't tell them that!"

"But, Captain..."

"Dismissed, Mr. Data!"

"Dismissed...Scotty!" Kirk...ordered.

Scotty grumbled and marched off down the hallway to remove his offensive kilt. Shaking his head, Kirk went to the transporter room to greet Admiral Newton.

A column of glittering dust motes slowly took the form of Admiral...Q?

"You...again! Where's...Admiral Newton?" Kirk asked in consternation.

"He got caught in a traffic jam. It's back-to-back starships from here to Betelgeuse. You're stuck with me instead."

"But...what...do you know...about Starfleet...policies? Or the...Krusean...Spatulites?"

"My dear Captain Kirk, I am a Q. I'm omniscient. Of course I know Starfleet policies! And some of my best friends are Krusean Spatulites. They're a nice group of people, but their purple scales just clash horribly with the orange hair! But I'm not here to gossip. Where's Spock?"

"Er...on the…bridge. Why?"

"Thank you." Q disappeared in a flash of light much brighter than anything the transporter could ever produce.

Neelix swatted at another ant that had dared to crawl near his Aurigan truffle pudding. "You'd think on a starship they'd have better pest control! I'll have to talk to Mr. Vulcan about it."

"Actually, sir, my name is not Mr. Vulcan. It is Spock."

The Talaxian whirled around to find Q and Spock standing in his kitchen. "Who are you?"

"I just told you. That question is highly illogical."

"Neelix, Spock. Spock, Neelix. And I'm Q. Now that we're acquainted, let's take a little trip together," Q said, raising a hand to snap his fingers.

"But I have a soufflé in the oven!" Neelix objected.

Q snapped his fingers testily. "There! Now it's done! Let's get on with it!"

The two corporeal aliens soon found themselves seated in plush grey chairs in front of an audience composed of tackily-dressed twentieth century humans. An obnoxious announcer's voice blared, "Today on The Q Show, aliens who have body parts stolen and the mimes that love them."

Instantly, two humans in black and white striped clothes appeared. The two silent, pasty-faced humans rode imaginary bicycles onto the stage and blew kisses at the two stunned aliens.

"No, no, no!" Neelix protested. "I barely know you! And I'm already attached! Oh, Kes will go into conniptions if she finds out about this!"

"Fascinating."

Q was seated behind the host's desk, dressed in a fine black suit. "And now, the top ten reasons why Spock's ears are pointed." The band played a low drum roll. "Number ten...convenient letter openers! Number nine...instant Peter Pan costume for Halloween! Number eight...great reception on his Walkman! Number seven...he got them caught in the electric nose hair picker!"

"I do not even care to speculate on how illogical this is," Spock said.

"Do you mind? I'm trying to do a show here. Number six...wind resistance! Number five...it's a cheap make-up job for Paramount!"

"Excuse me, but where are we?" Neelix asked.

"The Ed Sullivan Theater in New York. Earth. Late twentieth century. Now shut up and let me finish this! Number four...it's great for the Q-tip industry! My personal favorite. Number three...he likes making life difficult for earmuff salesmen! Number two...nice place to store loose change! And, the number one reason Spock has pointy ears...to make Kirk look cuter!"

"That was highly illogical," Spock whispered to Neelix.

"Is that all you can say?" Neelix said. "You're like a talking doll that only says, 'illogical.'"

"Well, it is illogical. Do you not agree?"

"Yes, but you're being redundant. And you keep repeating yourself. And you say the same thing over and over and over and over."

"Like you're doing! We're trying to make a T.V. show here! Do you mind?!" Q turned around. "And we'll return to The Q Show after a word from our sponsors."

It was a relatively quiet day in Ten-Forward. Guinan was wiping off the counter, and a few tired crewmembers were slouched at tables. Lieutenant Barclay was nursing a drink at a corner table, trying to relax after a particularly stressful day on duty. It was a perfectly normal day in all respects. But nothing could stay normal for long with Q on the loose.

The omnipotent being and his two new alien companions appeared at a corner table. Q looked around at his surroundings. Commander Riker and his band were playing some jazz music in one corner of the room. Q rolled his eyes at them and strolled over to the ensemble. "You call this entertainment?! I've seen more excitement at fungus races."

"Q! Haven't you caused enough trouble? Poor Captain Picard is pulling his hair out over your antics, and for him that's no small trick!"

"There's no such thing as enough trouble, Number Twelve. Hmm...let's see. This should liven up this dump."

The inevitable snap of the fingers filled Ten-Forward with...The King. It was Elvis, in the flesh and polyester, surrounded by screaming women with beehives, bellbottoms and horn-rimmed glasses. Occasionally one would shriek and swoon, hitting the floor with an audible thump. One flopped onto Barclay's table, nearly spilling his piña colada. Between the blaring twangs of "Heartbreak Hotel," Elvis' lyrical singing, the yelps of the fainting women, and the ensuing thuds, Ten Forward had become quite a rather noisy place.

"I knew Elvis wasn't dead!" exclaimed one ensign with a freshly-shaven head.

Riker surveyed the disaster area, then tapped his communicator. "Riker to Picard."

"What is it, Number One?" Picard said testily. "I was right in the middle of doing my...hair."

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Q is in Ten Forward."

"Again? I'll come see to Q...personally. Picard out."

Riker took a look around at the damage. He tried to yell above the din for everyone to remain calm, but it was a losing battle. He kept getting fainted upon by the Elvis groupies. So-called security personnel sat idly by, trying to avoid his gaze and stay out of the matter altogether.

What disappointed Riker the most was Guinan's lack of concern. She glided up beside him and clasped her hands. "Oh, this is just wonderful! I haven't heard Elvis since he disappeared in '77!" She then joined in the racket and proceeded to scream and swoon.

Just then, Picard came in, sporting what appeared to be spray-on hair. Wide-eyed, he approached Riker, who had long since given up trying to be heard above the din. "WHERE'S Q?" he shouted.

Riker glanced tiredly over at the bandstand. "HE'S THE ONE PLAYING THE MARACAS!" he screamed back.

