STAR TREK - TNG - 12 - Doomsday World

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To the DSPSG’s of Section 2.
—Carmen
To all the usual suspects.
—Peter
For Joan—more than ever my heart’s friend.
—Michael
To Deb for being behind me all the way. And to Katie and Robbie for the sheer joy of it all!
—Bob
And to the cooks and delivery people at Mariella Pizza, midtown New York City, our eternal thanks.
Without you this book would not have been possible.
—The Authors
Author’s Notes
This book began as a result of a party on February 18, 1988, one of Pocket Books’s all-too-rare social
hours for theStar Trek authors. The Pocket BooksStar Trek publishing program has been in existence
for over ten years now and regular readers will no doubt recognize a recurring list of authors. It made
great sense to Pocket’s editor, David Stern, that the authors in the New York area get together to swap
stories, lives and other esoterica on a regular basis.
This particular party, if memory serves, had in attendance Michael Jan Friedman, Allan Asherman and
his soon-to-be wife Arlene Lo, Carmen Carter, Margaret Wander Bonnano, and David Stern. During
the course of conversation, which centered a lot on the first season ofStar Trek: The Next Generation,
David let it be known that he was then seeking help on getting theST:TNG publishing program rolling a
bit faster. Anything that could be done would be appreciated, he assured us in that laid-back,
it’s-going-to-be-okay style that has lulled many an unsuspecting author into a sense (false or otherwise)
of security.
As ideas flew out, someone suggested picking up from the burgeoning sub-genre of the shared universe.
These are worlds created by one or more authors and then opened up to many authors writing in the
same universe, sharing characters and the like. Perhaps the best-known world isThieves’ World, but
there are others such asHeroes from Hell, Liavek, The Blood of Ten Chiefs andWild Cards . Many of
us shared admiration for how George R.R. Martin seamlessly weaved multiple authors’ works into one
mosaic novel, especially in volume three ofWild Cards . It became obvious that the most successful
shared universe of all has been, and probably always will be,Star Trek .
Ever since Gene Roddenberry created the series in 1964, people have been working with his dream,
optimism and characters. First there were the writers for the seventy-nine television episodes, and then he
let James Blish handle the first everStar Trek novel. Since then, there have been scores of novels, short
stories and comic books all sharing in the same world. There have been some bumps and bruises along
the way, but these days most everyone likes to share the universe and keep it as tightly knit as possible.
Perhaps now, we thought, was the time to come up with a novel idea that could involve a group of
writers.
Though everyone nodded and walked away feeling really good about the idea, no one wrote an outline.
This became increasingly obvious as winter turned to spring and spring rapidly gave way to summer.
With the Mets rallying for a repeat of 1986, I decided that if no one else was going to try to write the
outline, I would.
I prepared an outline and David liked it. He sent copies out to a number of the people who’d expressed
interest in the shared novel and said we’d all discuss it at the first annualStar Trek authors’ picnic. That
August saw everyone gather at a park in Manhasset, New York, and this time we lost Margaret, Allan
and Arlene, but gained Brad Ferguson and Howard Weinstein. David never showed up. He claimed he
was sick. We think he can’t be seen in sunlight.
The authors discussed the outline in depth and agreed that something usable was here and that we
should all get to work on it. Michael and Bob were set on participating, but Carmen was waffling. She
wasn’t sure if this was something that could play to her strengths as a writer. Carmen wanted to see
more.
Thus were born the semi-frequent writers’ meetings. By late 1988, David had hired Kevin Ryan as an
assistant editor and they hosted meetings to discuss the book outline. Based on feedback from others, I
had revised the story repeatedly. Peter David had already sold Pocket one novel and had established his
credentials on theStar Trek comic for DC Comics. He readily agreed to be the third member of the
writing team (after all, at Peter’s speed this would be easily a two-, maybe three-hour job).
Somewhere during all this, DC Comics reacquired the rights toStar Trek comics, and it was no surprise
that Peter went right back to work on theStar Trek title while Michael accepted the challenge of
producing a monthlyNext Generation comic, concurrent with the TV series. This, of course, meant more
expensive lunches and dinners to talk aboutStar Trek, which is as fine a pastime as any.
The novel, finally dubbedDoomsday World, continued to evolve, and Carmen found herself enjoying the
give and take that happened during these meetings and agreed to be our fourth author. I also think she
liked the rotating appetizer idea, which featured everything from small breads to cookies to rugelah,
followed by pizzas galore.
