Chapter One

In Space, No One
  Can Fry an Egg

THE OFFICERS' MESS of the starship USS Enterprise
was a small, rather cozy room, with comfortable
chairs, moderately bright lighting, and a food-service
wall with four delivery slots, no waiting. This morn-
ing, two officers entered the room, dropped briefing
folders marked TOP SECRET onto the table, and ap-
proached the service wall.
    "I don't know, Scotty," said Captain James T. Kirk,
with an offhand gesture toward the secret documents.
"Maybe it's just the idea of an inflatable rubber
starship that bothers me." Kirk turned to face the
messroom wall. "Two eggs, sunny side up," he told it,
"bacon crisp, wheat toast, and a large orange juice."
The wall went pleep in acknowledgment.
    "Oatcakes wi' butter an' syrup," Chief Engineer
Montgomery Scott told the wall, "a broiled kipper,
an' coffee black." Pleep. "Rubber's hardly the word
for the material, Captain. It's a triple-monolayer
sandwich: an organic polymer inside to keep th' gas
in, metal film on the outside to reflect sensors like a




real ship's hull, an' a pseudofluid sealant between
'em."
    Ploop went the wall. "I do not have that sandwich on
today's menu," it said, in a pleasantly maternal voice.
"May I suggest the grilled cheese with Canadian
bacon?"
    Scott gave the wall an amiable kick. "An' each of
the prototypes is nae bigger than a deak while it's
collapsed, includin' the inflation system. Not that it
takes much gas to fill her out, not in hard vacuum; a
couple o' lungfulsm"
    "Mr. Scott somewhat underestimates the volume of
gas required," said a voice from the messroom door-
way. "The inflation system holds twenty-seven cubic
meters of compressed dry nitrogen. Exhaled breath of
course contains moisture and respiratory waste prod-
ucts, which would be quite damaging to the material
of the Deployable Practice Target."
"Good morning, Spoek," Kirk said patiently.
Science Officer Spoek entered the mess, hands
folded and eyebrows arched. "It does seem the start of
a productive day," he said, as the door hissed shut
behind him. "One hundred grams of unsalted soya
wafers, with one hundred twenty grams of defatted
cream cheese," Spock told the wall, "and two hun-
dred milliliters of unsweetened grapefruit juice."
Pleep.
    "I admit that the Deployable Target is a very fancy
rubber balloon," Kirk said, "not to mention
expensive--"
    "Two point eight six three million credits for each
of the four prototypes," Spoek said.
 "--but it's still shooting rubber fish in a barrel."
 Ploop. "Fried fish are available--"
 Kirk ignored the wall and looked past the steep rise

of Spock's eyebrow. "Balloons can't maneuver tacti-
cally, and yes, I've read the stuff in the Starfleet
Institute Proceedings about 'pretending three-
hundred-meter starships are Sopwith Camels.'"
    Pling went the wall, and a panel slid open to reveal a
tray. Two eggs looked sunny side up from the plate
above a smile of bacon. Kirk took the tray to the
dining table.
    The door opened again, and Ship's Surgeon Leon-
ard McCoy came in. Without a word to anyone, he
walked crookedly to the wall, leaned heavily against
it, and said something that sounded like "Plergb
hfarizz ungemby, and coffee."
  Bones McCoy was not a morning person.
    Pleep, the wall replied, and then pling for the
delivery of Scott's breakfast, and pling again for
Spock's. They sat down at the table with Kirk.
    The captain had broken the yolk on one of his eggs,
buttered his toast, and had his glass two-thirds of the
way to his mouth before noticing that the liquid in the
tumbler was blue.
    Not the deep indigo of grape juice, or the soothing
azure of Romulan ale, but a luminous, electric blue, a
color impossible in nature.
    Kirk looked around the table. Scott and Spoek were
discussing some obscure engineering aspect of the
bal--Deployable Practice Target. There didn't seem
to be anything wrong with their breakfasts; Scott's
black coffee was black, Spoek's juice was pale gold.
Dr. McCoy was still waiting for his meal, watching
the rest of them like a vulture with a hangover, but his
stare had a distinctly unfoeused quality. Maybe it was
just the early hour, Kirk thought, a trick of the light or
something. He looked at his juice again. Still blue.
  Starship captains are a special breed of beings who

9




boldly go, et cetera. Kirk took a sip of the blue liquid.
It tasted just like orange juice. It even had pulp that
got caught in his teeth, just like orange juice. One more look. Blue.
    The wall plinged, and McCoy brought his tray to
the table. Kirk looked at the doctor's meal: there was
a huge mug of coffee, a slab of Virginia ham, and an
enormous heap of something else. The something else
was orange, in the same way Kirk's juice had not been
orange: it was signal-flare orange, bright as a Christ-
mas necktie. Kirk noticed that Spock and Scotty had
stopped talking, and eating, and were looking intently
at the orange mound on the doctor's plate.
    Oblivious, McCoy buttered the orange heap, sliced
the ham, and went at them like a starving man.
    After a moment, Spock finished his crackers and
cheese, stood up, and slipped his tray into the disposal
slot. "Excuse me, Captain, Mr. Scott, Dr. McCoy. I
have some preparations to make for the Target tests."
    "Aye," Scott said, watching McCoy eat as the syrup
congealed around his own oatcakes. Kirk said "Of
course, Spock." McCoy said "Gmltfrbl."
    Spock looked sidelong at McCoy's plate, turned
sharply and went out. Kirk thought he looked rather
green, even for a Vulcan.
    "I'd better check over the launch tubes," Scott said.
"For, uh, th' tests, an' all." He went out.
    Kirk watched, fascinated, as Dr. McCoy forked
down the orange stuff, interspersed with chunks of
ham and gulps of coffee. Finally McCoy drank deep
from his mug, sat back in his chair, and let out a long
sigh and a short burp.
    He looked at Kirk, and frowned. "What's the
matter, Jim? Haven't y'ever seen a man eat grits
before?"

 "I, um..."
    "And what in the name of Hygeia are you drink-
ing?"
    "Morning, ah, pick-me-up," Kirk said hastily, and
emptied the glass to the last blue drop. "'Scuse me,
Bones, lots to do today." He stood up and dumped his
tray, with one uneaten egg still on it. There was no
waste; the food processors would recycle it, Kirk
thought, and at once regretted thinking.
    It was, the captain thought as he left the puzzled
doctor in the messroom, going to be one of those days.

    Not far away, silent in silent deep space, Federation
resource exploratory vessel Jefferson Randolph Smith
cruised at Warp Factor Four, her sensor net spread
wide in search of dilithium. Dilithium, that rare and
refractory mineral that powers the warp drive, indeed
the Federation itself... but more about dilithium a
little later. Just now, aboard Smith, the captain was
also having one of those days.
    But then, thought Captain Tatyana Trofimov, as she
sipped her blue orange juice, it always seemed to be
one of those days.
    The rest of Smith's officers were at the messroom
table with Captain Trofimov. The first officer, a
Withiki named Tellihu, had his broad, red-feathered
wings draped over the back of his chair, he read a
freshly printed newsfax with his left hand and ate a
mushroom omelet with his right. Tellihu had had eggs
for breakfast every morning of Smith's mission, four
hundred and sixty-six days so far, and it still seemed
to Captain Trofimov vaguely like cannibalism.
    Science Officer T'Vau had finished her soya salad
and was looking at a chess set. Not playing with it, not
touching the pieces, just looking. T'Vau's hair was

lO                                                                  11




dangling over one pointed ear, and there were
vinegar-and-oil spots on her uniform blouse. For a
Vulcan, the Captain thought, T'Vau was really a slob.
    The three of them were all the officers aboard
Jefferson Randolph Smith, and also all the crew, just
as this compartment was not only the messroom but
the common room and the recreation room. Smith
(NCC-29402, Sulek-class) was a ship of the Resources
Division, Exploration Command, designed to seek
outreno, not what you're thinking~seek out miner-
als, especially dilithium, at the lowest possible cost.
    It was actually not such a small ship, really quite
roomy given its crew of three. And Starfleet Psycho-
logical Division had been very aware that a crew of
only three for a mission of twenty to twenty-eight
months must be carefully chosen for compatibility.
PsyComm recommended that a special battery of
crew-relations tests be designed.
    The test designers were hard at work and expected
to deliver a preliminary report no later than six
months from now. Until thenwwell, somebody had
to bring in the dilithium.
    Captain Trofimov came from Reynaud II, a thinly
populated planet on the Cygnus-Carina Fringe, with-
out much space trade. Trofimov had decided very
young that she was not only going to enlist in Starfleet
and get off Reynaud II, she was going to get every
millimeter as far off Reynaud II as Starfleet went.
Exploration Command seemed like just the thing.
The recruiter showed her trishots of the big mining
ships, like Dawson City, and the planetformers, like
Robert Moses, vessels bigger than starships, bigger
than starbases, and Trofimov knew that her destiny
was sealed.
  Only too right, she thought.

    Tellihu finished his omelet, stood up, and said
something to the wall in the whistling Withiki lan-
guage. Pleep, the wall said, then pling. Tellihu took out
what looked to Trofimov like an ice cream cone filled
with birdseed and went out of the room nibbling it,
dipping his wings to clear the doorway.
    He does it deliberately, the captain thought. He'd
eat worms if he thought he could get away with it.
    She looked at T'Vau. The science officer picked a
kelp strand out of her salad bowl and chewed on it
idly, still watching the 'chess set. Finally she reached
out, picked up a pawn, turned it over in her fingers,
then put it back on its original square.
    Trofimov finished her juice without looking at it,
and left T'Vau to her, uh, game. As she went into the
corridor she thought, I'll bet it's never like this for
starship captains ....

    Not much farther away at all, the Imperial Klingon
cruiser Fire Blossom patrolled the Organian Treaty
Zone that separated the Empire from the Federation.
    Fire Blossom was named for an incident in the
youth of its captain, Kaden vestai-Oparai. Kaden had
been an ensign, helmsman aboard a B-5 destroyer in
one of the Wars of Internal Dissension. A lucky hit
had pierced the destroyer's screens and killed most of
the bridge crew, including the captain. Kaden had
seized command, only to realize that he had a small
and damaged ship being hotly pursued by a light
attack cruiser.
    Kaden broke formation and made for the nearest
sun, dodging the cruiser's fire. The deflectors began
shining with energy, the hull to heat despite them.
The pursuer closed in. There was no practical chance
of survival: the cruiser's heavier screens could sustain

12                                                                  13




a much closer approach to the star, almost to the
photosphere. It didn't even have to fire weapons. Just
a little more pursuit, and Kaden's ship would melt.
    At the last possible moment before the B-5 flashed
to vapor, Kaden ejected a survival pod on maximum
drive and broke away at nearly ninety degrees, calcu-
lating that the cruiser's captain would swing behind
him, looking suddenly from intolerable light into
darkness, and take a moment to line up his final shot.
He would pay no attention to the pod; it was doomed
to vaporize in an instant.
    Kaden's guess was right. And as the cruiser took
aim, the pod Kaden had jettisoned struck the star.
Its contents, four magnetic bottles of antimatter,
collapsed, and even antiplasma reacts violently with
normal matter. There was an eruption from the solar
surface, a very small prominence by solar s'mndards,
but big enough to engulf the cruiser. The light of its
shields collapsing was lost in the sun.
    That had been many years ago, Kaden thought as
he ordered breakfast from the messroom wall. That
had been when life was really enjoyable. Now he
commanded a D-7c, a heavy-enhanced battlecruiser
as much more powerful than that little destroyer as
the destroyer outgunned its survival pod. There was
not a deck officer in the entire Imperial Klingon Navy
who would not have been excited to command a D-7c
into battle against any foe of the Empire.
    Unfortunately, ever since the business with the
Organians, there had been a real shortage of foes of
the Empire you could go into battle against. Try
anything the least bit violent in one of the Treaty
Zones, and everything like a weapon on the ship, from
main-battery controls to cutlery, got red-hot, and
some disembodied voice lectured you on the Treaty
provisions.

14

    Kaden had seen it happen, as an ensign. His squad-
ron had run across a couple of Tellarite freighters, no
armament, no escorts, nothing, they were practically
towing a sign saying PLEASE I-mACK. And practically
before the cruisers were in attack formation--hiss,
thunder, you could have fried chops on the Weap-
ons Control board. One of Kaden's bunkmates had
been in the portside ratings' head; the Organian
lightbulbs had a pretty strange idea of what consti-
tuted a weapon. Then, Organians were some kind
of pure energy. They probably didn't need disposal
cubicles.
    At any rate, thanks to the busybody lightbulbs,
Kaden's command was about as thrilling as watching
yeast grow. And speaking of yeast... Kaden looked
down at his battertoast, hot and crisp from the wall
unit. He shook his head. He looked at his glass of
sweetened fruit juice: it seemed all right. He took a
long gulp. The rapid Klingon metabolism broke sim-
ple sugars down almost instantly, producing a thor-
oughly pleasant buzz. Just the thing to get started in
the morning.
    There were consolations, Kaden thought. For one
thing, his bridge crew did include Arizhel.
    Rish came into the messroom precisely then. Kaden
just about jumped at the coincidence, then settled
back to watch her. She punched buttons on the meal
console, then leaned against the wall. Admirable hull
design, Kaden thought, splendid computing equip-
ment. And very sophisticated defensive systems, too,
which had thus far precluded any direct sensor analy-
sis, never mind tractors and boarding.
    Oh, well, Kaden thought, maybe in the Black Fleet
... He had a sudden, more immediate thought.
"Don't dial up the battertoast."
  "What's wrong with the battertoast?" Rish said, as

15




the console bell rang and the tray slid from the slot.
She looked down. "G'day't.t"
    "Well, not literally," Kaden said, and picked up one
of the green-coated sticks of toast from his own tray.
"They taste all right, if you don't look at them."
    Chief Engineer Askade, rather tall and slender for
an Imperial-race Klingon, and Security Officer
Maglus, built like a stormwalker and just as danger-
ous, came into the messroom and punched for meals.
    Arizhel said, "What do you make of this, Chief
Engineer?" She held up one of the green sticks.
    Askade took the battertoast, looked at it blearily. "I
can't rewire it into a death ray without some extra
parts," he said, and took a bite. "Hm. Tastes okay.
What's the problem?"
  "The color, that's what the problem is."
    "Oh?" Askade held the stick close to his eyes, tried
to focus on it. "Oh. Hm."
    Magius took his tray from the machine. There was a
slab of rare steak and four fried eggs on it, and a liter
mug of juice. The eggs had blue yolks. Maglus looked
at them for a moment, then shrugged and doused
them with hot sauce. He began eating heartily.
     Kaden said, "Maybe a couple of feed pipes got
 crossed, and it's recycling the used laundry instead.
 This is a sort of undress-tunic green, isn't it?"
     "That's most unlikely," Askade said, in an uncon-
 vincing tone.
    "When I think of what the food synths are supposed
to be recycling," Maglus put in between bites, "I'm
not sure that old socks would be so much worse."
     The intercom whistled, and the voice of Communi-
 cations Officer Aperokei came on. "Captain Kaden,
 Commander Arizhel, wanted on the bridge."
 Aperokei's voice was, as ever, bright and eager enough
 to put ice in one's blood.

 Rish touched the com key. "What is it, Proke?"
    "Ship on sensors, Commander. Looks like a Feder-
ation vessel."
 "Can you identify?" Kaden said.
    "It's small, Captain. Not likely to be a warship.
She's sublight in the shallows."
    There was a pause. Somewhere or another Aperokei
had acquired a fondness for Federation films, and it
showed up in his language. "She's what, Lieutenant?"
Kaden said patiently.
 "Cislunar orbit, I mean, Captain."
Arizhel said, "Sounds like a mapper or surveyor."
"I suppose we should take a look," Kaden said,
feeling uneasy already. "Pay our respects, smile at
them."
  "Carefully," Maglus said.
    Askade was idly turning his fork over in his hands.
"All we need this morning is a visit from the Org--"
He put the fork down, pushed it away.
  "We're coming, Proke," Arizhel told the intercom.
    "Aye, Commander. We'll look sharp from the
bow."
    The officers looked at each other, with expressions
from bemused to grim. "That youth was raised
wrong," Askade said, and they dumped their trays
and headed for the bridge.

    Aboard Jef~,rson Randolph Smith, Captain Trofi-
mov settled into her swivel chair at the center of the
bridge. It wasn't a very big bridge, only a room four
meters square, and the chair squeaked and its uphol-
stery was patched with plastic tape, but it was
Trofimov's bridge, and chair, and command. Content,
she switched on the main forward display.
    It showed a roomful of people staring at three-
dimensional chess sets.

16                                                                    17




    "Computer," Trofimov said, cautiously. A few
months back, T'Vau had spilled a milkshake into the
computer's main logic bank, and it hadn't been quite
the same since.
    "Proud to be active and functional, Captain," the
computer said.
  "Computer, what is on the main display?"
    "This is the 68th All-Federation Trimenchess
Championship, Captain."
    "I see. Why is it on the screen? Did the science
officer request it?"
    "No, Captain. I simply thought that Lieutenant
Commander T'Vau might find it of interest. Consider-
ing her interest in the game. And so forth."
    "Very well. But please clear--" Trofimov stopped.
The chess players on the screen were all sitting alone
at sets; not one had an opponent visible. She men-
tioned this to the computer.
    "That is correct, Captain. All these players are
competing against the J-9bis duotronic polyprocessor
computer known as Polymorphy. They are all pre-
dicted to resign in twenty moves or less."
 "Why... I mean, enhance, Computer."
    "I am sorry, Captain, but even though as a J-2
duotronic unit I am directly related to the J-9bis, I
lack the capacity to analyze why all these Vulcans
might want to play this pointless game."
    "I see. And you thought that the science officer
might find it... interesting."
    "I do my best to anticipate and fulfll the needs of
my crew, Captain. Excuse me, your crew."
    "Thank you, Computer. Clear the screen, please.
Forward camera view."
    The screen blanked and the normal starfield ap-
peared.
 Trofimov wondered about the computer. T'Vau

18

swore the milkshake hadn't done any real damage.
Could computers go stir-crazy like people? Trofimov
didn't know. They hadn't had talking computers on
Reynaud II. There was a law against it. When she
went offworld, Trofimov thought that the law was a
typically stupid, backwater, Reynaud II notion. She
wasn't so sure anymore.
    The milkshake had been some strange Vulcan flavor
that smelled like peppermint. There had been a lot of
sparks and a really awful smell, like roasted cottage
cheese, for weeks. Still, T'Vau knew computers.
  "Captain Trofimov?"
  "Yes, Computer?"
    "We're alone, aren't we? I mean, the science officer
isn't on the bridge, is she?"
    "No, Computer... Your sensors aren't malfunc-
tioning, are they?" As she considered the possibility,
it didn't seem as terrible. If the sensors weren't
working, they couldn't find dilithium. If they couldn't
find dilithium, there was no point in their being out
here. They could go home.
    "My sensors are fine, Captain. In fact, my sensors
are really great. I can't imagine why you might think
there's anything wrong with my sensors, they're just
in tip-top shape."
  "You asked if T'Vau was on the bridge."
  "Oh. Well. I thought she might be... hiding."
  "Hiding?"
  "Yes, Captain."
  "Why would she be doing that, Computer?"
  "Well, Captain... we are alone, aren't we?"
  "Completely."
    "You see, Captain, I think the science officer is
trying to kill me."
  "Kill you... Enhance, please."
  "Well, you see, she asked me to adjust the log entry

19




about her spilling the, you know, milkshake, so it said
'Science Officer T'Vau inadvertently spilled the milk-
shake,' and I told her--of course I told her I couldn't
do that, and she said she was going to get me for that,
and ever since..."
    The door opened and T'Vau came in. There was an
ink marker and a soldering pencil pinning her hair up,
and a watercress sandwich leaking mayonnaise down
her fingers.
    The computer voder was whistling "I Got Plenty o'
Nothin'."
  "Cease this behavior, Computer," T'Vau said.
    "Aye aye," the computer said. "At once, Science
OffiCer."
    "T'Vau," Trofimov said, "has the computer shown
any signs of malfunction? I mean, new malfunction?"
    "I see no sign of malfunction at all, Captain,"
T'Vau said slowly. "To what do you refer?"
"Doesn't its speech pattern strike you as... odd?"
T'Vau looked at the console. "It is illogical and
elliptic, but that is hardly odd for a machine pro-
gramreed by humans." She pulled the soldering pen-
cil from her hair, tapped it on one of the access
panels. "I must see if I can find time to study its
programming."
    "Yes," the captain said absently, "I know how busy
we've all been, these last few weeks..."
    "Four hundred sixty-five days, nine hours, forty-
one minutes. Now, Captain, if I am not required on
the bridge, I shall be in my quarters." "Of course, T'Vau."
 The science officer left the bridge.
    The computer said "Uh, Captain Trofimov...
that stuff I said earlier? About the science officer?
Don't pay any attention to it. We're getting along just

great. I mean that sincerely. I'm fine, Lieutenant
Commander T'Vau's fine, we're all fine."
    "That's fi--wonderful, Computer." Trofimov felt a
sudden sharp pain from her hands, looked down. Her
fingernails were pressed deeply into her palms.
    She faced the main display. It was showing a tape of
waves breaking on a seashore, amber-colored waves
under double suns, one red, one golden. It was really
very restful. She settled back to watch, and soon all
sense of time was gone.
    "Excuse me, Captain Trofimov," Srnith's computer
said abruptly.
  "What is it now?"
  "I don't want to bother you, Captain."
  "That's all right, Computer."
  "Really, Captain Trofimov, if you're busy..."
  "I'm not busy."
    "But I'm sure you've got a lot of important things
to do."
  "No. Really."
    "It's very nice of you to make time for me, Captain.
I understand how difficult it can be, being in sole
command of--"
  "Spill it, )~uter!"
    "I knew I was being a nuisance. I'm sorry, Cap-
tain."
    Trofimov held her breath and counted to ten.
"Computer."
  "Happy to be working."
  "Was there something you wanted to tell me?"
    "Oh. Yes, Captain. Sensors are picking up Hecht
radiation."
  "Very well," Trofimov said automatically. "What?"
    "When relatively pure dilithium deposits receive
solar radiation," the computer said patiently, "they

20                                                                    21




re-emit a particular signature of energy known as
Hecht radiation, named for--"
"I know that, damn it! Put it up on the board!"
A local stellar map appeared on the main display,
with graphs alongside showing the radiation-spec-
trum analysis. There, in glorious color, was the telltale
mark of dilithium in the sun, way up the electromag-
netic scale with a sizable i-component.
    The captain hit the intercom switch. "T'Vau,
Tellihu, get up to the bridge on the double. We're
going home."

Educational Short Subject:
Useful Facts about Dilithium

(FROM D~LlrmUM AND You, an educational filmstrip
produced by the Dilithium Information Institute, a
subsidiary of the Deneva Mining Consortium, a divi-
sion of Deneva-Universal Enterprises Ltd.)

 Dilithium!
    This amazing mineral, as beautiful as any jewel,
harder than any diamond, is vital to civilization as we
know it today. It is no exaggeration to say that the
Federation in which we live could not exist if not for
dilithium, the wonder mineral.
    But just what is it that makes dilithium so amazing?
Scientists here, in the laboratories of the Deneva
Mining Consortium, the Federation's largest private
producer of dilithium crystals for government and
industry, have spent many years and huge amounts of
money unlocking the secrets of this unique substance.
    We'd like to point out that it's the United Federa-
tion of Planets' wise and forward-looking policy of
tax deductions for research expenditures that have
made the wonders you're about to see possible.

22                                                                   23




 Mountains fall, and dilithium is revealed!
    Don't be afraid--what you're seeing is not some
alien war machine, but the chariot of Progress! This is
a Tagra-X Planetary Excavator. These mighty ma-
chines, capable of swallowing whole mountains at a
gulp, unearth dilithium ore wherever it may hide.
Itself powered by a dilithium-focused antimatter gen-
erator, the Tagra*X allows the mining of planets that
before would have been left untouched and useless.
  Fire one--It didn't bream
    Bullets just bounce off crystals of dilithium, the
hardest known substance in the universe. Dilithium is
in fact so hard that it exceeds the theoretical physical
laws for materials. This paradox baflied scientists for
decades, until researchers for the Deneva Mining
Consortium discovered the amazing truth: the crystal
structure of dilithium extends not just in the usual
three dimensions, but in four! Did you say... four?
    That's right! As illustrated in this computer ani-
mation, the internal structure of dilithium extends
both into the past and the future. The Deneva
Mining Consortium named this phenomenon Gonio-
chronicity~. The extreme difficulty of cutting dilithi-
um into usable shapes, requiring high-output lasers
over a long period of time, became suddenly under-
standable. Here's Dr. Wallace Thaumazein, star of
everyone's favorite popular science show, "Dr.
Wally's Kitchen of Wonders," with the explanation.
    "Scientists like me always thought it was net energy
absorption by the crystals that made them finally give
up under pressure, since as you probably know that's
how most of the stuff we live with in our everyday
lives acts. If I hit this pane of glass with this hammer,
see, it's gonna break."
 It sure did, Dr. Wally!

    "Right. Are you guys all right down there, with the
glass... ? Anyway, what we scientists figured out was
that you don't just have to hit a dilithium crystal hard,
you have to hit it hard last month, now, and a week
from Tuesday, so to speak. Now, here's a dilithium
crystal that we hit two days ago. And I've made a note
in my appointment calendarmyou can see it here, on
the wristwatch display--to hit it again two days from
now. Now, some of you are probably wondering,
'what if you don't hit it two days from now?' and
that's an interesting question. What I always say to
that is, 'I'm a scientist, not a philosopher.' Now I'll hit
it, well, now."
  That's amazing, Dr. Wally!
    "It sure is, and it also shows why you kids watching
shouldn't try this experiment at home with any dilith-
ium you might have around the house. That man will
recover, because he got prompt medical attention,
which we always have on call here at the Kitchen of
Wonders. You might not be so lucky."
    That's an important safety tip, Dr. Wally. Yes,
dilithium, the wonder mineral, can be dangerous. But
isn't a certain level of risk always present in our
everyday lives? Think of thermonuclear fusion, our
mighty but mischievous friend. Or the dome over the
city where you live; think how easily it could crack
and decompress your whole town. Even this ordinary
wooden pencil is potentially explosive, if it should
touch antimatter. But there's another risk we haven't
mentioned yet, perhaps the most important one of all.
Can you guess what it is?
  Yellow alert! Yellow alert/
    Yes, it's the Klingons. These warlike beings are
always on the prowl for dilithium, to drive their war
machines, power their warships, and do many other
war things. Here's Dr. Wallace Thaumazein again.

24                                                                   25




    "Before dilithium-enhanced warp drives and weap-
onry, there was no interstellar war. Well, not exactly
no interstellar war, but not very much of it, because
with the ships flying at Warp Three or Four, and these
little laser guns that only shot at lightspeed so even at
Warp Two you flew faster than the stuff coming after
you, it really wasn't very interesting, and nobody
much did it, except for the Romulans, who you have
to admit try real hard in everything they do, even if
we can't always figure out why, and the Klingons, for
whom it was sort of a hobby anyway."
    A simple hobby that threatens millions. This is the
result of the Klingon Empire's ruthless hunger for
dilithium, the wonder mineral. Is there an answer?
Yes. The answer is in each one of us. We must all vote
for continued tax deductions for dilithium research
and fight to preserve the Dilithium Depletion Allow-
ance from those who cannot see that today's innocent,
unexplored frontier world is tomorrow's Klingon
slave outpost. This, then, is the choice that faces each
of us in a free society.
  This... is dilithium . . . and you.t
    [Tagra-X film courtesy of Tagra Geoforming Co.
Gun provided by Denevarms Division of Deneva-
Universal Enterprises Ltd. Goniochronicity is a regis-
tered trademark of the Deneva Mining Consortium,
all rights reserved. Dr. Wallace Thaumazein appears
courtesy of Apocrine Pictures Video, an entertain-
ment unit of Deneva Fizz Inc.]

      Chapter Two

The Dilithium Crystal as
     Big as the Ritz

JEFFERSON RANDOLPH SMITH approached the source of
the dilithium radiation, a blue and brown world
wrapped in white cloud. Captain Trofimov thought it
was quite beautiful, but then again after four hundred
and sixty-six days of empty space, sensor ghosts, and
barren black rocks, perhaps her view was biased.
  "What's the planet?" Trofimov asked.
     T'Vau rolled up the data on her console. "Pi
Pharosi II, name... pronunciation, Computer?"
  "Excuse me?" the computer said.
    "Please try to remain logical, Computer. Your
behavior does not require explanation. I would like to
know the pronunciation of this world's local name."
  "Di-rye-dee. Excuse me..."
  "This is not required, Computer."
  "Very well, Commander."
     T'Vau nodded and turned back to her screens. They
were black. "Computer."
  "Yes, Commander?"
  "Restore my data displays."

26                                                                 27




 "Excuse--"
    T'Vau kicked the console. There was a bloop and
the displays lit up again. "The planet is colonized,"
she said. "There are approximately fifteen thousand
inhabitants, mostly humans from Federation worlds."
  "Do they claim Federation allegiance?"
  "No allegiance posted."
    The computer was humming "There's a Long, Long
Trail A-Winding."
    "All fight, Computer," Trofimov said. "What's so
important?"
    "May I use the main display? If, I mean, Lieutenant
Commander T'Vau doesn't need it."
  "Yes, Computer, you may use the main display."
  It did.
  "What in hell--"
    "The general configuration indicates that it is a D-7
heavy cruiser," the computer said. "From the shape
of the intercoolers and position of the disruptor
banks, I believe it to be the D-7c modification. Its
current range is 200 million meters and closing rap-
idly."

    "What's wrong with the sensor picture?" Captain
Kaden said.
     "Interference, Captain," Aperokei said. "Appears
to be coming from the planet." "They're jamming us?"
    "It could be, sir... wait, sir. Spectrum analysis
indicates iraltu cha ~uj."
    Cha~ouj--what the Federation called dilithium--
gave off a very particular sort of radiation. And there
wasn't a ship of either empire that wasn't always
sniffing for that scent.
 Askade gave a low chuckle. Askade was an expert

on dilithium. Kaden said, "What do you think, Engi-
neer?"
    "I think that the Federation surveyor has found
crystal ore. How sad for the surveyor's crew that we
have found them."
 "Arizhel, pick up the sensor trace."
    "Working on it," Rish said, and a moment later
breathed in sharply.
 "What is it? Cha ~uj?"
    She hit switches, put the sensor analysis screen up
on one of the main bridge repeaters. "It is cha[ouj as
I've never seen it. Do you agree, Askade?"
    Askade stared at the computer graph. "You must
have miscalculated."
"With respect, Chief Engineer--no, I didn't."
Askade started to say something, then paused and
said, "Very well. Then it is not just oreait is pure
crystal, in vast amounts."
    Kaden thought a moment. "What's the Federation
ship doing?"
    "Moving, Captain," Proke said. "She's hauling
close to--I mean, attempting planetary approach."
    "Pursuit, maximum velocity!" Kaden said. "Zan
Korth, ready on forward tractors. Enough room in
our holds for that boat, Askade?"
 "Plenty of room, Captain," the Engineer said.
    "Zan Aperokei, prepare to jam subspace if the one
signals."
    "No need, Captain," Arizhel said from the sciences
board. "The iraltu cha ?uj is already doing so. They
cannot communicate."
    "Then only the naked stars will see this one,"
Magius said, grinning. "Not the Federation."
 "And especially not the Organians," Kaden said.

28                                                                  29




    Blue orange juice, Trofimov thought, a lunatic crew,
a berserk computer. Of course there would be
Klingons. She wondered why she hadn't seen it com-
ing, it was so obvious. They were doomed, that was
all. "We're doomed," she said. It came out very
calmly.
    "The Klingon vessel is capable of destroying us in
eight-point-four seconds using secondary weapons
only. Being unarmed, we--"
    "I know we're not armed," Trofimov said. "Do they
know it?"
"They're not acknowledging our hail," Tellihu said.
"Maybe they're just--" The captain had a sudden
awful thought. "What's the chance that they've de-
tected the dilithium?"
 T'Vau said, "I can only estimate."
  "Then do it."
    T'Vau said, "Estimated probability one hundred
percent."
    Trofimov turned to stare at the Vulcan. "ThaCs
your guess?"
    "It is an estimate," T'Vau said stiffly, "based on the
level of Hecht radiation, and a standard survey of
Klingon monitoring--"
    "Your guess is that you're certain," Trofimov said,
feeling slightly dizzy.
    "That ~s an interesting semantic paradox. It
implies--"
    "Forget it. Just forget it." The captain gripped the
arms of her chair, and some more of the upholstery
came loose. "They know we're a prospector, and they
know we just found the mother lode. They'd be crazy
not to blast us before we can file a claim. Can you
raise anybody on subspace, Tellihu?"
    "The interference is very high, Captain. I'm trying,
but it's doubtful."

    "Is there a friendly vessel charted anywhere in the
area?"
    "USS Enterprise is fourteen hours away at standard
cruise."
    The computer said, "If you're not too busy,
Captain..."
    "We certainly..." Trofimov caught herself. "No,
Computer, nothing important going on. What is it?"
    "By using fractional-orbit breakaway, and direct
gate antimatter feed, the travel time to rendezvous
with Enterprise can be reduced to approximately
three-point-two standard hours."
  "Set it up! T'Vau, get the numbers!"
    The ship changed course. Trofimov turned to look
at the science console. T'Vau was sitting with her arms
crossed, looking doubtful. "What's the matter? Why
aren't you working?"
    "There is a difficulty with the program you have
just ordered," she said. "However, if you are willing
to trust the computer, I will not disagree."
    Trofimov felt a hollowness in her stomach. "What
difficulty?"
    "It is in two parts. First, this vessel has small
inertial compensators. Fractional-orbit breakaway
would produce an effective fiifty-one standard gravi-
ties within the ship, after all compensation effects."
    "Fifty-one gees will turn us to strawberry jam!" She
sighed. "Do I even want to know what the other part
is?"
  "I cannot begin to calculate your desire for--"
  "Just. Tell me. Please."
    "Very well. The ship has inboard warp engines.
Assuming that opening the antimatter gates does not
instantly explode the ship, it will create an epicentric
gamma flux in excess of 14,000 RU."
  "Strawberry jam on toast," Trofimov said.

3O                                                                31




    Pling, went the wall panel at the captain's elbow,
and a tray slid out. Trofimov deliberately did not look
at it. "Computer," she said.
  "Working energetically."
  "I didn't ask for this."
    "I'm sorry, Captain. English muffins were what I
had in program area. I'm really busy with the trajecto-
ry calculations right now--"
    "Never mind the muffins! And never mind the
trajectory either, or had you noticed that we couldn't
survive it?"
    "Oh. You computed that." There was a bump, and
Smith's angle of dive toward the planet grew steeper.
The world filled the main display.
    T'Vau hissed and began prying at an access panel
with her fingertips. Tellihu chirruped softly and
folded his wings over his head.
  "Computer," Captain Trofimov said.
    "I'm sorry, Captain, I was busy. You can use the
escape pod. The planet is quite habitable. I can eject
the pod just before gravitational breakaway. The
Klingons will almost certainly not detect it."
    "Eject onto the planet," Trofimov said. A planet,
she thought, with sky and fresh air and water nobody
had ever used even once and other people...
    "Right," the captain said. "Complete setting trajec-
tory and prepare the pod for launch."
    "It is a trick," T'Vau said. "It means to kill us and
report to Starfleet that we are unfit for service and
take the credit for finding the dilithium and..."
T'Vau looked up at Trofimov and Tellihu, coughed
and said, "This vessel is valuable Federation proper-
ty. We should not abandon it without consideration.
Perhaps I should recalculate the gravity force and
gamma flux."

    "Estimated 53.8 G, flux 14,530," the computer
said.
  T'Vau said, "That's what you say."
  "Science Officer," Trofimov said quietly.
  "Yes, Captain?"
  "We're all going to get into the escape pod now."
  "Yes, Captain."
    Smith's escape pod was a cramped cylinder, with
two couches forward and one in the rear, minimum
controls; its sole purpose was to keep its occupants
alive until rescue, or land them on a nearby planet if
possible. Its computer was equal only to that task.
This didn't bother Trofimov at all.
    "Please strap in," $rnith's main computer said over
the intercom link. "Ejection in ten seconds."
    Trofimov took the aft couch, the crew the front pair.
They pulled down and buckled the restraint har-
nesses. "Secure, Computer," Trofimov said.  "Do you require anything else?"
    "I could use a stiff drink," Trofimov said, and then
jammed her knuckles into her mouth. The wall went
pling, and a cup dropped from the slot and began to
fill with a pink liquid. There was a pepperminty smell.
"Cancel, cancel, cancel," Trofimov yelled, just as the
pod trembled and was blasted away from the hurtling
ship.
    The cup fell out of the delivery slot. Thick pink
milkshake--that qualified as "stiff," Trofimov
supposed--continued to pour out, spilling onto the
pod floor. "Cancel," Trofimov said desperately.
    "We are no longer coupled to the ship's computer,"
T'Vau said, "and ionization blackout prevents wave
communication."
    "Mach twenty-two," Tellihu said. "Hull tempera-
ture twelve hundred degrees."