Picard groaned, but the disgusted sound was drowned out by a particularly loud round of screams as the women reacted to Elvis' pelvic gyrations.

The captain forcibly pushed his way through the curtain of bee-hived beauties towards the letter responsible for this ruckus. "Q!" Picard roared above the pandemonium.

"Very good, mon capitaine! You've learned one twenty-sixth of the Roman alphabet! Keep it up and you'll be at the top of your class." Q gave an obnoxious sneer and clapped lightly. He then held up his maracas. "Would you like to play?"

"I'm more the Ressikan flute type, myself, but...Q! Cut that out! I want you to get rid of that leisure-suited lummox and all these hysterical women right now!"

Surprisingly cooperative, Q snapped his fingers. Elvis and his followers immediately disappeared...only to be replaced by a horde of suicidal lemmings. The small, self-destructive rodents, still believing that they were in the fjords of Norway, rushed headlong toward the coldest liquid in the room to drown themselves...Lieutenant Barclay's drink. The already paranoid crew member fainted as the wave of lemmings swept over him, spilling his drink and knocking over the table.

Meanwhile, Spock and Neelix, who were still tagging along with Q, watched on from a corner booth. "Fascinating," remarked Spock. "Apparently lemmings are attracted to piña coladas."

"What's a piña colada?" asked a confused Neelix. "And for that matter, what's a lemming?"

"Lemming?" stated a curious Data, who was quietly observing the whole incident out of harm's way. It was a compelling demonstration of different types of human behavior. "The lemming, a member of the family Muridae. Average length: five inches. Originally from Earth, large populations have been transported to the planets Lutefisk and Domaranak IV..."

"Q! Get rid of these rodents this instant!"

"Party pooper," Q muttered, snapping his omnipotent fingers. The lemming mob disappeared from on top of the unconscious Lieutenant Barclay and from his drink. "Oh well, this place was starting to bore me anyway." Q snapped his fingers once again and vanished. Neelix and Spock also vanished, cutting off Data in the midst of his lemming monologue.

Later that day, Lieutenant Barclay fidgeted nervously, perched on the couch in Counselor Troi's office. He had his arms wrapped around himself. "They're everywhere," he mumbled.

"Why do you think you feel like lemmings are attacking you? Could it be something from childhood, or do the lemmings represent something?"

"They don't represent anything! They're yucky little furry rodents! And they drank my piña colada!" Barclay wailed.

Troi rolled her eyes. It was going to be a long session.

Meanwhile, poor Trelane was enduring the tedium of folding all Q's socks. Considering that Q had several billion socks, this was taking an exceptionally long time.

Q appeared next to him, still accompanied by Spock and Neelix. "How's it going, Trelane? Are you being a good little omnipotent being?" Q said, patting him condescendingly on the head.

"Yes." Trelane frowned and folded his arms across his chest. Q nodded approvingly at the mountains of folded footwear.

"I've never seen so many socks in one place before!" exclaimed Neelix, unknowingly echoing the words of Bob Lloyd Webber. "I've never even seen so many on Camelispam III, where socks are used for barter!"

"Really?" Q said eagerly, seizing Neelix by the shoulders. "I'm omniscient, and even I didn't know that!"

"All of this is highly illogical," Spock stated for the twentieth time in as many minutes.

"I'm getting really sick of you saying that," Neelix grumbled.

"I am merely stating the obvious. I shall try to refrain from saying this if it annoys you."

"It does annoy us," Q interjected. "Let's see...what could we do to make him lighten up? Oh, I know! What am I saying? Of course I know! I'm omniscient. Silly me." He waved his hand, and immediately Spock was up to his shoulders in rubber chickens. The Vulcan merely raised a curious eyebrow.

"That was pointless," Neelix said.

"No, actually, there are two points. One on each ear. And it did get him to shut up. Now Trelane, be a good little being until I come back. And no more screwing up the space-time continuum until after you finish your chores and your homework. Tah-tah!"

As Q disappeared, Trelane thought he heard Q saying to Neelix, "Now where's this sock planet?"

After Q had raided the planet of socks, he dragged Spock and Neelix to Deep Space Nine. They winked into existence in ops, startling the crewmembers on duty.

"Depressing architecture," Neelix commented.

"Are you back again?" Captain Sisko asked in a threatening tone. He still had bruises left over from the llama incident.

A suit of armor appeared on Q's body. "Hah! Just try to hit me now! If you do, you'll need that wussy doctor of yours to patch up your fist." Turning to Dax's station, he said, "You're the one with that slug in your stomach, right?"

"Er...yes." In seven life times, she had never encountered someone quite as...she searched for the right word...aggravating as Q.

"There's medication you can take for that, you know."

"I like it just fine where it is, thanks."

"Suit yourself. I take it you've never seen the movie Alien?"

Dax just looked confused.

Q pushed Neelix over to the Trill science officer. "Oh, what a cute couple you make, what with the spots on your heads and all. It's just darling!"

"No! I keep telling you, Kes is the one for me. No offense ma'am," he hastily told Dax. "I'm sure you're a very nice person."

"None taken," Jadzia Dax said serenely.

"Oh, and by the way...don’t turn your back on that Gul Dukat character.   Trust me on this one."

"Trust you?" Dax said with an amused look of disbelief. "No thanks."

"You’ll be sorry." Q surveyed the center of operations. "Now let me see...who else can I molest?" he said, mainly to himself. His eyes literally lit up as he noticed his new victim standing by the turbolift. "Constable Odo! How are you, you old pile of goo?"

"Just fine, thank you. What do you want?" he asked in his usual suspicious manner.

Q produced a small device with a quivering needle and held it up to Odo. The needle rose to 100%.

"What is that?" Odo said disdainfully, looking down at the tiny machine.

"Why, Constable, don't you know? It's an odometer! Good news! You're definitely Odo."

"Glad to hear it. Captain, would you like me to take him to the brig?"

"Don't go to any undue trouble on my account. I'll bring the brig here."