We finally had an outline we liked and that Paramount Pictures then approved. From there, I broke the
story down into thirty-eight elements and we assigned character points of view. We divided the
thirty-eight sections among ourselves, swapping a few here and there for balance, and then we worked
on a character bible. We also agreed that since I wrote the basic outline, Michael would get the dubious
honor of melding four distinctive styles into a final polish. So, finally, by July 1989 we were ready to
begin simultaneous writing.
Everyone wrote diligently (although Peter managed to squeeze inA Rock and a Hard Place prior to
starting his section) and Mike, Carmen and I met at the 1989 World Con in Boston to compare notes. In
September we had a meeting to make sure we all felt comfortable, and it was surprising how comfortable
we felt about the work done to date. Most everyone was nearing the homestretch, and we liked what
was happening as characters and incidents blended together with little trouble.
By mid-October all the work had been done. Nearly three hundred manuscript pages had been
produced, and Kevin (for whom the K’Vin are duly named in this story) read through it and pronounced
it good. He sent copies to everyone involved and we held the final pizza meeting. It was a grand affair as
both Mike and Bob brought munchies, Peter brought some video entertainment and Kevin sprang for the
pizzas, while Carmen brought her new kitten.
The five of us went through the book section by section, making notes and discussing complicated
details like exactly which way Stephaleh’s name was to be spelled. Hours later we were tired, bloated
and satisfied. The book was indeed good and we were all very, very surprised that it had worked so well
and so smoothly. After going through it, Michael had his notes and went home and in about two more
weeks had a polish that Kevin also deemed wonderful (a.k.a. “thank God, it’s here!”). Once Kevin
finished editing it, the manuscript went to the copy editor and then back to us for one more go-round.
And then it went off to Paramount for their blessing and then to type and galley and bound book, which
should be flying off shelves even as you read this long, tedious section.
At that meeting we all declared that it was Carmen’s turn to do the next story for the four of us. She
hemmed and hawed a bit and said thatif she did choose to write a framework story, she would also
reserve the right to final polish. We all nodded yes. Carmen, to this day, swears that the second shared
book will have to wait until you, the reader, have judged this effort.
Which leads us to the next step. Feedback. We love commentary, and over at DC Comics I have been
spoiled by the monthly feedback from the general readership. We are all available in care of Pocket
Books and look forward to hearing from you.
This has been a labor of love and, in my case, since conceiving this story some two years ago, it was
more than that. We like what we’ve done and we hope you do, too. If not, blame Kevin—he’s the
editor.
Robert Greenberger
Long Island, NY
December 1989
Chapter One
FIRSTOFFICERWILLIAMRIKERsat in the command chair of theEnterprise and longed to be the
captain of a Galaxy-class starship.
He had spent his childhood reading the history of space exploration and marveling at the exploits of the
men and women who had saved their ships from danger or sacrificed their own lives in the attempt.
Admirals might plan expeditions into uncharted space, but captains actually made the first contact with
alien races and forged new alliances for a growing Federation. Captains were surrounded by an aura of
adventure and Riker had never abandoned his dream of someday commanding a starship that would
travel to the far-distant reaches of the galaxy.
He had never dreamed of becoming a first officer and dealing with petty-minded bureaucrats.
That was the problem with daydreams: they left out the details. Captains gained all that glory because
they assigned boring, mundane duties to someone else. And just now that someone else was him.
“Commander, we are being hailed by the K’Vin embassy.”
Riker jerked himself up from a slumped position. Several hours of waiting had gradually eroded his
posture, but Lieutenant Worf’s announcement recalled the first officer to a sense of official dignity.
“Well, it’s about time. Put them through on my signal.”
He drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited for certain members of the bridge crew to reassume
their positions. Wesley Crusher came down a side ramp from the aft station and scrambled back into the
empty Conn station. Lieutenant Solis had remained at Ops, but he arched his back in a bone-cracking
stretch. Deanna Troi, who had drifted over to a refreshment dispenser, was slightly less energetic than the
ensign in reclaiming her seat in the command area, but she abandoned her unfinished drink without
complaint.
After a final visual sweep of the oval bridge to check that everyone was alert and professional in
appearance, Riker turned his attention to the viewscreen that covered the curving forward bulkhead.