32                                                                  33




    The pod trembled, then stabilized, and there was a
numbing whurnp as the impulse retromotors kicked
in. "Mach twenty-one," Tellihu said, with the first
sound of relief any of them had heard in six months.
"Mach twenty... nineteen..." His voice went
gaspy. Trofimov couldn't breathe at all. They were
pulling between four and five Gs: that was survivable
for the length of reentry, but it sure wasn't very
comfortable. Trofimov's spine seemed to be trying to
burrow into the couch. She looked up through
squeezed eyeballs. There was a pink, stream of milk
shooting from the wall to the front of the pod, behind
her head, at freight-train speed.
    "Fiiiiinallll deeecellllerrration," Tellihu said, and
the pod began to yaw and tilt as the autopilot looked
for a place to land. "If p, then q," T'Vau was saying,
almost calmly. "If not p, then not q."
    The ship lurched again. Relays clacked somewhere
as the autopilot tried to make up its mind. The
captain wondered if computer insanity was catching.
    "Five seconds to touchdown," Tellihu said, and
sighed deeply. They were still decelerating at over a
gravity, but the crushing pressure was gone. "Four.
Three." Trofimov turned her head. Her couch was
completely surrounded by frothy pink stuff, as if she
were afloat on it. There was an overwhelming scent of
peppermint. "Two. One." How much of the stuff was
there? Escape pods carried one metric ton of water
and two hundred kilos of basic organics as survival
rations. That would make about twelve hundred liters
of milkshake.
  "Touchdown."
 They landed.
    The milk splashed, filling the entire vessel with
thick pink spray. It was not unlike being inside an
enormous cocktail shaker.

    All was still. Trofimov groped for her belt release.
Tellihu groaned and whistled low. "If not q then p,"
T'Vau said to nobody in particular.
    The captain waded through the glop, looking for the
door handle. It wasn't easy to find, as the entire
interior was painted a uniform pink. Finally she
grasped the control, turned it, pushed. Red lights
shone through milk and a buzzer sounded as the
explosive bolts were armed. "Shut up," Trofimov told
the buzzer.
    The door blew out into clear cool air. Pink fluid
cascaded from the doorway, making little waterfalls
on the boarding ladder as it descended.
    Dripping pink, her clothes beginning to curdle,
Captain Tatyana Trofimov walked with back straight
and shoulders square down the ladder to a new world.
    Tellihu came down the ladder. His wings were in
awful shape. He tried to flap them, which looked even
worse. He sat down, pulled off a boot, poured a cupful
of milk onto the ground. "This substance is--" He
began whistling furiously.
    "I suggest that you find some of it that's still
drinkable, actually," Trofimov said. "It's our entire
ration supply."
    T'Vau came down the steps, carefully carrying a
stack of plastic-wrapped bundles. "Overalls and sur-
vival blankets," she said. "They are clean. And dry."
    The captain and Tellihu got to their feet. "There is
another consideration," T'Vau said primly.
    Tellihu stamped, one boot off, one boot on, over to
the science officer. He tried to spread his wings
imposingly, but they were much too wet. "We have no
rations," he said, "except for what we might bail from
our ship or wring from our clothing. My avian metab-
olism requires steady nourishment. You are packed
with usable protein."

34                                                                   35




    "Modesty is of little consequence to Vulcans,"
T'Vau said. "I only wished to note that we are all still
quite damp with n ~aan-flavored milk beverage, and I
believe I hear running water a few tens of meters in
that direction."
    They grabbed the bundles and headed in the direc-
tion of the whispering brook, beginning to run as it
came into sight, and then to pull off milkshake-
sodden uniforms. T'Vau was right. Modesty didn't
even enter into it.

    "They're headed straight for the surface," Korth
said. "Any deeper in the gravity well and the tractors
won't be reliable."
    "Then it's their choice," Captain Kaden said.
"Switch to disruptors, Zan Korth. Askade, is the ship
streamlined?"
    "Sulek-class can make emergency planetary land-
ings. They'll never get it off again without a carrier
vessel."
 "Anything like that on the world?"
 Arizhel said "No local starships on record."
 Korth said "I have lock-on."
    "Fire on my..." Kaden raised his hand, then
slowly lowered it, looked hard at the little ship in the
display. "No. Helm, bring her up now."
    "Captain?" Korth said. "There's nothing they can
hit us with."
    "Once long ago there was a big ship on my tail,"
Kaden said. "I'm sure that's just what its crew were
thinking. If they go down, they're trapped; if not..."
    A heartbeat passed. Two. The little prospector
continued to bore down the gravity well. Threemand
the ship bent its course, shooting for deep space at
tremendous velocity.

    "Breakaway," Askade said, with a touch of awe. "At
that speed--Kai the pilot, alive or dead!"
    "Kai the captain," Maglus said, chuckling deep,
tossing a salute to Kaden.
    "We still have to catch the one," Kaden said.
"Helm! Pursuit course!"

    In the cargo hold of the Enterprise, Chief Engineer
Scott supervised the preparation of the first Deploy-
able Practice Target (Prototype) for launch.
    It was a metal-and-plastic capsule the size of a
standard small cargo module, a little less than two
meters long and a meter square on the ends, fitted
with monitoring jacks and transport grips, stenciled
DELICATE and NO STEP and TOP SECRET. At one
end was a set of gas bottles piped into the case. Just
above the bottles a red-striped handle was fitted,
recessed slightly: the same sort of turn-push safety
grip that armed and fired emergency hatches.
    "Remote pack," Scott said, and was handed a
square device that plugged neatly over the firing
handle. The engineer flipped up a lid, set frequency
dials and inserted an arming key, then closed it again.
"All right, she's primed and ready. Handling team."
    An anti-gray skid was brought up, and the target
capsule was trucked past wary security guards to the
Enterprise torpedo room. A crane picked the unit up,
transferred it to the photon-torpedo loading rails. The
monitor board lit green.
    "All ready below, Captain," Scott said into the
intercom.
    "Thank you, Mr. Scott," Kirk said on the bridge.
"Mr. Sulu, prepare to launch the target. Mr. Chekov,
ready on sensors."
 "Aye, sir."

36                                                                   37




  "Yes, Captain."
    Kirk said casually, "If it doesn't look like a starship,
can we send it back for a refund?"
 Sulu said, "Target on the rails, sir."
  "Launch, Mr. Sulu."
    A bright pinpoint shot from the starship's forward
tube. It began to expand almost immediately into an
amorphous silvery shape. After a few seconds, the
outline of a disc was visible, and two limp little engine
nacelles folded out. The disc spread, the engines
straightened.
    Ten minutes later, Enterprise was accompanied by a
full-sized replica of itself. At range, the lack of surface
detail was not noticeable at all. There were even small
reflective patches that shone like lighted viewports.
    Engineer Scott stepped out of the lift, to his station
on the bridge. He looked at the target. "Now isn't that
a sight."
"Sensor image is perfect, Captain," Chekov said.
"Instant starship," Sulu said. "Just add space."
"Captain," Lt. Uhura said, "I'm receiving an emer-
gency call, Priority One. The source vessel is at
maximum tightbeam range, approaching at consider-
able speed."
 "Put it on."
    "Hello?" a voice said, sounding distraught. "Any-
body there? I mean, anybody from the Federation
there? I know there was supposed to be someone
there."
"Is there a recognition code?" Kirk said.
"Decoding now, Captain," Uhura said. "Starfleet
records identify her as Jefferson Randolph Smith,
Captain T. Trofimov commanding, First Officer
Tellihu, Science Officer T'Vau."
    "T'Vau?" Spock said. His eyebrows didn't arch, but
his voice rather did.

 Kirk said, "Do you know her, Spock?"
    "We were acquainted on Vulcan, in my youth. I
have not seen her since then." Kirk immediately had
the obvious thought--obvious to a human, anyway--
but Spock sounded less like someone reminded of an
old romance than of a small boy contemplating liver
and spinach for dinner.
    Spock's hand was against his chest. He seemed to
be brushing an imaginary stain off his uniform tunic.
Kirk couldn't remember seeing that mannerism be-
fore, but resisted asking about it.
 Uhura said, "Sir, the ship is hailing us."
 "Put it on main display, Lieutenant."
    The forward screen showed an empty bridge. The
crew chairs were all torn from their moorings, mashed
into lumps of metal by some incredible force.
 "Enterprise... Excuse me, that is the Enterprise?"
    "This is Enterprise," Kirk said. "Is that Captain
Trofimov?"
 "Look, I really don't want to bother you, you're a
starship and all, if you're busy I can wait ...."
 "Who is that?"
    Uhura said, "Voice pattern analysis indicates a
computer voder, Captain. Probably Smith's main
computer."
    Spock said, "More precisely, a J-2 duotronic unit in
severe need of program maintenance."
"Really? Can you diagnose the problem?"
"Circumstances would suggest the spillage of a
n~aan-spiced milkshake on the sciences console,"
Spock said, then paused, looked around at the bridge
crew staring at him, and said, "Of course, this is only
an informed conjecture."
    "Enterprise, "the computer voice said, "would you
mind... I mean, I know this is a big favor to ask,
but..."

38                                                                   39




 "Where is your crew, Smith?" Kirk said.
    "Oh, gosh, Captain. They're on the planet back
there, Direidi. You see, we found all this dilithiumm
that's our mission, finding dilithium, and~~"
  "You left the crew behind?"
    "Well, sort of. That is, I didn't mean to. That is, I
did tell them to use the escape pod, but it wasn't like I
made them do it."
    "The crew ejected in the escape pod," Kirk said,
with a patience that surprised himself.
  "Right, Captain. Now, about that favor..."
  "Are you damaged, Smith?"
    "Who, me? I'm okay. Running a little hot, you
know, but really okay." There was a pause. "Really,
really okay. Never felt better. I'm absolutely, positive-
ly sure of that."
  Kirk said "Spock?"
    "These are not normal J-2 diagnostic messages,
Captain."
    "Thanks, Spock. Smith, you had a... favor to
ask?"
    "I'd really like docking clearance. If it's okay with
you."
    "Mr. Scott, do we have docking protocols for a
Sulek-class vessel?"
    "Aye, we can do it," Scott said, sounding extremely
doubtful, "but only just. She'll fill the whole hangar
deck, an' there won't be an inch t' spare through the
doors. We'd have to do it all under..." Scott tapped
his fingers on his console "... computer control."
  "I'll be very, very careful," Smith said.
    Everyone on the bridge was very quiet. Finally
Scott said, "My advice, Captain, is to take her in tow
wi' tractors."
  "Oh, please," the ship said.

    Kirk said, "Could you provide, uh, some more
details of your situation, uh, Smith?"
 "Oh, yes, of course, I didn't want to bother--"
 "That's quite all fight," Kirk said.
    "Rear view," Smith said, and the Enterprise bridge
main display was suddenly crowded full of a Klingon
heavy-enhanced cruiser.
 "Yellow alert/" Kirk shouted.

 "Target's slowing, Captain," Korth said.
    "I have another sensor trace," Aperokei said. "Not
a planet. Small planetoid, or a large ship."
    Kaden clenched his fists. "It would be just like them
to find a freighter, here in the middle of nothing. Can
you identify?"
    "A moment, Captain... Captain, you're not going
to like this."
    "I'm sure I'm not, Proke," Kaden said. "What is
it?"
    "Federation heavy cruiser, Captain. Constitution-
class."
    Maglus swore colorfully. Kaden said, "One could
live for Keth's years and not have luck like that.
Khest' na div )~a'chigh--"
  "Captain, there are two of them."
  "What?" Kaden said, his thought interrupted.
    "He's right," Arizhel said. "Two discrete traces. A
pair of starships."
  "Braking thrust! Kill our velocity!" Kaden shouted.

    "Spock," Kirk said, "can you give me an analysis of
the situation?"
    "I have traced the Smith's most probable trajecto-
ry, Captain, and detect an unusual amount of Hecht
radiation from that direction--sufficient to indicate

40                                                                    41




the presence of an extraordinary amount of highly
pure dilithium. I would suppose that the prospector's
crew discovered the ore almost simultaneously with
the Klingon vessel."
    "Good old-fashioned claim-jumping, eh?" Kirk
said.
  "It would seem so."
    Kirk said, "Unless it's a trick, and the Klingons
want us to attack their ship."
    The voice of Smith's computer said, "I'm really
sorry I didn't mention that ship before, Enterprise,
but I've been very, very busy, and can I have that
docking clearance now?"
    Spock said, "This does not have the appearance of a
Klingon tactic."
    "No, I see that," Kirk said. "Mr. Scott, prepare to
take the prospector in tow."
  "Aye, sir. Aft tractors coming up now."
    "Smith," Kirk said, "can you reduce speed and
meet our tractors?"
  "I can't hear you," the computer said.
  "Uhura, have we lost signal?"
  "Feedback indicates clear channel, sir."
    "Smith," Kirk said, a little more firmly, "we want
you to reduce speed and be taken in tow. Acknowl-
edge."
    "There must be something wrong with your trans-
mission, Captain. I can't understand you at all."
    "Captain," Sulu said, "the Klingon vessel is losing
speed, but the prospector isn't."
  "What's her course? Headed for collision?"
  "Yes, sir--but not with us. With the target."
  "Scotty! Can you get tractors on her?"
  "Tryin', sir, but she's tiny and goin' like sixty."
    "Let me in," Smith screeched, "or I'll huff and 17l
puff--"

 "Contact," Sulu said.
    Smith pierced the rear of the practice target's lower
hull. The target shot away on escaping gas, shrinking,
tearing, spiraling as it collapsed, just like any punc-
tured balloon.
    Smith came to a sudden halt. "Got th' little devil,"
Scott said, then looked up from his console at the
display. "Oh, my."
 "The Klingons have halted," Sulu said.

    As Fire Blossom lost forward momentum, Kaden
and his crew watched the prospector approach the ~*
two Federation cruisers. They saw it dock with the
one to the left.
    They saw the cruiser vanish in a split second from
vision and sensors.
 "It's really not there, Rish?" Kaden said slowly.
 "Not on any sensor," Arizhel said.
    "Well," Askade said, "now I suppose we know what
they're testing out here."
    Kaden said, "What's the one that's... still there,
Proke?"
  "Enterprise, Captain."
    "Open a channel," Kaden said. "We'd better say
hello, before the lightbulbs cook us."

    On the surface of Direidi, the crew of Jefferson
Randolph Smith sat by a mountain creek in the
early twilight. T'�au was lost in meditation. Tellihu
crouched by the running water, hoping for a fish: to
Trofunov he looked uncomfortably like a vulture.
    "It's a pretty place, really," Trofimov said, looking
at the stream, the mountains, the rising moon. Rey-
naud II, her homeworld, had no mountains near its
inhabited areas, and no moon at all. Trofimov had
grown up wondering why it was that so many writers

42                                                                       43




fixed on the moon, a rock in the sky, as a symbol of
romance. Now she looked up at the white rock in the
heavens, and...
    Trofimov put her hand in the stream and splashed
cold water on her face.
    T'Vau said, "The world's value is not in its scenic
beauty, as it is too far from the major routes for
tourism. Though these are admirable examples of
tectonic action ....Is something wrong, Captain?
Are you feverish?"
    Trofimov started to laugh, and then couldn't stop.
She laughed until her sides hurt, until she fell off the
rock where she was sitting and rolled on the ground.
When the tears cleared from her eyes, she saw that
Tellihu was also doubled up with laughter, his wings
beginning to dry and lose their droop. T'Vau sat still,
trying to look impassive but only managing bewil-
dered. "Perhaps the water contains an organism..."
    "It's all right, it's all right," Trofimov said. "Release
of tension, perfectly--bee, hee--normal." She sat on
the rock again, looked up at the beautiful mountains,
the romantic moon.
    "Do you suppose the ship got away from the
Klingons?" Tellihu said.
    "No way even to guess. If it didn't, you can bet our
jolly old friends will be back... and if there's half
the dilithium here that our sensors said, th~y'll mine
those hills fiat for it."
    "There is a forty-one percent chance that the in-
tended evasive action was successful," T'Vau said.
    "Okay, so there's a way to guess," Trofimov said, in
too good a mood to get angry. "Assuming it does get
back to Starfleet... then they 71 come in, relocate the
population, and mine the place naked. That's why
we're the good guys." She stood up, shivered a little,

pulled one of the survival blankets over herself like a
cape. "Grab a blanket and let's follow this stream for
a while," she said. "We need food, and we need to find
the locals. Tell 'em the good guys are here."
    They began walking, the moonlight making crisp
black shadows on silver.
    After a few minutes, Tellihu said thoughtfully, "If
Smith does return to the Federation, it is likely that
the Organian Treaty will enter into the situation."
    "Hadn't thought of that," the captain said. "But tell
you what, let's not think about it. It's too nice a
night." She picked up her step and began singing
"Subterranean Homesick Blues."

    Some distance away on the face of Direidi (as
planetary distances, not interstellar ones, go), there
was a castle, with a tower, and in the tower a room lit
with pale blue light and echoing with an ominous thin
rumble. The light shone on a man in a purple plush
robe, making him look waxy and dead. He was rather
broad in the middle, and his hair was thin on top. He
sat with his ankles crossed, and a cup of cold coffee
and a plate of cookies at his elbow, and typed. Words
scrolled up on the screen in front of him, shining pale
blue, and every few minutes the crystal storage unit
on the floor by the worktable rumbled as it burned
some more words into permanent memory.
    The man sighed. He drank some of the coffee,
grimacing. Then he looked up sharply at a flashing
light on the wall, got up quickly, and went to the bank
of instruments mounted there. He flipped switches,
brought screens to life, read them. He looked out the
tower window, saw what he might have taken for a
shooting star, had not the instruments told him the
terrible truth.

44                                                                       45




    He stuck his feet into old leather slippers and began
running down the tower steps, robe flapping and
slippers flopping as he went.
    He emerged into a vast stone hall with a glass roof,
the skylights reddish with the declining sun. There
was one small lamp on in the hall, lighting one end of
a table long enough for forty or more diners. A
woman sat there, in the pool of light. She was assem-
bling a metal-and-plastic model of a Southern Rail-
way Ps-4 steam locomotive.
    The man leaned against the table, breathing hard.
The woman said, "For heaven's sake, Flyter, you're
going to kill yourself on those stairs one of these days,
either the fall or the strain. Sit down."
    "It's happened, Estervy my dear. The whole board
lit up. We've been found."
    "'Every day something or other unpleasant hap-
pens, but I don't complain. I'm accustomed to it. I
even laugh at it.'"
    "Nice choice of quote. I know how that one ends as
well as you do: with the thud of the axe in the cherry
orchard."
    Estervy put down her work, adjusted the lamp. She
was fiftyish, like Flyter, with some gray in her long
black hair, face and hands still smooth, firm. "Yes,
Flyter, I know you're serious. We've known it ever
since we moved here. Now, who was it?"
    "Federation, I think. It was just a short contact,
they tossed something into the atmosphere and left. If
it had been a private prospector, they'd have sent a
boat down, and if it was the Klingons--well." He
sighed. "Not that it really matters. We're found, and
that's it."
 "They did drop something?"
    "Couldn't have been a boat. Marker beacon, I'd
guess. If we had something more than that cheap

second-hand navigation board--oh, forget it. At least
whoever dropped it won't get anything from it."
    "Exactly," Estervy said. "No one can broadcast out
of here. So we have some time. Unless we're desper-
ately unlucky, the Organian Treaty will be invoked,
which gives us a little more time."
  "Plan C?" Flyter said.
  "Plan C."
    Flyter smiled. "I'11 call a town meeting for two
o'clock. That should get us an adequate number no
later than five."
 "Suddenly you sound rather pleased."
    "Well, I guess I am, now that I think about it. I'm
glad it's happened while we're here to see it. I was
always rather scared that they'd show up a generation
or so down the line, and our kids would dust off the
Plan to find it was completely out of date."
    "You're a terrible liar," Estervy said. "You just
want to hear your dialogue being spoken."
    "There's always that," Flyter said agreeably. "Call
for two?"
  "Call for two."

46                                                                      47




  Historical Interlude:
The Only War We've Got

THE TERMS OF the Organian Treaty between the United
Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire are as
follows:

    Upon the discovery of a new and usable planet
within the confines of the Treaty Zone (defined as per
the map in Appendix A of this document), each party
to the Treaty shall have the option to voluntarily cede
the world to the other for development. Failing this,
both parties to the Treaty shall send envoys to the
disputed planet, prepared to demonstrate to the in-
digenous population (if any) the respective party's
ability to develop the world in a peaceful and useful
manner. Rights of development shall be granted to
the party that best shows said ability.
    Failure to abide by the terms of this agreement shall
be met with physical interdiction of the party or
parties in violation from the planet.
    In plainer language, the Treaty terms are: Don't get
grabby or you'll get your fingers burned.

    Popular opinion in the Federation concerning the
Organian Treaty may be summarized as follows:

 4% The deepest wisdom of the Galaxy
 4% Treaty? What treaty?
11% Not a bad idea, glad I voted for it
81% Who do they think they are, anyway?

    Popular opinion in the Klingon Empire concerning
the Treaty, while perhaps less important than in the
more politically liberal Federation, may be summa-
rized in similar fashion:

4%  If the Emperor says it's okay, it's fine with me
4%  This is a trick question, fight?
1 i%The Federation made the whole thing up
81% Who do they think they are, anyway?

    We hope that this statistical information (which, as
always, is subject to a correction factor) will help you
in making informed decisions about the governance
and policies of the politically liberal Federation in
which we all live.
    [A table of correction factors used in the prepara-
tion of this survey is available for Cr. 12.50, sublight
postage paid. Please specify data format and decimal,
duodecimal, or binary numeration.]

48                                                                   49




   Chapter Three

OrganJan Jumpball

FIRE BLOSSOM ~O~G in stationary orbit near Imperial
Supply Base 27, just inward from the Organian Treaty
Zone. Freight shuttles and service units surrounded
the big cruiser. Her cargo doors were wide open, light
spilling out brilliantly from the holds, force curtains
holding the atmosphere in.
    Inside the ship, Kaden and Magius walked out onto
the main cargo deck. Askade was looking through the
cargo door at a shuttle hanging a few hundred meters
away.
    There was a flare of light from the passenger trans-
porter, and a stocky Imperial in Marine uniform,
carrying a flight bag, stepped off the stage.
    "Force Leader Memeth, 251st Engineers, report-
ing," the officer said.
    "You are welcome aboard Fire Blossom, Force
Leader," Kaden said. "I am Kaden, captain. This is
Maglus, security officer, and Askade, chief engineer.
He will be directing your unit."
    Memeth's face stiffened. "The one is the ship's
engineer..."

5O

    Askade said "I am an Accredited Specialist in the
mechanics of dilithium. The Force Leader is perhaps
familiar with the Manual of Crystalline Ores Han-
dling?"
    Memeth nodded, relaxed. "Ah. The vestai-Eletai. It
is an honor to work with you."
    Kaden shot a relieved look at Maglus, who
shrugged slightly. Another of the daily struggles of life
concluded.
  Askade said, "What equipment will be loaded?"
    "Six survey vehicles, four ore shuttles with portable
navigation lines, and six Tagra-X mass excavators."
      Askade nodded. "You will supervise the loading,
then. We shall confer once the ship is under way."
  "At once, Chief Engineer."
  "We need not be formal. I am Askade."
  "And I Memeth."
  "Very good."
    The ship's officers left the deck, entered a lift car.
"Nicely done," Kaden said.
    Askade said, "It's his battalion; trying to command
it without his cooperation would be like bailing a
swamp .... What are you grinning at, Mag? Waiting
for me to say something about the average intelligence
of Marine officers?"
"The one saw only a leader practicing his art."
There was a moment's pause, and then they all
laughed. Then Askade said, very soberly, "Ever seen a
Tagra-X?"
 The others said no.
    "They're big. Even dismantled for shipping, six of
them will fill our holds with nothing left over."
    "Do you see a problem?" Kaden said. "Too much
mass?"
    "For Blossom's engines? Nonsense." Askade sound-
ed slightly hurt by the question. "But it's a major

51




commitment of equipment. Obviously the Emperor
doesn't just want us to get this world... he expects
it."
    Magius said, "There are only fifteen thousand be-
ings on it. What are they going to do, lie down in front
of the excavators?"
    "The Tagras wouldn't notice if they did," Askade
said. "The question is the Federation."
  "The question is the lightbulbs," Kaden said.

    Aboard Starbase One, orbiting high above the
Earth, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy stood in a conference
room, getting a final briefing from Admiral Pilchard
of Starfleet Resources Command.
    "Fifteen thousand inhabitants can't possibly occu-
py enough of the planet's surface to interfere with
mining operations," Pilchard said. "What we have to
consider is the Klingons. They're not going to look at
this lying down."
    Kirk nodded. Behind him, Spock stood calm, and
McCoy fidgeted. Pilchard was a Raskolane, humanoid
except for seven-fingered hands and a slightly pur-
plish east to his skin and eyes. The Raskolane lan-
guage had a highly complicated idiomatic structure,
which showed up when they spoke Federation-
Standard.
    "Now you know, and I know," the admiral said,
"that we have only the best interest of the... what
are they again?"
  "Direidi," Spock said.
    "Right. Their interests, that's at the head of the
book. But you know these indigenous locals. Wave the
golden door in front of them, and they'll follow like
nuts in May. We can't let the Klingons pull a wide
one." Pilchard tapped the desk. "So there it is,
Captain. You know your mission."

  "Yes, Admiral. Of course."
    "Splendid." They went out of the briefing room
into the hallway. Starfleet personnel bustled past;
through ports in the walls, large ships and small
glided through the black.
    Kirk said, "Who's been assigned as envoy, Ad-
miral?"
  "Charlotte Sanchez. Do you know her?"
  "Not that I recall," Kirk said.
    "Well, that's a novelty," McCoy said, not quite out
loud.
    Admiral Pilchard didn't seem to have noticed.
"She's a real ace in the diplomatic firmament. De-
fused a war on Kintyre, got a whole raft of trade
concessions from the Olivet Quango, and that was a
real feather in her ear."
Kirk said "What? I mean, the Olivet what?"
"Quango. Damned if I know what it means. I can't
keep half-track of the ways people are figuring out
how to rule themselves these days." They stopped
before a lift shaft. Pilchard pressed the Call key, said,
"Makes the Klingons seem kind of comfortable by
comparison. At least you know they're not going to
dive out of the sun with some crazy new political
two-step in their teeth."
    Kirk nodded gravely. McCoy rocked back on his
heels, hands in pockets. Spock looked straight ahead.
    The lift door opened, and the admiral stepped in.
"Well, best of luck to you, Captain, and you, Com-
mander. Good seeing you again, Doctor McNeil. And
remember, don't let the spellbinders sell you a bill of
goods down the river." "Aye, sir."
    "Flag Officers' Quarters," Pilehard said, and the
door closed with a whoosh.
 McCoy said, "Now there goes a man who gets the

52                                                                53




maximum possible mileage from the language. 'Doc-
tor McNeil.' Right."
    Kirk pressed the Call key again. "Speaking of lan-
guage, Bones, what was that about 'novelty'?"
    "Oh... well, Jim, I was just making an observa-
tion about the large number of women in Starfleet
who turn out to be your old acquaintances."  "Aw, Bones..."
      "It's almost as amazing as the number of those old
flames who wind up on board the Enterprise."
  "... what can I say?"
      The lift arrived. As they entered, Spock said, "Dr.
McCoy has a valid statistical point--"  "Oh, don't you start."
    There was a ploop, and a voice from the lift wall
said, "Lifts may be held stopped for no more than one
hundred seconds, to avoid congestion of the system.
In case of emergency, please pull the red handle, or
announce 'Mayday' three times."
    "Diplomatic Section, Administration level," Kirk
said tightly, and the lift door closed.
    The car delivered them seconds later to a large,
open lobby with a glass ceiling showing a dizzying
view of Earth. Beings of several dozen different races
were sitting, strolling, or Earthgazing. To one side was
a broad corridor, and a large semicircular reception
desk.
     "Captain James Kirk," Kirk told the receptionist,
 handing over his identity card. "We're here to meet
 Ambassador Sanchez."
     The receptionist, a Xranxi Vion with the gold
 chitin of the Organizational caste, took each of the
 three men's ID cards in a separate hand, worked a
 keyboard with two more, and picked up a telephone
 with the sixth. She swiveled faceted eyes behind thick
 collimating glasses and touched the translator-voder

around her neck. "The ambassador is expecting you
in Conference Room 14," the box said, in a warm,
almost sultry voice. "Please go ahead, the second
left."
  They found the room. The door slid open.
    The conference room was carpeted in a dull orange,
with a long walnut table and a dozen chairs, most of
them in curious shapes for nonhuman sitters. At the
head of the table, a human woman was seated, read-
ing papers in a plastic folder. She had dark-olive skin,
hair long and straight and very black, very large eyes
nearly as dark. She was strongly built, though by no
means stocky or heavy. She was wearing an off-white
tunic and trousers of coarsely woven wool, flat white
shoes.
  She looked up. "Well, hello, Jim."
    Kirk froze. Spock raised an eyebrow. McCoy raised
two.
    The ambassador stood up, said, "You look like
you've seen a ghost. I've slowed down a little, but I'm
not dead yet."
  "Charlotte... Sanchez."
    "Ambassador and Special Envoy to the World and
Population of Direidi," Sanchez said. "Long way
from home, no?"
    "Charlotte... Caliente Sanchez... uh, I'd like
you to meet my Spock officer, Commander First, and
Doctor McNeil--I mean, McCoy."
    "Pleased to meet both of you," she said, smiled,
shook hands.
    "You'll excuse us," McCoy said lightly. "I have to
talk to Mr. Spock about statistics."
 Spock and McCoy went out. Kirk stared after them.
    "You forgot, didn't you," Sanchez said, sounding
highly amused.
 "I, uh... yeah."

54                                                               55




     She laughed. "What are you so embarrassed about?
It was one ice cream soda eighteen years ago."
  "You remembered."
    "I'm a diplomat. You'd be surprised how much of
diplomacy is remembering people's names, and what
they did a long time ago."  Kirk nodded.
    Sanchez said, "Well now, Captain. My bags are
waiting in the Transients' Section. Where's the Enter-
prise berthed?"
  "Three-C. I'll be glad to take you."
    "I never travel with more than I can carry. See you
on board, Jim."
    "Charlie... there's a place in the Shopping Arcade
that serves terrific ice cream sodas."
    "Two things," Sanchez said, without raising her
voice. "First, my father is the only person alive who
still gets to call me 'Charlie.' Second, you're a starship
captain and I'm a full ambassador, and as of 1400
today we're both under Federation Diplomatic Mis-
sion orders. It's now 1422, which makes you eighteen
years and twenty-two minutes late."
    She was still smiling. Kirk smiled too. "No ice
cream sodas, huh?"
    "Only in the furtherance of the Direidi negotia-
tions."
    Kirk nodded, scratched the back of his head. "You
always were a first-class negotiator."
    "I knew you hadn't forgotten," Sanchez said, and
touched his cheek as she walked by him. "Berth
Three-C. See you."

    Enterprise was preparing for departure. Around the
ship, work pods loaded stores, checked diagnostics.
On the bridge, the command crew did final check-
down, and the newly arrived ambassador conversed

quietly with Captain Kirk. Spock gave an instruction
to Communications Officer Uhura, and a moment
later the main display lit with a person in Starfleet
Sciences uniform, standing surrounded by banks of
computer equipment.
    The person on the screen was dabbing with a
napkin at her tunic, which was dripping a thick,
pinkish fluid. She looked up, startled. "Oh...
Computer Analysis Section, Technician Owens on
duty. How may I help you?"
    "This is Science Officer Spock of Enterprise. Have
you completed reading the data from the Smith's
onboard computer?"
    "No, sir. That is, yes, but... well, you see, sir,
there's something wrong with that computer."
    "That is known to us. It was the reason you were
instructed to bleed the computer's memory."
    "I know, sir, and we tried, but... sir, whatever's
wrong with it, sir, we think it's... contagious."
    "Do you mean in the fashion of a virus program,
Technician?"
    "Sort of, sir, only more in the fashion of an obses-
sion."
    Kirk said, "Has there been some kind of lab acci-
dent, Owens?"
 "We don't know, sir."
 "Don't know?"
    "You see, ever since we tapped the Smith computer,
the food dispensers here won't make anything but
peppermint milkshakes, and they won't stop making
those. We're scared to connect the thing again.'"
  "N~aan," Spock said.
 Kirk said, "What's that, Spock?"
    "The flavor... it is not peppermint, but n'gaan
�.. "Spock cleared his throat. "This is only a conjec-
tare."

56                                                                  57




    "Okay," Kirk said slowly. "Owens, did you get
anything out of the computer?"
    "Does this look like nothing?" Owens said, point-
ing at her dripping clothes. "Oh, uh, sorry, Captain.
No, I'm afraid we didn't."
    "Very well. Keep us informed if you do discover
anything. Enterprise out."
    Owens saluted. There was a splooshing noise behind
her, and she turned, said, "Oh, my--" The screen
went dark.
 Kirk said, "Spock, about these milkshakes..."
    "The connection is, as I have said, Captain, purely
conjectural."
    "But there is some connection. To Srnith's science
officer?" Kirk grinned in spite of himself. "Now, I
wouldn't want to invoke statistics on you, Spock, but
surely finding an old flame--"
    "Captain, if a person with whom I once divided a
beverage counts as an 'old flame,' perhaps I misunder-
stand the implications of the idiom."
    Ambassador Sanchez laughed once loudly, then
covered her mouth. Kirk said, "I withdraw the ques-
tion, Mr. Spock."
    Kirk turned his chair to face the main display,
which now showed an interior view of the starbase
dock. "Mr. Sulu, locked on docking beam?"  "Aye, Captain."
  "Then astern, impulse point one. Take us out."

    Macmain stepped through the high stone arch into
the art gallery's Chamber of Treasures, a gothic hall
whose stone ceiling peaked a dozen meters above its
carved wooden support beams. Around the walls were
paintings, tapestries, a suit of armor engraved and
enameled with the insignia of a prince centuries dead.

    In the center of the treasury, raised first on a
gold-tiled platform and then on a column of crystal,
was a glass cube; and within it, catching the light, a
spiral tiara of silver so smooth it seemed liquid, set
with stones of blue and red and gold.
    The Karthores Diadem, and Macmain, master thief
of the galaxy, stood with less than ten steps separating
them.
 Or so it seemed...
    Macmain wore a tight black coverall fitted with
loops, belts, and sealable pockets. He reached into one
of the pockets, took out a pair of tinted glasses,
slipped them on. Suddenly the network of sensor-
beams around the Diadem case was brilliantly visible.
Moving like a zero-g ballet dancer, Macmain slipped
through the rays until he stood a fingerbreadth from
the golden platform. He raised his kidskin boot, then
lowered it again, crouched, examined the metal tiles.
Some were pressure sensors. Others...
    Macmain took a thick black cylinder from a loop at
his hip. He opened its end, unfolded a small grappling
hook. He pointed the tube upward, pressed a stud.
With just a cough of escaping gas, the hook shot
upward, trailing a thin cable; it circled a beam, caught
and held.
    Macmain cinched the cable, ran it through a steel
ring on his belt. He pulled, lifting himself into the air
above the platform. He snapped the tube to another
clip on his suit, hung suspended.
    He examined the locks on the glass cube. Simple
nine-tumbler tricyclics, with the old Throckmorton
camming. Almost insulting. He drew a thin tool from
the kit at his left wrist, popped both locks in the space
of as many calm breaths. He flipped open the cube.
His gloved fingers closed gently on the Diadem.

58                                                                    59




    "Ah, Macmain, old friend," said a coldly familiar
voice from behind him. "I knew that one day, given
enough line... you'd hang yourself."
    Macmain turned slowly on the suspending cable.
"Colonel Richter," he said, smiling. "I didn't think
you were the type to frequent art museums."
    Richter smiled back, over the barrel of his heavy
energy pistol. It made ugly wrinkles in his white-
scarred face. "My interest is much the same as yours.
Indeed, most of this junk leaves me entirely cold...
but on the other hand, the Karthores Diadem I find
quite fascinating. I look forward to a much closer
examination of it."
 "Then you know its secret," Macmain said.
    "Oh yes. Though finding it cost several people their
lives."
 "Innocent people, of course."
    "Of course." Richter chuckled. "But then, I offered
them the chance to serve the Consortium's interests
freely. Their refusal made them criminals. So they
weren't innocent at all, you see."
    "You mean to say that you actually want this for the
Consortium."
    "I mean to say that I'm acting in their name. The
Starfortress of Karthora will be a potent addition to
the Consortium's forces." Richter pointed at the tiara
in Macmain's hand. "I knew all along that there was a
key to it, somewhere: no one hides a weapon like that
without some means to find it. We've just come along
a few thousand years late, that's all."
    Macmain turned the Diadem over in his fingers.
Blue stones, yellow, and red: representations of stars,
a three-dimensional map disguised as a bit of jewelry.
    Richter snapped his fingers. Three Consortium
Marines in heavy ribbed armor and mirror-fronted

helmets came in, Drake Eighty power-carbines held
level.
 "I don't think you want to shoot me, Colonel."
 "Now there's a falsehood if I've ever heard one."
    "Not at all. Do you see the platform under me? Do
you know what it does?"
    "Certainly. Some of the tiles are pressure detectors.
The rest are electrodes. Touch it, and a hundred
thousand volts charge the surface."
    Macmain held up the Diadem. "That would cer-
tainly do a lot of damage to this, wouldn't it?"
    Richter sighed. "That it would. That's what I like
about you, Macmain; you're always offering me diffi-
cult choices. So this time, I've decided to offer you
one." He snapped his fingers again.
    Two more people came in. The first was a woman,
in a silver suit much like Macmain's. There was a
black cloth hood over her head, and her hands were
cuffed behind her back. Another Marine pushed her
along at the point of a Drake Eighty. "Libra?" Macmain said.
    The woman made a muffled sound, strained at the
handcuffs, but another jab from the gun quieted her.
    "Wherever Macmain the Magnificent is," Richter
said, stifling a yawn, "there also will be his associate,
the beautiful, dangerous, and elusive Libra. We just
went looking for her first. We knew where you'd be."
  "It's a standoff, Richter," Macmain said.
     "Oh, don't be insulting, dear fellow. You know I'll
kill her, I know you won't allow that." "So what's your proposition?"
    "First you set down the Diadem, safely, on the glass
pillar. Then you simply step down onto the platform.
I'll take the trinket and go."
 "What about Libra?"