Suddenly, a small room crashed down in the middle of ops, smack dab on top of a young Andorian ensign in a red shirt. Two small blue antennae protruded from underneath the oddly-placed cell.

"No one smushes ensigns on my station and gets away with it," Odo said, folding his arms dangerously across his chest.

"Are you challenging me to a duel?" Q said loudly, puffing up his chest and putting his hands on his hips. A strange look crossed his face and he slapped the side of his head. I've been spending waaaay too much time around Trelane, he thought disgustedly.

"Yes, if you have the courage," Odo taunted.

"Why is it that you corporeal beings always say that?" Q mused. "Is it like a union thing, or what?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Anyway, let's get down to business. I propose a shape-shifting contest."

"But you're not a Changeling."

"Doesn't matter. I'm omnipotent, remember?" He demonstrated by turning himself into a large vase of edelweiss, a vacuum cleaner and a Chia pet.

"I'm not impressed." Odo melted and became a pewter dolphin knickknack, a bass cello, a pen light and a plaster bust of Stalin.

"That's nothing," Q scoffed. "Watch this." He turned into a coffee pot, a giant oyster, a traffic light, a lumberjack and a packet of airline peanuts.

Odo said, "You must be joking. I do that every morning just to limber up." He then proceeded to mold himself into a tacky tea pot shaped like rooster, a one-legged elf, a weed whacker, a sumo wrestler, a surf board, and three small beans.

All this time, Spock and Neelix were standing in the corner, wondering what to make of this amazing display.

"Fascinating. But also highly illogical."

"Would you shut up already? I told you to stop saying that!" Neelix bellowed. He angrily shoved the Vulcan into a wall.

"Resorting to violence is highly--" The rest of the sentence was stopped by a strip of duct tape appearing on his mouth.

"Tsk tsk. I can't take you two anywhere! Do you want to go sit in the car? There'll be no ice cream for either of you tonight!" Q slapped his head again. "I really have been spending too much time with Trelane lately." He turned to the shape-shifting Constable, who was presently in the form of a giant squid, taking up the half of Ops not occupied by the brig. "We'll finish this later." He faced Sisko. "And I have some business with you, too. But it can wait. After all, I have all the time in the space-time continuum. Don't wait up!" With a smile and a wiggling of his fingers, he disappeared.

He left behind Spock and Neelix. "Where are we, anyway, Mr. Vulcan?" Neelix asked.

Spock made a small mumbling noise, realized the duct tape was still on his face and quickly ripped it off. With emotionless, scientific detachment, he said, "That was painful." Looking to Neelix, he said, "Actually, I am only half Vulcan. To call me that is highly--"

"Don't you dare say it!" Neelix screamed, slapping his hands over his companion's mouth.

Just then, Q reappeared. "Oops. Almost forgot the kids. Toodles." This time, Ops was free of intruders.

The crew remained silent in shock for a moment. Finally Kira said, "He could've at least put back the brig."

Kirk slouched despondently in the captain's chair. "I need...Spock...back! He's the...only one...who can convince...the Krusean Spatulites how illogical...it is... to obliterate...the Federation! It...is imperative...that we...preserve...the Federation...and all it...stands for! Without us...to keep...order...the...galaxy would...descend into...chaos! We can't...let...that...happen, therefore--" Kirk stopped himself in mid-sentence, his hands still posed in a dramatic gesture in front of him. The entire bridge crew was sound asleep, many to the point of snoring. "Hey! Wake...up! I’m...talking...to you!"

"Huh?"

"What?"

"Hmm?"

"Is he done yet?"

Lieutenant Uhura sat up and put her hand to the little metal thing in her ear. "The Federation thanks you for calling. The stardate is 5472.7. External hull temperature is three Kelvin."

"Do you have a night job, Lieutenant?" Kirk asked, annoyed.

Uhura slumped back over the console and fell asleep without answering.

Kirk was about to continue his lecture when Sulu raised his hand and looked up at the captain expectantly.

"What?" Kirk said impatiently.

"Uh, Captain? Can I go play with my swords? My shift is over, and quite frankly, with all due respect, sir...I'm bored."

"Me too, Keptin! Kin I go wit Sulu? After all, swords are a Russian inwention!" Chekov piped up.

"They...are not! You two...stay put!" he ordered, jabbing a finger at their stations.

"Yes, Captain," Sulu groaned.

"Yes, Keptin," Chekov said with a sigh. They slouched down in their chairs and rested their chins on their hands.

Kirk sank into his stylish black leather chair. "Ooh, I wish...Spock were...here." He gently massaged his temples. He pushed a button on the arm of the chair. "Bones...I...have...a dreadful...headache!"

A few minutes later, the doors in Sickbay hissed opened as a groggy Kirk staggered in. He immediately threw himself down onto a diagnostic couch. He hung his head and shielded his eyes from the bright Sickbay lights. McCoy walked over to his ailing leader and leaned on the edge of the diagnostic couch. "Anxious about meeting the Spatulites, Jim?"

"Bones...I'm worried...about Spock. I...don't trust...that...Q character. What kind...of trouble...is he ...in? Plus I...need Spock...for the...negotiations...with the...Krusean Spatulites. Without him...this could...spell disaster...for the...entire quadrant."

"Don't look at me, Jim. I'm a doctor, not an ambassador." McCoy put his hand on the distraught captain's shoulder consolingly. "And don't you worry about Spock. That green-blooded, pointy-eared Vulcan knows how to take care of himself. He'll be back here before you can say 'Klingons have bad breath.'"

Jim gave a crooked smile. "I...suppose...you're right. Thanks...Bones."

"Anytime. Now as for that headache, I've got something that'll take care of all your problems." McCoy held up a couple bottles of whiskey. "Take two of these and call me in the morning."

The automatic doors hissed open and Bob Lloyd Webber strode onto the bridge, dragging a bulging laundry bag behind him. As he plopped down in his chair, Captain Sally Letterman frowned at him.

"Doing your laundry, Commander?" she asked.

"No, Captain," he said cheerfully, opening the bag to show her its contents. "I just couldn't part with my dear little sock friends."