“Ready, Lieutenant Worf.”
A static planetscape gave way to a live transmission from the embassy’s administrative assistant. Gezor
was of another race entirely from the thickset K’Vin who employed him; he was small-boned and
pink-skinned with a mane of curling black hair that crowned his head and ran down his spine.
“Cool days to you and yours, Commander Riker.” Despite a rasping accent, Gezor’s use of the
Federation language was impeccable. “Having completed the examination of your Petition for Territorial
Trespass, the K’Vin embassy of Kirlos grants provisional clearances to Lieutenant Worf and to
Lieutenant Geordi La Forge.”
“Provisional?” A prickle of apprehension made the first officer voice this question rather more sharply
than he had intended.
“Yes,” said Gezor with a lazy blink of his heavy eyelids. “It appears that the clearance form for
Lieutenant Commander Data has not been completed satisfactorily. Without a full disclosure of the
requested information, he cannot be permitted to enter K’Vin territory.”
Assuming a genial expression that was far from sincere, Riker launched into an explanation. “As I
indicated on the form, several of the line items are not applicable to Mr. Data. As an android, he does
not have a biological mother or father. Nor does he—”
“And I am still waiting for transmission of his medical history,” interrupted Gezor. Although delivered in
an unruffled monotone, his gruff announcement effectively drowned out the rest of the first officer’s
words.
“As I said before,” Riker’s voice increased in volume, “he is anandroid . He does nothave a medical
file.”
“Then Lieutenant Commander Data cannot be granted right of trespass by the K’Vin embassy. And his
removal from the landing party will, of course, invalidate all related petitions. Provisional clearance for
Lieutenant Worf and Lieutenant Commander La Forge is hereby denied.”
Riker clenched his jaw until he could trust himself to speak. “But, Gezor, the Federation embassy on
Kirlos has already approved—”
“The K’Vin are not responsible for the inadequacies of the resident Federation embassy. Therefore, if at
any point theEnterprise landing party attempts to cross through K’Vin territory—”
Riker lunged out of the captain’s chair to stand, feet astride, in the center of the command deck. He was
a big man, and it was difficult for him to resist using his looming height to intimidate others. Perhaps
someday he would learn how Captain Picard managed to compel respect without that physical
advantage; until then, however, Riker intended to make use of any asset available to him.
“You know very well that they have to cross through K’Vin territory to reach the archaeological site!
That’s the whole point of their mission!”
Gezor met this statement with a reproving frown. “In that case, Commander Riker, you must fill out the
appropriate forms in their entirety for proper clearance of personnel.”
Riker moved a finger across his throat.
Lieutenant Worf snapped off the communications link with the embassy. Gezor’s face winked away;
once again the viewscreen presented an image of the day side of Kirlos, the same view that had been
displayed since the ship’s arrival in the solar system two days earlier. The planet’s surface, unbroken by
seas or oceans, was a monotone patchwork of beige and tan.
“Contact is suspended,” confirmed Worf.
Taking a deep breath, Riker consciously eased the stiff cast of his shoulders.
“The K’Vin have resisted us at every step of the way in our attempt to put a landing party on Kirlos.”
He turned to Troi, still seated next to the empty captain’s chair. “Why?”
“I’m not familiar with the Sullurh as a race,” she said, puzzling over the nuances of the exchange she had
just witnessed. “Yet I don’t detect any real hostility from Gezor. Rather, he appears to be a loyal
employee of the K’Vin and one who interprets their regulations very literally.” To Riker’s surprise, the
counselor then smiled. “If anything, I would say that he is simply bored.”
“And I’m providing today’s entertainment,” he said tightly. “Well, enough of that.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, the first officer glared belligerently at the planet Kirlos as he
contemplated his next move. The portion of the planet facing them included a round, flat area that
researchers had nicknamed the Valley—interesting, but not interesting enough to divert him from his
pique. Then a sudden inspiration eased the tight line of his frown into a broad grin. His arms loosened and
fell back down to his sides.
“Mr. Worf,” Riker called out with obvious relish, “reestablish contact with the K’Vin embassy.”
When Gezor reappeared on the viewscreen, his expression was bland and betrayed no reaction to the
prolonged break in communications. Nevertheless, Riker prefaced his speech with a conciliatory bow.