60                                                                   61




    "Libra stays here, unharmed, with you--or what's
left of you. Who knows, you might even survive the
experience. It's at least a sporting chance, eh,
Macmain the Magnificent?"
    Macmain looked at Libra, who tilted her hooded
head and made more choked sounds.
    "Oh, do hurry," Richter said, and pointed his pistol
at Libra. "This offer expires in three seconds. One.
Two."
    Macmain put the Diadem on the pillar. He reached
for the cable.
  "Stop," Richter said.
  "You gave your word--"
    "I admit that's not worth much, but I'm not break-
ing it. Just changing the terms a bit. Put your hands
up, high." He leveled his pistol. "I'll get you down."
He fired. The green powerbolt crackled between
Macmain's left hand and the suspending wire.
  "You're slipping, Richter," Macmain said.
    "Perhaps... but you're failing." He fired again.
The bolt severed the cable.
    A spray of brilliant blue energy struck the golden
platform. It exploded in sparks and splinters.
Macmain landed on it in a crouch. He wasn't electro-
cuted.
  "Kill the prisoner/" Richter snarled.
    "You don't want to do that, Colonel," said the
Marine behind the woman in silver. The Marine's
power-carbine was still glowing from the burst it had
just fired. "Good help is so hard to find." The Marine
snapped open the helmet visor.
  "Hello, Libra," Macmain said.
    "Just waitin' for my moment, boss," Libra said,
and fired the Drake again, splitting the air with blue
rods of energy. Two of Richter's men fell. Richter

snapped off a shot, making Libra duck, and then he
and the other Marine dove for cover. "Ready, boss?"
    "Just a moment," Mac said, and took a small object
from a suit pouch, a disc of silver plastic with an
engraved hand, Macmain the Magnificent's calling
card. He flipped it through the air toward the empty
glass case. It intersected one of the alarm-rays; a horn
blared, and steel shutters began rolling down to seal
off the doors. "Let's go."
    The last Marine fired from behind a painting,
blasting chips of marble from the floor in front of the
rapidly closing door.
    Libra stitched light through the canvas. The Marine
fell forward, ripping it wide open. Libra hit the floor
and rolled after Mac, under the shutter as it slammed
down.
 "Libra, that was a Picasso/"
    "You must be slippin', boss. Didn't you see the
middle musician's pants were the wrong color? It was
a fake."
    "Oh. Sure," Macmain said. "Just wanted to see if
you were paying attention."
    "Always, boss, always. Vixen's just around the
corner."
    They turned. The next corridor had one wall of
glass: outside, as if this were a street entrance and not
fifty stories in the sky, waited the gravity boat Star
Vixen. A pane was missing from the wall, and Vixen's
boarding ramp linked her to the corridor.
    And by the open window stood two more Consorti-
um Marines.
 Libra snapped, "Have they been here?"
 "Who?" said one of the troopers.
 "What do you mean, 'who,' you idiot? Macmain

62                                               63




and Libra, of course. They'll be heading for this ship.
Get down that hall and head them off, or Richter'11
use you for target practice!"
    The Marines saluted and ran off in the direction
Mac and Libra had come from. There was a sound of
gunfire, and several yells.
    "Good thing those lads can't hit anything," Libra
said as they crossed the sheer drop to Vixen's hatch.
"They might hurt someone." "Lift us, Libra," Mac said.
    "You got it, boss." She slid into the control couch,
and her hands danced across the controls. "And so
once again we bid farewell to the eager but stupid
minions of the Cons--"
    A hand chopped down on Macmain's wrist, and the
Karthores Diadem fell to Vixen's deck.
    "Not all so stupid, thief," the attacker said. He
wore a slate gray uniform with silver sword insignia:
one of Richter's personal guard, and a dangerous
opponent in fact. He slammed a fist into Mac's side,
driving the master thief back into the ship's open
doorway.
 "Mac--" Libra said.
 "Lift us!" Mac shouted. "Before Richter gets here!"
    The Grey Guard lunged at Macmain as the world
fell away.

    "You know what's going to happen," Orvy said.
"They're going to have a big fighl in the doorway, and
just as they're about to climb out of the atmosphere,
Mac wins, like always, but as the Grey guy drops out
the door he'll grab the Diadem. So nobody gets the
super-weapon, and Vixen docks with Star Fox in
orbit, and zoom they go off into the sunset."
    Thed looked up from the book. Orvy was sitting
cross-legged on a rock, tossing pebbles into the little

creek they called the Styx, that ran down from the
hills. They'd both come out here to get away from
town, because everybody in town was caught up with
working on Plan C, and Thed just couldn't stand it
any longer.
    Now Orvy was trying Thed's patience, and there
was never very much of it to try. "It doesn't have
anything to do with knowing what's going to happen,"
Thed said. "It's how it happens that matters. I mean,
sure, I know Richter isn't going to kill Mac. I even
knew that it wasn't really Libra in the hood and
handcuffs. Libra'd never let them do that to her. But
it's still fun to see her surprise everybody."
    "But it isn't a surprise," Orvy said. "Oh, what's the
use." He tossed another pebble.
    Thed put the copy of Blaze of Night (Macmain The
Magnificent Adventure #46, by Ross Red) down care-
fully. "Do yo~u want to talk about the dramatic unities
again?"
    Orvy held up his hands. "No. Please. No." Orvy
was twelve years, two months old. Thed was twelve
years, five months. The difference showed up most
distinctly in theoretical discussions. "It's starting to
get late. Do you want to go back to town?"
     "Absolutely not. They wouldn't notice us anyway.
So damn busy with their damn Plan C." "Hey, the Plan's important."
    "It's important to the people in it," Thed said.
"And that ain't us." She looked up. "Who's that?"
    Orvy turned. Three figures in white were coming
down from the hills. "I don't know. Are they Plan
people?"
    "Don't look like it." Thed's voice dropped as far as
it would go. "One of them's got wings."
    Thed and Orvy watched, perhaps scared but cer-
tainly fascinated, as the three strangers approached.

64                                                                   65




One was tall and thin, and did have wings, with red
feathers. The others looked like people... except
that one of them had greenish skin and pointed ears.
  "Aliens," Thed said.
  "Yeah," Orvy said.
    The most peoplelike of the aliens said, "Hello. Are
you natives?"
 "Sure," Thed said.
    The aliens talked to each other rapidly. Then the
one who had spoken before said, "Can you tell us how
to reach the nearest settlement?"
    Orvy started to point the way to town, but Thed
said, "You go that way, toward those big rocks." She
pointed toward two huge boulders in the distance, a
third of a circle the wrong way from town. "You won't
see anything until you're nearly there... 'cause, see,
it's built underground... but you can't miss it once
you're there. Okay?"
    "That's great," the alien said. "Thanks a lot." The
three aliens spoke again. Then the first one said, "We
haven't got anything to give you now, but we'd like to
pay you back later. What are your names?"
    "I'm Macmain," Thed said, "and this is Libra, my
loyal sidekick." Orvy stared at Thed. The alien looked
puzzled, then said, "Well, thanks, both of you. See
you." She waved. Thed and Orvy waved back.
    The aliens started walking toward the distant
stones. When they were a hundred meters or so away,
Orvy said, "What was all that about? They were lost,
and you pointed them the wrong way. Those rocks
aren't near anything but the old caves."
    "They were alien invaders," Thed said, "or hadn't
you noticed? We're part of Plan C now, whether
anyone wanted us to be or not."
    Orvy considered this, said, "Well, okay. Should we
go back to town and tell somebody?"

  "I have a much better idea."
    "Oh, now wait a minute. The last time you had a
much better idea--"
    "That would have worked if the rubber band hadn't
broken."
  "Okay. What's the idea?"
      "We go back and get our backpacks, and then we go
looking for the starship."  "What starship?"
    "I don't believe this. Those were aliens, right? They
didn't just walk here, did they?" Thed paused. "Un-
less they were Deep-Space Attack Androids, like in
The Janus Invasion .... "
    "I thought Deep-Space Attack Androids always
looked just like the people on the planets they were
invading."
      "Good point. Okay, so they're not androids, which
means they had to have a starship, right?"  "I guess so."
    "From a brilliant deduction to 'I guess so.' Some-
times I don't know why I put up with you."
"Because I put up with you putting up with me."
"Right," Thed said. "Now, shall we go, Libra?"
"Now let's get this straight," Orvy said. "You aren't
really Macmain. Anyway, if you were really Macmain,
then I'd have to be Libra, and I don't want to be
Libra. I don't even look like Libra. I'm not even a girl,
Thed."
 "Okay, okay. Who do you want to be, then?"
 "Aramis."
    ';,tramis? He doesn't even want to be a Musketeer.
He wants to be a bishop.t"
"Yeah, and he also lives through all the books."
"There is," Thed said gravely, "a certain logic to
your position." It was what Macmain said when he
was outmatched in a fight, which usually required the

66                                                                     67




Empire to be holding at least eight phasers and an
innocent hostage. It was not by any means an admis-
sion of defeat. Thed picked up Ross Red's latest tale,
looked at the cover, put the book in her pocket.
"Macmain and Aramis... a cross-dimensional ad-
venture, hmm, that's not bad. Okay, Aramis, let's go
find that starship."
    "'Starship,' mon amie? Je ne comprends pus your
strange speech."
    Thed laughed. This was more like it. "A vessel that
sails 'pon the black tides of night, my friend, laden
with booty from lands past your imagining. Come!"
    "Mais ou� "Orvy said, and another great adventure
had begun.

    Flyter sat at the long, long table in the castle's
glass-roofed hall, surrounded by stacks of papers,
graphs with scrawled pencil notes, a paper floor plan
with small labeled counters arranged on it, and two
computers. He picked up one of the graphs, wrote
another line, giggled. He took another paper, read it
over, laughed aloud, then crumpled it in both hands
and tossed it into the emptiest of five full wastebas-
kets.
    Estervy came in. "Your sister called," she said.
"Thed's missing again."
 Flyter sighed. "Orville too?"
 "Orville too."
  "Well. I certainly haven't seen them."
  "Could they be at your place?"
    "No, I changed the lock codes after her last unau-
thorized visit .... Then again, that might not stop
The& I tell you, sometimes I think she really is
Macmain."
  "So what shall I tell your sister?"

    "The truth will do, I should think. I don't know
where Theodora is, I'm very busy right at the mo-
ment, and Thed's never had any problem taking care
of herself. Not to mention Orvy. Besides, how much
trouble can they get into?"
  Estervy gave him a withering look.
    "You're right," Flyter said wearily. "Forget I said
that .... Telephone." He began to search the table.
"Telephone, telephone, who's got--aha." At least two
hundred sheets of paper hit the floor as Flyter trium-
phantly lifted the telephone. Estervy looked doubtful,
but as Flyter dialed he said, "Don't worry, that's all
dropped scenes .... Hello? Lizzy? Well, yes, of course
it's me. Look, about my darling niece and her part-
ner in crime---Oh, really? Well, that's just splen-
did. No, I really mean that, I love Theodora, I
don't want her eaten by lions or..." Flyter paused,
rested the phone on his shoulder and scribbled furi-
ously.
    Estervy picked up the phone handset. "Liz?
Estervy. Oh, she did show up. That's good, then. Oh,
Liz, you know damn well he cares, and you also know
how he is when he's working. That's right... No, in
the last draft I saw, we only need you to cook for the,
right, for that. You don't even need to come to the
technical, unless you just want to. Hm? It's in..."
Estervy looked at her watch. "Oh, my ears and
whiskers, it's in four hours. Must go, Liz. See you
then."
    She put down the phone. "I presume you know that
the technical is in--"
    "I'm not deaf," Flyter said. "Mad, very dreadfully
mad, but why will you call me deaf?. We'll make the
technical."
 "They'll be landing in no more than twelve hours."

68                                                                   69




    Flyter whacked a key on one of the computers, and
the printer began spitting pages. He held up the
printout, displaying it. "Then desire them to step this
way," he said brightly, "and I'll set them right in a
twinkling."
 They gathered up the papers, laughing.

Chapter Four

 Overtures

70

THE STARS STREAKED to rainbows, then back down to
drifting points, as Enterprise dropped out of warp-
drive.
    "Direidi ahead, Captain," Sulu announced, as the
planet tumbled into view on the main bridge screen.
"Klingon vessel located, range One million kilometers
and steady."
    "Lieutenant Uhura," Kirk said, "send our re-
spects."
    "Sir," Uhura said, "I've just received a message of
goodwill from Fire Blossom, Kaden vestai-Oparai
commanding."
 "Well then, Lieutenant, return our respects."
    "Of course, sir. It's just that the wording of the
message was a bit unusual."
    Kirk said, "Uhura, put the Klingons' message on
bridge speakers."
 "Yes, Captain."
    "Knock, knock.t" said a man's deep, resonant voice.
"Who ~ there in th'other devilg name?" The voice had
a faint Scots accent.




MOW MUCH FOR JU51 [lie VLANEIf

Uhura said, mostly to herself, "Orson... Welles?"
The voice continued: "Faith, here's an equivocator,
that could swear in both the scales against either scale,
who committed treason enough for god's sake, yet
could not equivocate to heaven: 0 come in, equivoca-
toll"
    The lift doors opened and Ambassador Charlotte
Sanchez came onto the bridge. She wore a crisp green
trouser suit with a scarf at the collar. She looked
around. "You all look just a touch tense. Was it
something I said?"
    Kirk said, "Uhura... Spock... anybody...
what do you make of that message?"
  Engineer Scott said, "None o' my clansmen."
  Spock said, "Its origin is in--"
  "I know its origin, Spock... I'd like an analysis."
    "I'm afraid there is insufficient data for that, Cap-
tain."
    Kirk sighed. Bad enough they had Klingons, now it
looked like they had crazy Klingons. "All right. All
ashore that's going ashore."
    Spock said, "With your permission, Captain, I shall
remain aboard ship and continue the planetary sur-
vey. We must also attempt to locate the Smith's
crew."
    "Of course, Spock." Kirk pressed the intercom
switch. "This is the Captain speaking. Landing--"
    "Excuse me, Captain," Ambassador Sanchez said,
"but this is my command." She leaned over the grille.
"This is the ambassador. Diplomatic party will please
gather in the Transporter Room in thirty minutes.
Dress uniform, no sidearms to be carried. Thank
you."
     Kirk said, "It's usual for at least two members of a
 landing party to carry hand phasers."
  "Yes, it is usual."

HOW MUCH FOR .JUST THE ~LANET;~

Sulu said, "And Klingon landing parties are always
armed. Even on 'diplomatic' missions."
    "So I've heard. I believe that I said dress uniform,
gentlemen. I plan to change in my quarters."
    Sanchez left the bridge. Kirk looked around; every-
one was quite still except for Uhura, who turned
toward her console before anyone could see her face.
    "You heard the ambassador," Kirk said. "Mr. Kyle,
you have the conn. Chekov, Sulu... Uhura, shall we
dress for dinner?"

  "Magius..." Captain Kaden said.
    "Awaiting your orders, Captain," said Security Offi-
cer Maglus.
  "Put the communications officer down."
    Magius had Aperokei's throat enclosed in his fist.
His other hand was arched above Aperokei's head.
Maglus looked remarkably like someone about to
open a bottle.
    "Yes, Captain," Magius said, and dropped Apero-
kei back into his chair behind the communications
console.
    Kaden observed the bridge crew relaxing with
mixed relief and disappointment. At least one small
bet changed hands.
    "Zan Aperokei," the captain said, "this vessel has
for some time now been at a state of less than full
alert. And I believe that young officers do their best
when they are free to act in their own ways. Our cruise
has not been without honor, do you agree, Zan
Aperokei?"
"Yes, Captain," Proke said, squeaking a little.
"Excellent. Now, would you care to explain the
message of greeting that you sent the Federation
vessel?"
 "It was intended--" Proke cleared his throat, con-




MOW MUCH I'UR JUbl                 Iitl- r'LAN,t.I~.

tinued half an octave lower, "mintended to make our
Federation opposites feel comfortable and at ease. I
did not mean it as a statement of Imperial policy."
  "Where did you acquire the... text?"
    "It is a piece of classical poetry," Proke said, so
earnestly that he had to be lying.
    But the message was sent; there wasn't anything to
do but make the best of it. "Very well. If this message
indeed puts the Feds off their guard, you may expect
rewards, Lieutenant."
    "Yes, Captain," Proke said. Nothing scared junior
Klingon officers quite so badly as the promise of
rewards from senior Klingon officers.
      Force Leader Memeth entered the bridge. "Equip-
ment has been secured for transport," he said crisply.
  "Rish?"
    "Transporters are synchronized," Arizhel said. "If
Enterprise maintains standard separation, there
should be no way they can detect the second transport
beam."
    "Excellent," Kaden said. "Landing party, equip
and meet on the Transporter stage."

    Kirk, Ambassador Sanchez, Lt. Uhura, and Dr.
McCoy materialized in the cool, still afternoon air.
They stepped forward to clear the transporter coordi-
nate, realized they were standing on a small raised
platform, decorated with red and gold bunting and
little flags with Klingon trefoils. Light flared behind
them, there was the electronic whistle of transport,
and Scott, Sulu, and Chekov joined them on the little
dais.
    "Rather interesting welcome,"' Kirk said quietly,
looking around at the decorations.
    Sanchez pointed at another platform, perhaps a
hundred meters away. It was tricked out with Federa-

tion colors and flags and occupied by a group of
agitated Klingon offricers. She chuckled. "Looks like a
reasonable mistake to me."
    The platforms had been set up in an open stretch of
grassy ground. There were low, rocky hills in the
middle distance. Just ahead was a sprawling town of
small buildings, and one amazing structure.
    The big building looked partly like a Gothic castle,
two parts storybook and one part mad scientist's,
with one thin tower poking up at least ten stories,
partly like a Victorian mansion with ornate fretsaw
work under the eaves, partly like a greenhouse--a
long glass roof ran on and on over one wingmand
there were plenty of less identifiable parts left over.
Before it was a small, pagodalike glass pavilion, and
parked before that a streetcar much like the preserved
cable lines of San Francisco on Earth; the car tracks
ran for fifty yards and stopped cold, with a sign
reading YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK--DIREIDI
CHAMBER OF COMMERCE.
    People were pouring out of the big building and the
town. They were all brightly dressed, and there was a
rising sound of voices. Suddenly a bass drum sounded
from the trolleycar pavilion, and then a brass band
came to life.
 The crowd began singing:

We thought that you might like to know
 You'll get a down-home welcome
   In our little town
We hope you'll never want to go
 It's really great to have
    Someone strange hanging 'round
See how our friendly neighbors
Step back as you pass
Please put your trash in baskets

75




And stay off the grass
You only get one warning so
We thought that you might like to know

    Kirk said, "I've never been met quite like this
before."
    Uhura was humming in time to the bright, brassy
music. Sulu waved to the townspeople. McCoy said,
"What was that about baskets?"
 The ambassador said "Well, I think it's charming."

We thought that you might like to know
 We'd like to entertain you
   Our merry old way
So every hearth will be aglow
 There's nothing quite so warm as
   An auto-da-f~
We've been on pins and needles
Since you first appeared
We hope you don't have plans to
Do anything weird
We're very open-minded, though
We thought that you might like to know

    As the music faded, Sulu began singing brightly--
though not terribly loudly:

From charms intramural
To prettiness rural
The sudden transition
Is simply Elysian!

    Almost before he stopped, Uhura sang, to a differ-
ent meter,

By a simple coincidence, few
Could ever have counted upon,
The same thing occurred to me,
When I first put this uniform on!

    And Chief Engineer Scott, grinning fit to burst,
added:

Now to the banquet we press;
Now for the eggs and the ham;
Now for the mustard and cress,
Now for the strawberry jam!

    Captain Kirk had an expression of mingled awe and
bewilderment; Dr. McCoy's eyebrows were hanging
off the clouds.
    "Gilbert and Sullivan," all three of the~ singers
chorused, and bowed slightly to the captain.
    "Yes, of course," Ambassador Sanchez said, sound-
ing not entirely certain. "You're right. If these peo-
ple's culture calls for them to, uh, burst into song
occasionally... then we must respect the custom."
    Kirk cleared his throat, took a long breath, and
opened his mouth. Before any sound came out, how-
ever, a plump man in a swallowtail coat, striped
trousers, and spats came forward. "Kai, kai kassai,
duyrney," he said, "Flyter sutai-Direidi jikh--"
    "Excuse me, please," Sanchez said, "but we repre-
sent the Federation."
    "Oh?" The man paused, pulled a little book from
his coat pocket, riffled through it. "Oh, of course!
Eighty-six, not sixty-eight. Heads will roll for that
one, you may be sure. Well, then, come right this way,
please."

76                                                                  77




    The crowd parted and the plump man led the
Federation party to the great glass-roofed hall of the
massive building. On the way, he hummed to himself,
strutted a bit like a drum major.
    The inside of the hall was decorated with multicol-
ored ribbons, sprays of exotic flowers, long white
candles in iron holders. Along the walls were man-
high sculptures in strange, fluid shapes. The sculpture
didn't seem to fit with the rest of the decor; it was in a
reddish-colored crystal...
    "Is that dilithium?" Ambassador Sanchez whis-
pered.
  "Can't be," Sulu said.
  "It certainly looks like it," Chekov chimed in.
  Kirk said, "Scotty..."
    "Aye, sir--if it's th' real thing, there's enough in
this room t' run the Starfleet for a year."
    The plump man in the clawhammer coat turned
around. "Now!" he shouted, making Sulu blink and
McCoy wince. "Allow me to welcome you most
sincerely to the free, independent, and unaligned
planet of Direidi. My name is Flyter. Hi there." He
pumped Kirk's hand. "Hi there." He shook Sanchez's
hand, then Uhura's, the rest. "Hi there. Hi there. Hi
there." He paused, wiped his hands and his forehead
with a huge red silk handkerchief. "Well, thank good-
ness that's over." He looked up. "Oh, are you still
here?"
    Sanchez said, "We represent the United Federation
of Planets..."
    "Of course, right, right, so much going on this week
it just slipped my mind. I'm Flyter. Who are you
folks, then?"
    "Captain James T. Kirk, USS Enterprise, Federa-
tion Starfleet Command."

78

  "'T'?" Flyter said.
      "It stands for 'Tiberius,'" Kirk said. "As in the
Roman emperor."  "Really?"
  "It was handed down from my great-grandfather."
    "Oh," Flyter said, sounding vaguely disappointed.
"And you must be the ambassador."
    "Charlotte Sanchez, UFP Diplomatic Service.
Pleased."
  "Why?" Flyter said innocently.
    Without missing a beat, Sanchez said "Because
meeting new individuals gives me great intellectual
pleasure. That's why I became a diplomat."
    "Oh, good! There are almost fourteen thousand of
us, you know. We should be able to make you really,
really happy." He paused, looked worried. "Your
species doesn't, uh, do anything, you know, awful
when you get too happy, do you? Like, you know,
blow up, or something?"
"Not at all," Sanchez said, not quite so easily.
"Well, then that's all right. Now, I want you to meet
someone who plays a very special part in our society."
He turned, swept a hand, bowed from the waist.
"Estervy."
    A woman was approaching. She was strongly built
and walked with a positively regal bearing. Her face
was smooth and sharp, her gray-streaked hair swept
up and covered with fine black lace.
    "My God, it's Queen Victoria," Kirk said to
Sanchez.
 "I agree. Shut up."
    "And who are these persons, Flyter my dear?" the
woman said. Her voice was pitched high, and the R's
trilled magnificently.
 "The Federation people, Estervy. This is Captain

               79




James Kirk. His great-grandfather was a Roman em-
peror."
 "Oh! Not one of the silly ones, I hope."
  "Well, not exactly--"
    "Because we don't go in for that sort of thing
around here, feeding people to lions. We don't even
have any lions. Do we, Flyter?"
    "Not anymore. We had some once, but somebody
left them outside all night and--well, you know."
    Estervy said to Kirk, "Of course, if you want to
have dinner leaning on a couch, that's quite all right.
We're very open-minded here. Just don't expect any
of our young ladies to peel you any grapes." She
smiled. "Grapes we do have. Correct, Flyter?"
      "Absolutely, Estervy. So, Captain, will you be
wanting a couch for dinner?"
  "No, thank you."
  "It's no bother."
    "That's all right," Kirk said. His head was spinning
slightly. "Excuse me... what happened to your
lions?"
    "We don't have any lions, I thought I made that
clear," Flyter said, in an irritated tone. "It's the couch
or nothing, I'm afraid."
  "But you used to have lions..."
    "Earth used to have dinosaurs, didn't it?" Flyter
said sharply. "But if I came in and asked for a
dinosaur, I wouldn't get very far, would I? Same with
your whales. And just try to get an aurochs. Is it my
fault you can't take care of your large animals?"
     Flyter turned to the ambassador, and in a suddenly
 silky voice said, "Estervy, this is Ambassador Char-
 lotte Sanchez."
     "Hello, Estervy," Sanchez said. "I'm delighted to
 meet you."

    "Hi," Estervy said, sounding quavery. Flyter
leaned close to her, said softly, "It's okay. No--" His
hands mimed an explosion. Estervy let out a held
breath and said, "Well. Pleased to meet you, too."
    Sanchez bowed slightly. "I don't mean to get ahead
of the negotiations," she said, "but would you mind
telling me what your office is?"
    "Office? I don't have an office. I did once have an
apartment with a large bedsitter, but an office?"
    "Flyter said..." Sanchez looked at Estervy, at
Flyter, at Kirk. She stopped talking. Kirk felt relieved.
    "You'll excuse us now," Flyter said. "The Klingons
have arrived. Help yourselves to punch and cookies."
He bustled off, humming again. Estervy dipped her
head slightly and glided away after him.
    "Bones," Kirk said, feeling a mixture of curiosity
and exasperation, "do you suppose there's something
in the water?"
    "It tested out just fine from up yonder," McCoy
said, "but then, nobody's ever done a test on the
effects of long-term exposure to dilithium radiation."
He looked meaningfully at Engineer Scott.
Scott looked puzzled, then gritted his teeth. "Aye?"
Kirk watched as Flyter went over to greet the
Klingons. He spoke Klingonese, gesturing emphati-
cally. The Klingon Captain--Kaden, Kirk recalled--
looked violent for a moment, and then gave the wary
half-bow that Klingons gave to those they respected.
(Kirk had no idea what Klingons did before those
they trusted.)
    Flyter bustled back into the center of the hall. "All
right, ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls, this way,
please. I know you're hungry but nobody expects you
to eat off the floor."
  Estervy was smiling and nodding at nothing much.

80                                                                   81


Ambassador Sanchez said, "You've only been here for
one generation, is that correct?"
  "That's a long time, these days, re'dear."
  "Well, yes, but that's not what I meant ....How
did you ever find the time for this stonework?"
    "Oh, most of it's cast panels, prefab, you know.
Amazing what you can get by mail these days. This
way, please," Flyter said, and urged the crowd toward
the end of the hall.
    A whistle blew. A multipaneled door opened at the
opposite end of the room, and a long, narrow table
began to roll into the room. It was set along its length
with china and crystal, twenty settings on each side,
and there were centerpieces of flowers and carved ice.
To either side of the table, a crowd of waiters in black
jackets appeared, carryiag chairs. To the sounds of the
band that had played outside, they spread along the
table with drill-team precision and clicked the chairs
into place as the table stopped. Not one wineglass was
upset.
    "Chow time!" Flyter announced, rubbed his hands
together, and trotted toward the banquet table. "Place
cards are on the table; if you can't spell your own
name don't blame me!"
    The Direidi immediately began searching for their
places. The humans and Klingons looked at one
another for a long moment and followed.
    Kirk noticed that one place had, instead of a
straight-backed chair, a short couch upholstered in
red plush. Something felt tight inside his chest, and he
checked the place card. Sure enough, it read JAMES
C^LmUI~^ rdmc. He sighed and reclined.
    The dinner began with a soup made with a sort of
morel, followed by a multicolored salad, and then a
huge platter of beef Wellington laced up the side.
  Midway through the entree, Engineer Askade said

rather casually, "I would like to ask about these
sculptures."
    "Told you once," Flyter said, popping an olive, "the
whole place came from a kit."
    "I spoke of the figures along the walls. They appear
to be of dilithium. Is this a common art form on your
world?"
    "Used to be," someone said, and the Direidi began
chuckling. Even the waiters were laughing.
    Flyter used his napkin elaborately. "Excuse us,
please. That's a bit of a local joke. We turn these
things up now and then, digging foundations, running
sewer pipe. No one's really certain how long ago they
were made. Dilithium wears out rather slowly, as I'm
sure you know."
    Ambassador Sanchez said, "You mean, they're arti-
facts?"
    Estervy said, "I like the idea of an ancient race. It
makes a world feel so... lived-in."
    Lieutenant Sulu said, "But what happened to them?
Where did they go?"
    "Oh, not that again," Flyter said irritably. "Look,
I'm really sorry about the lions, okay? It was an
honest mistake. But this was before our time."
  Kirk coughed.
    Arizhel said, "We have excellent historical analysts
for matters such as this. History is of great impor-
tance to the Klingon Empire."
    "Certainly it's of concern to the Federation as
well," Sanchez said, sounding not at all bothered.
"We would be pleased to help you uncover the truth
about your planet's past."
    Sulu said, "Do you know anything at all about
them?"
  "There are the tablets," Estervy said.
  "Oh, right, right, the tablets," Flyter said. He

82                                                                     83
turned to a waiter. "Arvin, would you ask Pam to
come out here, please? Just for a moment?"
    The waiter bowed and went into the kitchen. Flyter
said, "Pam's a bit of a philologist. She's been reading
the tablets in her spare time. Even named our mysteri-
ous ancients: now we call them the Eldireidi."
    A moment latera woman in toque and apron came
out. "This had better be short, Flyter. We've got a
very recalcitrant salmon out there."
    ,'Of course, Pam. Our guests are interested in the
Eldireidi inscriptions. Do you remember what hap-
pened to the big runestone?"  "Which big runestone?"
    "That is true," Estervy said thoughtfully. "They
did leave a lot of notes." She sighed. "Wish we could
get secretarial help like that."
    The kitchen door opened. Someone leaned out: she
wore kitchen whites dripping with what appeared to
be tartar sauce. "It's straining again, PamW
    Memeth rose slightly from his chair, one hand tight
on his steak knife. "What is happening in there?"
    Pam snapped, "I'm a cook, not an ichthyologist,"
then said to Flyter, "Come on, which stone?"
    "The big one." Pam frowned. Flyter said, "Oblong,
beveled edges, you know."
    "Oh, the map rock." She bent over the banquet
table, picked up a silver-handled spatula and scraped
beef Wellington across the platter.
     Gravy pooled into incised lettering, and the red fire
of dilithium glowed under the lights. "There you go."
  "That's an alien artifact?" Kirk said incredulously.
  "You think we cook for forty every day? Cookie
  sheets are the first thing to run out. Besides, this is the
  most durable stuff known. I hardly think a few hours
  in a medium oven is going to bother it."
 There was the whine of a siren from the kitchen,

84

r-lui/v MULti I'UK JU)I IMI- I'LRNI:I[

and a flare of red light from the door. One of the cooks
leaned out. "Pam! Bullets won't stop it/"
    Pam sighed. "'Scuse me, Flyter. Everyone eat
hearty, now." She opened the kitchen door and van-
ishedinto smoke and light and noise. The door swung
shut and all was quiet.
    Kirk looked up and down the table. Sanchez was
staring at the plaque under the entree. The Klingons
looked ready to jump, Force Leader Memeth in
particular. His own crew weren't exactly at ease. And
leaning on the couch was making Kirk's elbow sore.
    'Flyter was busily relocating chunks of beef Welling-
ton to other plates with the silver server, exposing
more of the engraving. He wiped lightly at it with a
handful of cauliflower, and the gravy-filled lettering
and diagrams showed up clearly.
    "Estervy, you worked on this, too," Flyter said.
"Isn't this the plaque that talks about people from the
sky?"
    "No, dear, that was under the soup course. This is
the one that refers to a vast treasure of sunlight."
 "Treasure of sunlight?" Sulu saki, a little dreamily.
     "Well, young man," Estervy said, "we did the best
we could. May I, Flyter?" She stood up. "Of course, Estervy."
    She picked up a butter knife and traced along the
inscription:

When first the light of dawning
Lies in the mountaintop
Bear toward the rays of morning
And ride until you drop.
Here lies the sunlight's treasure
And if it be your goal
Keep your eye upon the doughnut
And not upon the hole.

85




MOW MUCH FOR JUST THE I"'LANET{

  Uhura said, "That's an... idiomatic translation?"
  "We're a little short of poets, too, I'm afraid, dear."
    Sulu said, "But another of the tablets says the
Eldireidi came from another planet?"
    Estervy said curtly, "Young man, they don't exactly
end with 'continued on next slab.' For all I know,
there's a set with shaving-cream jingles."
    Kaden said, "But you have proof of this race--that
could carve dilithium for mere ornamentsmand you
have done so little with it? This is--" Arizhel was
tugging discreetly at Kaden's sleeve. He paused, said
more quietly "--something we would be most pleased
to help correct."
    "First Battalion, Combat Archeologists," Kirk
muttered, and Sanchez elbowed him in the sore arm.
    "Well, I'll tell you the truth," Flyter said. "Some
time back we had some people who really were eager
to go find the Eldireidi. And they went. But they
didn't come back. With the number of colonists we
have, we really can't afford too many people not
coming back."
  "You made it illegal?" Maglus said.
    "Laws against people doing destructive things are
useful," F1yter said offhandedly, "but laws against
plain dumb things aren't very. No, it just kind of went
out of fashion. Ah, here comes dessert."
    Conversation stopped while the dessert, a pecan pie
dense as dwarfstar matter, was served. Over strong
coffee, Kirk said, "That was a magnificent dinner."
  "It was most excellent," Kaden said.
    Flyter said, "Yes, not bad, I'd say." He turned his
head. "Check, please."
    The waiter presented a silver tray. Flyter picked the
long piece of paper from it. "Hmm. Who had the
grilled sole?"

86

       How MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

    There was an awkward silence. Flytot said, "Oh,
come on, you know how these places are, they won't
split a check for a party this size... oh, well." He
tossed a square of plastic onto the tray. "Now, you be
sure I get the receipts and the carbons, okay?"
  "Of course, sir," the waiter said.
    The staff began clearing the table. "Shall we move
on?" Flyter said, and rose. The others followed.
    � Fireworks lit the way out of the banquet hall,
around the streetcar pavilion--the car was no longer
there--and up to the Victorian-looking face of the
building. A man in a frogged frock coat and high hat
stood by a pair of stained-glass doors. The porter
smiled, tipped his hat in a white-gloved hand, and
pulled the door open.
    Beyond it was a grand, cluttered-elegant lobby,
three stories from parquet floor to skylighted roof. A
carpeted stairway led up; other halls showed hints of
shop windows and invitingly dim taverns. The front
desk was nearly ten meters long, of rubbed dark oak;
behind it was a bank of pigeonholes, and a tall man
and a short woman in identical dove-gray suits.
    As the Federation and Klingon groups entered, a
red carpet began to unroll, apparently under its own
power, flipping fully open at their feet; then a stream
of bellhops and maids came dancing down the grand
staircase. There was a crash of cymbals, and as the
lobby-bar pianist tore into an upbeat melody, voices
were raised.
    The man and woman behind the desk led the
chorus:

We'd like to welcome you sincerely
 To our little hotel
And it's a pleasure to be hosting you




   How MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

And we should point out that we're nearly
 Done rebuilding as well
And if you like the place now
Just wait until we get through
We have plush carpeted halls
And rooms with up-to-date features
And you will notice each suite has
 Very soundproof walls
And though a couple well-known guests
May once have been indiscreet
It's just a quiet hotel
Set on a nice quiet street

We have a top-notch reputation
 And we're sure that you'll find
That your desires are splendidly served
We offer every recreation
 For the body and mind
And all those rumors you've heard
Are really quite undeserved
We've got hot water to spare
And very elegant cooking
And we're certain your booking's
 In the files somewhere
And though until we can locate it
You may have a short wait
It's quite a lovely hotel
You'll find our lobby is great

    Ambassador Sanchez looked at Captain Kaden,
who shrugged. The party, really all one now, moved
up the carpet toward the desk. The tall man swiveled
an enormous book toward them.