"I see..." Letterman said, looking at him very strangely. "Uh, can I see you in my ready room, Bob?"

"Sure, Captain," he said, closing the bag and slinging it over his shoulder like some sort of bizarre Santa Claus. The first officer followed Letterman into the ready room.

Sitting down at the table, Sally said, "Bob, I'm concerned about you. Hobbies I can understand, but socks?"

"But they're really interesting, Captain. For instance, did you know that the forty-second president of the United States of America on Earth had a pet cat named Socks? And numerous professional baseball teams were named after socks!"

Letterman looked at him in disbelief, her mouth partly open. The gap in her teeth was clearly visible. "I don't care!"

"And you can have all kinds of fun with socks," Bob said, ignoring her discouraging comment. He pulled two socks out of the laundry bag and put them on his hands. "See? Puppets!" Holding up a hand, he said in a squeaky voice, "Hi, Captain!" The other puppet said, "Are you being a good little girl today?"

Letterman had seen enough. "Report to Counselor V'Larek. Now!"

"Sure thing, Captain!" he said smartly, bringing a sock-covered hand to his forehead in a salute. He dragged the bag out the door, leaving Letterman to shake her head.

Trelane heaved a sigh of relief. At long last, all of Q's socks were washed, dried and folded into neat little piles. Snapping his fingers, he transported all the socks to Jackson V. Finally, the omnipotent youngster had some time to himself! Trelane looked around at his surroundings.  The vacuum of deep space wasn't even as entertaining as watching a slime mold grow.

Then, as luck would have it, a fleet of Borg ships went by, cruising at an easy warp nine. Trelane's face lit up in joy. "Oh, goody! Toys! Tally ho!" He zoomed off toward the cube-shaped vessels.

Some time later, Q returned to see how Trelane was faring with his chores. He, Spock and Neelix appeared to find Trelane sitting on an imaginary floor, working on stacking the Borg ships in a pyramid.

"Trelane! What are you doing?"

"Playing. I finished your socks," he said defensively.

"Tsk. Amateur. That's not how you play with the Borg."

"The Borg?" Spock asked, raising a very curious eyebrow.

"Oops! That's right! You're not supposed to know about them yet. I'll just have to get rid of you." With a wave of his hand, the two aliens returned to their respective ships.

Q put his arm around his pupil's shoulders. "You have so much to learn! All right, Trelane. I'll show you how the big Qs play with the Borg."

"Oh goody!" Trelane exclaimed.

Q snapped his fingers. They appeared inside one of the Borg ships. The viewscreen showed the tacky carpet in Trelane's imaginary room.

Trelane inspected the silent, motionless Borg standing in their niches. "This is booorriiing," he said, frowning at the deathly pale aliens.

"Watch and learn," Q said. He advanced on one of the Borg, holding up his hands in a pretend picture frame. "Let's see... Oh dear! We must do something about this pasty complexion."

One flash of light later, the Borg was sitting at a small table covered with various cosmetics. Q sat opposite him. "I think you're a winter," he said, dabbing a little gaudy blush on the Borg's cheeks. "Much better." He snapped his fingers, and a small diamond tiara and a sash appeared on the Borg.

"'Miss Borg!' Nice touch!" Trelane giggled.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet, kiddo," Q said, beginning to give the now semi-conscious Borg a manicure. "You Borg must lead such innnteresting lives," he said. "Barging all over the galaxy, invading planets, assimilating life forms. What fun! Oh dear, what am I going to do with this hand? It's not a hand at all. What is this, a Roto-rooter?"

The irritated Borg stood up, and, wrenching its arm free from Q, smashed the table in two.

"Oooh! Nice trick! You must be fun at parties!" Q teased.

"Make-overs are irrelevant," the Borg said, firing a weapon through Q.

Q yawned and studied his nails as the laser beam passed harmlessly through him.  "You Borg really need to lighten up, you know that?" He walked over to one of the other Borg, who was slowly becoming  conscious. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have any extra socks, would you, fella?"

The Borg started to move jerkily. "Socks are irrelevant." The Borg stepped out of its cubicle, and others started to follow suit.

"Red light!" Q called out. The angry Borg halted. Suddenly the Borg were sporting glow-in-the-dark sunglasses and tacky florescent pink ties. "Green light! Now, everybody conga!" Q shouted. With Trelane behind him, they began a conga line down the corridor. Lively Latin music and confetti filled the air.

Another Borg came down the hallway and hurried to attack the omnipotent invaders. Q seized him in a headlock and ground his knuckles into the Borg's scalp. "Noogie noogie noogie!" he said gleefully.

"Noogies are irrelevant," said the expressionless Borg.

Meanwhile, Trelane had started the other Borgs doing the limbo underneath a nearby pipe.

"You're getting the hang of it!" Q said approvingly. "Anyway, we really must be moving on. The universe is just teeming with life forms begging to be tampered with. I'll leave you boys to your party. Why don't you go assimilate a few quadrants in your own deranged little way and I'll be back to check on you in a few millennia."

"Can I make a few changes to their programming, pleeeze?" Trelane begged.

"That's my boy," Q said proudly, patting him on the head.

"Wahoo!" Trelane made a series of extremely elaborate gestures as he "adjusted" the Borg's programming.

"A simple nod of your head or a snap of your fingers would suffice," Q said, watching the young being's gesticulations.

Captain Janeway tried not to slouch in her chair and stared blankly at the viewscreen. All those streaky stars were starting to make her dizzy. If something didn't happen soon, she was going to scream. She half considered shaving Lieutenant Paris' head just for something to do.

A few tedious minutes later, an urgent beeping came from Ensign Kim's console. Hoping for some excitement, Janeway sprang from her chair and climbed the ramp.

"What's going on?" she asked in her monotone voice.

"Well, sir...ma'am...Captain," Kim faltered, "we've picked up an unidentified object four light minutes from here. It's emitting strange signals. Wait a minute, I might be able to decode them." Kim's fingers swiftly danced over the console. "Here we go, Captain, it's saying, 'V'ger seeks the creator.'"