“Gezor, there has been a regrettable confusion in the filing of the landing party’s Petition for Territorial
Trespass. Lieutenant Commander Data should have been included in the accessory requisition section of
the petition, since he is part of the research equipment allotment. As a highly advanced technological
device, he is essential to the landing party’s investigation.”
The administrator took his time considering this proposal, time enough for him to blink three times, then
finally replied. “Yes, in that case, the appropriate information requirements would be satisfied. Under the
circumstances, I will allow a second petition for personnel clearance of Lieutenant Worf and Lieutenant
La Forge to be filed along with the amended equipment manifest. Stand by for transmission of the
instructions for that procedure.”
The planet Kirlos wiped across the viewscreen, signaling an end to the connection with the K’Vin
embassy.
“More forms,” groaned Riker.
Wesley Crusher swiveled his Conn chair to face the first officer. “I guess this is all part of the burden of
command, right, Mr. Riker?” he asked with a grin.
Riker grinned back.
“Ensign Crusher.” Stepping closer, Riker clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’ve been
neglecting your interest in the Kirlos project. How very selfish of me to stand in the way of your
educational progress.”
“Sir?” Wesley stirred uneasily in the Conn chair.
“This is an excellent opportunity for you to learn, in-depth, another one of the challenges of starship
management.” Glancing over his shoulder, Riker addressed Lieutenant Worf. “The ensign will be handling
all further communications with the embassy.”
“Yes, sir.” The Klingon checked the flickering lights that chased across his communications board. “Still
transmitting. The amount of incoming data appears to be rather large.”
“Well, just let the ensign know as soon as it’s all in. I’ll be in a meeting with the captain, so the bridge is
yours.” With a final hearty slap to the ensign’s shoulder, Riker strode away from the helm to the captain’s
ready room. Then, while waiting to be allowed through the doors, he turned back to add, “And don’t
skip any of the line items, Mr. Crusher. The K’Vin are very thorough.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ensign Crusher was no longer smiling.
* * *
The captain’s desk had been cleared of all objects. All objects except for the small statue which Geordi
La Forge set down very carefully in the center of the table. Each element of the piece was so perfectly
balanced that the carving stayed erect without a base to steady it.
Jean-Luc Picard was jolted out of his normal reticence by its beauty. He eagerly leaned forward in his
chair for a closer inspection.
The figurine was of a member of an unfamiliar humanoid race. Its compact, muscled body had been
caught in motion, leaping up from a crouch. The skirts of its tunic and its long bushy tail floated in air.
Picard had assumed the subject was a dancer until he saw the bared teeth set in a snarl. Its eyes were
closed to narrow slits, and it had the cold look of a predator about to kill its prey.
The predominant color of the statue was a rich orange, but it was shot through with delicate veins of
green and white. The surface was so highly polished that it gleamed even in the subdued light of the ready
room.
“What is it made of?”
“A rare form of marble called arizite,” said Geordi.
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. But I’ve never seen it before.” The captain reached out to touch the statue, then
caught himself. “May I?”
“Be my guest,” said La Forge with an expansive wave. “When I told Professor Coleridge you were
interested in archaeology, she sent it up especially for you to inspect.”
Riker strode through the doors of the office in time to hear the engineer’s last comment. “Yes, but she
left the paperwork for the transfer to me.”
Picard was too absorbed in examining the statue to spare any attention to Riker’s entrance. The marble
weighed heavily in his palm and was cool to the touch. It was also flawless. No nick or scratch marred its
surface.
“You say the ruins are full of such remains of the Ariantu culture?”
“Oh, yes. And evidently this is just one of the minor pieces.” Geordi stepped aside to let Riker view the
object in the captain’s hands. “According to Nassa . . . I mean Professor Coleridge, the gamma level of
Kirlos was evacuated in a very short period of time, though we are not sure why. The result is that the
resident Ariantu abandoned almost all of their possessions. In time, the excavation team should be able to
re-create an incredibly detailed portrait of their day-to-day life.”
“Ah!” sighed Picard with an envious gleam in his eyes. “I would very much like the opportunity to—”
“Don’t even think it, Captain,” cut in Riker. “Under no circumstances are you to set foot on Kirlos.”
Picard’s head snapped up. The blank look he gave his first officer was a sure sign of his suppressed
irritation. “Really, Number One. This is carrying your concern for my safety too far. You can’t convince
me that I would face the slightest danger on Kirlos.”