So here's the register, please sign up
 Give the bellman your grips

   How MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

While we arrange for your car to be moved
Stop by our lobby bar or gift shop
Get some small bills for tips
We'll send your suitcases up
Soon as your credit's approved
If you want dinner at midnight
Or to send someone flowers
Just ring us twenty-four hours
 And we'll do you right
Although it might take a while
Rome wasn't built in a day
We're just a cozy hotel
Run in a cozy old way
Yes, it's a first-class hotel
(We hope you think so as well)
A really first-class hotel
(The decoration is swell)
Run in a first-class
 Top brass
   Stompin' at the Savoy
    Way

    "Will that be cash or charge?" cried the desk clerk,
as the music crashed to a stop and the dancing staff
froze.
    No one said anything for a moment. Then the
woman behind the desk--the same one who had
appeared from the kitchen during the banquet--
clanged a bell. "Front boy!" she called out, and then,
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to
the Hotel Direidi. I'm Pam, and along with my
husband Davith--" she indicated the tall man next to
her--"we'11 be your hosts during your stay here. Now,
let's see. How have we arranged your reservations?"
She ran her finger down a much-scribbled-over sheet




HOW MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

of paper. "Ambassador Sanchez, Room 21. Dav-
ith?"
    Davith reached to one of the pigeonholes and took
down a key. He presented it to the ambassador.
    "That's just up the stairs, to your left. Captain
James Kirk, Room 22. Upstairs and right. Command-
er Arizhel, Room 31, up two and left. Captain Kaden,
Room 32. Now, the rest of you will be in the new
wing .... "Davith kept dealing out keys.
    When all were assigned, Pam said, "I'm sure you'd
all like to get into your rooms as quickly as pos-
sible; are there any questions I can answer before
then?"
    There was a sudden, extremely awkward silence.
Everybody had plenty of questions. They just
couldn't figure out where to start asking.
    Engineer Scott said politely, "Would that nice little
tavern up the hall still be servin'?"
    "Terribly sorry, sir," Davith said, sounding truly
wounded, "but most of our restaurant staff are still at
the Castle, cleaning up after the banquet. However,
room service will be glad to deliver anything you'd
like... may I suggest a bottle of the local single malt?
With the Hotel's compliments."
    Scott seemed on the brink of tears. "First class all
the way, sir. I thank you."
    Kirk turned to Ambassador Sanchez. "I don't sup-
pose you'd be interested in a nightcap?"
    "Thanks, Jim, but Commander Arizhel and I are
going to have a little talk. Girl stuff, bore you
silly."
    "Well, I..." Kirk nodded and stepped back as the
women went upstairs. "Wish I knew just what that
meant."
    "If we ever learn that, Kirk," Kaden said from
behind him, "you and I shall rule the universe."

HOW MUCH FO~ JU51                  IHI- t'LANLI.~

Kaden pointed upstairs. "I am not tired either. Let
us converse as well. I know many glorious lies of
battle."
    Kirk started to say something, then caught the look
in Kaden's eye. Laughing at once, they went up the
grand staircase.

90                                                                  91




    Chapter Five

    Ali's Fair in
Love and Dilithium

"... AND SO THEN he says, 'Have you ever wondered
how the stars look from the deck of a Red Swan-class
lightboat?' I swear that's an exact quote--"
    There was a knock at the door of Ambassador
Sanchez's room. Sanchez put down her brandy snif-
ter, said to Arizhel, "Did you call for anything else
from room service?"
    Rish was topping off her own glass from the second
bottle of brandy. "No."
 Sanchez went to the door. "Yes?"
 A woman's voice said, "May I come in?"
    Sanchez looked at Arizhel, who gestured meaning-
lessly. The ambassador opened the door.
    There was a young woman in the hall, about
Sanchez's height, very slender, in a pale-blue silk
dress. Her hair was curly and her eyes were bright.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Princess Deedee. Could I talk to
you?"
    "I'm not in any position to negotiate... not to
mention any condition .... "

    "Oh, no, this isn't about the Federation or dilithi-
um or anything. It's just that you're from, like,
offworld, you know? I need to talk to somebody who's
from there." She held up another flask of the Direidi
brandy. "I even brought my own."
    "Join the party," Sanchez said, and opened the
door wide.
    "Oh, wow, thanks. And there's two of you? Even
better." She sat down, leaned back, started to kick off
her shoes. "Oh--may I?"
  "Do we look formal?"
  "Great."
    Sanchez sat back down. "You're a princess? I didn't
think this world had royalty."
    "Well, it doesn't, exactly. See, when Direidi was
first settled, there was this really complicated system
of land supervising. I mean, there was lots of land,
since there were only about ten thousand people for
the whole planet, but they wanted to, you know, plan
ahead. The land areas were officially called 'Supervi-
sory Districts,' and the people who ran them were
'District Supervisors,' but that was kind of confusing,
nobody could remember which was which...
anyway, as a joke somebody started calling them
'Kingdoms,' like in that social club they have on
Earth, the Society for Chivalric Atavism? And it
stuck."
    Rish seemed totally lost. Sanchez wasn't having an
easy time of it. Rish said, "But these 'Kings' were not
truly rulers."
 "Tell that to Mom and Dad," Deedee said.
    "They don't have any real power, though," Sanchez
said. "They're not tyrants."
    "Are you trying to tell me that somebody who
names you 'Princess Deedee the First' isn't a tyrant?"

92                                                                 93




  "I see your point."
    "What's worse is that, since I'm a princess, they
want me to marry a prince. Any old prince," she said
dryly. "Terrific. Here, prince. Arf, aft."
    Arizhel poured three brandies. As they sipped, the
speaker grille behind Deedee began playing soft string
music. Sanchez hated piped music. She stirred to turn
the thing off, but before she could get up, Deedee
stood in front of the speaker, raised her brandy
snifter, and began singing:

I'm supposed to be a princess
As ethereal as mist
With a brow that stays unfurrowed
And a lip that stays unkissed
Till a prince all icky-charming
With his pumpkin coach and four
Sweeps me off my spike-heeled slippers...
What a bore!

    The tempo of the music picked up, and a brass
section kicked in with the strings.

When a guy presents his suit
Scored for mandolin and lute
On his bended knee with dutiful appearance
Then my blue blood turns to ice
'Cause I feel like merchandise
Being offered at a discount price for clearance
I don't care if he's landed, as long as he's candid
Though certainly beauty's no crime
It's the text, not the cover
That I want my lover to see
Just an ordinary guy
With a keen perceptive eye

For the girl inside the story-book clothes
For me

When you live in castle towers
You get lots of hearts and flowers
Not to mention hours recounting knightly glories
But I'd trade those moony looks
For a man who's read some books
Not these schnooks who tell the same damn dragon
 stories

Sanchez said, "'Schnooks' are..."
"I know just what they are," Arizhel said.

I'm not interested whether he wears silk or leather
Or buckskin or brocade or fur
And armor of steel
Is no longer appealing to me
Just a plain Brooks Brothers cut
On a guy who's off his nut
For the girl inside the Grimm Brothers clothes
For me

Should a perfect gentle knight
Have a troth he'd like to plight
I assure you I'll be right there to receive it
I don't mind his pitching woo
Doing as the Romans do
But I can't I-do it if I don't believe it
So I sit here alone like a sword in a stone
And I wait for a man to come by
Who's stuck equally fast
With the wit to at last pull us free
Just a plain and artless Art
With a warm spot in his heart
For the girl inside the Guinevere clothes
For me!

94                                                         95




     "I mean," the princess said, "Dad can be such a
dreadful twit sometimes, you know?." Sanchez laughed. So did Rish.
    Arizhel said, "My father was like this. He would
say, 'You, with the tactical genius of a hundred
generations in your line, wish to turn over stones and
listen to stray radiations?' tte thought I should be a
Commando Force Leader like my uncles, or perhaps
command a fighter wing as he had."
    "Really?" Sanchez said. "My dad was old-Navy,
too. What he'd say to me was, 'Charlie, one of these
days the black-shoe bas--' uh, the Navy high
command--"
    "I understand the term," Rish said. "Our Aperokei
has been known to use it. Fortunately for him it
means nothing to most Klingon officers."
    "Um. Well, anyway, he'd say, 'One of these days
they'll unbend, and a woman's going to conn a
starship. Might as well be you.' Well, fie on that and
the dilithium it warps on."
"Why?" Deedee said. "It sounds terribly exciting."
"Don't let the videos fool you, kid. Jim Kirk's okay,
if you don't mind his eyes pinching your posterior
every fifteen minutes, but starship captains have this
extraordinary tendency to go 'round the bend.
Garth's in the booby hatch doing vaudeville imper-
sonations, there was what's-his-name who nearly
started a war on Omega 'cause he couldn't tell the
cowboys from the commies, I don't even want to
think about the one who thought he was Caesar--"
    "I thought that was Captain Kirk," Deedee said,
sounding bewildered.
    "Close, honey, close. When you get right down to it,
they're all--you with me on this one, Rish?"
    "Swaggering, tin-plated dictators with delusions of
godhood," the two women chorused.

    "You could always," Rish said, "work passage on a
freighter. You have not the build to handle cargo, but
you look to make a splendid... our word is
agaantwikh... one who works in the small access
areas."
    "Jefffides jockey," the ambassador said. "Sure.
Heck, if you stowed away on a slow-warper, they'd
have to give you a job; it costs too much to turn
around and take people back."
    "An interesting thought," Arizhel said, "though it
should not be attempted on an Imperial vessel."
    The princess said, "Would they throw me over-
board? You know, space me, like in the Macmain and
Libra stories?"
  ",,lack," Rish said.
    Deedee said, "I don't understand. What does that
mean?"
"It means nothing. It is an expression of disgust."
"You know, aaaaack," Sanchez said helpfully.
Arizhel said, "They would not 'space' you. Can you
imagine the potential darnage to the external vapor
intakes? No, you would be put to useful labor once
you were located. The hazard is that the sliketh would
locate you first."
 Deedee said, "The sliketh?"
    Rish shrugged. "They live in the unmonitored areas
of the larger freighters. They are about..." She made
an unsteady gesture indicating a size somewhere
between half a meter and two, and a hand motion for
either very big teeth or a spiked tail. "When they find
organic matehal..." She made a very definite ges-
ture.
  't4aack," Deedee said.
  "Yes, very much so."
    Sanchez said, "Sliketh aside, it's a big universe.
Neither of us is quite what our parents expected,

96                                                                 97




either, but we did pretty well... and without waiting
for Prince, or Captain, Charming to come along."
    The princess was shaking her head. "You don't
see... I had my ticket. One way to Deneva, second
class."
  "Deneva?" Sanchez said. "Aack."
    Deedee's eyes widened. "They eat people on
Deneva?"
    "No, no, no. They're just a bunch of absolutely
cutthroat laissez-faire capitalist... hmm, now that
you put it that way... never mind. You had the
ticket, right?"
 "Yes. But then, see, he did show up. My prince."
 "Oh," Rish and Sanchez said together.
    "His name's Pete Blackwood..." the princess
said.
    "The Princess and the Pete," Sanchez heard herself
saying, and took a gulp of brandy to stop giggling. No
one seemed to have noticed.
    "... and he's a video producer. He's got his own
studio and everything. He makes art tapes."
    Sanchez refilled her glass. "Uh-huh... he offered
you any starring roles yet, kid?"
    "Well, gosh, no, I mean, he makes art tapes. He did
a half-hour survey of Picasso, you know? A Period of
Blue. And one on Lenkahn Resteis, the Rykosian
sculptor, called I Think Gravity Was a Mistake."
    "Oh," Sanchez said, with a sigh of relief and
embarrassment, "art tapes."
 Rish said, "This is a profitable enterprise?"
    "Oh, Pete does okay. The Picasso show went to
Federation Public Video for quite a bit. But that's just
the problem, see? It would be okay with Mom and
Dad if Pete was rich, and just made videos for fun.
Morn and Dad think you shouldn't do anything,

98

except for fun." Dryly she added, "Mom and Dad are
real fun people."
    Sanchez said, "Why don't you both just pack up
and go? It's a big... no, I said that already. But it is,
anyway."
    The princess said very soberly, "You seem to think
that running away solves a lot of things."
  Sanchez bit her lip. "Point to you, Deedee."
    Rish scratched her chin. "I do not think that you
have come to us merely to speak of troubles, Princess
D'di. I think that you seek assistance."
    "Well... yes. I want to do... well, kind of a
practical joke, really. See, nobody around here will
speak up to Morn and Dad about Pete. But if one of
you offworlders saw him doing something... well,
really princely... they'd have to take you seriously,
right?"
    The ambassador said, "What did you have in
mind?"
    Rish said warily, "I believe that I comprehend your
purpose, but Klingons do not attest to false things."
    "That's news tom" Sanchez caught herself, put her
brandy snifter down hard, cleared her throat, and
said, "Nor do Federation citizens. We have laws to
punish those who swear false oaths."
    Rish nodded. "We bleed them for medical sup-
plies."
    "Oh, no, nothing like that!" Deedee said hurriedly.
"What I was thinking is, suppose the two captains,
Mr. Kirk and Mr. Kaden, saw Pete being, like, heroic.
If they really saw it, and told Dad what they saw, that
wouldn't be a lie, would it?"
    Rish said, "This act would be prearranged? We
would help you to arrange it?"
    "If you would. If it wouldn't be, you know, false
witness."

99




    Rish said, "If the captains give a true report, it
seems no fraud to me."
  Sanchez said, "Not in my book, either."
  "Then you'll help?"
    "You better believe it," the ambassador said. "Al-
lies in a good cause, right, Rish?"
    "If love is a duty, it is duty that allies us, ael kai the
alliance." Rish hiccuped. "Excuse me. I was quoting.
�.. Now, D'di, your companion knows you plan for
him?"
    "Of course not! I couldn't ask Pete to do something
he knew was, you know, faked. False witness, right?"
      "Very well. But then we must know: if presented
with this opportunity to act, he will seize it?"
  "You sound like my dad," Deedee said.
    Arizhel said patiently, "I am establishing our warri-
or's capabilities before incorporating them into a
tactical plan." She took a long swallow from her
snifter. "What is our tactical plan, then?"  "Huh?"
    Sanchez said, "What kind of heroic act do we
need?"
    Rish said, "I know. There will be a vast fire in the
hotel, consuming it utterly... but your Pete boldly
saves a few from the flames." She swept her arm in a
circle. Deedee caught the brandy bottle in midair.
    Sanchez said, "That's a little extreme, isn't it?
�.. Not to mention the people he doesn't manage to
save."
  "I thought you desired this to be convincing."
    "I see your point," the ambassador said, sort of
worried that she did. "Still sounds like a bit much.
�.. Wait. Deedee, do you know if the hotel has ever
been burgled?"
 "I just suggested that."
 "Not 'burned,' Rish. Burgled. Robbed."

    Deedee thought. Then she beamed. "Yes! There was
the Black Cat Bandit. He--at least, maybe he was a
hewwore a black suit, and a mask and hood. And no
one ever caught him. Her. Them." She hiccuped, shot
soda into her drink.
"Well, that's it, then. Pete catches the Black Cat--"
"And under torture he reveals a plot to overthrow
D'di's parents," Rish said, her voice rising. Then she
paused. "No, this will not do. When the robber is
tortured, our plans will be revealed. This is worse
than nothing. Pete nmst therefore slay the Cat. Ah!
This hotel has a high lobby, with balconies. Pete hurls
the Cat from the highest level, in sight of all below."
    "Nobody gets killed," Sanchez said, sloshing bran-
dy, taking a gulp.
    Rish took a drink in response. "You must think
these people are very easily convinced."
    "Issall..." Sanchez breathed deeply� "It's all in
the setup. You can get people to believe the most
incredible stuff if you just get them in the right,
er..." She looked at Arizhel and Deedee, both of
whom looked back with intently curious expressions.
"... well, you know."
    Deedee said, "But Commander Arizhel's right.
Whoever is pretending to be the Cat can't really be
caught. Pete has to just scare him away, somewhere
the captains can see it."
    "Okay," Sanchez said. "Suppose that when I go
back to my room tomorrow night, I find the Cat, busy
stealing my... hm, what have I got? Well, some-
thing. And he sees me, and decides to--" "To slay you in rage, and... sorry."
    "No, that's it, almost. He's really ticked off because
I didn't have an~hing to steal, so he decides to kidnap
me for ransom. He takes me down to the lobby, with a
knife at my throm---"

lOO                                                                  lol




    "And Pete rescues you!" Deedee chimed in. "Only
in the fight, the Cat gets away."
    "The lobby guards do not cut him to bits?" Rish
said. "Oh. I forgot. Different culture. Excuse me."
    "It's a point, though," Sanchez said. "We have to
make sure the Cat gets away."
    Rish said, "Do you have sonic weapons here? There
are sonics that only stun the victim."
    Sanchez said, "That's perfect! And if the Cat's
holding a stunner on me, then it doesn't seem so
much like Pete's taking a risk with my life."
    Rish opened her mouth, then shrugged and said
nothing.
    Sanchez said, "So who's going to bell thewI mean,
play the Cat?"
    The princess said, "Oh, I will. I'm pretty good at
acrobatics, so I can make the fight look good, and if I
have the hood over my head nobody will recognize
me."
    Rish said, "I have thought of something I do not
like about this plan. The Federation ambassador is
kidnapped before the negotiations by one who cannot
be identified. Suppose the Klingon Empire is blamed
for this?"
  Deedee said, "Oh, gosh, Rish--"
    Sanchez said slowly, "I'm sorry to say that the
Commander's right. That's the very first thing that
some Federation citizens would think."
    "Oh .... Well, gee, should I kidnap both of you?
That sounds kind of awkward. I mean, I'd really be
outnumbered down there in the lobby."
    They were all silent for a few minutes, thinking.
Then Rish said, "Not kidnap, but rob. After the Cat
has escaped, I shall be discovered locked in the closet
of my room, and relate how the robber overpowered
me and forced me inside."

FIUVV I�1ULM ~UK JU~I     IMt rLAINI:I~.

    "Oh, that's neat!" Deedee said. "But won't it be,
like, a fib?"
 "A what?"
 "False witness."
    "Not at all." Arizhet grinned over the rim of her
snifter. "You will push me into the closet and lock the
door. And that is what I shall say."
    "Kai the Tactician!" Sanchez said, and they banged
their glasses together. "Any further details?"
    Rish said, "It is best if it takes place late tomorrow
night. This is when the robber is most likely to be
active, and there will be fewer persons in the lobby to
confuse things .... You and I, Charlotte, will have a
long dinner with the two captains. This will please
them, will it not?" She smiled.
    "This it will." Sanchez stood up, carefully, and
went to the desk. She flipped through the plastic-
covered index of hotel services. "The restaurant
closes at half past midnight."
    Deedee said, "Is that late enough? You're really
important guests; it's not like they'll throw you out or
anything."
    Rish said, "But we do not want to stay beyond the
usual time; it would attract attention. The captains
must not think they are being deliberately delayed.
That is, they must not notice it." She laughed.
    The princess said quickly, "There's the ice cream
parlor."
 Sanchez scanned the index. "I don't see it in here."
    "It's brand new, they just opened it. But it's open
all night."
    Sanchez closed the folder. She had an odd, tight
grin. Then she began to laugh out loud. "Oh, yeah.
Yeah, we have to do that. It's just too good." Rish said "What?"
 "As an integral part of the Direidi negotiations

102                                                                 103




�.. I'm going to make Jim Kirk buy me an ice cream
soda."

    Deedee closed the ambassador's door. She went
down the stairs to the lobby, crossed it to the con-
cierge's desk, and was admitted behind the desk and
through a door marked

NO ADMITTANCE
EMPLOYEES ONLY

    Behind the door was a long, narrow room, its
ceiling in darkness. Bright lights shone on a table
covered with papers: diagrams, charts, floorplans. A
brown-haired man in a checked shirt and jeans sat at
one end of the table, casually sipping coffee and
examining a stapled stack of typescript. Along one
wall was a row of video monitors, showing the lobby
and corridors of the hotel. Where those ended, a
portable telephone switchboard was set up, with an
operator.
    The third person in the room was a wiry young
man, dressed entirely in black from turtleneck shirt to
sneakers. He had long and wayward blond hair,
metal-rimmed glasses, and an awful pallor, and wore
a headset with microphone. He was scribbling on a
blackboard with one bony hand and gulping from a
mug of coffee held in the other. He tossed down the
chalk and pressed a switch on the side of his headset.
"Stage manager... yes, the full team of carpenters.
They're to redress the breakfast room as an ice cream
parlor. No, it should look brand-new, but it's got to be
open for business by eight... yes, dear, that's one
reason we did lock them in their rooms tonight, to
make room for these brilliant last-minute improvisa-
tions. Of course I'll be here, same time, same chan-

HOW MUCH FOR JUST THF VLANEI.~

nel." He turned to the telephone operator� "Call the
ice cream place in town and tell them we need their
furniture, Plan C priority. Then tell Davith to send a
wagon and some muscle .... Do point out politely to
the ice cream people that the more labor they lend,
the nicer their stuff will be treated, hmm?"
    The other man had gotten up from the table and
was hugging Deedee, picking her up on tiptoe in the
process. "That was lovely, m'love," he told her. "Even
Flyter liked it."
    "Well, thank you, Pete," Deedee said. "How about
you? Engagement still on?"
"Engagement still on," he said, and kissed her.
"Let us not allow things to get out of hand," the
man in black said. "With the script, at any rate...
Pete, you don't plan on improvising anything major?
No cathedrals, portrait galleries, bowling alleys?"
    "I've already got to get two starship captains to
accept the plan as it is," Pete said. "No plans to
embellish... beyond the mere corroborative detail,
intended to give substancea"
    The man in black knocked on the tabletop. "Thank
you, don't call us, we'll call you."
    The telephone operator said, "Pages coming
through from Flyter." A printer began whizzing out
pages. The man in black, moving like a slightly
tangled marionette, went to the printer, ripped out the
multipart sheets and split them neatly, handing one
copy to Pete, scanning another, slipping the third into
a binder thick with pages of a dozen colors. "Hmm,"
he said, told the operator, "Call the costume shop,"
looked at the two watches strapped to his left wrist.
"Half past the first whisky. Mr. Blackwood, warning."
    "Looks good," Pete said, putting down the pages of
script. "The Flyter touch."
  "Mr. Blackwood... on stage."

104                                                                 105




  "Wish me luck," he told Deedee.
 "Break a leg," she said.
    After the door closed, Deedee turned to the man in
black and said, "Why didn't you wish him luck?"
    "Dear, I'm the stage manager," he said, not unkind-
ly. "If I say it, it happens."

    "All right," Captain Kirk said to the man in the
checked shirt, "tell us about it."
    "Well, it really started when I was shooting around
her parents' place..."
    "You missed them?" Kaden said, knocking back
another double Scotch.
    "Well, Imoh. No, shooting tape, with my cam-
era."
    Kaden poured a beer. "Imperial Intelligence some-
times uses a tape camera with a solid-state disruptor
core."
    "I don't think you quite understand, Captain
Kaden. I don't want to do away with Deedee's par-
ents. I just want to stop their objecting to me..." He
looked suddenly thoughtful.
    Kaden said, "You recognize the connection, good,"
and drank his beer.
    Kirk said finally, "You're not actually proposing
that this fellow kill his in-laws?"
"It is a rather usual event when founding lines."
The background music in the room had gotten
rather loud. Pete Blackwood began to hum along with
it, and then to sing:

I suppose you've heard the story
Of the poor but honest lad
Who's enamored of a maiden
With a big shot for her dad
In the tales he finds a fortune

            rlUVV I�1UL. M I'UK ]U~IIMI: rLAPII:I~,

Or was royal all along
And they say all's well that ends well...
Well, they're wrong!

Now, my love she wears a crown
But the drawbridge won't come down
'Cause her folks think I'm a clown beneath her station
So I wait and play along
Wondering how I might belong
Until regicide's become my strong temptation
Okay, she's a princess, but I couldn't care less
It isn't the crown that I see
She sends out a light
And it shines on the man I might be
And I simply must propose
To the girl who sparks and glows
For the boy inside the commonplace clothes
For me

    Kaden was watching silently, his head cocked. Kirk
found himself humming, and poured a shot to stop it.

I do better than get by
But I'm no-account, 'cause I
Fail to occupy the higher social stratum
But the titled cards I've met
Are a limp and mismatched set
And I'd bust their flushes if they'd let me at 'em
Now I'm really unfit for the Romeo bit
And besides we all know how it ends
There's a swordfight and noise
And a mutual poisoning spree
But I'll play the hero's part
For the girl who'll play her heart
For the boy inside the everyday clothes
For me

106                                                            107




    "... and that's the story, Captain Kirk, Captain
Kaden," Pete Blackwood said. "I'm as successful as
anybody has a right to expect, but that's not good
enough for Deedee's parents. For them it's either idle
rich or nothing."
    "You think we can help?" Kirk said, and accepted a
shot of Scotch from Pete.
    "You plan against these petty nobles, that is bold,"
Kaden said, twisting the cap from his fourth bottle of
beer, "that is the way of the line-founder and I salute
it... but what if we were discovered interfering with
your planet? Would not the lightbulbs object?" He
looked at the bottlecap in his hand, tossed it aside as if
it were hot.
  "Lightbulbs?" Pete said.
    "Organians," Kirk said. "It's a habit they have...
well, never mind that. I don't think this should make
any difference at all with them. It's not like we're
trying to influence your world's decision about the
dilithium rights..-.."
  "No," Kaden said quickly.
  "Of course not," Pete said.
  "Absolutely," Kirk said.
  "Nothing like it," Kaden added.
  "I'm glad we understand that," Kirk said.
    "What I was thinking," Pete said, very seriously,
"is that if I could just do something important--
heroic, I suppose--well, Deedee's parents might not
precisely accept me as one of their own sort, but
they'd have to stay out of our way. And that's all we
want."
 Kirk said, "Where do we come in?"
    "You're offworlders. No one will suppose there was
any plan between us."
    "But there will be," Kaden said. "So the witnesses
must die anyhow. This seems to solve little."

    "Not something that you saw," Pete said. "Some-
thing that the ambassador, and Captain Kaden's first
officer, saw, that you had helped me set up."
Kirk laughed. "You've got 'something' in mind?"
"A few years back there was a cat burglar around
the hotel, black suit, black mask; he was seen a few
times but never caught. Suppose he showed up again,
tomorrow night, and I ran him off--in sight of your
friends."
    Kaden said, "You know that this robber will return?
Perhaps you were him?"
    Pete laughed, shook his head. "No to both. But I've
got a friend, Zack, who's a pretty good acrobat. He'll
play the Black Cat, and pretend to burgle the ladies'
rooms."
    Kirk said, "Both of them? And if he sneaks around
unseen, how are you going to grab him for the
reward?"
    "Here's the plan we worked out. Tomorrow night,
you take the ladies to a fancy dinner at the hotel
restaurant. Since everyone knows you're there, the
Cat figures he can work at his leisure. But they go back
too soon, with you escorting themmcan you--"
    "I think we can work out that part," Kirk said. "Go
ahead."
    "All right. Now, Commander Arizhel's room is
upstairs, so he strikes there first. The Cat fights
Captain Kaden, and he needs a hostage to get away, so
he takes Commander Arizhel. Going downstairs, they
run across you, Captain Kirk, escorting the
ambassador--but there's nothing you can do, natural-
ly. Zack and the Commander get down to the lobby,
the night staff are afraid to move, but fortunately I
just happen to be going for a midnight ice cream with
Deedee, and jump him. Lot of confusion, the burglar
gets away, but everybody's safe, happy ending."

108                                                                  109




  Kaden said, "The robber fights with me?"
  "That's right."
  "You intend that I shall lose this fight."
  "The plan won't work nearly so well if you win it."
    Kirk said, "It won't be a fair fight. Pete, can your
buddy get hold of a sonic stunner?"
    "I think so. But wouldn't it be dangerous... that
is, suppose the wrong person was shot with it. Could
be rather embarrassing."
      "Have him disconnect all but one of the driver cells.
It'll sound just the same."  "Right," Pete said.
    "Wrong," Kaden said. "At near-contact ranges, the
minimum power will still be effective. The collimator
pin must also be moved to its full stop setting."
  Kirk said, "How do you know that?"
    "I was about to ask you the same... but it is
effective to fire shots after a prisoner who thinks he is
escaping. Old trick."
  "With us too," Kirk said.
    Kaden said, "But I still do not like that I am
defeated in this single combat. What will my...
what will Arizhe! think?"
    "Kaden," Kirk said patiently, "Rish has seen you
win fights, right?"
 "We have fought together, and are yet here."
    "I guess that's a yes. Now, she's seen that, but it
hasn't done anything for your ro--your relationship,
has it? It's time to try something different."
    "Losing is indeed different," Kaden said, sounding
doubtful.
    Kirk downed another shot, held his hand
outstretched--steady as a rock--and said, "Think of
it this way. If Rish got hurt--treacherously attacked
from behind--how would you feel?"
 "I would kill the one who had done it."

    "Yes, but after that, how would you feel about
Rish?"
    Kaden sipped his beer. "Ah. Now I understand.
You suggest that I act upon her respect for me as a
proven warrior."
 "Something like that."
    Kaden rubbed his chin. "This is not such a bad
plan, Kirk. It contains true strategy."
    "Thanks, don't mention it. Is there any more beer,
Pete?"
 "There's one."
 "Hold, Kirk!" Kaden said.
 "You want the last beer? Take it."
     "Your plan, Kirk. I see a flaw. Suppose, when
Arizhel sees me overcome, she kills my attacker?"
  "You think she might do that?"
  "It would please me to think so."
  Pete said, "You must really be fond of her."
    Kaden coughed. "She is a fine officer. We have
fought well, Arizhel and L"
  "What more is there?" Kirk said.
    Pete said, "I've got an idea. Suppose Zack doesn't
attack you both at once .... What if you're in the
bathroom, and Zack comes in to hold up Commander
Arizhel... then when you come out, he's already got
the drop on both of you."
    "The drop... no, I understand. This is possible.
Unless Arizhel slays your friend."
  "Oh, come on, Kaden," Kirk said.
    "Very well. It could happen thus... and I have a
thought." He got up, opened the bathroom door.
"These disposal cubicles have windows. When I am in
the cubicle, I shall signal from the window to your
friend, that he should enter. Then I shall engage
Arizhel in conversation, so that she is distracted upon
the Zack's entrance."

110                                                                  111




  "That's lovely," Pete said.
     Kirk opened the beer, took a long pull. "Have Zack
 make some noise when he brings the commander
 downstairs. I'll hear the noise and come out of the
 ambassador's room. Zack shoots me--you have got
 that written down about fixing the stunner, right?--
 and Charlotte will come out to see what's happening.
 Have Zack threaten to shoot Arizhel unless the am-
bassador comes as a hostage too."  "And she will go?" Kaden said.
    "Trust me on this one. Then, when they get down to
the lobby, you step out from behind the staircase, and
jump Zack. Big fight, maybe he 'stuns' you, and he
gets away. You're a hero, Kaden's a hero, I'm a hero,
and everybody lives happily ever after."
    "I want you to know you're a grand pair of fellows,"
Pete said warmly. "And you can be sure I won't forget
this." He held up a glass. "Though of course it can't
have anything to do with the dilithium treaty..."
  "Naturally."
  "Absolutely."
  The glasses clicked together.

112

   Chapter Six

The Dawn Patrol

IT WAS NOT quite dawn. The hallways of the Hotel
Direidi's newer wing were dim. The footsteps of one
man on the pile carpeting did not break the silence,
    The man paused. He knockedon a door. It sounded
like thunder.
 Another pause. Another knock.
    The door opened, stopped on its chain. Above the
chain, Leonard McCoy, M.D., looked down with
clouded eyes. "Whroozt?" he said.
 "It's me, Hikaru," the man in the hall said.
 "Who?"
 "Lieutenant Sulu, Doctor."
    "Lieutenant," the doctor said in a slow, thick voice,
"I'm goin' to ask you if you know what time it is. If
you do, I'm goin' to kill you. If by some chance you
don't, I'll assume this is all just youthful eshoober...
estuber... high spirits, and then I'm goin' to kill
you."
    "Doctor, don't you remember the legend, last night
at dinner? About the treasure? The inscription said
we have to be there exactly at dawn."

113




    "You may have to be somewhere at dawn. I'm never
anywhere at dawn that I don't have at least the option
of bein' horizontal." He started to close the door, but
Sulu held it.
    McCoy sighed, opened the door. "All right, c'mon
in. I've got a jacket around here someplace. Call room
service and get me some coffee." He picked up his
field medkit, staggered toward the bathroom, mutter-
ing, "Vitamin B shot I can get m'self...."
    With McCoy shaved, dressed, and fortified with
two cups of black coffee, they headed down the
corridor. McCoy said, "While I'm not entirely sure I
want to know the answer to this, just what possessed
you to knock on my door for this little expedition?"
    "Mr. Scott didn't answer his door. And I certainly
didn't want to disturb Lt. Uhura."
    "Caught between a sense of chivalry and a Scots-
man's liver," McCoy said ruefully. "What about
Chekov? Seems to me he's got the right qualifications
for this... young, strong, not overly bright .... "
    "I tried Pavel's door first," Sulu said. "Whatever he
said to me was all in Russian. I understood the
gestures, though."
    They left the hotel, into the chilly air of morning.
There was a reddish streak on the horizon. McCoy
took a breath, said "Oh, boy," and turned promptly
around.
  "You're not changing your mind, Doctor--"
    "No, I'm just dying," McCoy said. "Nothing I can't
handle, I'm a doctor." He turned around again to face
the sunrise. "Let's go."
    They walked away from the hotel for about fifteen
minutes. "Look," Sulu said, pointing at the first
brilliant silver of sun. "It really is framed in the notch
of the rocks, just as the legend said."
 "Nice to know there are still a few things you can

have faith in," McCoy said. "Now what the hell's
that?" He pointed to two figures in the middle dis-
tance. "Apparently we aren't the only ones fool
enough to be up at this hour."
    One of the shapes pointed back toward McCoy and
Sulu, and then they began walking toward the Enter-
prise officers. Shortly they were visible as Askade, the
Klingon chief engineer, and Memeth, the Marine
officer. They were dressed in deep-pocketed field
tunics and equipment belts, not too different from
Sulu and McCoy's outfits.
    Humans and Klingons stood regarding each other,
blowing frosty breaths, until Askade said, "What are
you doing here, Doctor?"
      "It's a new treatment for insomnia," McCoy said.
"You stay up all night."  Sulu tilted his head.
    "That aside," MeCoy went on, "I was really just out
for a midnight stroll."
    Askade said, "With a companion? Both of you in
field dress, with exploratory gear?"
    Sulu said, "We were hoping to find an all-night ice
cream parlor. Anyway, what are you doing here?
You're all dressed up, too. Have someplace to go?"
      "We do not dissemble," Memeth growled. "We
intend to survey the land about this place."  "Isn't yours yet," McCoy said.
    Askade said calmly, "It is no one's, if I have
correctly understood the Direidi. Therefore we can
imagine them having no objection to a simple, nonde-
structive survey. And as it is not your planet either, I
do not believe that you have any power to object."
      McCoy nodded, not quite frowning. "You figure to
do this little sortie on shank's mare?"
  Memeth made a low noise.
  "Walking," Sulu said.

114                                                                  115




 Memeth said, "We have a vehicle."
    "Then I wonder if you'd mind giving the ensign and
me a lift. I'm really starting to want that ice cream
parlor."
    Memeth said something in Klingonese. Askade
answered him shortly, then said, in rather a friendly
tone, "We do not object. This could be a useful
teaming; extra hands and eyes are always good in new
territory. Ensign Sulu, you are a navigator, correct?
That is useful. And Doctor McCoy, I think you know
something of our medicine?"
    "I've worked on Vulcans, Withiki, Cilbaru groups,
and the occasional gravid rock. I'll do my best if you
need me."
    "Kai the healer!" Askade shouted, and clapped his
hands. "Come, let us spy out the land!"
    "Nice figure of speech," McCoy muttered, and
followed the Klingons. They went even further from
the hotel, toward an enormous boulder.
    "You fellows want to go around there first?" McCoy
said. "There's an old Georgia proverb about going
behind big rocks with strangers, but I can't recall the
exact words just now."
    Memeth said something to Askade. Askade
shrugged, and they led on.
    There was nothing behind the boulder. Memeth
began growling again, and closed his hand around
something on his equipment belt. The object did not
seem intended as a weapon, but Memeth looked quite
able to make it serve.
    "Yirokh," Askade snapped, and then spoke more
calmly in Klingonese, gesturing with his hands. He
seemed to be marking off distances.
    "I think it's about transporter coordinates," Sulu
said quietly to McCoy. "Remember when we landed
on the wrong platforms, yesterday?"