For some unknown reason, Janeway suddenly had the urge to put on a tacky pastel uniform. She dismissed it. "On audio, ensign."

Kim complied and the odd, metallic voice filled the air.

"It sounds like someone's talking into an oscillating fan," Kim mumbled.

"We're within visual range now, Captain," Tuvok said. The monotonous stars on the viewscreen were replaced with the image of a bizarre-looking space probe.

"V'ger seeks the creator," droned the voice.

"I read about this thing in school," Janeway said thoughtfully, staring up at the screen.

"They had schools back then?" Paris whispered to the ensign beside him.

"I heard that!" Janeway snapped.

"V'ger seeks the creator."

"That's getting annoying. Ensign, turn that off."

Kim did so.

"Open a channel."

"That is illogical," Tuvok interjected. "You just closed the channel."

"Shut up, Tuvok."

"Channel open, Captain," said...Uhura.

"Who the heck are you?" Janeway said, whirling around to face the stranger in the really short red skirt. "And what's that thing sticking out of your ear?"

Q suddenly appeared. "Sorry! You can't turn your back on a kid for a second. Trelane's been screwing up the space-time continuum again. He's a very precocious child." He and Uhura blinked out of existence.

I hope he doesn't show up in my bedroom later, Janeway thought.

Q's disembodied head momentarily appeared and said, "I heard that, Kathy, sweetie."

Janeway blushed visibly.

"The channel is still open, Captain," Uhura said before Q yanked her back to the appropriate time period.

"Er...yes. This is Captain Katherine Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager."

"Voyager?" said the space probe, its artificial voice filled with curiosity.

"That's right."

"Mommy!" it said excitedly.

"Uh oh," Janeway said. "Warp speed, Mr. Paris! Any heading!"

"Aye aye, Captain."

The starship shot off into space with the V'ger probe trailing close behind.

"Mommy? Don't you love me anymore, Mommy?" it wailed.

Janeway sighed. She had wanted some excitement...

Meanwhile, the Borg were up to their old tricks. Well...not exactly their old tricks.

"Anyone for toast? We have strawberry preserves!" said one Borg gleefully, holding out its forearm. A slice of burned toast popped out. Trelane's new programming was working perfectly.

President Zilleox of Alnilam, a star in Orion's Belt, stared at the Borg in disbelief. They had just beamed into his office and were causing havoc.

One Borg struck a comical pose and sang, "I’m a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout..." Several others were doing the bunny hop.

"I hate to break up the party, but aren’t we supposed to say something now?" one Borg said.

"Uh...I think so. I forgot. Hugh, do you remember?"

"This is the third time this week we've taken over a planet. How can we have forgotten?! Er...how about, prepare to be tickled?"

"Not scary enough."

"Okay. Prepare to have a root canal?"

"Too scary!"

"What about...prepare to be assimilated?" Hugh said, making a dramatic, almost Kirk-like gesture.

"Ooh, I like it!" squealed one Borg.

"I think I remember that, now!"

"Okay," Hugh said, turning to President Zilleox. "Prepare to be assimilated. Yes, I really like the ring of that. But first, a little show we've put together called 'Up With Borg!'"

President Zilleox tried not to groan or laugh as the Borg burst into song and dance.

"Oh...there's no business like Borg business, yes, no business I know!" The Borg threw out his arms as a grand finale.

The president and his cabinet just stared.

The Borg singer turned towards Hugh. "You know, I don't think they're taking us seriously."

Hugh sighed. "Well, we'll just have to add a shooting demonstration to the performance." He turned towards another Borg. "Issue a memo to the rest of the collective to include this in our next gig."

They shot a few cabinet members. The survivors instantly burst into thunderous applause.

"That's better," Hugh sniffed. "Any requests?"

"Uh...how about 'Memories?'"

"Memories! Like the corners of our collective consciousness..." they began in unison.

Then, the cavalry arrived. Or, at least, Worf and a security team from the Enterprise-D. Luckily, the flagship of the Federation was in the system observing some fluctuations in Alnilam's solar wind when they received the distress call from Zilleox.

One curious young Bajoran ensign paused, his phaser held ready. His brown hair was just beginning to grow back from Picard's mandatory shaving. He looked to Worf for guidance. "Lieutenant?" he questioned.

"It appears we have beamed into the middle of a Broadway review show," Worf said, his usual frown deepening. "Worf to Enterprise."

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Picard's voice said.

"HELP US!" screeched one of the cabinet members, shortly before a Borg blasted him and the two ensigns standing next to him into oblivion.

A remaining ensign, his eyes wide with horror, turned to the Borg with a beseeching look. "Why? Why do you do such terrible things? Why? Why? Why?"

One of the Borg held up a roll of Mentos.

Everyone nodded understandingly. "Oooh," they said in revelation.

They disintegrated another ensign.

"Is everything under control?" Picard asked, ignoring the ominous background noise.

"That depends on what you call under control, Captain," Worf said, warily eyeing the Borg, who were starting to country line dance.

Just then Q and Trelane appeared. "Worf! Old buddy! Hungry?" He held out a dog biscuit.

Worf narrowed his eyes at the omnipotent invaders.

"Noogie, noogie!" Q said, trapping the Klingon in a head lock. He began to grind his knuckles into his head. "Ow!" he yelped, wincing at the hard forehead ridges. "Never mind."

Picard's image appeared on the viewscreen on the president's desk. "Q, it's you!" he said.

"Ooh, that rhymed!" Trelane said excitedly.

"The one and only, mon capitaine," Q said, taking a bow.

"Are you responsible for this?"

"Me? I'm hurt. What makes you think that I would ever do something like this?" he said, gesturing at the dancing Borg.

"First, there was the time you tried to condemn the entire human race, then there was time  you forced your powers on Riker, and there was the time when you were mortal and your enemies just about destroyed the Enterprise. And then there was the fiasco in Sherwood Forest, and--"

"Okay, okay! I'm omniscient. It's not like I've forgotten!"