“Who said anything about danger? I’m tired of filling out forms!” Riker swung one leg over the back of a
chair and settled down at the desk across from the captain. “If we try to petition for the inclusion of a
starship captain in the landing party, the K’Vin will want to know how many hairs there are on your head
and what your mother had for breakfast the day you were born.”
“Yes, I see,” said Picard, with a return to his previous good humor. “Well, it was but a passing thought.”
However, he continued to gaze at the statue, and all that it stood for, with obvious longing. A hail from
the ship’s intercom scarcely touched his thoughts.
“Lieutenant La Forge and Lieutenant Worf, please report to sickbay for landing party
physicals.”
“On my way, Doctor,” said Geordi after a tap to his insignia. He and Riker exchanged commiserating
looks, but the chief engineer had already passed beyond the threshold of the room before Picard realized
he was leaving.
“Damn. I meant to thank him for this.” Picard restored the Ariantu artifact to its place of honor on the
desk, but it still held his attention. Riker rocked back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Since he
made no attempt to break the captain’s concentration, the two officers shared a companionable silence.
With a sidelong glance at his first officer, Picard finally said, “You know, Number One, that I have full
confidence in your choice of landing party members.”
“Certainly, Captain.”
“But you must admit,” continued Picard with studied disinterest, “that the composition of the landing
party to Kirlos is a little . . . unusual.”
The first officer nodded solemnly. “Well, that’s true. Usually the chief engineer stays aboard the ship.”
“Granted. But in this case, Nassa Coleridge specifically requested Geordi. From what he’s told me, she
was a sort of mentor to him before he decided to enter Starfleet Academy, and his VISOR will be an
enormous aid to their search through the ruins. And there’s no question that Data is well suited for this
type of scientific research.” Picard failed to suppress the faint trace of a smile. “But why Worf? I thought
Lieutenant Keenan was scheduled for the next planet security assignment.”
“Worf volunteered.” When Picard met this explanation with a raised eyebrow, Riker added, “Why
wouldn’t a Klingon want to beam down into the middle of disputed space?”
“Hardly disputed!” scoffed the captain. He leaned back in his chair, not quite matching Riker’s level of
informality but relaxing all the same. “The K’Vin and the Federation have been camped out on Kirlos for
more than thirty years without exchanging a single shot. In fact, I’ve heard that Ambassador Stephaleh
and Ambassador Gregach have a standing arrangement to play dyson every week.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence,” said Riker without any further elaboration.
“I begin to understand.” Picard shook his head in mock disapproval. “The wages of sin. Perhaps now
the lieutenant will be more careful about what games he plays with the members of his security force. And
the stakes involved.”
Riker covered his grin by absently stroking his beard. “You can bet on it, Captain.”
Dr. Beverly Crusher placed the tip of a hypo against the side of Worf’s neck and listened for the telltale
hiss of the injection. Almost immediately, Worf started to get up from the diagnostic table, but she hauled
him back in place. It was harder to do than she’d expected. Not a reassuring discovery.
“I’ll let you know when I’m done, Lieutenant Worf.” The doctor calmly dialed another medication
setting even though a sound like distant thunder reverberated from deep in the Klingon’s chest.
Geordi waited patiently for his fellow officer. “Why all the inoculations?”
“Just a precaution,” said Crusher, triggering another injection. “A large number of alien races are
crowded together down in the tunnels of Kirlos. Biofilters may keep existing strains of contaminants from
reaching the settlement, but there’s always a chance you could pick up a newly mutated virus. This will
give you a broader base of immunity.”
Then, most unfortunately, she added, “Actually, my best advice is for you both to stay well hydrated and
to stay cool. According to the Federation embassy’s medical records, most of the fatalities on the planet
are from heat exhaustion.”
“That is the death of a beast of burden!” cried out Worf, speaking for the first time since entering
sickbay.
The ominous rumbling sound rose up from his chest to his throat. Crusher could feel the vibrations in her
fingers when she touched the metal cylinder to his neck a third time. In a well-meaning attempt to distract
him from the final injection, the doctor asked, “I thought Keenan was scheduled for this assignment.”
The Klingon snarled, flashing a large white incisor from beneath a curled lip.