    That seemed to be the answer. The four hiked to
another large boulder, circled warily around it.
    Behind this rock was a large boxy vehicle on a
dozen oversized tires, mounting lights and winches
and cases of equipment, with a swivel platform on top
that was almost certainly not a sunroof.
    It was sitting hub-deep in a mud puddle. Long
splashes of brown went up its sides, and spatters went
a long way in all directions. Since transporters auto-
matically adjust target sites to surface level, the vehi-
cle must have beamed in at the top of the mud, and
dropped.
    Memeth looked at the mud, spoke slowly and
evenly. McCoy said, "Count to twenty, that's the best
thing."
    Memeth looked at the doctor, then said, "Yes, you
are right. This soiling cannot harm the unit." He
pointed to the vehicle. "This is a Model 21 Planetary
Survey Vehicle," Memeth said, with a hint of pride.
    Sulu said, "This is a Model 18 Ground Attack Unit
with an extended crew compartment."
    "You are educated!" Memeth said, sounding
pleased.
    Askade said, "There are a few more modifications
than that. The sensor array is much enhanced."
    Sulu said, "But the twin disruptor turrets are still in
place?"
  Memeth said, "Of course."
  "And the antimissile banks?"
  "What fool would remove those?"
  "How about tile grenade launchers?"
    Memeth chopped his hand through the air. "Re-
placed with extra searchlights. I can reinstall them, if
you are afraid." Memeth smiled like a happy shark,
opened the driver's door, and swung up into the crew
cabin. The others followed. It was very roomy inside

116                                                                117




the vehicle, despite a considerable amount of sensor
and engineering equipment hung from the walls, and
the seats were tolerably well padded.
    Memeth worked the driver's controls, and the vehi-
cle came to life. "May I?" Sulu said, indicating a
nay.sensor array.
    "Please do," Askade said, and Sulu switched on the
instrument bank.
    "I don't suppose there's coffee service on this
flight," McCoy said, buckling his seat belt.
    "Kafei dispenser to your fight," Askade said. "I
would like a cup dark with two sugars."
    "Well now," McCoy said. "A touch of civilization
after all."
    Memeth muttered something that not even Askade
seemed to understand. Then the Force Leader took
the control grips and aimed the survey vehicle toward
the notch of stone that framed the rising sun.

    The crew of Jefferson Randolph Smith were having
an alfresco breakfast on the plains of Direidi. Tellihu
was roasting a lizard on a stick over a small fire of
brush. T'Vau was peeling bark from some more of the
scrawny branches, selecting choice bits. Captain
Trofimov was trying to make up her mind which meal
to share.
    The two kids had deliberately sent them in the
wrong direction, there wasn't any doubt of it. Or
maybe that was unfair; maybe they'd gotten turned
around somehow, or these were the wrong twin rocks.
Trofimov was having trouble thinking this morning;
she wasn't sure if it was from hunger or the available
prospects of food.
    T'Vau looked up. "There is a vehicle approaching,"
she said. The others followed her pointing finger, saw
the tiny cloud of dust in the distance. Trofimov had to

MOW MUCH FOR JU51 [Hk VLANI~I{

admit, if you were going to wander around in a
wilderness, Vulcan eyesight and hearing certainly was
useful.
    Captain Trofimov stood up, waved her arms. T'Vau
nibbled some of her bark. Tellihu stood and draped
his survival blanket over his wings. "I do not wish to
startle or offend the natives," he said.
    "Good idea," Trofimov said, though whether the
natives would be more startled by a winged man or a
sort of sheet-draped hunchback was open in her
mind.
    The vehicle came to a stop some distance away. A
door opened, and a humanoid got out. He wore what
looked like a Federation-issue exploration parka, and
had a pouch of equipment on his hip.
    Trofimov took a step forward. The man walked
crookedly, and rubbed his eyes, as if he had only just
been awakened.
 "Hello," Trofimov said.
    "H'1o," the man said. "What'ch'all doing out
here?"
    "We are looking for the nearest habitation,"
Trofimov said.
    The man pointed. "Back that way a few kilometers.
You can't miss it."
    That was what the two children had said. Trofimov
pointed, said, "That way? Exactly?"
    "Sorry, ma'am, I was kind of dozing in the back.
But I'm sure it's that way. Unless you'd like to ride
with us."
    "Just a moment, please." Trofimov went back to the
others. "They're offering us a fide in the vehicle. I
think they might be from the Federation."
  "We must not do this," T'Vau said urgently.
  "What's the problem?"
  "Send them away," T'Vau hissed.

118                                                                119




HOW MUCH FOR JUST THE I"LANETf

    "Well, hell, if you feel so strongly about it, you get
rid of him."
    T'Vau put down her bark chips, dusted off her
coverall, and walked over to where the man was
standing, scratching his head. Trofimov watched as
the Vulcan spoke, and gestured. Finally the man in
the parka held up his hands in a gesture of resignation
and walked back to his vehicle. It drove away.
    T'Vau said, "Let us go, quickly, before they return,"
and started walking. Tellihu looked up in a disinter-
ested way and took a bite of lizard.
    "Now just wait a minute," Trofimov said. "In the
first place, that's not the direction the guy told us to
go. In the second--maybe in the first--just what was
your problem with those people?"
  "You did not recognize the vehicle?"
    "Can't say I did. I didn't get its license number,
either."
    "It was a Klingon Model 18 Ground Attack Unit
with searchlights replacing the grenade dischargers."
    "That man wasn't a Klingon. Not even a Klingon-
Human fusion."
    "He did not have the appearance of a Klingon, that
is true," T'Vau said, smug as only a Vulcan can sound.
    Tellihu put down his lizard and went whuurp,
whuurp.
  "Okay," Captain Trofimov said, "we go that way."

    Lieutenant Nyota Uhura was sitting alone in a
sunny corner of the hotel restaurant, just cracking the
shell of her soft-cooked egg, when a figure stepped
across the light. It was one of the Klingon officers,
wearing civilian clothes, as Uhura was. There was a
small Communications badge on his lapel.
    "Mind if I sit down?" he said, in perfectly accent-
less English.

rlU~/ IVIU~M rUK ]UDI IU1E rL/1t~l::l~.

 "Please do."
 "I am Aperokei. My friends call me Proke."
    "My name is Uhura. You speak very good English.
Ja'chukh sokh taykekh Div evan, tay'Tlhingan?"
    "Batih." Aperokei bowed slightly. "And your
tlhingan is finest-kind. Goes with the job, eh? Waiter!
I want Adam and Eve on a raft, sink 'em, and a cup of
hot joe."
 "Very good, sir," the waiter said.
    Uhura said, "You were the one who sent the hailing
message."
 "Guilty."
"You've seen a lot of movies from Earth?"
"Hundreds, "Aperokei said, and laughed. "You're a
perceptive one, Lieutenant. Oh," he said quickly, as
Uhura checked her sleeve, "no rank flash and nothing
psychic. I asked about you. I remembered your voice
from yesterday, too. Wanted to see who I was talking
to."
    Uhura put down her spoon. "The correct structure
of that sentence is 'see to whom I was talking'... but
I rather think you know that."
    "Raw-tha," Aperokei said, and they laughed, as
Proke's basted eggs and coffee arrived. "I was think-
ing about having a look around the town. I wonder if
you'd care to join me?"
  "I'd be delighted, Proke."
  "Splendid."

    Somewhere on a barren plain, perhaps ten kilome-
ters from the sun-split rocks, a Model 21 Survey
Vehicle rolled on, its surroundings largely obscured by
its own dust. Inside, Memeth drove by radar, McCoy
sipped coffee and looked out at nothing, and Sulu and
Askade pressed their eyes to vision-enhancement
units.

120                                                                 121




"We have company," Sulu said. "Take a look."
Askade swiveled his electric binoculars. To either
side of the vehicle were people mounted on a sort of
big lizard, carrying lances and copper-colored shields.
The lizards moved surprisingly fast, and the lancers
were coming in from all sides now, encircling the
vehicle.
 "Disruptors," Askade said.
    Memeth snapped a toggle, and there was a whine
and grinding from the roof as the weapon turret
charged its cells and rotated into firing position.
  "They are targeted," Memeth said.
    "Then fire on my command," Askade said, peering
through the binocs.
    McCoy said to Sulu, "I think we ought to do
something about this."
    Sulu was watching the horde through his own
viewer. "I don't know, Doctor. They really don't look
very friendly."
 Askade shouted, "You will do nothing--Holdfire!"
 McCoy said, "Now what?"
    Sulu handed McCoy the viewer. "Take a look at the
shields they're carrying."
    The doctor scanned the front rank of beast-riders.
Their round shields, which had looked like polished
copper, shone in close-up like ruby... no, not quite
like ruby, a little too yellow,..  "Dilithium?"
  "G'daya tlhol cha ~uj," Memeth said.
    McCoy zoomed the binocs on one of the shields. It
had rough facets that caught the morning light, daz-
zling him for a moment until the viewer dimmed
down. "Kind of pretty, actually."
 "Uh-huh," Sulu said, sounding grim.
  "Well, excuse me, Mr. Sulu. I don't suppose one of

you weapons experts would mind explaining the
military significance of this? I mean, it still looks to
me like, whatever happens, we have got the great big
guns and they have not."
     Sulu paused a moment with his mouth open, then
said, "Twin disruptors, right, Memeth?" "Yes."
 "No grenade launchers."
There was a low rumble of Klingonese in reply.
Sulu turned to McCoy. "We're armed with energy-
beam weapons. Dilithium crystals amplify energy
beams; that's how we use them on the ship." He
pointed at the ring of lancers, red shields surrounding
the vehicle. "If a beam hits one of those shields, it'll
be amplified, and deflected in one or more directions,
no way to tell what or how many. If some of those
beams hit crystals..."
"Lit match in a firecracker factory," McCoy said.
Sulu nodded. "We don't dare try it." He looked
sidelong at Memeth, who seemed willing to try it
anyway.
    "Yup," McCoy said, "I thought it might be some-
thing like that." He reached for the door handle. "You
gentlemen can let me off here. Such a nice morning, I
think I'll walk the rest of the way."

    A double line of lizard riders approached the
Direidi foothills. In the center of the column rode
Sulu and McCoy, Askade and Memeth, hands tied
behind backs, feet fixed into stirrups. The big lizards
didn't ride too badly, but the bumping and the sun
and the dust were beginning to catch up to the four.
    The riders were murmuring low, in time to the
stomping of their mounts. Slowly the humming rose
in volume. Then it became a chant, and a song:

122                                                                   123




Rollin' rollin' rollin'
Keep your camel goin'
Let the noncoms know if
You tire
It's hard to be nomadic
When there's no automatic
Retirement pension after sixty-five

    "What is it with these people?" Sulu said. Except
for a growl from Memeth, no one answered him.

Movin' movin' movin'
Keep the pace improvin'
Try to keep a-doin'
Your best
There's no time for sleepin'
When you've got to be keepin'
The peer review board suitably impressed

Saddle up
Boogie down
Storm a bridge
Sack a town
Keep your good camel parked
Inside
Chug a brew
Go in style
And be sure that you file
All your tax forms where you
Reside

Burnin' burnin' burnin'
Though the camera's turnin'
Keep that big-star yearnin'
Inside
A tough way of livin'

No warranty is given
Expressiy, and none should be implied

Fight the foe
Trumpets sound
If they're slow
Run 'em down
Like the chariots in
Ben-Hur
Shoot the moon
Kill a king
It's a personal thing
Just the life-style that we
Prefer

    The column ground to a halt. The four offworlders
were surrounded by nomads, holding what looked like
black silk bags.
    "I don't think I'm going to like this part," McCoy
said.
 Askade said, "We are not singing with joy, Doctor."
    One of the lizard-riders said, "No outsider may see
the entrance to the Palace in the Stone."
McCoy said, "Now I'm sure I'm not going to--"
The black bags were pulled over their heads,
cinched almost comfortably. They rode on for per-
haps a quarter of an hour, then were lowered from the
beasts and led around corners, through echoing, drip-
ping passages, up ramps and down stairs. There
wasn't a lot of point in trying to converse. At least the
nomads weren't singing.
    Then, suddenly, the hoods were removed. Sulu
blinked. Memeth snarled.
    They were lined abreast in a vast hall, lit by iron
torches. The ceiling was lost in shadow, the floor
painted with complex designs and inscriptions in

124                                                           125




some unknown language. In the center of the chamber
was a circular pit, ten meters across. Steam rose from
it, lit redly from somewhere below. Beyond the pit
was a raised platform of polished granite, and on that
a throne of black iron, cushioned with animal pelts
and set with huge faceted chunks of dilithium.
    Askade said, "The 'ancient race' the Direidi spoke
of at the banquet."
 "I'11 admit it's no summer cottage," McCoy said.
    Troopers led the four around the edge of the pit, not
too near, and to the edge of the throne dais.
    A huge, red-bearded man came onto the platform.
He wore green-stained copper armor and carried a
bronze staff. He stood by the throne, raised the staff,
and announced, "All kneel for the Queen Janeka, she
who is mighty in her wrath, Queen of Iron, Queen of
Blood, Queen of the People of the Burning Stone!
Kneel and obey/"
    "Tough act to follow," McCoy muttered, as the
troopers dropped to their knees. McCoy and Sulu
looked at the Klingons, who looked back defiantly.
None of them knelt.
    A curtain rose behind the throne, and the queen
appeared. She wore an ankle-length skirt of black
metal mesh, slit nearly to the hipbone, high-heeled
black boots with broad tops, a black leather jacket
with wildly flared shoulders and a spread-wing collar.
There were rings on all her fingers, of iron and silver
set with dilithium. Her hair was covered by a metal-
mesh drape, and her iron earrings reached to her
shoulders. Her wide, silver-studded belt supported a
straight-bladed sword and a pistol.
  "Is that a flintlock?" McCoy whispered to Sulu.
    "It looks like--no, see the barrel? Synthetic dia-
mond. It's a phaser."
  The Black Queen had a pale, angular, exquisite

face, a startling figure--the costume left no doubt of
that--and stood a little shorter than Sulu's collar-
bone. With the heels.
    She stopped in front of the throne, sat down, then
leaned to one side and put her feet up on the armrest.
The slit skirt slipped away from her legs.
    McCoy heard a noise from Sulu. "Down, boy," he
muttered.
    "So," the Black Queen said, in a rather mild tone,
"You boys aren't kneeling. Now, I know Rik told you
to kneel, and when Rik talks, people hear it. Deaf
people hear it. So what's the difficulty?"
    Memeth grumbled dangerously. McCoy gestured at
the Klingons, said, "You see, ma'am, these two gentle-
men already have a dictator, it's against Mr. Sulu's
religion... and I'm a Democrat."
    The queen tapped a long-nailed hand on her bare
knee. She began to laugh. The bearded man, Rik,
raised his bronze staff, and the troopers began to
laugh as well, until the whole chamber was ringing.
The queen stopped laughing. Rik slashed a finger
across his throat. The chamber went silent.
     "I like you guys," the Black Queen said. "You've
got spirit. You'll last a while." "Last?" Sulu said.
    "Sure. You know, on the rack, with the tongs, the
what's-its-name--" she swung her hand back and
forth--"pendulum thing. Been a while since we used
any of it, I was afraid it was going to rust out."
    "You do not frighten us," Memeth said, in a voice
that was pretty scary-sounding itselfi
    The queen held up her hands. "Hey, give me a
chance." She swung out of her chair, stretched, her
spine cracking audibly. "It isn't all fun and games
down here, you know." She put one hand on a hip,
raised the other, began snapping her fingers. From

126                                                                127




somewhere in the stone hall, a drum and cymbal
picked up the rhythm.
 The Black Queen began singing:

 From the minute you're born
  You've got to be tough just to stay where you're at
   Let me clarify that
 There's nobody to warn
  You just how tough the game is to play
   Do you hear what I say?
 You try to make a living as a pirate queen
 You keep your crew a-roarin' and your cutlass keen
 But when it comes down to the end
  You got nothin' to say
 You marshal your resources for a final stand
 And you finish as the leader of a one-girl band
 But I guess I've been successful
  In my own sweet tyrannical way

 So you think that it's fun
  Bein' absolute ruler of all you survey
   But it isn't that way
 'Cause you're under the gun
  There's a guy with revolt on his mind
   Walking one step behind
 You topple thrones and empires so they don't get bored
 And half of what you pillage goes to feed the horde
 And what'cha gonna do when the boys
  Get too carried away?
 Now hangin's kind of heartless for a childish prank
 And your average barbarian's too big to spank
 But I guess I've been successful
  In my own sweet tyrannical way

    Half a dozen muscular young men in white shirts,
bow ties, black trousers with suspenders, and black

128

How MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

bowler hats, had appeared from behind the throne.
They produced black canes and tapped them in time
to the music.

Ain't this palace a pip?
 We got seventy bedrooms on seventeen floors
  And the plumbing's indoors
Let the reveling rip
 Smash some glass, never count up the cost
  Till you notice you're lost
It costs a bloody fortune just to heat and light
You have to walk a mile to get a snack at night
And all the torture chambers
 Are in Early Industrial Gray
But you can't expect a potentate to kneel to you
In a studio apartment with a Park West view
So I guess I've been successful
 in my own sweet tyrannical way

 Sulu whispered to McCoy, "Do you think--"
    "The water, the air, the background radiation, your
guess is as good as mine."

Do you like my attire?
 Highly stylish in black set with chromium studs
   Pretty singular duds
Does it set you on fire
 Steppin' out wearin' leather and chains?
  Well, it gives me a pain
The ironwork's abrasive and it's icy cold
The corset squeezes tighter than a wrestling hold
The helmet puts your neck in a crick
 By the end of the day
There ain't no way to tell you fellas how it feels
To sack and burn a city wearin' six-inch heels




       How MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

   But I guess I've been successful
        In my own sweet tyrannical way...

    The Queen kicked high and leapt, and was caught
and lifted into the air by the line of bowler-hatted
dancers.

Some day I'll catch a dagger or a poisoned cup
But if you take these crazy days and add them up
There isn't anything I'd have done
 In a different way
It isn't for the timid or the highly strung
You live it in a hurry and you end it young
But I guess I've been successful
 In my own sweet tyrannical--
Had a lot of jollies
 In my frantically romantical--
Know I had a real good time
 In my tyrannical way

    On one long brass note, the dancers carried the
queen out of the chamber. Just at the door, they
paused; she pointed, said, "Heck, I almost forgot--
away with them!"

   Chapter Seven

Afternoon Matinee

DIREIDI'S SUN WAS just splitting the noon meridian,
and the hotel restaurant was growing dim. Montgom-
ery Scott finished off his platter of roast beef sand-
wiches, burped lightly, and started to walk out of the
restaurant, pleased with life and the universe.
    There was a small and plaintive sound from a table
near the door. Ensign Pavel Chekov sat there, looking
disconsolately at a plate of half-eaten blintzes and a
large glass of soda water.
    "That's what you get for pepperin' your vodka,
lad," Scott said, not too unkindly.
    "Mr. Scott," Chekov said in a thin voice, "do you
believe in ghosts?"
    Scott examined Chekov's face. The ensign seemed
in dreadful earnest. "Well, Mr. Chekov, a man sees
quite a few strange things in space, but I daresay no, I
don't believe in that particular item."
    "Let me be more particular, sir... sometime dur-
ing the last night, when it was werry, werry dark, did a
ghost knock on your door and ask you to boldly go
where no man had gone before?"

131




  "That'd be a definite 'no,' Ensign."
  "I was afraid of that."
    "Come along, lad," Scott said, "and we'll find a
little hair of the dog that bit you."
    "I think the dog is still attached," Chekov said,
pushed away his blintzes, and followed Scott into the
hotel lobby.
    There were two Klingons, dressed casually, coming
the other way. "A moment of your time, Humans,"
one of them said.
    Chekov chewed his lip, looked around nervously.
Scott said genially, "A moment we've got, gentle-
men."
    "I am Magius, security officer of Fire Blossom. This
is Ensign Korth."
    "Montgomery Scott, chief engineer of Enterprise.
Pleased to ,meet you."
  "Payel Chekov, ensign. I am pleased also."
    They turned. The desk clerk had his eyes closed to
slits and his fingers in his ears. He waited a moment,
then relaxed and went back to sorting mail.
    "Do you drink?" Maglus said, pointing toward the
lobby bar. "We seek someone to drink with."
    "Now, that's a splendid idea," Scott said. "After
you, gentlemen."
    The bar was quiet and dim, with heavy wooden
furniture and high, narrow draped windows. No one
was there except for a bartender in shirt and red vest,
energetica!ly polishing glasses. The four ordered
drinks and sat down in the big plush chairs.
    They talked for a quarter of an hour or so about
space, ports of' call, the inadequacy of fleet pay, the
usual things. h:hen, in a slightly lower tone, Maglus
said, "Is there much for an engineer to do on Federa-
tion ships?"

    "Enough," Scott said equably. "Is there a lot for a
security chief to do on one of the Empire's vessels?"
    "I keep order on my ship," Magius said. "That is an
important job."
 Korth suddenly took on a pinched expression.
     '"Tis if your crew gets out of line," Scott said
offhandedly. "Do they do that, then?" "None more than once."
 "Must keep you busy. Breakin' in replacements."
    Chekov said softly but urgently, "Mr. Scott... you
remember the last time.. 2'
    Maglus said, "What is it that engineers do all day?
Are there so many mistakes in the design of an engine,
for you to correct?"
    "My glass is empty," Korth said loudly. "Does
anyone else desire another drink?"
    Chekov looked at his half-full glass, drained it at a
gulp, said, "I do. Let's go."
    They went to the bar, hearing the officers' voices
steadily rising: "Slave-driver! .... Garbage-hauler!"
    "You have had this experience before, da?" Chekov
said.
    "A few times," Korth said. "Do you suppose it is
something that just happens to them, after a certain
age? Cosmic radiation, perhaps?"
    "Is possible. Or artificial grawity affecting the blood
wessels."
 "Still, Maglus is a good officer."
 "Mr. Scott as well. Nazdrov)~e."
      "Kai." They clicked glasses. "And as we are the
only ones here, there cannot be a... a..."
  "Brawl?"
    "Brawl, yes..." Korth straightened. "Though I
will fight for the honor of my ship."
  'Waverno. "

132                                                                133




    Chekov and Korth looked at each other, then at
Scott and Maglus, who were halfway out of their
chairs, leaning and shouting. Korth pointed toward
the hotel lobby, made a walking motion with his
fingers. Chekov nodded. Clutching their glasses, they
walked softly toward the door.
    "Is that so?" Maglus roared, and stood up, almost
sending his enormous chair over backward. "And I
say that the only reason the Enterprise is not decorat-
ing a scrapyard at this moment is that there is no
market for chewing gum and cardboard!"
     The two ensigns stopped, turned around. "It was
nice meeting you," Chekov said glumly.  "And you."
    They put down their drinks and walked toward the
two officers, who were now fully on their feet. Each
gripped the other's shirt front in one hand and held
the other cocked to deliver a haymaker to the jaw.
    An ear-splitting whistle blew. Everyone stopped
still.
    "Gentlemen!" a voice said. "This is not, ah say not
the manner of behavior one expects of gentlemen in a
gentleman's club."
    A man in a sweatsuit and pith helmet stood in the
doorway. He had muttonchop whiskers and held a
silver whistle on a neck cord.
    Scott held up a finger to Maglus, who nodded, and
they released each other's shirts. "An' just who might
you be?"
    "Delmar, suh, Professor Phineas Hale Delmar,
activities director for the Hotel Direidi, at your ser-
vice. Exceptin', of course, that this, I say, this activity
isn't on today's schedule of entertainments."
    "It's not the kind o'thing you schedule, friend,"
Scott said, "but if you'd care to join us, there's plenty
of room."

    "Suh, I am not a participant in other men's disa-
greements. I am an organizer of them. Now, what
level, I say, what degree of disagreement do y'all have
here? Tiff, skirmish, knockdown-drag-out, or matter
of honor?"
    Scott and Maglus looked at one another. "Honor,"
Maglus said.
  "Aye," Scott said.
    "Duel it is, then. And you've brought your own
seconds already. I do call that considerate, sirs,
considerin' the strain on our staff." Chekov began coughing.
    "We then need only decide on weapons," Delmar
said. "Now, which one of you gentlemen claims to be
the injured party?"
    There was a pause. Delmar said evenly, "If you'd
care, ah say, if y'all would care to flip a coin..."
    Maglus said, "I grant the choice of weapons to the
engineer. I am skilled in all forms of combat."
    Scott smiled. "Oh, are you now? That's very good,
Mister Maglus. Then I challenge you to the ancestral
weapon of the Scots." He turned. "Professor, I believe
I saw a sign for a golf course on the hotel premises?"
  "Eighteen holes of the finest, suh."
    "Then that's the field of honor. Mr. Chekov, call the
ship and have my clubs sent down."

    Uhura and Aperokei had spent a splendid few
hours strolling about the town, window-shopping,
watching a street magician who caught coins from
Uhura's ear and produced a dove from Proke's jacket
pocket, munching funnel cakes from a cart vendor.
The powdered sugar drizzled over the cake made
Proke a bit tiddly, and they paused for herbal tea
before moving on to a cobbled arcade of shops.
 The sign above one bay window read FSNCmS

134                                                                 135




AND GOODNIGHTS. The window itself was filled
with bright, bizarre items: silver trinkets, a brass
carriage clock, crystal paperweights filled with
millefiore flowers or swirling snow, intricately woven
rugs, and something that appeared to be a violin with
three necks.
 "Shall we go in?" Proke said.
  "It looks expensive."
    "The best things in life are free," Proke said, "but
the expensive ones are still worth a look." He held the
door open for her, jingling a little bell above the
frame.
    The interior was cluttered with odds and ends:
wood, metal, porcelain, crystal. A beaded curtain in
the back of the shop parted for a dumpy man of
middle height, with a neatly trimmed beard and
half-glasses low on his large nose. "Good afternoon,
sir, madam," he said. "Is there anything in particular
I can help you with?"
  "Just looking, I think," Aperokei said.
    "Just as well," said the shopkeeper, in a friendly
tone. "If there were anything particular you wanted, I
don't know how I'd ever find it. But look as long as
you like."
    Uhura's eye was caught by a little harp, no bigger
than the palm of her hand, made of silver metal and
set with colorful cut stones. She stroked the strings
lightly; it made a pleasing, chiming sound. "How
much for this?"
    "Price should be marked, madam. It will be in our
local currency, but I can convert for you."
    She turned the harp over, read a little white sticker.
Uhura breathed in sharply. "I'm afraid it's a bit rich
for me. This says eleven hundred and forty."
  "Won't be a moment," the shopkeeper said, and

punched buttons on a calculator. "Ah. In Federation
currency, that would be two credits."  "Two credits?" Uhura said.
    "I'm in a haggling mood, madam; make me an
offer."
 "But... only two credits for this?"
    The shopkeeper shook his head. "No, no, madam,
you're not getting into the spirit of the thing. I say,
'Two credits.' You say, 'For this bauble, this frippery,
this bagatelle? Fifty centicreds, and no more.' I say,
'For an item of such rare beauty? You mock it,
madam. One credit ninety-five.' You raise to sixty,
and so on until we strike a bargain at approximately
ninety-three cents."
    Uhura was turning the harp over in her fingers. "I
once spent ten credits for a little ball of fur..."
    "Sink me, madam, tribbles? Fearful things, from a
shopkeeper's point of view. You see the problem, I'm
sure: one can only sell one tribble. After that they have
their own, ahem, distribution. Positively anticapital-
ist, they are."
    "This is very, very beautiful," Uhura said. "I don't
understand how you can charge what you do."
    "That's the spirit, mum! You're out to ruin me, you
are; but I've a soft heart for a soul that appreciates
beauty. Ninety-one cents."
    "Excuse me," Aperokei said. He was holding a
leather-bound book, and speaking in an odd, rapid,
whispery voice. "Do you have, ummmm, a first
edition Ben-Hur with a missing line on page 126?"
  "No, I'm fairly certain I don't."
    "Ummmm. What about Kushner's Swordspoint in
the Mapback edition?"
    "I'm afraid not, sir. You might try Howard the
Bookseller, twelve doors down."

136                                                                137




    "He won't have them either," Aperokei said, in
something closer to his normal voice. "There aren't
any."
  "No?" the shopkeeper said, sounding surprised.
      "No." Proke turned to Uhura. "You realize what
this joker is, don't you, angel?"  "What is he?"
    "What am l?" the shopkeeper said, a dangerous
edge in his voice.
  "He's a fence. Everything in here is stolen."
    "Oh, thank goodness," the shopkeeper said. "For a
moment I thought you were going to accuse me of
being a pawnbroker."
    Uhura looked down at the exquisite little harp.
"That makes sense, now that you say it."
    "But it's quite wrong, of course," the shopkeeper
said. "While I admit I didn't pay for anything in
here--"
  "Ah-ha!" Proke said.
    "--it's all quite legitimately mine. Let me explain
something about myself." He came around the count-
er. "Retail sales are really just a hobby of mine. I'm
actually a freight broker, contacts on all the major
interstellar exchanges. Hardly an item moves in this
part of the galaxy that I don't see at least a percentage
of."
    He opened a wooden cabinet, exposing an antique
grooved-disc phonograph with a huge tin morning-
glory horn. He twisted a crank, and the black disc on
the platform began to spin; he lowered a metal arm
onto it, and tinny, bright music came from the horn.
The shopkeeper sang:

When I was just a little chap, my father said to me,
"Don't throw away your life pursuing prof'tability;

Take time to smell the flowers as they bloom along
 your way,
And always try to waste at least an hour every day."
I tried to take my dad's advice and lazed around the
 town
And wandered quite at random up the city streets
 and down
Until one day I passed--the Bank--and something in
 ' me woke:
The siren song of balance sheets possessed me at a
 stroke.
I left behind the pigeons I'd been feeding in the park
Put on a tie and bowler and became a junior clerk.

That was the day I learned about percentages of trade
The little extra someone takes whenever deals are
 made
Some call it a commission, handling charge, or
 broker's fee
But someone always gets it, so it might as well be me

I started with commodities, the wheat and corn
 exchange
With fliers into shipping when a deal could be
 arranged
I soon was partial owner of a modest freighting line
And also wrote insurance (quite a useful skill of
 mine)
Collecting charges at the source, another on the send
With incremental payments levied at the other end
Add in depreciation, and per diem rate, and such,
I must be rather careful not to charge myself too
 much
It may seem inefficient and it's hardly elegant
But what I can't unravel, why, the tax man surely
 can't.

138                                                        139




Percentages of commerce, percentages of trade
A penny here, a penny there, that's how the game is
 played
Some call it rank corruption, but it cannot be denied
That life's a lot more fun with a percentage on the
 side

My dad can't understand me, and he tells me to my
 face
That I'm mercantile and heartless, and a family
 disgrace
Seems every time I visit, he says "Come back to the
 fold,
And share my bench, where pigeons coo, and nights
 are clean and cold,"
I'm tempted, but my mind soon wanders back to
 ledger sheets,
I ride a lonely taxi home, and always get receipts
I hate to seem ungrateful, but I do enjoy my roof
It does obscure the moonlight... then again, it's
 weatherproof
But of the life that once I led there still remains a
 spark...
'Cause I own the bloody pigeons and I lease the
 blasted park!

You say my life is measured by percentages of trade
And in this case I'll grant that Occam wields a clever
 blade
So if there's nothing to me but a jingling pile of
 pelf...
I guess that I'll just have to buy an interest in myselfl

    The needle scratched to the center of the record,
and the shopkeeper stopped the spinning disc.
 "What these all are, you see," he said, gesturing

I I"-~,JVV IVlUl. M F~K JU3I IMI: r'L~IZIc,

around the cluttered little store, "are extras. Tokens.
Gratuities. Expressions of someone's warm feelings.
Small change of transaction." He picked up a porce-
lain ballet dancer. "Playpretties that turned the sup-
posedly hard heads of freighter captains. Some, dare I
say it, out and out bribes. Every time I conduct a
trade, sir, madam, I acquire another of these pretty,
rare, utterly useless artifacts; and I conduct a very
great number of trades, sir, madam. I have ware-
houses full of this stuff.
"So I maintain this store, just to get rid of it."
Uhura said, "And your prices are so low..."
"Ah, you've guessed it, mum. i get a considerable
tax loss on the operation. Not to mention meeting
interesting people such as yourselves." He touched
the harp in Uhura's hands. "Have you a tenth-credit
piece, madam, or you, sir? Or put another way,
Brother, can you spare a dime?"
    Aperokei laughed out loud. "I do," he said, flipped
it into the air and caught it, then tossed it to the
shopkeeper. He caught it on the fly, held it to the light,
bit it. "Sold to the lady, ten cents. Just let me wrap the
item for you. No extra charge."
    Uhura tucked the small brown paper parcel into her
shoulder bag. Proke opened the door for her, the bell
jingling brightly, and they went back out into the
arcade.
    Half a block later, a person in a brown leather vest
stumbled toward them. The man was blue, with
cup-ended antennae on his forehead: an Artdorian.
He collided with Proke.
    "Almost there..." the Andorian said weakly, and
collapsed over Aperokei's arm.
    Proke let the blue man down gently to the cobbled
street. As he did, one of the Andorian's antennae fell

140                                                              141




off, revealing a small round patch of pink skin. Proke
looked at his own hands: one was red with blood, the
other blue with makeup.
    He turned the "Andorian." A knife handle pro-
truded from the dead being's back. Proke looked up at
Uhura, who was watching in horror. A crowd was
gathering around them. Someone gasped. Someone
screamed.
    "What's all this, then?" a voice said, and a woman
in a blue uniform pushed her way to where Uhura
stood and Proke knelt by the dead body.
    "You're a cop?" Proke said, letting go of the :fake
Andorian.
    "Right enough. And just who are you, and what
have you done?"
    Uhura said, "We haven't done anything. This man
came to us."
  "What for?"
  "I haven't any idea."
    "Oh? He just walked up to you and you killed
him?" The policewoman's eyes narrowed. "Aren't
you some of those offwodders?"  "Yes."
    A tall, very thin man in a black trench coat pushed
toward them. He flashed a wallet at the policewoman.
"Skorner, from the Bureau. What's happening here?"
    "Sir, this woman's just admitted that they killed
this Andorian."
  "I did nothing of the kind!"
  "Are you denying you just said yes?"
  "Yes! No, I mean--he isn't even an Andorian!"
  "Don't change the subject."
    Skorner said politely, "I'm sure there's been a
misunderstanding. These people are guests of the
government. Let's not have a scene." He raised a
hand, and a taxi coach pulled to a stop.

HOW MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

    "This is government business," the thin man said.
"We'll handle it from here."
    "Very good, sir," the policewoman said. "They're
all yours."
    She and Skorner helped Uhura and Aperokei into
the coach, where they sat down, facing each other.
    "Would you mind if I borrowed these, Constable?"
the thin man was saying. "Thanks. Good day to you."
    Uhura turned to see what was happening. The thin
man leaned into the coach. "Excuse me," he said
politely, "are you both comfortable?"
  "Reasonably so," Proke said.
"Good, good. Can you give me a hand up, then?"
Uhura and Proke reached down to help him into
the coach. Instead of climbing up, however, Skorner
snapped a pair of handcuffs on Aperokei's right wrist
and Uhura's left, chaining them together. He shot
them a small, wicked smile, then slammed the coach
door, shouted, "Okay, go." The driver cracked his
whip and the coach rolled off.

McCoy, Sulu, Askade, and Memeth were locked in
a cell somewhere below the Black Queen's palace.
    As such things went, the cell wasn't so uncomfort-
able. It even had a sanitary cubicle, set in a little
semi-private niche. Memeth and Sulu were trying to
figure out how to make use of the fragmentary privacy
in an escape attempt. After half an hour or so
of of listening to them plan acrobatic leaps and the
immediate subdual of a dozen or so guards, McCoy
testily suggested that one of them dive and swim for
help.
    Across the hall was another cell. In it was a hu-
manoid skeleton. At the end of the hall was a huge
man in partial armor and a black hood. The mask
showed his mouth, which was frozen in a jolly grin.

142                                                                143




HOW MUCH FOR JUST THE I~LANETf

The guard had an enormous sword with a curved
blade; he thumbed its edge roughly every ten seconds.
    "... but, compared to some of the dungeons I've
been in, not so bad," McCoy was saying.
     "Have you anything to contribute to our escape
besides comments?" Memeth said.
  "Oh, well, there's..."
  "Someone's coming," Sulu said.
    There was the sound of a heavy iron door being
opened, and then light footsteps. A woman came
down the hall. She was wearing an exotic and ex-
tremely minimal golden outfit. She paused before the
cell and made an elaborate bow.
  "Something we can do for you?" McCoy said.
    "I am Gladiola, kitchen slave. I am here to serve thy
desires of sustenance." She reached to her tiny skirt,
produced a pad of lined green paper and a pen. "Are
thy wishes clear within thy minds, or wouldst prefer
to see a menu?"
  Memeth said, "Men-yu?"
Askade said, "Khidiolev. "Memeth shook his head.
Gladiola said, "The Special of the Blue Plate is this
day most wondrous. Though I must confess I know
not why it bears that name, as the plate on which it is
served your eminences is not blue in hue."
    "If you don't mind my asking," McCoy said, "just
who runs that kitchen of yours?"
  "Oh, it is a most amazing tale," Gladiola said.
  McCoy muttered, "I was afraid of that."
    "Many years agone, the Queen Janeka desired that
her kitchens be staffed in the manner of the greatest
houses of the star-people's city. In a daring raid, her
soldiers abducted a cook so famed that his dining
chamber was named for himself, 'Jack's Eats' was it
called. The Queen's torturers drew from Jack every
secret he possessed, and those of his noble Order."