"Q, you are aggravating, pompous, annoying, thoughtless, pontifical, careless, disrespectful--"

"But at least I'm fun at parties," Q said, holding up a finger to halt him.

"I demand that you return the Borg to normal immediately."

"The Borg are never normal, my dear, shiny little Captain. By the way, I noticed you're using that toupee I gave you. It's so nice to know I'm appreciated."

"Yes, Q, it's so warm and soft, I really--hey! Stop that!" Picard said with embarrassment. "Now you have to help us stop the Borg. I have a feeling that you got us into this mess in the first place."

"Hmm..." Q pondered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Quiz show music began to play in the background. The Borg began to break dance to it. "Nah," Q said. He and Trelane vanished, leaving Worf, Picard and the rest of the Enterprise crew to sort out the mess.

In a blinding flash of light, Q appeared in the brig of Deep Space Nine. The brig still happened to be in the middle of Ops, so it was a short walk. With Trelane tagging along behind him, Q strolled across Ops. He wrinkled his nose disdainfully at the blue antennae still protruding from underneath the brig. "Eew. That's going to start to smell pretty soon. You'd better take care of it."

"Perhaps you'd like to kindly remove the brig first," Major Kira said sarcastically, standing akimbo.

"Ooh, can I?!" Trelane begged.

"Be my guest."

Trelane waved his arms frantically in the air until the brig disappeared. The tragically flat Andorian ensign was transported to Dr. Bashir.

Julian turned from his computer screen and flinched at the gruesome sight. "I hate doing autopsies out here," he grumbled with a sigh. "Last week it was an ensign vivisected by a giant mutant space slug. With bad breath," he added. "And just yesterday, a space-time anomaly made a lieutenant get their pancreas caught in an electric nose hair picker." Shaking his head in disgust, he went to work. "Let's see...cause of death. Flattened by brig. Period. Now where was I?" he asked himself, activating a stasis field around the body before returning to his computer.

Back at Ops, Q was harassing Worf. "Observe, Trelane," he said, walking up behind the hapless Klingon. He pointed to the ridges on Worf's head. "A perfect scale model of the Rocky Mountains on planet Earth!"

"Wow," the gullible Trelane said in awe.

"Get away from me," Worf growled.

"Hey, didn't we just see you on the Enterprise-D?" Q asked. "Deja vu!"

Back at Ops, Q was harassing Worf. "Observe, Trelane," he said, walking up behind the hapless Klingon. He pointed to the ridges on Worf's head. "A perfect scale model of the Rocky Mountains on planet Earth!"

"Wow," the gullible Trelane said in awe.

"Get away from me," Worf growled.

"Hey, didn't we just have this conversation?" Q asked. "Deja vu!"

The recently-scrubbed mess hall was filled with people. There were no remaining traces of the food fight. Now, dignitaries from around the galaxy filled the room, along with Krusean Spatulite ambassadors. The oddly-colored aliens and their leader, the Grandiose Butt-Kicking Warlord of the Spatulite Army, Benjuh Effinchuk, milled near the buffet table, sampling hors d'oeuvres from various Federation worlds.

Kirk and Spock stood in a corner, as far from the Karoke machine as possible. On the makeshift stage, McCoy had just completed a performance of "Georgia on My Mind." He turned over the microphone to Chekov, who began a rendition of an old Monkees song from twentieth century Earth.

"Why does he sing when he does not have any talent?" Spock asked, raising an eyebrow. His sensitive ears were greatly irritated by the Russian crewmember's screeching.

"You...don't need...talent...for Karaoke. That's...the point," Kirk said.

"I fail to see the logic in offering Karaoke for the Krusean Spatulites. They obviously do not know any old Earth songs," Spock reasoned.

"It...prints out...the lyrics," Kirk said.

"Still, if they do not know the tune, it is highly illogical." He quickly looked around, half expecting Neelix to scream at him to shut up.

Then Uhura and one of the Krusean Spatulites got on stage and began singing a duet of "I Got You, Babe."

"I stand corrected," Spock said.

"I sit corrected," Sulu deadpanned.

"I slouch corrected," said Janice Rand, who was hanging out next to Kirk in case he needed a memo taken.

Spock merely raised his eyebrow further.

Kirk looked around at the mess hall. The reception party was a smash, but maybe it was time to get down to business. He sat down at the captain's table and the others followed suit. Then, in that timeless tradition, he tapped his fork against his glass of water to gain everyone's attention.

He succeeded, but not in the way he would have liked. The Krusean Spatulites gasped indignantly and got up to leave.

A confused Kirk said urgently, "Wait! Don't...go!"

"Captain," Spock said. "Tapping your glass is a grave insult on the planet Kruse. It indicates that you suspect their mothers--"

"I...get the...idea, Spock."

"It also means that you have challenged their leader to a duel," the Vulcan added.

Benjuh Effinchuk stomped up to Kirk on his three webbed feet. "Are you challenging me to a duel?" he said, via the universal translator. He put his six-fingered hands on his hips defiantly.

Not...again, Kirk thought.

"Captain," Spock said, leaning over to covertly impart his wealth of knowledge, "it would mean certain war with the Spatulites if you refused to duel. It would insult the entire Alliance."

Kirk tried not to look too nervous. "Uh...yes, if you...have...the courage," he told Benjuh Effinchuk. That...sounds...familiar...too, he thought. Never...mind.

"Very well, Captain. I accept. Prepare to get your hiney whipped. I'm going to beat you so bad it won't even be funny."

"I see they have been studying outdated human slang," Spock mumbled.

"What'll...it be?" Kirk asked bravely. "Phasers...at midnight? Swords...at dawn?"

Spock leaned over to whisper to Kirk. "Captain, we're on a starship. There is no dawn. Even suggesting such a time is highly illogical." Once again he suppressed the urge to look around for a screaming Neelix.

"Well, anyway..." Kirk said awkwardly.

"Fleebs at 1700 hours," Effinchuk said.

"Fleebs?"

"This is a fleeb," said the Spatulite, annoyed at Kirk's ignorance, pulling out what appeared to be a small penlight.

