Picard tries his best to absorb himself in his work, but before long he feels something of a chill in the air. Strange. The atmospheric settings should be at optimum — ah, but then he recalls what Q had said about tampering with the ship's systems.

"Confound it all, Q, I thought I told you..." he begins, but he never finishes that sentence. He can see frost growing on his desk, up the legs of his chair; as he turns, it spreads inwards from his windows. It reminds him, however briefly, of winter nights spent with his mamé in France.

He rises from his seat, frowning at the spectacle. "What the devil?"