HOW MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

  "Order?" Sulu said.
  "Don't ask," McCoy said, "please, don't ask."
  "The short order, verily," the girl said earnestly.
    "Enough," Memeth said. "I will have a roasted
bird."
    Askade said, "And I, meat and gravy, with bread
and a starch vegetable."
      "The Sandwich of the fabled land Manhattan?"
Gladiola said, wide-eyed.  Sulu ordered a steak.
    McCoy said, "Well, honey, these fellows don't seem
to want to get into the spirit of the moment, but I'll
have a ham steak, biscuits and red-eye gravy, whatev-
er pie you've got, and coffee now."
  Gladiola trembled. "Are you then the One?"
  "Hmm?"
    "For a generation it has been said that, one day,
One would come who would order the Gravy of the
Red Eye, and demand his coffee Now... and verily
would he lead all those in bondage to flour and
shortening to freedom."
    "I'm gonna take a nap, boys," McCoy said. "Wake
me when the chow gets here."
    "And verily," Gladiola breathed, "shall the One be
tired, and nap before his chow."
    Askade said, "Your kind wish to revolt then? To
overthrow the queen? Do you have weapons?"
    Sulu pointed at the guard up the hall, still thumbing
his scimitar, and motioned for quiet.
    "We have the knives and rolling pins of our craft,"
Gladiola said. "And we will use them with great
heart."
 MemeXh said, "Toy'wipu daw'moy?"
    "Kha'dibayh g'dayu ngem?" Askade said, then
turned back to the waitress. "Very well. Bring us our
food, as commanded. But be ready for the battle,"

144                                                                 145




HOW MUCH FOR JUST THE I-'LANET.e

    "Your worship." She bowed slightly, tucked her
pencil behind her ear, and went up the hall.
    Askade shook McCoy's shoulder. "Get up, heal-
er."
    "I'm not asleep. You figure we can lead a revolt of
the galley slaves?"
    "The energy of servitors is what makes them useful.
It is foolish to waste that energy. Do you intend to
help us?"
    McCoy sat up. "Well, now, as I was about to say
before we were interrupted, I do have some small
contribution to make to this enterprise." He slid a
pressure injector from his sleeve. "I managed to hang
on to six doses of Oblivirine. Fastest knockout drop in
the west."
    "Kai the healer again," Askade said, and laughed.
The guard looked in, saw nothing of interest, went
back to his post.
    They paced and talked quietly for perhaps half an
hour, until Gladiola returned with a tray of food.
"Will you open the door, o mighty queen's-man, that
I may feed these wonhies?"
  "Push it through the bars," the guard said.
    She picked up the plate with Sulu's steak, passed
it to him. "What shall we do? All are ready be-
low."
    "Quick," Sulu said, "do something to attract the
guard's attention."
    Gladiola looked confused for a moment, then nod-
ded. She picked up the pie from the dinner tray,
said "Excuse me," and rifled it into the guard's
face.
    The guard roared, and ran, half-blinded by fruit
and cream, staggering a bit. He grabbed a cell bar with
one hand, reached for the trembling Gladiola with the
other.

        fluff' I�1ULH I"UK JUbl till: VLAN[T{

    McCoy shoved the injector against the guard's arm.
There was a sharp hiss, then a deeper sigh like
escaping air as the guard folded up.
    "Keys," Memeth said, and Gladiola nodded again.
Unfortunately, the key ring had been on the front of
the guard's belt, and it was lost somewhere beneath
his hundred-fifty-kilo bulk. Gladiola tried to roll the
body over, while the group inside the cell stretched
arms through the bars to help.
    "What's going on down there?" someone called
from up the corridor,
  "Nothing," McCoy shouted back.
    There were running footsteps. More guards ap-
peared. "Worth a try," McCoy muttered.
    Gladiola threw a plate of chicken at the approach-
ing guards. One ducked, slipped on stray pie, and
threw out his arm for balance. McCoy got hold of it.
Hiss. Thud.
    "Got 'em," Sulu said, and tugged the key ring free.
Gladiola was defending herself from the remaining
guard with biscuits and mashed potatoes.
    Sulu got the keys into the lock. The door swung
open. Memeth was across the hall and the sleeping
guards in one step. He recoiled like a pitcher winding
up; his body went snap, and the last guard rose into
the air and sailed backward until a wall finally
stopped him.
    Taking swords from the fallen guards, the off-
wofiders and Gladiola started up the hall. "Which
way out?" Sulu said. "Out?" she said.
    "You know, out," McCoy said. "Into the open. The
fresh air. The surface."
    "I have never been 'out,'" she said, "but the tunnel
of the raiders is this way."
 "It will do," Memeth said. He traded a sword salute

146                                                                 147




with Sulu and they charged up the corridor, the others
close behind.
    "Now," someone called out, and a cord snapped
taut across the corridor, just at ankle level.
    Memeth tripped. Sulu tripped. McCoy crashed into
Memeth. Gladiola tried to avoid Sulu and tripped
Askade, then bumped imo McCoy. Everyone fell
down.
    A net was thrown across the heap, then another.
Ropes pulled tight, swords were pulled from hands.
    "The queen," one of the guards said, "is not gonna
like this."

    Security Officer Magius and Chief Engineer Scott
stood on the first tee of the Hotel Direidi Country
Club. Professor Delmar was adjusting the strap on a
club bag to suit Korth. In the distance, a brisk wind
stood the first-hole flag out straight. The sky was a
lovely blue, the fairway a vivid green, the water
hazards deep and inviting.
    "Have to 'low a bit of Kentucky windage today,
gentlemen," Professor Delmar said. "Where's, I say,
where's your second, Mr. Scott, suh?"
    "Knowin' Mr. Chekov, probably deep in something
difficult."
    "I am here," Chekov said. He was carrying a worn
leather bag filled with hickory-shafted clubs and wore
baggy plus-four trousers bloused above the ankles and
a floppy red-plaid tam o'shanter with a huge crimson
pompom.
"Now where," Scott said, "did ye get that outfit?"
"When the clubs were beamed down, there was a
slight coordinate error," Chekov said. "And a large
puddle of mud. The hotel laundry--"
    Scott was examining the golf bag. "They seem all
right."

  "Thank you, sir,"
    Scott unzipped a pocket of the bag and pulled out a
long wool scarf. "My huntin' tartan," he said, wind-
ing it on. He tapped Chekov's cap. "Didn't know you
were entitled tae th' Royal Stewart."  "May we begin?" Maglus said.
    "Certainly, suh," Delmar said. "Would y'all care to
toss for first ball?"
  Scott said, "Mr. Maglus may play."
    "Very well, suh. Now, ify'all will excuse me, I have
other, ah say, other entertainments to arrange today?'
He tipped his pith helmet and walked away.
    Maglus took out the number-one wood. He swung it
about wildly, like a machete, and looking at least as
dangerous.
    Korth put the ball on the tee. Magius stepped up,
looked into the distance, toward the bravely snapping
flag 425 yards downrange with a dogleg to the left. He
raised the club like the Grim Reaper. He screamed.
He swung.
    The ball flew in a perfect flat parabola along the
fairway, past the trees with plenty to spare, around the
dogleg. It skimmed a bunker and dropped, just barely
rolling, less than thirty yards from the green.
    Maglus watched the ball until it stopped. Then he
cackled, put the club on his shoulder, and walked
away from the tee.
    Scott blinked. He looked at Chekov: the ensign
was clutching the strap of the golf bag with one
white-knuckled hand, his tam o'shanter with the
other.
    "Well now, Montgomery Scott," the chief engineer
said to himself, "Didn't your ma warn you about
gamblin' with strangers?" He tapped Chekov on the
shoulder. "Come on, lad. Tee me up."

148                                                                 149




    The black coach carrying Uhura and Aperokei
rolled fast, rocking hard on its springs. The chain
linking their wrists clinked softly. "What now?"
Uhura said.
     "Obviously we've got to get out of here. Then we
need to find out who set us up." "You think we were set up?"
    "Angel, I've seen every film Hitchcock ever made at
least three times. That includes both versions of The
Man Who Knew Too Much, and I can practically
quote you North by Northwest." He pointed at the
handcuffs. "Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll in
The Thirty-Nine Steps."
    "Okay," Uhura said, partly worried but mostly just
irritated, "you've had a look at the script, what's my
next line?"
    Aperokei actually seemed to relax at that. "Up to
you, angel. I'm just making it up as I go along. How
about something like 'My mama told me never to get
handcuffed to a murderer without a proper introduc-
tion'?"
  "You're not a murderer. Are you?"
    "Not yet, anyway. But you aren't supposed to know
that for another couple of reels, and then not until it's
stopped mattering. For now, though, you think I'm a
desperate man. Unless of course we are doing North-
west, in which case you know I'm innocent, but you
can't let on without blowing your own secret iden-
tity."
    Uhura laughed entirely in spite of herself. "I don't
have a secret identity."
  "That's a shame. Everyone needs a secret identity."
  "Okay... so tell me. Are you a desperate man?"
    "I will be if we keep sitting like this. May I come
join you on that side?"
  "Not until we've been properly introduced."

    Proke smiled. He rose slightly from his seat, tipped
an imaginary hat with his free hand. "Aperokei tai-
Rensa, innocent bystander trapped in a deadly web of
intrigue, at your service."
    "Nyota Uhura, likewise, I'm sure. Do sit down,
tai-Rensa. Try anything funny, though, and I'll break
your arm."
    "Charmed." He sat clown next to her. It was a tight
fit, but at least their arms were no longer stretched
straight. "If I try anything funny in here I'll break my
back."
  "So what do we do now?"
    "Obviously we escape. After that... hm. If this
really is a Hitchcock, we should probably look for a
very high place. You haven't seen anything that looks
like Mount Rushmore, have you?"
     "No. Though there's probably a bell tower in the
castle. And I suppose we should stay out of showers?"
  "Absolutely no showers."
    Proke pulled back a window curtain. They were
rolling down a rather narrow alley, the walls of
buildings less than an arm's reach away. "Jumping
doesn't seem like a very good idea." "I'm glad to hear you say that."
    "Hey, this is a team effort, right?" He rattled the
handcuff chain. "Nobody goes anywhere alone." He
shuffled a boot on the floor. "No way out down there."
He looked up. There was a small sliding door in the
coach roof, for talking to the driver, but it was less
than twenty centimeters across, hardly an escape
route.
    Uhura took a communicator from her shoulder
bag. "Shall we yell for help?"
    "Excellent idea." Aperokei produced a communi-
cator of his own from his belt. "Last one with a
lock-on buys the drinks."

150                                                                 151




    They flipped open the comm units. Both produced
nothing but a hideous squealing sound.
 "Radiation?" Proke said. "Or jamming?"
    "It sounds like a jamming signal. Listen." She
tweaked the control dials.
    "Not for long, thank you. With a spectrum analyzer
we could tell."
    "And with a phaser we could shoot our way out of
here."
  "True... I wonder if the Direidi know that?"
  "Know what?"
    "About hand weapons. Have you seen them use
phasers or disruptors? The policewoman and that
Skorher fellow didn't show any."
    "Now that you mention it, no, I haven't seen any."
She looked at the communicator in her hand, then up
at the little trapdoor in the roof. "Hmmm."
    "I like mine better for this," Aperokei said, flipping
the triangular Klingon corem unit over in his hand.
"Looks more dangerous."
  "That isn't the dangerous part."
      Proke said, "What's the worst thing they can do to
 us? Laugh in our faces?"
   "Shoot back."
   "True. Shall we?"
   "Let's."
     They raised their linked hands and slid back the
 trap. Proke shoved the communicator into the small
 of the driver's back. "All right, jocko. This is a Mark
 34 Energy Projector, the most powerful concealable
 weapon in the known universe. Pull this crate over to
 a nice quiet stop or I'll let starlight into you."
     The driver nodded hastily and complied. Uhura
 opened the door, and they stepped down slowly.
 Proke told the driver, "Now, just keep your hands

high. Couple of layers of wood won't even slow this
baby down."
    They moved to the rear of the coach. Suddenly the
driver snatched up the reins, gave them a yank, yelled,
"Gee-up!" and the coach clattered away, rounding the
first corner on not all of its wheels.
 Aperokei said, "What are you laughing at?"
    "You. You were having such a good time doing
that."
    "Yeah," Proke said. "I guess I was." He looked at
the communicator in his hand. "You don't get to do
this kind of thing very often in the Empire."
    "Now what?" Uhura said, after a moment. "The
cab driver won't run forever."
    "I know. And when he stops running, they'll be
after us again. Whoever 'they' are."
    "Do you suppose they really were the police? Or the
government?"
    "It's occurred to me. You have to admit, the locals
have been acting more than a little odd. Shall we try
our ships again?"
    They did. There was nothing. Proke scratched
his head. "Have you tried cross-heterodyning the
signal?"
     "Yes, but these sets are already superhet. We'll just
get stray harmonics, and probably drift." "Hm. How about an Arsos bridge?"
    "I don't know the term... oh, wait, do you mean
two transtator pairs collector-to-emitter? We call that
a Gentry ring. Can I patch across to--" Suddenly she
noticed that Aperokei had a strange smirk. "What are you grinning about?"
    "Oh, I was just thinkin', angel... we're not really
going to sit back and let the computers up there solve
this case, are we?"

152                                                                 153




 "What are you talking about?"
    "I'm talking about the black bird, angel. The secret
of Baskerville Hall. The lost ark, the mask of Fu
Manchu. Somebody's handed us a real live mystery,
and I for one think we ought to go out and solve it.
Are you with me?"
 "I... Someone's coming."
    Three figures draped in white came around a corner
and into the alley. Two walked straight, the third
curiously hunched over.
    Uhura and Proke tucked away their communica-
tors, stretched their sleeves down over the handcuffs,
turned away from the newcomers and began strolling
up the alleyway, hand in hand.
  "Excuse us, please," said a voice behind them.
  "Just keep walking," Proke whispered.
  "Please, wait."
    "They don't sound like they're hunting us," Uhura
said.
  "Good hunters never do."
    "For you to continue walking is illogical," said
another voice.
  Uhura said, "That's a Vulcan."
    "Or a Romulan pretending to be one. Romulans are
excellent hunters."
    The first voice said, "Look, you don't have to stop,
if you'll just tell us how to get out of here."
    Uhura stopped. That left Proke little choice. They
turned around.
    The three people didn't seem to be armed. They
didn't look much like anything, except dusty and
distracted.
    "Pardon us," said the first speaker, "but we're
rather hungry..."
  "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre," Proke said.
  "Just came from there," said the humpbacked one,

whistling as he spoke. "Nothing there, nothing, noth-
ing."
    "The set of all sets," said the Vulcan, "must either
include the empty set or exclude it. The subsuming of
a negative in a positive universe is paradoxical--"
    "Okay, okay," Proke said, and pulled a five-credit
note from his pocket. "Here. The only restaurant I
know of is in the hotel, over that way."
    "Thank you, grounded ones," said the hunched
one. "Truly you are brethren of the air."
    "There is really a hotel?" said the human. "With, I
mean, beds? With sheets on them?"
     "To the south, that way," Aperokei said. "Enor-
mous building with a tower, you can't miss it."
  "Thank you."
    As Proke and Uhura watched silently, the odd trio
walked on up the alley. A line of pigeons walked single
file behind the hunched-over one.

    The Black Queen had exchanged her armor for a
trailing robe of black velvet. Her hair, loose and
tincovered now, showed a long white streak. She
flexed a short riding whip. She looked distinctly
annoyed.
    "What does go on around here?" she said. "We try
to improve the standard of living, provide a few basic
comforts, and where does it get us? Seize her," she
said and pointed the whip at Gladiola. Two of the
guards took hold of the girl. "Reasonable wage,
fringes, vacation time, uniforms provided--you have
betrayed me, Organza."
 "I am Gladiola. Organza works in Accounting."
    "Silence!" She paused dramatically. "I'm rather
tired, Rik. Is it about sunset?"
    The big man said, "A few more minutes, Your
Terror."

154                                                                155




    Gladiola recoiled in horror. "Oh, no, Your Awful-
ness! Do not do it to them! They are strangers, who do
not have the inside dope on our ways!"
    "I'm not going to do it to them, kid," Janeka said.
"But they're gonna need a Help Wanted sign in the
kitchen. Seize her again. Oh, I do like saying that."
  Sulu said, "I liked her better when she sang."
  "Silence to you, too, offworld-type, Your turn will
  come." The queen raised the riding crop. "Seize her
  over there."
    The guards dragged Gladiola to the glass covering
the glowing central pit. A circle of copper-colored
rods rose from the rim of the circle, caging Gladiola
on the glass disc. She clutched the bars, shook them
without effect.
    The Black Queen pointed at the roof of the cham-
ber. There were two angled shafts bored in the rock
overhead, and between them a sort of chandelier. "We
only get full power at dawn," she said, "but there's a
provision for sunset. Our regal ancestors liked to
party all hours." Janeka sat down slowly on the black
~ron throne. "Okay, Rik, hit it."
    Orange sunlight came through one of the conduits,
struck the chandelier and was reflected downward,
illuminating Gladiola.
    Red light came up from below, growing in intensity
until the girl was just a dark shape in the column of
light. There was a high-pitched sound. She seemed to
fade; then a shaft of golden light shot from the
overhead glass to spot the throne and the queen.
    The light through the conduit died away. The
golden glow faded, then the red.
    The queen stood up, shook her head. The white
streak in her hair was gone.
 The copper cage began to lower itself into the floor.

Gladiola was gone from the glass disc. There was only
a streak of grayish dust, in the rough shape of a body.
  "You... fiend," Sulu said.
    The Queen giggled. "You're cute when you're
angry." She waved to the guards. "Put my morning
pick-me-up back in their cages. Without their din-
ner."

    Gladiola crawled from a narrow tunnel into a small
room framed with canvas, expanded foam, and raw
wood. The blond man in black helped her stand,
handed her one of the white hotel bathrobes. "Lovely
job, dear," he said, then lowered the microphone on
his headset and pressed the switch. "Light cue, cell
area. Flicker box, work the pit for exactly... four
minutes; then you're needed on the golf course."

    Spock stepped onto the bridge. "Oh, there you are,
sir," Lieutenant Kyle said. "We've located the Smith's
escape pod."
 "Life readings?"
 "Two, sir. The crew was--"
    Spock nodded. "Yes, Mr. Kyle, I know. Beam the
pod up to the cargo deck."

    In the Direidi wilderness, Thed and Orvy had
found the alien spaceship.
 "Not very big," Orvy said.
    "I sappose you've seen lots of starships," Thed
said.
    "The Consortium's ships are always thousands and
thousands of meters long, so Mac can hide in them for
weeks at a time," Orvy said. "Remember?" "Shut up," Thed suggested.
 "Whatever you say, Prince of Star-Thieves."

156                                                                                157




    They moved closer, cautiously. The ship really
wasn't very big, just a metal ball about four meters
across, supported on little struts that seemed to have
been crushed by the landing. The door was not only
open, it had been thrown some distance from the
open hatch. There was a small stairway up.
  "Well, this is it," Thed said.
  "This is what?"
    Thed sighed. "The moment of truth. The climax.
The confrontation with the aliens."
    "You think they came back?" Orvy thought a
moment. "They're probably not gonna be happy with
US."
    Thed just shook her head and started up the steps.
Orvy could either follow or be left alone. He followed.
    Inside the alien ship were three couches, all empty.
The entire interior was covered with a peeling pink
paint.
  "Thed, it's weird in here."
    Orvy had recovered himself, in the absence of
aliens. "Of course, Aramis my boon companion. It
belongs to a race of beings more strange than the
Pathan or the Hottentot."
    "I mean, it smells like peppermint and cream
cheese. And there's this... stuff all over."
    "Some of them do not breathe the air we breathe,
my friend."
  "Uh-huh. But it kinda looks like they barf just like
US."
    A pinging sound came from a wall panel. A voice
came from a grille, scratchy and muffled by the thick
pink paint. "Enterprise to escape pod. Prepare to be
taken aboard. Please hold your positions."
  "Let's get out of here," Orvy said.
  "Are yo_u kidding?"

158

I-lOW MUCH FOR ,JUST THE VIANET(

    "Thed... there's no door on this thing. What
happens if we get pulled up through space?"
    Thed paused. "There is a certain logic to your
position."
    They scrambled for the door as the landscape
outside dissolved behind a curtain of golden, flicker-
ing light.

    The foursome strolled off the ninth-hole green.
Scott was two over par, Maglus three, thanks to a
freak wind on the seventh and a terrible double-bogie
six on the eighth. The Klingon protested bad luck,
and Scott amiably agreed. It was still anyone's match.
    Just off the path to the tenth hole, there was a small
building, with half-timbered walls, lead-paned win-
dows, and a low rose hedge; bicycles were parked
outside, and enameled metal signs advertised
FOOD and several brands of beer. A painted wooden
sign swung above the door: it showed a man in a
trench coat, and the figure of a bird sculpted from
black stone. Gold-leafed letters read TH� ~xm~
AND BIRDIE.
    Checking their golf bags in a rack labeled for the
purpose, the foursome went inside. The interior was
decorated in wood and stained glass. The long bar had
a bright brass footrail. The walls were covered with
pictures and golfing artifacts, with a dartboard in the
corner. On one wall was a photograph of a group of
men around a double-winged fabric aircraft, a box of
medals, a leather flying helmet with goggles', above
the display was a wooden propellor two meters
long. At the end of the bar was a large curtain,
the edge of a slightly raised stage protruding be-
neath.
 The patrons mostly wore wools and flannels. A few

159




       F1UW ivlu~l-I I-UK JU~l IHL rLAntl.~

had leather jackets with worn military patches. All
had pint mugs in hand, and none paid much attention
to the new arrivals.
    "Afternoon, gents," said the man behind the bar.
"In for a rest between holes? Just what we're here for.
What's your pleasure?" The bartender was tall, blond,
and looked quite familiar.
"You are Davith the hotel-keeper," Chekov said.
"That's right, friend. Each man in his time plays
many parts, eh? Now, what'11 you have? The shep-
herd's pie is topnotch today; Pam's just pulled one
from the oven."
    "I will have a double wod--" He was stopped short
by ScoWs hand on his shoulder.
    Scott was looking at the long-handled beer pumps
behind the bar. "Would that be real ale?"
  "It would indeed, sir, drawn from the wood."
  Scott sighed. "Four pints. I'm buying."
    They settled down at a table with a good view of the
curtalned stage.
  "Something is wrong," Chekov said. "My beer is
warIll."
    From behind the curtain came the tinkling sound of
a piano. The curtain parted to display a single bent-
wood chair under a spotlight.
    A silver-skinned robot with a smooth, feminine
face and figure came on stage. The patrons applauded,
and the pianist played a flourish.
    The robot put one foot up on the chair, turned to
face the audience, folded its--her?--hands on the
raised knee.
    The left thumb squeaked and fell off, landing on the
floor with a clink.
    The piano played. The robot began singing, in a
deep-throated voice:

HOW ~UCH ~oK ;us~ ~HL r~Ne[f

Falling apart again
And what am I to do
These threads take metric screws
No one stocks them

    Bolts popped out of their sockets, and more pieces
fell away, clanging.

There's no way to repair
A heart whose gaskets fail
No rivet, bolt or nail
Can correct it

Falling apart again
Poor craftsmanship, it's true
Perhaps if I used glue...
I can't help it

    The singer's raised leg came away at the hip
and crashed to the floor. The robot braced a hand
on the chair, stood on one leg. The tempo picked
up.

I'm an automaton
And though you turn me on
I'm just a tin man
I'll calculate each chance
For voltage and romance
It's just how I'm programmed
A toy in human clothes
A wire and plastic rose
That's what they say about me
When the end comes, I know
I was only clockwork so--
Life ticks on without me

160                                                               161




rlUW IVIULfl fUK JUbl IH{: I"L,&NLI.~

    The other leg fell to pieces. The singer collapsed
into a heap. The hands crawled about, picked up the
head, and held it cradled.

Oh, I
Ain't got no body...

 The curtain fell. The audience applauded.
    The golf foursome stared. Scott finished his beer.
He finished Chekov's. "Come on, gentlemen," he
said, "we've got a back nine to play."

    Uhura and Proke moved cautiously down the alley.
At every sound one or the other of them turned,
yanking again on their sore connected wrists.
    "Look," Proke said. At the distant end of the alley,
the thin man, Skorner, went by.
    Uhura pulled at the nearest door handle. The door
came open. They went through.
    They were in a short, dim corridor with a curtain at
the other end. From beyond the curtain came a wan
white light and a low murmur of voices.
 Aperokei had a very peculiar expression.
  "Now what's the trouble?"
    "Don't you know? Don't you see where we are?"
He led her to the curtain. One of the voices said
"... but he would have gone down there with you,
angel. He was just dumb enough for that."
    Proke put a finger to his lips, and they stepped
through the curtain.
    The theatre was quite small, perhaps two hundred
seats. They were at the fourth row from the screen,
dwarfed by Bogart and Mary Astor. The light from
the projector made it difficult to see toward the back,
but there didn't seem to be anyone in any of the seats.

  Uhura said, "Well?"
  "We might as well sit down."
    They did. The picture had only a few minutes to
run. Wilmer killed Gutman; Brigid went to prison (no
one, except maybe DashJell Hammett, has ever be-
lieved that a jury would hang her by that sweet neck).
The lights came up.
    Proke looked around casually. The theater was
indeed empty, except for one person standing in
shadow by the aisle door.
    "I don't recall selling you kids a ticket," the man
said, and stepped into the light. He had long, very
black hair, round tinted glasses. A white silk scarf
wrapped his neck, and his hands were shoved into the
pockets of a thoroughly worn black leather jacket. "In
through the fire door?"
    "Yes," Uhura said, before Proke could invent any-
thing creative. "We're sorry. We will buy--"
    "Did I ask you to be sorry?" The man gestured at
the empty seats. "This was a private screening any-
way. Consider yourselves my guests. When did you
come in?"
    Proke said, "At 'he was just dumb enough for
that.'"
    "Barely saw the picture at all, then. Care to see it
from the beginning?"
 Uhura said, "You wouldn't mind?"
    "The prints belong to me. I can do what I want with
'cm." The man scratched his cheek. "Of course, I
don't interpret that any more broadly than running
'era any time I like .... If you're tired of the Falcon,
there are plenty more. Casablanca, Metropolis, Thief
of Baghdad... . I just got in a pristine copy of Only
Angels Have Wings. Bet you haven't seen that one in a
while. Even on a starship."

162                                                            163
 Aperokei said, "So you know."
    "Pretty obvious. I know all the film fans on Direidi.
You're new. Not to mention--if you won't take this
wrong--we don't get a lot of Klingons in here."
    Proke said, "At these prices, you may get a lot
more."
    The man laughed. "I'm lien," he said, and held out
his hand.
    "Pleased. We're--" Proke automatically raised his
hand to shake Ilen's, dragging Uhura's wrist with it.
    Ilen's eyebrows rose. "Robert Donat and Made-
leine Carroll?"
  "It's--a long story."
    "That usually means you don't want to tell it." Ilen
shrugged. "Okay. Come with me."
    He led the way up the aisle and into the theater
lobby. It was paneled in Art Deco mirrored glass,
reflecting and multiplying their images. There was a
brass-fitted popcorn machine puffing out kernels, and
framed posters, sealed into nitrogen envelopes, for
Lugosi's Dracula ("The Strangest love a Man Has
Ever Known!") and Casablanca--
    "With Ann Sheridan and Ronald Reagan?"
Aperokei read.
    "Gotcha," Ilen said. "This way." He opened a door
marked PRIVATE. They went up a narrow stairway
--Uhura and Proke walking sideways to keep their
wrists urnangled--to the projection booth. Past the
projector and racks of film canisters were a desk,
bookshelves, piles of indescribable junk. "My office,"
Ilen said, as he bent to rummage in a canvas bag of
tools. He came up with a bolt-cutter. "The very
thing."
    The handcuffs removed, Uhura and Proke sat in
director's chairs while lien poured tea.

    There was an engraved wooden nameplate on Ilen's
littered desk. Uhura read it:

     1LEN THE MAGIAN
Proprietor, Silver Magic Theatre

 "Magian?" Uhura said.
    "A conceit," Ilen said. "Do you know the 'Magic
Theatre,' from Hesse?" He reached across his desk to
a black metal pendulum. He set it swinging. It ticked,
like a metronome. A wisp of steam from the teapot
shone whitely in the beam of the desk lamp. Ilen
began singing in time with the pendulum beat:

Once the screen was really silver
Once the world was shades of gray
Come inside and touch the romance
Fred and Ginger dance the night away
Let the shutter frame your vision
Let the sprockets pull you down
Eighteen frames, the speed of silence
Twenty-four, the speed of sound
Monochrome
Bogie in a trench coat, standing alone
In monochrome

Mister Laurel, Mister Hardy
Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd
Can you hear the silent laughter
Echo in the whispering celluloid
Did you long to be with Garbo
Who was your romantic queen
Was it Colbert, Loy, or Harlow
Did you pine for Norma Jean
Monochrome

164                                                              165




Drift to sleep and dream in sepiatone
Sweet monochrome

    lien slipped from his chair, smiling below his dark
glasses, ran his hands across the photos and lobby
cards on the office walls.

Dress in tails with Ronald Colman
Grant and Niven, perfect gents
Say Klaatu Barada Nikto
Do you know what Rosebud really meant
Gone to dust and still they play on
Faded days stay crystal clear
All the stuff that dreams are made on
Long as you and I are here
Monochrome
Boris Karloff shambles from the unknown
In monochrome

Why do you say there's no color
Dietrich was the Blue Angel
Duke and Monty rode Red River
Leslie Howard's Scarlet Pimpernel
Fairbanks was a bold Black Pirate
Cagney's White Heat burned me cold
There's a panchromatic rainbow
To a silver-halide pot of gold
Monochrome
Though my valley's green no longer, it's home
In monochrome

Let me catch a bus with Gable
Grand Hotels for all my nights
Busby Berkeley tunes are playing
Through the window, Chaplin's City Lights
Wander down the aisles together

166

Take a lover, find a friend
Dance to Bernard Herrmann's music
Till the title card that reads The End
Monochrome
Carbon arcs in darkness lighting me home
In monochrome
Monochrome
With a cast of thousands, no one's alone
With monochrome

    "Do you have a copy of Belle et la BOte?" Aperokei
said.
"Mais oui," Ilen said, rubbing his sharp chin.
Ilen dished up popcorn, ushered them to sixth-row-
center seats. The lights went down. The screen
lighted, with Coming Attractions shorts for Viva
Zapata and On the Waterfront, and a Warner Brothers
cartoon.
    A hand grabbed Uhura's shoulder. "Ilen?" she said,
and turned as the grip tightened. The face behind it
was in shadow, but it wasn't Ilen. The hand pulled at
her. She slapped the face, hard. The man yelped.
    There were more men in the aisles, closing in. Proke
vaulted out of his seat, knocking one down on the fly.
He landed on his feet, shouted, "Let's get out of
here!"
    "Right behind yoU." Uhura grabbed the strap of
her bag, swung it at another thug, making him dodge
clear of her, and dashed up the aisle, toward the light
of the projector.
    They burst into the lobby. Ilen was in the doorway
that led to the projection booth. "What's the matter
down here?"
 "We've got company," ProIce shouted.
 The auditorium door opened. There were shots. A

167




mirror shattered behind the Magian, and he staggered
back against glass which was webbed with cracks and
blood. He collapsed.
    "Ilen," Uhura said, but Proke caught her wrist. "We
can't help him," Proke said, and pulled her out into
the street. The sun was below the line of buildings,
making them black against orange, making the street
deeply shadowed. They ran for darkness.
    A black coach pulled across the narrow, cobbled
alleyway, blocking it. The driver--all too familiarm
turned, and leveled a long gun with double barrels.
    Uhura turned. Behind them stood the thin man,
Skorner, his black coat open, a shorter version of the
same weapon drawn.

    Thed and Orvy looked out the hatch. The cargo
deck stretched out beyond the limits of vision. The air
was crisp and thrummed with the sounds of ship's
machinery. Cargo modules were stacked and racked
along the walls; conduits ran overhead; little lights
illuminated the walkways.
 "We're on a starship," Orvy said.
 "Yeah."
 "It's... big."
 "Yeah."
  "What do we do now, Thed?"
    "Let me think... of course. They beamed the pod
up, without knowing we were in it. It happened to
Mac and Libra in The Guns ofAsterope."
  "I'm not gonna argue. But what do we do?"
    A woman in a red shirt was approaching. "We
hide," Thed said, and pulled open a likely-looking
door. There was a small locker behind it. It didn't
look big enough for both of them. They fit anyway.
  They heard the space-trooper bump her head on the

hatch, and say something really terrible. Then she
said something even worse about the smell. Her
footsteps went away.
    "Let's go," Thed said, "before she comes back with
a commando team." In the Macmain books, they
always came back with a commando team. Orvy
agreed with the basic idea if not the context.
      They tumbled out of the closet. Orvy said, "All
right, Thed--"  "macmain."
"Okay, Macmain. What are we going to do now?"
Thed hopped out of the pod onto the deck, landing
in a modest approximation of a combat crouch.
"We're in the Empire's treasury, under their very
noses. What do you think we're going to do?"
    Orvy sighed and climbed out. "Very well. But
before we get to the jewel vaults and the secret plans,
could we steal a sandwich?"

    Spock examined the reentry-scorched pod which was
still sitting on the cargo transporter stage. Adjusting
the controls of the tricorder slung over his shoulder,
he leaned inside. The interior was covered with a
flaking, rancid pink substance. Spock sniffed. He
frowned. He unreeled the tricorder's probe, touched it
to the pink coating, dialed for spectrometry. He read
the display with a minute sigh.
    "Sir," said one of the cargo-deck crew, "is that...
something's blood?"
    "It is a caseinate colloid with trace impurities,"
Spock said. "Flavored milk product."
 "Oh. Why is there... if you don't mind..."
    "I could do no more than conjecture, Ensign. You
are quite certain there were no beings aboard?"
 "No, sir. That is, yes, sir, I'm certain. I looked

168                                                               169




inside, and there really isn't much space to hide in
there, sir."
     "Yes," Spock said distractedly. "Have the pod
moved to a storage area, Ms. Crispin."  "Aye, sir."
    Spock took one last look around the pod, and
walked away, shaking his head.

     Thed and Orvy sat hidden in the overhead con-
 duits, polishing off a stack of sandwiches, several
 glazed doughnuts, and their third liter of cherry soda.
, The messrooms on starships really did give you every-
  thing you asked for, just like in the Macmain books.
  The soda was a vivid green color, but it tasted like
  cherry. "It's probably full of nutrients, to prevent
  space sickness, or something like that," Thed opined.
  She didn't really care. Life was finally imitating art.
  "Shh, somebody's coming."
     A crewman passed by below them. He had an
 electronic noteboard under one arm and a pencil
 behind one ear. He paused, almost directly beneath
 Thed and Orvy's hiding place, in front of a heavy
 door. He reached for the lock panel.  Thed tensed.
     The crewman pressed four buttons, and the vault
 door opened. The man went inside.
     "Five, four, five, two," Thed whispered to Orvy,
 then repeated under her breath: "Five, four, five,
 tWO."
     "Hey, Oppenheimer," said a voice from across the
 deck. "Oppy, you down there?" A uniformed woman
 came through a hatchway.
     The man in the vault came out. "'Course I'm here,
 Ann. Got to make sure the secret weapons don't walk
 away. What's up?"

    Crewman Ann said, "Mister Science wants that
rescue pod off the Transporter stage and stowed. We
got a bay clear?"
    "Moment." Crewman Oppenheimer checked his
noteboard. "Looks like Seven-C will do. I suppose he
wants this done yesterday." "Delays are illogical."
    The crewpeople laughed. Oppenheimer said,
"Okay, let me close this one up and I'll go help you.
Hey, how many Vulcans does it take to change--"
    "One to change the transtator, and one to ask
what's so funny."
     "Aw, you heard it. Okay, what does a Vulcan say
before he turns out the lights?" "You got me."
"'But will you respect me seven years from now?'"
The crewpeople went away, giggling. Thed counted
to ten after they were out of hearing, and swung to the
deck. Orvy followed.
    They looked around. The coast was clear. Thed
sidled up to the vault door and pressed the lock
buttons: 5, 4, 5, 2. The door clicked and slid open.
    The room beyond was only a couple of meters
cubed. Along the walls were three coffinlike boxes, all
stenciled TOP SECRET--PROPERTY OF STARFLEET COM-
MAND.
 "Secret weapons," Thed breathed.
    "You know, Thed," Orvy said very seriously, "of all
the places we've been that we weren't supposed to be,
I think this is the most not-supposed4o-be we've ever
been in .... "
    Thed was examining one of the cargo boxes. "Look,
they're on gray-lifters. All we have to do is grab one
and go."
 "Grab what? And go where?"

1 70                                                              171




    "These are secret weapons," Thed said firmly. "We
take one of these back to the city and tell all the aliens
that we'll use it if they don't let us alone. That'll show
everybody in Plan C." She looked straight at Orvy.
"Of course, you don't have to help me if you don't
want to."
  "Where do I push?" Orvy said.

    Spock sat alone on the bridge, contemplating the
Direidi situation. He had been following the move-
ments of the Enterprise crew to the best of his ability,
given the effects of the background radiation. Terribly
illogical things were happening on the planetary sur-
face.
    Spock had known for a long time, however, that
when reasoning beings were involved, "illogical" by
no means meant "inexplicable." In fact, a great num-
ber of societal explanations required the suspension
of logic, and sometimes working entirely outside its
strictures.
    He considered this fact for fifteen minutes, without
moving, without blinking (once his nictitating eyelids
had closed), barely even breathing. And the answer
appeared--did not merely suggest itself as a possibili-
ty, but leaped from the situation fully formed.
    The solution was logical. But it was the logic of a
situation, of a particular social dynamic: as different
from abstract mathematical logic as a living organism
was different from a crystal of carbon. Not the logic
that states baldly that if p := q, then not p := not q,
but the sort that causes a Vulcan diplomat to choose a
human woman as life companion and mother of his
child.
    Spock left the bridge, walked through the quiet
corridors. The Direidi solution, he thought. The only

        ~uw tvlUL. rl I'UK JU~l IHL /'LANLI.r

possible solution under the circumstances. Utterly
logical.