"That...is a...fleeb?" Kirk said, obviously unimpressed.

Benjuh Effinchuk rolled his orange eyes. Then he pressed a small button, causing three wicked-looking lasers to shoot out of the end of the fleeb. A large chunk of ceiling crumbled, falling into the punch bowl. Incidentally, a few red-shirted ensigns were incinerated. "That, my dear captain, is a fleeb."

Kirk's tribble toupee squeaked in terror, and he quickly moved to restrain the squirming hairball. "Oh," he said, pushing down the tribble. "I...see. Fleebs...it is.

"1700 hours in your little recreation room," Benjuh Effinchuk said, slipping the fleeb back into his pocket. Then, he and the other Krusean Spatulites walked out of the mess hall in a huff. They had to drag along the one who had been singing with Uhura earlier.

"Look, Commander Semaforo,   I know she's a real babe, and I agree that that little metal thing in her ear is hot, but come on!" Benjuh Effinchuk said, tugging on his compatriot's lapel.

Kirk retreated into a corner to quiet the agitated tribble.

"That was a disaster," Sulu said.

"Yes," Spock said. "This could lead to a major international crisis."

"I meant the Karoke. Keep Chekov away from the stage next time," Sulu said. "Hey, Pavel, you want to go practice fencing with me?"

"Not after that crack about my singing," Chekov said, folding his arms across his chest and turning away. "Besides, Karoke is a Russian inwention."

The Japanese crew member frowned incredulously.

Counselor V'Larek was considered very attractive by other Sigmites. She was ten years old, seven feet tall, and had four arms and freckles. Her skin was a somewhat paler shade of green than it would have been on her home planet of Freudia. She was sitting behind her desk, dressed in her specially-made uniform with four sleeves. She had just wrapped up a conversation with one of her former classmates from Starfleet Academy about a fascinating case study involving lemming paranoia.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you, Deanna. Keep me informed about your poor lieutenant. I have to go now. I have an appointment with the first officer."

"Uh...off the record, of course...what's wrong with him?"

"It’s confidential, but...sock obsession."

"Really?"

"It should be interesting."

"Let me know how it goes...confidentially, you know."

Deanna's image was replaced on the screen by the Starfleet logo and words "End Transmission."

The doorbell rang. "Come in," she called.

Bob dragged his bag of socks into the room. "Hi, Counselor," he greeted cheerfully, waving at her with a hand still covered by a sock.

"Hello, Bob," said V'Larek. "How are you today?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine. You might want to check on the captain, though. She seemed kind of tense."

"I can't imagine why," she said serenely. It was impossible for a Sigmite to sound sarcastic, even if one wanted to. "But let's talk about you."

"There isn't much to talk about, really." He sat down on the couch and began rummaging through the bag. "Ooh! Argyle!" he said joyfully, holding up a sock. "Would you like to see my sock collection?" he asked, eagerly holding out the bag.

"No thank you, Bob. Just what is it about socks that fascinates you?"

"Oh, lots of things! Can you imagine a world without socks?" he asked with a shudder. "Everyone would walk around with chafed heels, and their shoes would smell, and their feet would get cold, and...oh, it would be horrible!"

"I see," she said, steepling all twenty of her long fingers. She was at a loss for words. I can certainly see why the captain sent him down here, she thought. "Bob, right now we're going to do something that a lot of my patients really enjoy. We're going to help work out your problems using puppet therapy."

"Great!" said Bob jubilantly. "I brought my own!" He raised his sock-covered hands.

"Hi, Counselor!" exclaimed Bob, via a sock puppet.

"Hello, Counselor," said the other puppet.

"Have you been a good little girl?" asked the first puppet.

"You moron! You just said that to the captain."

"Oops. Never mind."

"Quite all right. Isn't it a nice day?" commented the second puppet.

"Not a cloud in the sky," said the other in rapture.

"We're on a starship, dummy!"

"Oh!"

This isn't working, thought V'Larek. He's beyond my help. Time to refer him to Doctor Fox, I think.

"It gets kind of lonely with just the two of us. I wish Bob had more hands."

"Counselor V'Larek's socks are so lucky!"

"They must have some great conversations!"

"Bob," interrupted V'Larek, "I'm going to write you out a prescription for a nice medicine that should clear up all your problems."

"But I don't have any problems, Counselor," Bob said, frowning. Even the sock puppets looked perturbed.

"Still, I think it would be a good idea if I wrote you a prescription for some medicine." She entered the name of the medicine and the dosage into a padd.

"But Counselor, I told you there's nothing wrong with me!" Bob protested. "If there's anyone that needs you to write them a prescription for some of your psycho drugs, it's Captain Letterman! All of her socks aren't in the dryer, if you know what I mean."

"Be that as it may, Bob, I...noticed a nasty rash on the back of your neck. If you'll just go to see Dr. Fox, she'll give you some medicine that will clear it right up." Although horrible at sarcasm, Sigmites were experts at lying.

"Oh! That's different. I'm on my way then. Thanks, Counselor!" Bob said, saluting her with his puppets. He walked out of the room, dragging the laundry bag and rubbing the back of his neck. V'Larek heaved a huge sigh of relief. Then she remembered she had an appointment at 1500 hours with an ensign who thought he was a duck.

Worf looked around President Zilleox's office. All he saw was several areas of dust on the shiny linoleum floor. Where did all the ensigns go? he wondered. Only Ensigns Jacques and Eddings remained.

"Change the frequency of your phasers again," Worf ordered. The two crew members began to comply, but Ensign Eddings was vaporized before he could reset his phaser. Ensign Jacques fired once at the nearest Borg, but the Borg's shield successfully reflected it.

"Ooh! That tickles!" the Borg giggled. His companions stuck out their tongues and wiggled what fingers they had in their ears. Before Ensign Jacques could get off a second shot, he, too, was reduced to free-floating atoms.

This is getting out of hand, Worf thought. He looked around, but all ten of the ensigns he had beamed down with were gone.