Crusher stepped back from her patient, nearly dropping the empty hypo to the floor of sickbay, but she
still managed to say with some dignity, “You can go now, Lieutenant.”
Chief O’Brien clung to the controls of the transporter with the white-knuckled desperation of a drowning
man. Like most transporter operators who had grown accustomed to the job, he liked a steady ebb and
flow of traffic through his domain. There was a certain vulnerability to his position, tied as he was to a
duty post in a small room, that made him wary of prolonged interactions with the crew. On this particular
occasion, however, Lieutenant Commander Data had arrived well in advance of the other members of
the landing party, and he displayed no inclination to wait for his companions in silence.
“And what is even more interesting,” continued Data, warming to the subject he had introduced soon
after his entrance to the transporter room, “is that when these magnetic and rotational characteristics are
considered in the light of recent spectrographic examinations of the substratum formations, the
congruences indicate that Kirlos is an artificially constructed planet. Unfortunately, this still does not
explain . . .”
Data halted his narrative in midstream. There was something very familiar about the look in Chief
O’Brien’s eyes. Captain Picard often developed a similar expression just prior to requesting that Data
cease speaking.
“Do you perhaps wish to say something at this point?” asked the android.
O’Brien started, as if waking from a dazed sleep. “No,sir,” he said, with what Data considered a rather
odd emphasis on the disparity in their rank. “I can’t think of anything that would be appropriate to say at
this time.”
Data was still puzzling over the somewhat ambiguous wording of this response when the doors to the
transporter room hissed apart.
“I envy you, Data,” said Geordi as he and Worf walked inside. “You don’t need to stop by sickbay
before going on an away mission.”
“That is correct,” acknowledged Data, turning his attention away from O’Brien’s comment with some
reluctance. “However, I have undergone minor adjustments to my thermostatic controls. According to
my research on Kirlos, even in the tunnels we will be exposed to daytime temperatures of . . .”
He stopped talking. His head swung back and forth as he tracked Geordi’s waving hand. “What is the
significance of that gesture?”
“It means ‘not now,’ Data.” Geordi broke into a friendly grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll explain later.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Satisfied with this promise of future enlightenment, Data followed Worf.
“Transporter coordinates laid in,” announced O’Brien as he scanned the control panel readings. His
fingers tapped out the first steps of the molecular transfer process. “By the way, I thought Keenan was
scheduled for this assignment.”
The small chamber seemed to amplify Worf’s growl. He glared at O’Brien as Geordi took his place on
the platform.
The transporter chief triggered the beam-down process. “Good-bye, gentlemen.”
The landing party faded away in a glittering cloud of yellow light. Then, and only then, did O’Brien smile.
Chapter Two
“IT’S YOUR MOVE,GREGACH,” Stephaleh said softly. She always said things softly; it was her way,
and had been for all of her fifty-three years. A soft voice—backed by a will of iron.
It had been a full life for Stephaleh, one that was quietly winding down with this assignment as
ambassador to Kirlos. Her time on the man-made world passed pleasantly these days, highlighted by
evenings like this one, spent playing games of skill with her K’Vin counterpart, the gruff Ambassador
Gregach.
She looked across the table at her opponent. Gregach sat slumped in his seat, both hands gripping the
armrests.
He was typical of the K’Vin, a large, slow-moving people with thick, gray skin. Of course, Gregach was
a little heavier than the average K’Vin, but he was also leading a rather sedentary life. His extra weight
made his small green eyes appear even smaller than they actually were.
Stephaleh had always been fascinated by the pair of small tusks that jutted out from Gregach’s
jawbones—also typical of his race, a reminder of the K’Vin’s predatory nature, a caution that they were
a people to be reckoned with.
Nearly a hundred years ago, the K’Vin had joined the United Federation of Planets. But it had never
been a match made in heaven. The K’Vin were too fierce, with too great an appetite for interfering in the
affairs of other worlds—including those protected by the Prime Directive.
摘要：

TotheDSPSG’sofSection2.—CarmenToalltheusualsuspects.—PeterForJoan—morethanevermyheart’sfriend.—MichaelToDebforbeingbehindmealltheway.AndtoKatieandRobbieforthesheerjoyofitall!—BobAndtothecooksanddeliverypeopleatMariellaPizza,midtownNewYorkCity,oureternalthanks.Withoutyouthisbookwouldnothavebeenpossib...

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