    Ensign Oppenheimer and Lieutenant Crispin
looked up as the science officer walked by. Command-
er Spock seemed oblivious to them, utterly lost in
thought. He had a curious expression.
    "Now there's something you don't see every day,"
Oppenheimer said softly.
    "Yeah," Crispin said. "Looks like he's trying to...
laugh."
    "Naaah," they said together, and went back to
work.

    Uhura and Proke had been hustled into the cellar of
a building. The coach driver and two more of
Skorner's men held them at gunpoint while Skorner
rifled Uhura's shoulder bag.
      "What did you do with it?" the thin man said, in
rather a mild voice, and threw the bag aside.
  "With what?"
  "The harp. We know you had it."
  "What do you want with it?"
    Skorner said, still pleasantly, "I am asking the
questions."
  "The last I saw of it, it was in my bag."
    Proke said, "Maybe it fell out when you bustled us
into the taxi."
    "Check the coach," Skorher said, and the driver
went out.
 Proke said, "Or maybe I hid it."
    Skorner said, "Don't say that if you didn't. I hate
wasting other people's pain."
    "Well, here we are, back at The Maltese Falcon, Mr.
Cairo. Or are you Wilmer? Well, never mind. You

172                                                                173




can't kill me, because then you'll never find the
package--and since I know that, there's no point in
tortunng me."
 "What about her?" Skorner said.
    Aperokei shrugged. "Not my type. Not even my
species."
    Uhura slapped him. Skorner chuckled. Proke
shoved Uhura toward Skorner.
    Aperokei said, "And it's not in the coach, but that
did get rid of one of you--now, angel!"
    Uhura's elbow speared Skorner's solar plexus.
Proke threw the nearest thug into the second nearest�
They ran.
    "Should we make for the hotel?" Uhura said. It was
just after dark, and the streets were badly lit, the alleys
almost entirely in shadow.
    "We can't afford to get lost, and we can't trust them
anyway. This way." He led her on.
    "Proke, we're headed back toward the theater...
that's where you hid it, isn't it?"
    "Every Hitchcock ever, remember? There's always
a McGuffin. I figured that had to be it."
    They slipped in through the fire exit. The auditori-
um was silent, almost totally dark. They moved
between the seats by touch. Aperokei knelt.  "Is this it?" Uhura asked.
    "We've got it, angel." He laughed. "Chewing gum
under the seat. Every theater in the universe has it.
Klingon theaters do. Well, maybe not Vulcan theaters
�.. do Vulcans go to movies?"
    The projector came to life, clattering, glaring. The
screen lit with a black-and-white slide reading

NO SMOKING IN THE AUDITORIUM

LADIES PLEASE REMOVE YOUR HATS

       How MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

    A shadow fell across the screen. Reflected light
gleamed from an enormous, chrome-finished pistol,
and a pair of small round eyeglasses. "Vulcans go to
movies," Ilen the Magian said, "but they don't enjoy
it."
  "I should have guessed," Proke said.
    "You shouldn't have. Nor should you have come
back. We'd have found the package eventually, pro-
cess of elimination. You would have gotten away
clean, never seen me again."
"Yeah, that's a real shame. You died so nicely�"
The Magian turned his head so that his face was
half-lit, smiled like a Greek mask of comedy. "I did at
that. Your turn now."

    The sun was starting to lower over the 12th-hole
fairway. Ensign Chekov teed Engineer Scott's ball,
and went to the small sign describing the hole. "It
says, '380 meters, dogleg left, principal hazards bunk-
er left, minefield right.'"
      Scott stopped in the middle of a practice swing.
"Would you say that again, lad?" Chekov did.
    "It's a good thing these people are hospitable,"
Scott said, "'cause their idea of a joke sure puts a
strain on a man's temper." He swung. The ball flew.
    "Alas," Maglus said, "that is a terrible slice," as
Scott's ball left the fairway and dropped into the
rough to the right of the dogleg bend.
    There was a short, deep boom, and an eruption of
smoke and yellow flame from the woods where the
ball had gone.
    They all gaped as the cloud of smoke rolled into the
sky. After a long pause, Scott said, "'Mine field right,'
Mr. Chekov?"

174                                                                  175




       Huw IvluL. l~l rUE JUb, IML I'uantl.c

 "Aye, sir."
    "Excuse me," a clipped voice said. A man was
approaching--no, marching toward--the tee. He
wore a khaki uniform with red shoulder tabs and a
beret with a circular badge; he had a pencil mustache
and carried a golf club tucked under his arm. "Good
day, gentlemen. You seem to have a friendly match
going here. I wonder if you'd mind if we played
through?"
    Magius said, "Do you know there are land mines on
this ground?"
    "Well, I should think we'd know," the uniformed
man said. "Not going to play eighteen holes without
doing our recce, are we? Twelfth at Direidi, best Par 4
in the galaxy." He tilted his head. "May we?"
  Maglus stepped aside. Scott said, "Fine with me."
    "Very well then." The man pitched his voice up.
"Sergeant Benson! Fore/"
    There was a sound like a metal zipper, a hundred
times magnified. Maglus gave a choked cry, shouted
something in Klingonese, and dove for the nearest
foliage. Korth followed him. Chekov and Scott took
the hint.
    There was an explosion a few meters from the tee,
and it rained dirt.
    Magius spoke rapidly to Korth, got a short answer,
then said, "So this is your plan? To kill us and take the
cha ?uj--"
    "Commander," Scott said tightly, brushing a divot
from his nose, "if you'll notice, they're shooting at us,
tOO."
    Another mortar shell whistled and exploded. Korth
spoke to Maglus, who nodded and said, "There is
reason in this. Perhaps the Direidi wish us dead."
  "It's certainly occurred to me."

        HOW MUCH FOR JUST THE PLANET?

  "So. What is our plan?"
     "You're the soldier. I'm just a hauler of garbage and
 adjuster of mistakes, remember?"
     "So, I am a soldier now that we are under attack? I
 am no longer a driver of slaves, a ship's thug?"
     Machine-gun fire rattled overhead. Korth crawled
 to Chekov, handed him a chocolate bar. "Here. We
 may as well eat while we're waiting for them." They
 unwrapped the candy and began nibbling.
     "Very well," Magius said finally. "We move on.
 Have your man bring your clubs. Korth, nuyiih
 khem!"
  "You heard the man, lad," Scott said.
  "The... clubs, Mr. Scott?"
     "They're all the weapons we've got. And I'm not
 giving up those hickories without a fight."
    As energy bolts sizzled in the air, the four crept
through the brush toward the 12th-hole green, Che-
kov and Korth dragging golf bags behind them.

    Uhura and Proke were tied back-to-back in
straight-backed metal chairs. Next to them was a
sixteen-millimeter film projector with a loaded reel
above its lens, an empty one below; around the
concrete walls of the small room were racks of paints,
masks, costumes, pieces of scenery. lien the Magian
tested the cords holding the two in their chairs, said,
"Yes, I think that will hold. I'm sure you know the
room is soundproof."
    "If3,ou wanted the harp," Uhura said, "why didn't
you ask for it?"
    "Because I'm not the only one after it," Ilen said.
"If you handed it over to me innocently, you might
just as innocently tell someone else where it had
gone." He stopped to examine a wooden sword in a




painted cloth scabbard. "Truthfully, zan Aperokei,
you did better than I expected. After you fell into
Skorher's hands, I supposed he would get it from
you... and then I would have gotten it from him.
Everyone would have assumed Skorner had the arti-
fact and I was dead, when in fact the reverse was
true."
 "Skorner doesn't work for you?"
    "He did once. Then he learned about the harp. He
no longer works for anyone." Ilen slammed the sword
into its scabbard.
Uhura said, "This is all for that little harp?"
"The harp, indeed, the harp, "the Magian said, and
adjusted his glasses. "Do you know how long I've
searched for that particular artifact? I followed its
trail here, to that junk shop--I was one step behind it
when you got in the way. And there were, of course,
people not far behind me."
    "That fake Andorian said 'almost there.' Was he a
cop?"
    "Had been. But he'd become just one more treasure
hunter by the time he got here. The harp has that
effect on people."
    "Why is it so valuable?" Uhura said. "The stones
can't be genuine."
    "True. It isn't even real silver. But.if you overlay the
locations of the stones on a particular starmap...
well. Somewhere over the rainbow..."
    Proke said, "You aren't going to sing again, are
you?"
  Ilen laughed. "No."
Uhura said, "So what are you going to do now?"
"I? I'm going to be wealthy beyond the dreams of
avarice, and believe me, my avarice has big dreams.
Now, as for you, on the other hand... you've been

through rather a lot. You aren't going to give up just
because I've got the Great Whatsit in hand."
  "Ralph Meeker, Kiss Me Deadly," Proke said.
    "You see? Still in high spirits. And I really don't
want two starships chasing me when I leave here."
    The Magian gestured around at the shelves and
hanging objects. "This is the theater's old prop
room," he said. "This stuff is positively ancient." He
rapped a knuckle against a papier-mfich6 breastplate,
and it flaked apart. "Old, and dry, and very flamma-
ble. Or is that inflammable?" He leaned forwar&
"This is where one of you says, 'You can't do that!'"
  "Really?" Uhura said dryly.
  "Must have forgotten my lines," Proke said.
    "Oh, come now. Not even a 'you fiend'? Well. Let
me continue with my part, and you can catch up
later." He flipped a switch on the projector. The reels
spun, and a beam of intense light shot between Uhura
and Proke's heads. On the opposite wall, there was a
brilliant flash of swirling colors and a burst of music.
Ilen turned the volume down as the credits began to
appear.
    "One of the lesser gems of my collection, one I
could bear to leave," the Magian said. "House of
Usher, Roger Corman's first Poe film, cheaply made
but outrageously stylish--"
    "Screenplay by Richard Matheson, cinematogra-
pher Floyd C. Crosby," Proke said.
    "Yes, that's the one. And one of Vincent Price's
best roles, in my opinion. So you do know how it
ends?"
    "Even I know how 'The Fall of the House of Usher'
ends," Uhura said. "The house burns and collapses."
    "'Sinks into the dank tarn,' actually. But there's
never a tarn around when you need one."

179




    Uhura said, "You intend to burn us to death down
here."
    "Not really. You'll be gone well before the fire
begins." He took a small, conical flask of amber
liquid, rather like a perfume bottle, from his pocket,
set it on top of the projector. "This is an explosive,
sensitive to just about anything you can name, partic-
ularly shock and heat. If you jar the projector, as you
surely will if you struggle too much, it'll fall, and
explode. The place will indeed burn, like a paint
factory--"
    "House of Wax," Proke said. "Another good role
for Price."
    "Yes. But as I say, by the time the fire starts you'll
be past caring."
    Uhura said, "And if we don't knock the bottle over,
the heat of the projector will eventually set it off."
    "Exactly. There wasn't any way of calculating it
precisely, but you should last until the movie's over."
    Aperokei said, "A man of your taste would never
kill anyone before the last reel."
    "Why, thank you, Lieutenant. And you as well,
Lieutenant Uhura, for this evening's entertainment. It
was a good chase. Now, you'll excuse me, but I have
worlds to discover... Oh. One last thing."
    He nestled paper buckets of popcorn in the two
prisoners' laps.
  "You could just shoot us," Uhura said.
    "No, I couldn't do that. People like me are really
very squeamish about that sort of thing."
"Then there's a way out," Aperokei said.
"There's the fellow!" the Magian said brightly. "I
knew a man of your experience had to have seen a few
Republic serials. There's always a way out." The
Magian went to the door, stood in it for a moment,

180

looking wistful behind his dark glasses. "But you'd
better think hard, 'cause you don't have until
continued-next-week."
    He closed the door. On the screen, Roderick Usher
winced at the noise.

181




     Chapter Eight

All Through the Night

SOMEWHERE ON THE 17th hole, explosions echoed
dully, bullets whistled like angry hornets, and low
bursts lit the horizon.
    Standing up in a sandtrap, Montgomery Scott said,
"It's a terrible thing, war."
    "As terrible as one decides it is," Magius said. He
pointed at the night sky. "The stars do not judge what
they see."
    "Are you sure of that?" Scott's eye was caught by an
unusual constellation: a ring of stars haloing a distant
peak. "Look at that, now. Doesn't it awe you a little?
To think there might be a higher power than us,
arranging matters?"
    "Or that we are the property of some vast indiffer-
ent thing. No, Scott, I shall finish out my service to the
Empire with the best honor I can, and then there shall
be nothing, nothing at all."
  "What about the Black Fleet?" Scott said.
    Magius snorted. "The Black Fleet is the idea of
line-mad Imperials who cannot think of anything

better to do with a thousand lives than to repeat the
mistakes of the first."
    Scott nodded. "Mr. Chekov! Would you get me the
object from that side pocket, please?"
    Chekov unzipped the pocket, drew out a thin silver
flask. He took a step toward Scott, then stumbled on
the sand and fell forward. Scott caught the flask from
the air as Chekov landed at his feet. "You know, Mr. Chekov--"
    Chekov stood up, slapping sand from himself. "Yes,
Mr. Scott, I do know! 'Mr. Chekov, you are the worst
caddy in the explored uniwerse!' Isn't that what you
were going to say? Isn't that what you always say?
'Recheck those sensor readings, Mr. Chekov.' 'I said,
steady as she goes, Mr. Chekov.' Ever since I am a
little chelloveck, this goes on! 'Pavel Andreivich, eat
your groats.' 'Payel Andreivich, you are a disgrace to
the Pioneer Railroad Porters' Corps.' Well, Payel
Andreivich is having no more of this!"
    He reached to the golf bag, seized a 7-iron, raised it
over his head. An artillery shell exploded brilliantly
in midair, and the light caught the club like a bolt of
lightning. Chekov shouted "Urrah!" and charged from
the sandtrap into the furious night.
    Korth stood up, pointed a finger after Chekov and
another at Magius. "What he... what he said, dou-
ble." Korth grabbed a club in each hand and ran after
Chekov, shouting and flailing.
    Scott and Magius looked after them for a while, but
the ensigns were lost to sight almost at once. Finally
Magius said, "I think I was that age once. You?"
  "I've been tryin' to recall."
    "Old officers do not do these things in the way
young ones do." Magius crawled to the golf bags.
"What club do you like?"

182                                                           183


 "Sand wedge, I think."
    Maglus handed it across, selected a long iron for
himself.
 Scott said, "And a half-dozen balls."
 "Of course. Do you still have that flask?"
    "Above my heart." He handed it to Maglus, who
raised it. "To old officers." He drank and handed it
back.
    "We only fade away," Scott said, and drained the
flask.
    Together they climbed from the bunker and went
off in the direction of the 18th green.

    The Black Queen's prisoners paced their cell. There
were no windows, no clocks, and the torches did not
seem to burn down. "How long do you suppose it has
been?" Askade said.
    "I'm glad you said that," McCoy said. "For a mo-
ment, I was wishin' we had that Vulcan down here to
help us."
     Askade looked puzzled, then said, "What is a
'doughnut,' Sulu?"
  "A doughnut?"
  "That is what I said."
 "It's a cake... round, with a hole in the middle."
 "A torus?" Askade said.
 "That's right."
    "If you're considering our last meal," McCoy said,
"I'd hold out for a few more courses."
    "Do you remember the inscription upon the stone?
It had the line, 'keep your eye upon the doughnut'w"
    "'And not upon the hole,'" McCoy said. "I think
that was poetic license."
    "Suppose it was not?" Askade said. He spoke to
Memeth in Klingonese, then said, "The pit in the
audience chamber---"

    "Has a copper ring around it," Sulu said. "Do you
suppose that's part of the mechanism for the--
whatever it is?"
    "I am an engineer, not a sorcerer. But copper is an
excellent conductor of energy. And the engravings
could be a sort of circuitry."
    Sulu said, "So if we could damage the circuit,
maybe we could destroy the machine."
    Memeth said, "This is a good plan. Except that we
have nothing with which to damage solid copper."
    Askade said, "Well, Doctor? Have you any more
devices concealed?"
    "Well, now that you mention it..." He reached to
his boot, produced a small cylinder. "But I don't
think it's gonna be much use."  "A hand agonizer?"
    "Friend, I think we have a fundamental difference
of opinion on what doctors do. This is a medscanner."
He held it out, pressed a button. There was a small
whirring sound; the guard outside stirred but did not
move toward the cell. "You're alive, and you're a
Klingon. Is that useful?"
    "It is a shame it is not an agonizer," Askade said.
"Its combat uses are minimal, but with certain
rewirings... wait. On what spectra does this device
operate?"
 "Fairly high frequencies, up through the K range."
 "Sixty or higher?"
 "Sixty-five to eighty."
    Askade smiled. "It will serve. Give it to me, and
while I work you must plan."

    Roderick Usher carriled his sister's body through a
spectral blue-gray dreamscape, a crypt filled with mist
and horror, a cloudy, death-cold hell.
 "Getting warm in here," Aperokei said.

184                                                                 185




    "It's your imagination," Uhura said. "Speaking of
which, do you recognize this particular situation from
a movie?"
 "Afraid not. Classic situation, though."
 "That's nice."
    "I mean it. This is pure serial-cliffhanger, Ilen said
so himself. Heroes and heroines are always being put
in these predicaments, and never in the history of
motion pictures has it ever actually done them in.
Your movies, our movies, anybody's movies. Ever
seen an episode of Battlecruiser Vengeance?"
  "This isn't a movie, Proke."
  "I think Ilen thinks it is."
  "You mean... he did leave us a way to escape."
    "I think he had to. Staying true to the idiom, and all
that."
  "Okay. Any ideas?"
    "Nothing yet. You haven't got a knife up your
sleeve, have you?"
  "They're out of fashion this year."
    Proke laughed. "That's it, angel. Keep smiling ....
Can you push down, lift your chair a little?"
    She tried. There wasn't much slack in the ropes
around her ankles. Together they shifted the chair
perhaps half a centimeter. Another try, and they
bumped lightly against the projector. The reels wob-
bled. A ripple ran through the amber flask.
  "Buzzsaws," Aperokei said.
  "What?"
    "Buzzsaws. Victim tied to log, headed into sawmill,
certain doom by the rotary blade." He waggled his
head toward the projector, the turning metal reels.
"Get the idea?"
  "I get the idea."
     "It'll be tricky. We've got to get right against that
 lower reel, without knocking anything over."

  "You're absolutely right. Let's do it."
    "Uhura, I love you. On three. One... two...
three."
    They skidded their chairs against the machine.
Their heads obscured the sides of the picture; the light
was very warm. The glass flask jittered, slipped a bit,
then was still. The ropes binding their wrists rested
against the edge of the take-up reel, making it hiss and
squeak.
  Uhura said, "Is it working?"
"You'll know the minute I do. Hold it firm, now."
They held the ropes tight. Fibers snapped. On the
screen, the crumbling towers of the House of Usher
shook, and a woman buried by accident woke mad in
her tomb.
"Picture doesn't have long to run," Aperokei said.
"I think it's fraying. Shall we push harder?" She
turned her head to look at the flask of explosive.
Bubbles had formed in the liquid.
  "Don't think we have much choice."
    They strained. The house was ablaze, whole
walls collapsing. It burned out; its shell sank from
sight.
    A strand of rope gave way, then another. They
began to pull free. The credits crawled up the screen.
"Go, go," Proke said. Uhura got a hand loose. She
reached for the flask. The top reel stopped as the end
of the film unwound from it. Uhura's fingertips were
just short of reaching the flask, which was bubbling
actively now. Proke was tearing at the ropes. The tail
of the film crawled through the sprockets, and out.
Uhura stretched. The screen went pure white. The
film popped free of the last sprocket, and the take-up
reel free-wheeled, wobbling, shaking the projector.
Uhura closed her fingers on nothing.
  The flask slid off, fell.

186                                                                187




    Uhura grabbed the bucket of popcorn from her lap,
swung it.
    The flask landed in the popcorn, with just a slight
crunch.
    Uhura put the bucket down, very gently, and
started breathing again.
 Aperokei said, "Was that--"
 "Year. It was."
 "Well. Tough part's over, them"
    She snorted. Then she laughed. She put her free
hand behind her to circle Proke's neck and hugged
him, back to back, in the light of the silver screen.

    The Black Queen's prisoners, heavily guarded, were
herded to the audience chamber and onto the glass
disc. The copper bars rose to encircle them.
    The queen appeared in a black silk robe, slashed
with white. She sat down luxuriously in the iron
throne. "Haven't had a recharge like this in decades,"
she said.
    Memeth said, "Beware us, Queen!" After all his
growling and grumbling, to hear him speak out loud
and clear was really quite startling: even Askade
turned to look at him. "We are not without powers of
our own. To this moment we have been patient with
you, for we do not use our power in idle show: but the
time of patience is over."
    "Stalling won't do you any good," Janeka said.
"When the sun comes up, you guys are vitamins."
    Askade waved his arm, shouting something unintel-
ligible but impressive. He straightened his arm and
threw the medscanner at the copper ring. It hit,
bounced, lay there.
    Everyone was absolutely still. The first rays of sun
came down the conduit, glaring on the copper ring.
Other than that, nothing much happened.

    "Remember the Maine!" Sulu yelled, and ran at the
cage, stretching his arms through the bars. He got
hold of a guard, pulled him against the metal, gave
him a short, sharp rap that dropped the man in a
heap. The sun began to shine full through the tube of
rock.
    The reedscanner blew up in a shower of white
sparks. The copper ring glowed greenly. Light poured
down. Red light fountained up from below, and
actinic flashes, and thunder. The glass over the pit
starred, then webbed with cracks.
    Where the scanner had exploded, sparks ran up the
bars like a Jacob's ladder. Memeth shouted and
leaped: two bars snapped off at the base. The four
charged off the glass, into a whirling melee with the
queen's guards.
"You do notice we're outnumbered," McCoy said.
"I cannot tell," Askade said. "There is a red haze
across my vision."
    From a side hall, a horde of people dressed in white
cotton, spattered with blood and chicken gravy,
rushed forth, holding high knives, cleavers, rolling
pins, wire whisks...
    "The kitchen-kuve attack!" Memeth said. "The
queen! Take the queen!" He picked up a sword and
dashed for the throne.
    Janeka jumped off her throne. "Not today, Char-
lie," she shouted, and ran to the door. An iron panel
slid down, sealing the exit.
    The glass covering the pit shattered. There was a
solid shaft of light from below, and billowing smoke.
    A ring of guardsmen had blocked off the kitch-
en slaves, and was slowly pushing them back at
spearpoint; another squadron was trying to contain
the four offworlders. Memeth hacked furiously, but
could not penetrate the guards' armor, Sulu parried

188                                                                  189




furiously in high prime, but still was driven back, step
by step.
 "Any ideas, McCoy?" Askade said.
 "Well... I'm a doctor/Let me through/"
    The guards paused for a moment, then pressed on.
"Worth a try," McCoy said to Askade. "How about
you?"~
 "I have only a technical observation to offer."
 "You-mean, like, we're all about to get killed?"
    "I mean like the pit at the chamber's center shows
signs of a dilithium saturation hypercharge."
    "And what in the name of Uncle Jack Daniel is
that?"
    "Do you recall the phrase you used, when we were
surrounded by the beast-riders?"
  "'Match in a fireworks factory'?"
  "That is what in your uncle's name it is."
  "Mr. Sulum"
  "I heard, Doctor."
    They were backed nearly against the stone wall. The
smoke blocked all view of the rest of the chamber.
The roar from the pit had risen nearly to drown out
the sounds of weapons.
      Memeth recoiled to thrust. The pommel of his
sword hit the stone.  It sank in.
    Askade punched the wall. His fist went clear
through the painted foam, exposing canvas and sticks.
He looked at McCoy. McCoy looked back.  The guardsmen pressed on.
    "Cover us," Askade shouted above the roar. He and
McCoy leaned together and slammed their shoulders
against the "stone."

Another explosion went off, illuminating the brush

190

       r'luW /~UL.,Id I'UK JUbl lUlL rI_ANLI.~

in which the crew of Jefferson Randolph Smith were
hiding.
 "They seem to be at war," Tellihu observed.
    Trofimov said, "The town seemed very peaceful,
and it's not so far away."
    T'Vau had been reciting Vulcan epic poetry ever
since they had wandered into the combat zone. She
was halfway through a two-thousand-line history of
the Pythagorean Theorem.
    "It is not our war, is it?" Tellihu said, in a childlike
tone.
 "No, Tellihu, it's not."
    "Do you think they might allow us to leave, then? If
we were very polite?"
    A shell whistled. Trofimov said, "Doesn't your plan-
et have wars, Tellihu?"
    "We were invaded by the Klingons a few times. It is
not the same thing, exactly. But I see your point. It is
like evolution."
 "What's like evolution?"
    "This war. It is as if my ancestors had not chosen to
evolve large brain-cages on upright carriages. We
might still be able to fly unassisted. If I could fly, we
would have a way out of here. But that is the trouble
with evolution. When it makes a mistake, it cannot be
easily fixed."
 "Yes, Tellihu, I guess that's right."
    There was a human-sounding cry. The three Smith
crew put their heads up, just nose-high. A man was
running past them, swinging what appeared to be a
golf club. Behind him came a Klingon, brandishing
two golf clubs. And after him two more figures, one
human, one Klingon, were marching side by side. The
second human was whistling quite loudly, a Highland
bagpipe march.




       HOW MUCH I-UK JU~l IML VL,~l~l::l~.

    "What shall we do?" Tellihu said. "Shall we ask
them for directions?"
 "No," Trofimov and T'Vau said together.
    The captain said, "They're going that way. Let's go
this way."
  T'Vau said, "Why?"
    Trofimov took a deep breath� "Because I said so,
that's why."

  Two cautious figures approached the Hotel Direidi.
  "Not the main entrance," Aperokei said. "This
way."
    They slipped in through a service door. They were
in a wood-paneled hall, with a short stairway. Both
hall and stairs led to darkness. "Which way?" Uhura
said.
    "I like straight. Going up gives us farther to fall
down."
  "Just hold it right there.t"
    At the head of the stairs was a young man in a
turtlenecked shirt, leather jacket, slacks, and sneak-
ers, all black. A headset with boom microphone
compressed his unruly blond hair.
     He loped down the staircase, pointed a long and
 sickly-pale hand at Uhura and Proke, and fixed them
 with blue eyes behind metal-rimmed glasses. His stare
 had a truly mad aspect.
     "You aren't due here," he said in a reedy voice.
 "You're not blocked here. It's bad enough that the
 author's handing me pages with the ink still wet,
 without me having to personally plop each and every
 one of you on your marks." He pressed a switch on
 the headset. "Control, this is your stage manager
 speaking... two of our little lambs have gone astray,
 baa, baa. Yes, well, I should think so." He released the

switch, pointed at Uhura's bag. "That goes back to
Props before you leave here, you do understand." He
touched the headset again. "Stage Manager... fine.
Splendid. Let's see if we can do this in one take,
shall we? You'd think you were unionized, or some-
thingo"
  Uhura said, "What is going on here?"
    "Now listen, little fella," Proke said, sounding
genial and tough at once, "my friend and I have been
through quite a bit to get here, and now we want some
answers. You goin' to give them to us, or do we have to
go through you to somebody--"
    "Wonderful, wonderful cold reading," the man in
black said. "But you're not auditioning now, not for
me. I don't even have final cut. Now, this way, please?
Your next scene's in the kitchen." Uhura said, "Our next scene."
    "Yes, dear. That's what we call a cue." He held up a
hand, fingers arched. "I give them, you take them, and
soon we're all catching bouquets, reading notices
from that subphylum of giant insect known as critics,
being asked what Mr. Gable's really like, and wonder-
ing why we got into this industry at all, when medical
research pays so well for experimental subjects ....
Now, once again from the top: Kitchen. You. Cue."
He pointed, touched his headset. "Light cue 17."
Lamps came up slowly, illuminating a corridor. "And
    �.. action." He extended an arm down the newly
lighted hall, his body rigid.
    Uhura looked at Aperokei. He shrugged. They
followed the pointing finger to a pair of double doors
marked

KITCHEN
EMPLOYEES ONLY

193




Proke put a finger to his lips. Uhura stood to one
side.
    Proke kicked the door open. He and Uhura dashed
through.
    They stood at the end of an enormous institutional
kitchen, all white tile and steel tables. Most of the
tables were draped with white linens, covering some-
thing piled high. At least a dozen people in white, with
chef's hats, stood about, some pushing carts, some
holding white towels� There was an almost over-
whelming smell of baking.
    Proke's mouth hung open. He sniffed the air. He
pointed at one of the cloth-draped tables, at the carts.
"You see it, angel? It all makes sense now. What it's
all been leading up to."
    "Of course," Uhura said, meaning it this time. It
did all finally make sense now. "They planned all
along tow"
    "Yes, you're right," a woman's voice said. Estervy
stepped forward, removing her high white hat and
shaking out her long gray hair. "That's why I insisted
we rewrite this particular scene; Flyter didn't like the
idea at first, but you've done so much, so well, I
thought you should see the last act before we play it."
She brushed flour from her hands. "Final cue, Lieu-
tenant Aperokei: you do know what this means?"
    "Sure," Proke said, putting his hand lightly on
Uhura's elbow. "We know too much."
    Flyter's voice filtered down from a speaker some-
where overhead. "Couldn't have put it better myself."
    "Sorry we can't stay," Uhura said, and she and
Proke turned to dash for the kitchen door.
    The young man in black was standing there. He
touched his headset. "Warning on mechanical effects
�.. and... action."

    Four of t~e bakers tossed aside the towels they were
holdin~ revealing black guns with transparent bar-
rels. Blue light lanced across the kitchen. Caught in
the crossfire, Uhura and Proke had no chance at all.
Uhura saw the world pan, tilt, solarize, fade to black.

194                                                                195




   Chapter Nine

  Come Up and
See Me Sometime

Irq ROOM 21 of the Hotel Direidi, Ambassador Char-
lotte Caliente Sanchez smoothed down the dress-
length tails of her white silk shirt, pulled up a
floor-length circle skirt of silver brocade on white
wool, and fastened the skirt at her waist. She turned
in front of the full-length mirror: the skirt moved very
nicely indeed, and the shawl-collared blouse was cut
deeply enough to absolutely rivet the attention of
Captain James T. Kirkmwhile preserving the deco-
rum expected of the special envoy to Direidi.
    She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled on her high
white slippers, tested the fit--not very comfortable,
but then that wasn't what they were all about--stood
and adjusted the drape of the blouse once more. Kirk,
she thought, wasn't going to know what hit him.
    And for the sake of Federation-Direidi relations,
he'd better not ever find out ....

    In the other arm of the V-shaped hotel corridor, in
Room 22, Captain James T. Kirk was straightening
his bow tie before the bathroom mirror, and

 smoothing a collar wing that had gotten ruffled in the
 tying operation.
  There was a tap at the door. "Yes?"
  "Laundry, sir. You wanted a suit cleaned?"
     "Yes. Come in." The door opened. "Suit's on the
 dresser. Do you see it?"
      A man's scratchy, old-sounding voice said, "Yes,
 sir. Are all the medals off this, sir?"  "I think I got them all."
     "Very good, sir. It'll be ready in the morning, if
 that's all right."
  "That's just fine."
     The door closed. Kirk came out of the bathroom,
 took the satin-striped tuxedo trousers from their
 hanger and pulled them on, buttoned up the black
� braces. He fastened the cummerbund around his
 middle, examined the effect in the mirror, then
 cinched it a little tighter. Not bad at all. The classic
 black dinner suit had been out of fashion on Earth for
 two hundred and fifty years, give or take, but the
 Direidi seemed to consider it the only possible gar-
 ment for a gentleman out for the evening. Kirk didn't
 see a thing wrong with the idea. He pulled on the
 black jacket, plucked at the peaked lapels. They'd
 been very reasonable about renting him the suit, too.
     There was a red flower on the desk where Kirk's
 dress uniform had been waiting for the laundryman,
 with a card reading "With the Hotel's Compliments."
     Kirk smiled, picked up the flower, and with an
 elaborate flourish of his wrist inserted it in his button-
 hole. When Pete's buddy Zack, playing the cat bur-
 glar, pretended to stun Kirk, he would grasp the
 flower as a last, sinking gesture. Tonight's entertain-
 ment was being played for royalty, after all.
     But before the fun, there was dinner. And
 afterward...

196                                                                 197




    Kirk spun an imaginary cane, and whistled about
pUttin' on his top hat, as he opened the door.

    In Room 32, directly above Kirk's, Captain Kaden
vestai-Oparai was struggling with the knot of his bow
tie. Tuk'zedo was a bizarre form of dress, he thought
for at least the fortieth time, abandoned the tie for a
moment and adjusted the braces. He supposed that
they were a survival of weapon bandoliers. Was the
cummerbund originally a knife-holder, or a piece of
body armor, or a sash of office in the Klingon fashion?
The Direidi had provided Kaden with an appropriate
gold lain~ one. Kaden decided he respected the locals.
They displayed efficiency; their servitors worked well.
Their customs were odd, but no odder than most
humans exhibited.
    Al:d the plan of the Direidi Peet blak-Wood, to win
enough honor to take his companion by right, that
was cunning indeed. Wars of line-succession were to
be avoided; they were long and expensive and as full
of bitter fury as a Romulan caught stealing sweets.
    The necktie (once a defense against strangling-wires
and knives, Kaden supposed) resolved itself. Kaden
smiled. There were things to take by force, and things
to take by stealth. He thought that, if it were stated
that way, Arizhel would agree.

    Arizhel drew the single strap of her gown over her
right shoulder, fastened it with a round bronze brooch
bearing a bloodstone. She wore only a little jewelry:
long, thin bronze earrings, a few golden bangles on
her wrists. Charlotte had said that the local style of
revel costume used little ornament, taking its impact
from clean, dramatic lines. Rish looked into the
mirror, decided that she liked the effect.

198

    Her dress was of red silk, in two layers, a nearly
transparent one shot with gold thread over an opaque,
glossy one; as the fabrics shifted, the gown iridesced.
It left her arms uncovered, and her shoulders except
for the one broad strap, and was hemmed in what
Charlotte called "handkerchief points," displaying
more or less leg as she moved. The ambassador had
proposed very strange shoes to accompany the gown.
Arizhel had instead chosen soft flat slippers from the
hotel's gift shop, a bright red, fastened with red satin
ribbons around her ankles. Ambassador Sanchez had
said, "Just so you don't go dancing off any balconies,"
and laughed, and thoroughly confused matters by
trying to explain the joke. Rish had no such intention,
of course, no matter how energetic the Princess D'di
became tonight. Perhaps it was a superstitious phrase
to draw away bad luck, like the admonitions to "break
a limb," "tear a claw," or just "die well!"
    Arizhel looked again into the mirror. She knew who
would want to dance tonight, and not on balconies.
Poor Kaden: he was in for a terrible surprise this
night.
    She wrapped a long scarf of red silk once around
her neck, letting it trail down her spine. Klingons did
not go out with their throats exposed. She went out of
the room, walked to the bend of the V hall. There was
an elevator shaft on the outside of the elbow, a broad,
carpeted staircase on the inside.
    Kaden was approaching, looking rather stiff in his
tuk~edo---but, Rish had to admit, quite elegant, quite
noble, like a battlecruiser with a gleaming new hull.
    They went down one floor. Kirk and Sanchez were
there, Kirk in another of the black suits, Sanchez in
dazzling white. Kirk held his elbow raised level, and
the ambassador's hand rested lightly on it. I~d~.n ..

               199




looked briefly at Arizhel, and imitated the gesture.
Rish took hold of his sleeve. It would be useful, she
guessed, if one's party were hunting, and became lost
in heavy fog.
 They went downstairs to the dining room.

    The captains and their companions were given the
central table in the hotel restaurant, beneath a sky-
light that showed the moon just a little past full.
Champagne was brought out in a huge silver bucket,
and menus in Fed-Standard and Klingonese. There
were five courses, with cold sorbets to clear the palate
between. There were three wines. The quantities of
everything were more than liberal, and by the time the
desserts were brought the gibbous moon had sunk
quite out of view.
    "Would you like another bottle of champagne?"
Kirk said.
    Sanchez said, "Yes, it's really excellent." She said to
the steward, "Is it a local product?"
"Yes, madame. Produced especially for the hotel."
Kaden said, "The texture is interesting. A good
drink." He looked through his glass at the candles.
"The gas is harmless?"
    Sanchez giggled. "Depends on how you look at it.
Some people find the bubbles the most dangerous
part." She hiccuped. "See what I mean?"
  Kaden said, "From what is it prepared? Fungi?"
  "Grapes," Kirk said.
    "And they do have grapes here," Sanchez said.
"Estervy made that very clear. Lotsa grapes. But no
lions."
    The steward presented a new bottle, tore off the foil
with an easy motion. "Actually, sir, the Klingon
gentleman is correct. The sparkling wines of Direidi

are distilled from fungi." He rolled the bottle over to
show Kirk the label, which read

CHAMPAGNE DES CHAMPIGNONS
Mf~THODE INCONNU

  "Oh," Kirk said. "And the bubbles..."
      "Carbon dioxide, of course, sir. If you would prefer
a bottle of our Metheglin aux M~thane..."  "No, this is just fine, thanks."
    The steward filled the long tulip glasses. Ambassa-
dor Sanchez raised hers toward the center of the table.
"To Direidi," she said, "and to its peaceful and
productive development. Whoever may do it."
    "Whoever may," Kaden said, smiling with teeth,
and they all touched glasses.
    The last of the dishes were cleared. Kirk stood up.
"Well," he said, sounding a bit rushed, "that was a
perfectly magnificent dinner. My, look at the time, it's
after midnight. Shall we... retire?"
    "Retire? Now? I'm wide awake," Sanchez said.
"And I'm told that there's a really terrific ice cream
parlor in the hotel, open all night."
 Kirk swallowed hard. "Ice... cream?"
    Sanchez said dreamily, "It's been years since I've
had an ice cream soda."
 "Yeah," Kirk said, "me too."
    Kaden said, "Is something stuck in your throat,
Kirk?"
    "No, I'm fine. Fine. And an ice... cream... soda
sounds like just the thing after that... dinner."
    Arizhel said, "The ambassador has told me of these
zhodas."
 "She has?" Kirk squeaked. "I mean, she has?"
 Rish said, "I should certainly like to try one."

