Forg held his breath and listened intently, straining to detect even the slightest sound.
There was nothing.
A trickle of cold sweat snaked its way down the back of his neck, quickly prompting him to bite his lip, stifling a sudden squeak of terror. Under normal circumstances, the halls of a Ferengi Merchantman positively buzzed with the chatter of conspiracies and intrigue and of deals being struck. But now there wasn't even the reassuringly, sensual chink of gold-pressed latinum.
Forg prided himself on having the kind of lobes that could detect the unique sound of a strip of latinum being...