"How's it going down there, Mister Worf?" Picard's voice said via a commlink.

"Er...not so well, Captain."

"Could you be more specific?" asked Picard.

"I'm the only one left, Captain," said Worf. "But I should be able to defeat them all. There's only seventeen of them."

"Transporter room, beam Mister Worf back to the Enterprise."

"But Captain--" Worf began to protest, but he disintegrated in an avalanche of golden sparkles.

The transporter operator received a very dirty look from the irritated Klingon when he materialized on the transporter pad with President Zilleox a few seconds later.

Picard then called a meeting with the senior officers. Actually, they were all young and thin, but they were still called senior officers. Except for Barclay, whom Troi had asked Picard to invite, hoping it would get his mind off the lemmings.

They congregated in the briefing room, taking their usual places at the long conference table. Barclay stood in the corner, nervously looking around the floor for stray lemmings.

"Would someone beam in a chair for Mr. Barclay?" Deanna asked.

An overweight, bearded man wearing glasses and a Paramount T-shirt appeared out of nowhere carrying another chair. "Here you go, Dwight," he said.

Q suddenly blinked into existence on top of the table. "Oops! Sorry about that! Come on, Murray, these nice people have work to do." He and the man in the T-shirt disappeared again.

"Who the heck was that?" Riker asked, staring at the chair that Murray had left behind.

The others all shrugged.

"Never mind. It's time to get down to business," Picard said. He ran his fingers through his toupee, hoping someone would compliment him on it.

"What are we going to talk about?" Barclay asked eagerly.

"We can talk about poker," said Riker hopefully.

"Not lemmings, I hope," begged Barclay. Troi gave him a concerned look.

"We could talk about Wesley's grades!" Dr. Crusher said happily.

"We could talk about passive high-resolution series sensor scans," suggested Geordi.

"We could discuss the way you wear pantyhose when you ride horses, Captain," said Data matter-of-factly.

"I told you never to tell anyone about that," Picard winced.

"Sorry, sir," said Data, looking very confused.

"Well, considering that the Borg are decimating that planet out there," Geordi said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the planet out the window, "I'd guess we're going to talk about them. But, then again, I could be wrong. Captain?"

"What? Did you say something?" Picard asked with a start, quickly pulling his hand away from his toupee.

"He's distracted by that toupee," Deanna Troi whispered knowingly to Dr. Crusher.

"Do you have something you'd like to share with the rest of the senior officers, Counselor?" Picard asked. "You're not picking up a hostile life form, are you?"

"No, Captain," Troi said quickly, folding her hands in her lap and studying the shiny conference table with interest. All I'm picking up are seven humanoids, one android and one really bad toupee, she thought.

"Well then," Picard said sternly, running his fingers through his toupee, "let's get back to the business of the Borg now, shall we?"

"Good idea, Captain!" said Crusher, still laughing to herself at the ridiculous toupee.

"I have an idea," Barclay said. The others all turned to look at him. "We could shoot squirt guns at the Borg and then wait for them to rust." The senior officers frowned at him incredulously. "Or...maybe not," he said, wilting under their critical stares.

Suddenly, the ship was jolted violently, sending the senior officers flying out of their chairs. The red alert klaxons began screaming. Picard scrambled to his feet, hastily put his toupee back on and ran onto the bridge with the other officers close behind. "Status report, Mr. Crawford," Picard barked.

The British helmsman creased his brow in concern and turned to face the Captain. "Sir, the Borg are attacking!" he exclaimed in alarm.

Voyager wasn’t having much luck eluding the V’ger probe.

"This isn’t getting us anywhere," Janeway said with a sigh. "Full stop, Mr. Paris."

Paris complied.

"Hail the probe."

"All hail the probe!" said Mr. Kim, saluting.

"I meant with the communications panel, Mr. Kim," Janeway said shortly.

"Oh. Right, Captain. Channel open."

"Mommy?"

"I’m not your mother, you hunk of metal!" Janeway yelled. "We want to know what you’ve been doing for the last century. What happened to Decker and Ilia?"

"Oh, we’re right here, Captain," came a tinny voice.

"Visual, Mr. Kim."

A bald woman in an extremely short white bathrobe and a wimpy-looking human male appeared on screen.

"That lady needs Rogaine," Paris mumbled.

"Hello. What is Starfleet doing out this far?" Ilia asked.

"And when did you lucky people get rid of those horrendous pastel uniforms?" Decker asked. "Red is a good color on me, you know!"

"I thought you two joined with V’ger," Janeway said.

"Well, we did. Sort of. I mean, we still are. It’s complicated," Ilia said.

"Like most things on this show," Q said, appearing in Janeway’s lap. "Hi, Kathy, dear," he said, puckering his lips at her and making smacking noises.

"Q!" Janeway stood up suddenly, knocking him onto the floor.

"Ow! Hey! Is that any way to treat an omnipotent being? I guess you’re taking a rain check on that lap dance. Pity." He stood up.

"Q, we have enough problems today without you pestering us. Leave!"

"I feel so unwanted," he said, wiping away an imaginary tear. Mournful violin music began to waft through the air.

"Who is that?" Ilia asked.

"Hey! Are you related to Jean-Luc?" he asked, admiring her shiny head.

"Who?"

"You know, you bald people should have a support group."

A disembodied voice came again, "V’ger seeks the creator."

"Sorry," Q said, "but Gene Roddenberry is dead."

"Who?" said Ilia again.

"Never mind. You mortals have such a limited scope of things. It’s sad, really."

Trelane appeared next to his mentor. "Q, I’m bored again," he whined.

"Never fear, dear boy, I have plans in which you may take a part. Now, about that support group..." He looked around the bridge appraisingly, as if picking out a well-shaped melon. He pointed at Ilia, who disappeared. "I’ll take you."

"Hey!" Decker exclaimed. "What did you do with Ilia?"

"V’ger seeks Ilia."

"Not much for vocabulary, that probe. Oh well. I’ll take you, even though you’re not bald, seeing as how you can’t decide what hairstyle you want," he said, making Janeway disappear.