200                                                                201




 Kaden said, "It was a very filling dinner."
    Kirk said, "Oh, come on, Kaden, you don't want to
break up the party so soon," and then more quietly,
"You want a soda, friend. Believe me, you want one."
    Kaden's eyes narrowed. Kirk nodded furiously.
"Very well," Kaden said.
    "Great," Ambassador Sanchez said. "I scream, you
scream, we all scream for ice cream."
    "Please tell me when I am supposed to scream,"
Rish said, as they left the dining room.
    The ice cream parlor was up a broad, dim, fern-
lined corridor from the dining room. It had stained-
glass windows, bent-wire chairs, and a long chromium
bar displaying forty-eight flavors. Above the door was
a gilt sign reading OE~TI DmEIDL Kirk looked up at the
sign, noticed that the last two letters hadn't been
gilded, or had somehow had the leaf worn off. These
old places, he thought, always having to replace
things.
    They sat down. A young man in a white uniform
and a peaked paper cap said, "Evening, folks. What'11
it be?"
    "Four sodas," Kirk said. He pointed at himself,
then at Sanchez. "Chocolate, chocolate..." He
looked at the Klingons for a moment. "What the heck,
four chocolates."
  "Comin' right up."
    Kaden said genially, "It was good of you to order all
identical, but not necessary. After such a dinner, it
would be absurd to choose to poison us now."
Sanchez giggled. Kirk said, "Oh, don't mention it."
The soda jerk appeared with four fluted glasses,
heaped with ice cream and fizzing furiously. "You
folks want seconds, I'll be here. All night long."
    Sanchez tore the end from a wrapped straw, put it
to her lips and blew the wrapper across the room. She

laughed again. Kirk smiled, a little thinly, and put a
straw in his own soda.
    Kaden and Rish followed suit. Kaden took a sip.
His eyes went wide and white. He took a long, long
pull on his straw, released it, inhaled deeply, nodded.
"Ahhh. Now this is a proper conclusion to a day."
      "Yes, you're right," Kirk said. "Of course, it is very
late, and we ought to be getting back to our rooms."
  Kaden looked up. "Yes?"
  "Yes, you know. Getting back. To our rooms."
    "Of course you are right," Kaden said. "Back to our
rooms, that is the proper conclusion to a day."
    A boy in a brass-buttoned uniform came into the
parlor. He looked around--which hardly seemed nec-
essary, since there was only one occupied table.
  "Call for Commander Arizhel," the boy said.
  "Who calls me?" Rish said, then noticed Sanchez
  furtively shaking her head. "Very well, youth. I shall
  go." She stood up.
    "Maybe I should go along," Sanchez said. "It might
be for me, too."
 Kirk said, "What?"
    "Powder my nose," Sanchez said, patted Kirk's
head and hurried after Rish.
    The two captains watched the women go, and
exchanged a look of mutual bewilderment.
 "Captain Kirk, Captain Kaden," a low voice said.
    Pete Blackwood came up to the captains' table,
looking around nervously.
 "Pete?" Kirk said. "What is it? Something wrong?"
 "A lot. Zack's had an accident."
 "He is dead?" Kaden said.
    "No, not like that. He's twisted his ankle. He'll be
all right, but he can't possibly play cat burglar."
 Kirk said, "There's no one else you can ask?"
 "Not that I'd trust with this, on this short notice."

202                                                                203




!?

iI'

"It'll have to be one of us, then," Kirk said, and
thought a moment. "Rish is on the third floor. So the
Black Cat needs to take her prisoner first, then come
down to the second floor and get Charlotte, and
finally take them both to the lobby ....It'll have to be
me, then, so Kaden can be in Rish's room when I
show up. Besides, RiSh has fought alongside Kaden;
she'd be more likely to recognize him in combat. That
make sense to you, Kaden?"
    "I think so. How will you become the robber, if you
are with Ambassador Sanchez?"
    "i'll find a way to get away from her." He half-
'smiled. "That'll be a switch. Okay, Pete. Where's the
cat-burglar costume?"
     "it'll be in the hotel basement, by the laundry. The
 sonic gun, too."
     '~rhat's it, then. Now you'd better get going before
 the girls come back."
     "You're a fine man, Captain Kirk," Pete said. "And
 you too, Captain Kaden. You're both fine men."
     "We are all warriors," Kaden said, and finished
 Rish's soda with a prolonged slurp.
     Kirk said, "I'll go along with that. See you in the
 lobby, Pete."

     "You are intoxicated," Arizhel said, quietly but
 firmly, as Sanchez caught up to her in the hallway.
     "I'm no drunker than you are," Sanchez said. "This
 is an act for you-know-whose benefit."
     "Yes? Yet Kirk is out of sight, and your walk is still
 unsteady."
     "That's the shoes, damn it. That's exactly what
 these heels are supposed to... I'm not sure I can
 explain it."
     "You do not need to," Rish said, adjusted the single
 strap of her gown, and laughed. "I understand that
                204

perfectly. Now, why have you come? Do you know
who is calling me?"
    "It can't be official, or they'd have called Captain
Kaden. So it has to be Deedee."
    "Too right," said a small, plaintive voice from a
telephone booth on the wall, half-hidden by a potted
plant. "Over here, quick."
    The princess was sitting in the booth, head
slumped. She wore a fur-collared cape over a
Miskatonic University sweatshirt and jeans. One leg
of the jeans was slit to make room for a bulky bandage
around Deedee's ankle, and a pair of crutches was
propped up next to her.
  "What happened?" Sanchez said.
    "I twisted my ankle," Deedee said grimly. "I can't
be a slinky cat burglar like this."
    "Okay, Commander," Sanchez said to Arizhel,
"new plan?"
    "Obviously one of us must wear the robber cos-
tume," Rish said. "But otherwise we need not change
the planar all You were to be the one abducted, so I.
shall abduct you. After I have escaped, I'shall return
to my room and lock myself into the closet."
    Deedee said, "But won't you have to, you know, fib ::
about being put in the closet?"
    "Not at all. I shall say that the kidnapper put me
there. It will be the exact truth."
    "You missed a wonderful career in diplomacy,
Rish," Sanchez said with admiration. "Grot, that's
how we'll play it. Is the Black Cat outfit in my room,
Deedee?"
    "I put it there myself. Thank goodness for eleva-
tors."
    Rish said, "And Peter will be present for the
rescue?"
 "I asked him to meet me in the ice cream parlor,

205




just like we'd planned." She smiled. "Now at least I
don't have to stand him up, huh?"
    Sanchez said, "That's the spirit, Deedee. Don't
worry about a thing."
    "I'm not worried," the princess said, and sniffed
back a tear. "Both of you are just swell."
    "We must return now, and start the plan," Rish
said. "It is a pleasure and an honor to fight for you,
Princess."
    As they walked back to the ice cream parlor,
Sanchez said, "We're going to have to figure out a way
to get rid of our gentleman callers."
  "You think they will try to follow us to our rooms?"
    "Oh, I think they're gonna try to get us to follow
them. But I'm not having that. You see my point."
    "I see your point. Well. I shall find a way to send my
captain away. And you?"
  "Don't worry, honey. I know the drill."

    They took the stairs up. At the second floor,
Sanchez said, "Good night," and turned left toward
her room. Kirk said, "Good night, Charlotte. And to
you too, Kaden, Rish." He turned right.
    The Klingons said, "And to you," and went on
upstairs. When Kirk could no longer hear them, he
turned around. Ambassador Sanchez was standing by
the stairwell, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.
"Well," she said, "you gonna stand there all night?"

    On the third-floor landing, Kaden said, "I wonder
what is happening between the Federation pair."
    "The Captain-strategist knows exactly what is hap-
pening," Arizhel said. "At least, his science officer
knows. She knows what the Captain Kirk is thinking
�.. and also the plans of the Captain Oparai."

     Kaden was brought up short. "You know the
 plans ... ?"
     "It is an obvious plan," Arizhel said, "but some-
 times obvious plans are cunning. If one knows the
 adversary well enough."
    Kaden relaxed, taking Rish's meaning now. He held
out his hand, and Rish extended hers to touch it, in
the fashion of hunters prowling caves in the dark.
They turned left and went down the hallway to 31,
Rish's room.
    Rish closed the door, pulled the coil of wire from
her hair, letting it fall. Kaden began to sit down on the
chair.
    Rish said, "Does the Captain wish to sit alone
now?"
    Kaden tried to chuckle. It came out strangely. He
sat down on the bed, and Rish sat next to him, as
upright as any cadet�
  Cadets did not have hair like that.
    ."Do I offend you with my presence7" Kaden said.
"Do I dishonor you with my interest?"
    "Not with your presence, nor your interest, nor
your pursuit," Arizhel said, and put her fingertips on
Kaden's forearm. "There is a scar there still, I think7"
  "There is."
    "I remember the taking of that scar. It was a bold
thing�"
    "And there is a notch in your... left ear, from a
Kinshaya bullet."
    "You're sure it's the left ear?" she said, and covered
her ears with her hands�
"Yes," Kaden said, grinning. "The left."
"Correct," she said, and laughed. Then more quiet-
ly she said, "What would we do, exactly, if we were to
match our courses? Turn privateer?"

206                                                                 207




"We could," Kaden said thoughtfully. "Askade
would be for it, surely. Maglus too, I think." He
chuckled. "And of course Proke. I can hear the ship's
name now: Hailing Frequency of Terror ....But it's
not so easy as it was. The Thought Admirals counsel
quiet borders, and they seem to have the Emperor's
ear. Quiet borders mean at least a show of suppressing
privateers."
    "Thought Admirals all play double games. Some-
times more than double."
    Kaden shrugged. "Nil komerex, khesterex. We are
Klingon, we all play."
  "So you are a believer in the Perpetual Game?"
    Suddenly they both stiflened, and turned to look at
the bedside clock.
    Kaden said, "Excuse me a moment," and stood up.
"Ise krem zhoda makes its way swiftly through the
waveguides." He paused in the door of the disposal
cubicle. "Though I think we could make our fortunes
selling them on Klinzhai."
    Arizhel laughed as Kaden shut the door. Then she
stood up, careful not to make the bed creak, crept to
the cubicle door, put her key in the lock and turned it.
She coughed to cover the click.
     She took a step toward the hallway door, two, then
 stopped still. There was no one to see the cat robber
 overpower and imprison her, but perhaps seeing was
 not what was called for.
     "Who are you?" Rish shouted, and threw a pillow
 at the wall. "What do you want here?" She jumped up
 and down. "So, you will not speak? Then die silent!"
 She kicked the wall. "Dishonorable one, to attack an
 unarmedre" She tipped a lamp over. "I shall find
 you, thief, murderer," she said, panting as loudly as
 possible, "find you with my ship of the Black Fleet,
 and I shall hear your screams ten thousand times..."

She threw herself enthusiastically on the floor,
groaned, and was still.
    "Arizhel?" Kaden's voice came muffled through the
disposal-chamber door. There were banging sounds.
"Arizhel?"
    Rish picked herself up, went to the closet. She
jumped inside, landing with a whump and a jangle of
hangers, and slammed the door shut. Then she
opened it again, silently, went to the hall door and
looked out. The hallway was clear. She went out and
shut the door. From the hall she couldn't hear Kaden
at all. Perfect. She went down the hall to the stairs and
down to the second floor.

  "How about a nightcap?" Kirk said.
    "Nightcap? Sure. Just the thing a~~er a five-course
meal and an ice cream soda. Need a shot of something
to remind my system it's not quitting time yet.
Brandy's over there."
    "Uh, yeah," Kirk said, "Brandy's fine." He picked
up the bottle. He looked at the label, read vsoP av, n~
~s�Rve DmE>OIS, then thought of the champagne
and stopped reading. He uncorked it and poured
two generous shots into small snifters, then picked
up a glass in each hand and swirled the brown
liquor.
    "Clockwise and counterclockwise at once," San-
chez said. "That have something to do with warp-vee
combat tactics?"
    "Tactics," Kirk said absently. Thanks to Zack's
little accident, he had to get out of here on the double.
    "Yeah, you know, tactics. What you boys in the big
ships do after us girls down in diplo screw everything
up beyond all recognition."
    There was a pause. They both looked at the bedside
clock.

208                                                                209




    "Um," Kirk said, and held out one of the snifters.
"Here's to, um, diplomacy."
    They touched glasses. Suddenly Kirk's glass tipped
backward. Sanchez's wobbled and lurched forward.
Each lapel of Kirk's tuxedo jacket caught a shot of
VSOP.
 "Gee, what a mess," Sanchez said.
    "Yes," Kirk said. "I ought to get this cleaned up
right away."
 "Uh... I guess that's right, you should."
  "It'll stain if I don't. Grosgrain lapels, and all."
    "Right," Sanchez said, looking at the double stain.
"At least it's... very symmetrical."
    "Yeah, that should... uh, I'd better go and, uh, do
that."
      "Here," Sanchez said, and handed Kirk the seltzer
bottle from the bar. "Club soda's good on stains."
  "Thanks. I mean that."
  "Sure."
    Kirk opened the door, seltzer bottle in hand. He
took a step into the hall. He collided with a large
canvas laundry basket.
    "Sorry, sir," said a small, balding, beak-nosed man
in a white linen jacket. "Just getting the linens from
the empty rooms." He peered in at Sanchez. "This
one isn't empty, is it?"
    "No," Kirk said, terribly sorry that Zack had only
minor injuries.
      The laundryman looked at a clipboard. "You're
right, sir, it's not. Sorry, sir. Good night."  "Good night."
    The laundryman plucked at his lapels. "Club soda's
just the thing for them, sir. Won't bleach like perox-
ide."
  "Yes, thanks."
  "They are nicely symmetrical, sir."

    Kirk looked one last time at Sanchez, who shrugged
and shut her door. Kirk hurried down the hall, toward
the elevator. He got in, said, "Basement, please," then
sighed and pressed the B button. The elevator de-
scended.

    Kaden banged again on the bathroom door. Stupid
thing must have gotten stuck, he thought, stupid
antique construction. And now he seemed to have
missed the entire action outside.
    He couldn't understand it. Of course Arizhel would
not have betrayed his presence to an intruder. But
Kirk knew he was here. Why had Kirk not let him out?
    Obviously because Kirk did not consider Kaden
necessary. Kirk was a glory-hunter, a selfish, swag-
gering, tin-plated...
    Kaden took a deep breath. The air in the cubicle
was chilly. There was a slight draft around the win-
dow.
 He looked at the window, at the sign beside it:
FIRE ESCAPE.
    Kaden pushed the window open. The air was ex-
tremely cold by Klingon standards: no more than ten
degrees above freezing, and nose-achingly dry. Kaden
swore very mildly and climbed out onto the metal
platform. It was extremely dark. Most of the hotel
windows were unlit. There was a glow from the floor
directly below him.
    Ah. Kirk would have to go to the end of the hall,
down the stairs, then down the lower hall to the
ambassador's door, guarding Arizhel all the way.
Kaden had only to climb down a short ladder. Kirk
would have to fight Kaden after all, have to give
Kaden his moment of honor before Rish.
    Rish would be impressed, he thought as he stepped
onto the ladder. Rish had thathkek better be--

210                                                                 211




    Kaden brought his foot down hard on the ladder. It
started to tilt backward, away from the building.
Something went clang, and the ladder, with Kaden
aboard, dropped. The two hit a thin wooden door,
shot cleanly through it, and all was dark.

    Kirk stepped out of the elevator into the hotel
basement. It was badly lit, thick with dust (though not
cobwebs--the Direidi had apparently decided not to
import spiders), and smelled of paint remover, lum-
ber, and industrial detergents. Kirk followed the
detergent smell through the damp dimness until he
found the leotard and mask, folded neatly beside a
huge steel laundry bin. He put the seltzer bottle down
and shook out the black suit. The sonic stunner was
tucked inside the clothes. He examined the gun: cells
unplugged, collimator pin pulled. Check.
    He stripped to his skivvies, folded his tuxedo, and
tugged on the leotard. It fit pretty well, except around
the middle. Kirk picked up the stunner, practiced
moving stealthily. It wasn't bad at all. And it didn't
look like Federation issue... which reminded him;
he took off his communicator, which certainly was a
giveaway, and put it with the tuxedo and soda bottle.
    He went to the elevator, pressed the 2 button, then
thought better of it and hit r~oR OP�N. It didn't seem
right at all for the Black Cat Bandit to be using the
elevator. Kirk stepped out, turned.
    There was a shuffling footstep ahead of him. Kirk
stopped for a moment, then flattened himself against
the basement wall, a shadow in shadow.
  Someone walked by, then got into the elevator.
  Kirk was pleased. He was invisible.
    Somewhere around here there had to be an exit. He
would take the fire escape up to Arizhel's window. He

was supposed to surprise them while Kaden was in
the bathroom: he would surprise Kaden, all right.

    Rish paused on the stairs as someone approached,
but whoever it was went into the elevator. She looked
up the right-hand hallway toward Kirk's room: there
was no one there. Surely Sanchez would have gotten
him out by now.
    She could not worry about it. She had a schedule to
keep. If Kirk was still in the ambassador's room, they
would get him out together. Arizhel turned left and
went down the hall.
    There was a laundry basket in front of the ambassa-
dor's room. Rish stepped around it, knocked three
times lightly, rapidly.
 Sanchez opened the door. "Thank god," she said.
    From somewhere outside came a twanging sound,
and a crunch.
 "What was that?" Arizhel said.
    Sanchez shrugged. "If it was a thunderbolt, he
missed me. Come on, let's get you suited up."

    Kaden shook his head. He stirred. Everything was
dark and sideways and hurt like explosive decompres-
sion. The thought that he might be floating in space
without a suit woke him up a good bit further. He
pinched his nostrils shut.
    No, wait, there was atmosphere. And gravity. Lots
of gravity; he was lying on something extremely
uncomfortable.
    Finally he registered where he was and how he'd
gotten there. He got up. He was in the midst of a pile
that included several ancient mattresses and what
looked like a broken piano. He wasn't sure which he'd
landed on.

212                                                                213




    Kaden shook his head again. There was a schedule.
Kirk had kidnapped Rish and was on his way to
kidnap the ambassador. Kaden had to get there before
Kirk got done kidnapping, so he could get shot and
impress Rish.
 Something like that.
    Kaden stood up and wandered through the dark
basement until he found the elevator. Someone was
standing against the wall nearby; Kaden thought
about killing him, just as a courtesy to his hosts, then
remembered he was on a diplomatic mission, and he
wasn't sure what the local rules were about trespass-
ers. Kaden got into the elevator. Nothing happened.
He looked at the panel, pulled out the DOOR OPEN
button. The door closed. "Second floor," he said, and
the lift took him up to 2.
    He shuffled down the hall, dropping lint and wood
shavings as he went. There seemed to be a piano wire
caught in his coat, and it snagged at the carpeting and
wallpaper.
    There was a laundry basket in front of the ambassa-
dor's door. He stepped around it, raised his hand.
What was the line? Unhand that female, that was it.
Proke's sort of expression. Unhand that female. It had
a ring to it.
  He took a deep breath and pounded on the door.
    There was a stirring from inside, but no answer. He
knocked again, harder.

    Sanchez smoothed Arizhel's red evening gown and
hung it carefully in the closet, then went to help Rish
squeeze into the cat-burglar suit. Squeeze was the
word: the cat suit was sized for Deedee, who was
about Rish's height but considerably skinnier. After
some careful inhaling, muscular control, and tugging

of zippers, however, they succeeded. At least the hood
fit comfortably.
  There was a heavy knock on the door.
    Sanchez smacked a hand against her forehead.
"Kirk," she muttered.
  "I thought you had sent him away."
      "Captains don't abandon ships, honey, Starfleet
builds it into 'era."  Another knock.
      "I have an idea," Sanchez said softly. "Did you see
the basket in the hall?"  "Yes."
      "Basket in hall. Jim in hall. Jim in basket." She
illustrated with sweeping hand gestures.  "What then?"
    Sanchez fought to control a laugh. "There's a laun-
dry chute at the end of the hall. If that doesn't cool
him off--"
  The pounding got harder.
    "That's it, he asked for this," Sanchez said. "Now."
She flung the door open. Arizhel leapt, a fluid streak
of black. The tuxedoed figure in the hall knocked hard
on air, stumbled forward squarely into Arizhel's
pivOt-kick. He doubled over, fell backward and tum-
bled heels-over-head into the laundry basket. Sanchez
dashed into the hall and slammed the lid on top of
him. From within came only a faint rustling of linen
and a whispered groan.
    Arizhel caught Sanchez's arm. "We still need him as
a witness."
    "After his trip to the laundry," Sanchez said, over-
come with the moment, and trundled the basket up
the hall. The chute was a large panel in the wall of the
left-hand corridor. Sanchez tipped the basket up and
over, hearing terrycloth and cotton, linen and captain

214                                                                215




and all, go tumble-tumble-bump down the chute.
Sanchez dusted off her hands and went back to her
room. She owed Jim Kirk a kick in the pants. He'd
just gotten it with eighteen years' worth of interest.
  Rish said, "What now?"
    'TII wait for him in his room. Give him fifteen
minutes to get back upstairs, then come in and abduct
me. I'm sure he didn't see me here, and he ought to be
nicely primed to respond when he sees that black suit
again."
    "Will I have to fight him again? I almost ripped this
costume apart."
    "Between that shot you gave him, the trip
downstairs... and finding me waiting for him... I
don't think his system will take much more, honey."
She winked. "See you in fifteen."
    Arizhel nodded, closed the door and turned
around, still adjusting the cat costume. The hip seams
were straining dangerously.
  There was a noise in front of her. She looked up.

    Kirk found the fire escape, began climbing the
ladder. It was iron, and creaky, and cold as Pluto's
posterior. The cat outfit wasn't very warm. He won-
dered if cat burglars wore thermal underwear on duty.
    He paused at the second-floor platform, outside
Charlotte's room. There was a light through the
frosted glass of the bathroom window. Another light
filtered down from Arizhel's room directly above. He
reached for the ladder going up.  It wasn't there.
    Kirk looked around, paced the platform. It was
dark, and the black iron fire escape was the nearest
thing to invisible (except, Kirk thought, for himself)
but the ladder wasn't there.

    He thought for a moment. Well, this might not have
stopped the real Black Cat Bandit, but there wasn't
any way James T. Kirk was going to get up there
without a ladder. And Charlotte was right inside the
window in front of him, equally unsuspecting, nyaah
ha ha ha, the villain chuckled to himself.
    Kirk slid open the window and swung into the
bathroom. He paused just a moment to check his
mask in the mirror--wouldn't do to have Charlotte
recognize him--held up the sonic stunner and took a
long step, a catlike leap, into the bedroom.
    He was standing face to face with somebody in a
black leotard, mask, and hood.
    Oh, boy, Kirk thought, of all the nights for the real
Black Cat to show up...
    The Bandit took a cautious-looking step toward
him, then a dangerous-looking one. Kirk brought up
his pistol and fired.
    Bweep went the stunner. The Bandit froze, but
didn't fall down.
 Oops, Kirk thought.
    Fluid shift of black-clad limbs, black foot in face,
black everything.

    Kaden was having another bad dream of deep
space. He really seemed to be floating this time...
but surely in a vacuum suit... yes, in a suit whose air
filters needed changing something fierce. Someone in
a black combat skin had kicked him out an
airlock ....
    The smell of ammonia roused him. He shook his
head. Fabric rustled. He was lying on, in, and under
an enormous heap of dirty laundry, a sock wrapping
his nose. He clawed it away, thrashed around, trying
to find some way out of the holding bin before the

216                                                                217




recyclers started and he wound up as a set of dress
uniforms.
    There was a hatch in the metal wall. Kaden got it
open, emerged in a small cascade of regular-cycle
cotton and linen. It wasn't a ship. He was in the hotel
basement again.
    Kaden's foot hit something hard. He looked down.
There was a glass flask on the floor, next to a neatly
folded tuxedo with nicely symmetrical brown stains
on the lapels.
    Kirk, Kaden thought. Kaden had opened the door
to the ambassador's room, and Kirk, wearing the
bandit outfit, had attacked him, and not with a
deactivated sonic, either. That made twice Kirk had
cheated Kaden out of his scene, the glory-mad, selfish,
swaggering...
    There was a Klingon proverb: Fool me once, shame
on you, fool me twice, prepare for doom. Kaden's
fingers closed around the flask. It felt good in his
hand: hard, heavy. Kirk's head would soon discover
how hard and heavy.
     Kaden got into the elevator. The door closed.
"Second floor," he said. Nothing happened.
    "Stupid human machinery," Kaden growled, and
mashed the 2 button.
    The door opened. Kaden saw a flutter of white
disappearing down the stairs, but did not follow. Kirk
was wearing black. Kaden grinned and hefted the
flask. Black was a good color for him to be wearing.
He went down the right-hand corridor, to Kirk's
room. Behind him, soiled whites and a few odd socks
trailed on a length of piano wire.
    He stopped at Kirk's door. He held up the bottle, he
held up his fist. He banged both against the wood.

    Rish stood over the fallen enemy in black, raising
her heel to kick-snap his neck. The true Cat robber
should have chosen another night than this, she
thought.
    She heard, and felt, stitching give way. Black cloth
peeled away from her right leg.
    She paused, and had a better thought. Deedee had
Pete waiting downstairs, to move him into the game
of rescue. But they no longer needed the game. They
had a real enemy for the young man to kill.
    Capture. Capture. She had to keep remembering
that. Crazy human customs.
    Arizhel picked up the Cat robber and shoved him
into the closet. She pressed the lock button, since
Charlotte had the key, then shut the door, listening for
the click. She heard the Cat stir within. That was
disappointing; she must be out of practice.
    She went toward the door. Stitches popped like
bursts of gunfire. Instinctively she grabbed at the
scraps of black as they fell away. It seemed to make
things worse.
    But she did not need the Cat costume any longer.
She could simply change back into her dress...
Which was locked in the closet, behind the Cat.
Rish sighed. She felt a cold wind from the disposal
cubicle. The window to the fire escape was open. That
was a possible exit. In fact, it went directly up to her
room. Very good. She crawled out.
     It was cold, and she was wearing less by the second.
Shivering, she reached for the ascending ladder.
  No ladder.
    Rish swore, climbed back into the room, and shut
the window.
    There was a white bathrobe, long and plush, hang-
ing from a hook behind the cubicle door. She pulled
off what was left of the leotard and put the robe on

218                                                                 219




over her strapless undersuit. She looked in the mirror,
pulled off the hood, looked again. Did humans go out
dressed like this?
    Yes, she thought, they did. She went back into the
bedroom, ignoring the soft slow bumping from the
closet, and opened the Index of Services folder. It
said:

HEATED SWIMMING POOL FOR OUR GUESTS

    Rish chuckled triumphantly. She turbaned a towel
around her hair and walked lightly out of the room,
rolling her shoulders as if loosening up for a swim.
  The elevator was coming up. Was it Kirk?
    The door started to open. She saw a black trouser
leg with a stripe, a dusty patent-leather shoe. Kirk
indeed, fresh from his trip to the basement.
    She clutched the robe around herself and ducked
into the stairwell. It was the down staircase, and she
was still entirely too visible. She kept going down
until she reached the lobby.
    "May I help you, madam?" a Voice said. Rish
whirled, hand raised to strike. The bell captain took a
hasty step back.
  "I am... on my way to the pool," she said.
    "Oh," the man said. "I'm terribly sorry, madam,
but the pool closes at ten P.M."
    "Then open it!" Rish snapped, not in the mood for
any of this from hotel servitors.
      The bellman smiled, bowed slightly. "I think that
can be arranged, madam. It'll just be a few minutes."
  "Very well."
    The servitor bowed again and went away. Rish
noticed the desk clerk and several other persons in the
lobby, trying to pretend they were not looking at her.
She pretended she had not seen them, and ducked

around the corner, toward the ice cream parlor. That
was where Deedee and Pete were supposed to be
waiting.
    Except that they weren't. The parlor was dark,
chairs stacked on tables. Rish tensed. Her feet were
getting cold.
    She turned around, walked by the bank of tele-
phones. The one on the end was marked HOUSE
PI~ONE. She went in, picked up the receiver. "Front desk."
    "I wish to speak to the officer in charge of laundry,"
Arizhel said, trying to sound commanding and uncon-
cerned at once.
 "One moment, madam."
    There was a pause, a series of clicks. Then Rish
heard the sound of humming machinery, and a gravel-
ly male voice said, "Laundry Room."
    "This is Commander Arizhel. You were given one
of my uniforms for cleaning. I want it sent to--" She
thought. Not her room, but where Sanchez was wait-
ing. "Room 22. Immediately." "I'll see if it's done--"
    "I said immediately," she said, and slammed the
phone onto its cradle.
    "Ah, there you are, madam," said the bell captain,
from barely a meter away. "We have the pool ready
for you now."
    "I've changed my mind," Rish said. "Close it at
once."
    She walked past the bellman, back to the lobby,
straightened her shoulders and walked up the stairs.

    Sanchez sat on the bed in Jim Kirk's room, wonder-
ing where the hell Kirk was. It wasn't that far to the
basement. Unless they'd killed him by accident... ?
 No.

220                                                                221




 Or the laundry recyclers had...
 Aack.
    There was a sudden pounding on the door. "You've
got a hard knock, Jim," Sanchez said, took a step,
then stopped still.
 This was Kirk's room.
 "Jim?" she said, in a tiny voice.
    "Kirk?" Kaden's voice rumbled right through the
door. "Kirk, we have a thing to settle!"
    Several things ran rapidly throug, h the ambassa-
dor's mind:
    --An after-dinner drink with Jim Kirk in her room
was one thing. Being found waiting for him in his
room, without even a change of clothes handy, was
something else again.
    mWhatever Kaden wanted to discuss with Kirk, it
wasn't going to be a friendly little chat.
    --The door wasn't locked, and she didn't have the
key to lock it.
    This won't do, she thought finally, and as Kaden's
blows shook the door in its frame, she turned and ran
for the bathroom, closing the door behind her. It was
purely psychological: she knew that a little thing like a
bathroom door wasn't going to slow down an enraged
Klingon officer for very long.
    The words FIRE ESCAPE appeared before her eyes
like a beacon in the fog. She pushed the bathroom
window open, started to climb out, skidded on porce-
lain and nearly broke her neck on the shower rod.
Evening slippers were no good at all for climbing on
toilets while pursued by angry Klingons. She pulled
off the shoes and tossed them out the window. (No
point in incriminating Jim Kirk for something he
wasn't guilty of.) She climbed up again, swung her feet
onto the platform, and nearly yelled. The metal was

cold. Her skirt bunching and dragging, she fumbled
for and grasped the ladder. She began to climb,
(ancestral instinct to get to the top of the tree, she
thought) heard the bathroom door slam open, a growl,
a skid, a clattering crash.
    The window slammed shut. Sanchez reached for
the next rung, grabbed it and pulled like mad. Then
she noticed the tug of her skirt, caught in the
window frame.
    The zipper gave way, and the skirt slipped down,
silk on nylon just like ice on ice, and fluttered away
into the darkness below.
    In her blouse and her stockings, Ambassador
Sanchez dangled.

    Kaden banged again on Kirk's door. He grasped the
knob, ready to wrench the door off its hinges.
    It swung wide, nearly tumbling him into the room.
He looked around. No one was in sight. But the
bathroom door was closed. "So, Kirk, we add 'cow-
ardly' to our list of words for starship captains!" He
booted the bathroom door open. There was a cold
blast of air through the open window. Vaulting up on
the toilet seat, he lunged for it.
    The wire trailing from his suit caught on something,
and his foot shot out from under him. Arms above his
head, reaching for the window, he fell with a screech-
ing thump into the bathtub, one hand just barely in
the windowsill. The walls shook. The window slid
shut on his fingertips.
    He hung semi-suspended, spread-eagled, hand in
window, hand on wall, foot in tub, foot in toilet. He
could feel his right sock waterlogging. He groped with
his free hand, found a handle, grasped it.
 The shower came on, drenching him.

222                                                                 223




 "Aaaah," Kaden said.
 There was a knock at the hallway door.
    Kaden twisted the shower handle off. He pulled his
trapped fingers free of the window, and fell into the
bathtub. Tugging his foot out of the toilet, he got to his
feet, shook water off his shoulders, and walked with
squelching tread to the door. On the way he snatched
up the seltzer bottle, holding it aloft for maximum
impact.
    There was a short, bald man with a big nose
standing in the doorway. "Good evening, sir," he
said, "I was told to bring this up here right away." He
held out a garment bag.
    Kaden stared. The little man just stood there.
Kaden lowered the bottle and took the bag.
    The laundryman pointed at Kaden's demolished,
sodden tuxedo. "I see you got the spots out, sir. I told
you club soda was just the thing. Only you needn't
have used so much. "He turned and went away up the
hall.
    Dazed, Kaden stepped back from the door. He
looked at the objects in his hands. He put the bottle
down and tore open the laundry bag.
 He was holding Arizhel's dress uniform.
 Delivered to Kirk's room...?
 Kaden roared and ran up the hall.

    Tatyana Trofimov, who once in the distant past had
been the captain of a spaceship, shuffled from a dark
tunnel into a dim basement, and paused, causing the
two beings who used to be her crew to fall on top of
her.
    They untangled themselves, looked around. What-
ever this place was, it had been made by intelligent
beings. Messy, but intelligent.

    "Look, Captain," Tellihu said, running his hands
over a metal door. "A turbo-lift. Are we on the ship
again, Captain?"
    T'Vau made a low rumbling noise. "Computer,"
she said softly. "Computer, I am coming for you. I
will unsolder you synapse by synapse..."
    "No, Tellihu, we're not on the ship," Trofimov said.
"There aren't any computers here, T'Vau, do you
understand me?"
    "Two raised to the power one one two one three,
minus one, is prime," T'Vau said.
    "Good, T'Vau, that's good. Hold that thought.
Tellihu, press the call button for the lift."
    "I smell fresh air," Tellihu said. "May I go outside
and fly, Captain? Just a little bit?"
    "First call the lift, please, Tellihu. Then we will all
go outside and fly, all right, Tellihu?"
Tellihu beamed and pressed the call button.
T'�au said, "Your kind exchanged the power of
flight for intelligence. Have you found a way to
reverse the trade.9"
    "I wonder how you would look falling from a very
great height?" Tellihu asked T'Vau, in a friendly
voice.
    Trofimov noticed a man's formal suit, neatly
folded. There were two stains on the lapels, nicely
matched. She touched it, felt something heavy shift
inside it. She pulled the object out. She looked at it
once, twice, three times, turning it over in her hands,
unable to believe it.
    Captain Trofimov snapped open the Starfleet-issue
communicator. It whistled. "Enterprise, "a voice said.
It hissed and crackled, but it was a real voice, on a real
communicator. "This is Enterprise, go ahead."
 Captain Trofimov squared her shoulders, brushed

224                                                               225




her hair back from her forehead. T'Vau and Tellihu
huddled in close, Tellihu spreading his wings around
them all. Tears ran down his face.
"Enterprise," the captain said, "three to beam up."
"Aye," the crackling voice said, and there was
golden light, beautiful twinkling golden light all
around them.

    Kirk bumped into something hard in front of him.
Then he hit something solid to his left. And behind
him. He felt to the right, lost his balance, and fell a
few inches before striking another solid wall. Some-
thing was tangled around his feet. Something dangled
against his shoulders. He bumped his head on a pole.
    You're in a closet, dummy, he thought at once, and
immediately recalled the battle with the Black Cat
Bandit. I guess I lost.
    It was not, truth to tell, the first time Kirk had ever
been inside a closet. But that other time, he thought,
he had been glad of a closet to hide in...
    He pushed at the door. It was locked. He kicked at
it. It wobbled but didn't open. He tried it again. It
seemed to give a little further. He braced himself
against the back of the closet, grabbed the clothes
pole, picked up both feet and slammed them against
the door.
    It gave. So did fabric and stitching. With the natural
instinct of all men in trousered societies, Kirk put his
hand on his seat. Instinct was correct. The rip went
most of the way up his spine.
    Well, he thought, he didn't really want to go around
dressed as a cat burglar, especially with the real thing
on the loose. He exited the leotards through the new
rear opening, stood there in undershirt and shorts.
That wouldn't do for running around the hotel, either.

    He looked into the closet he'd just vacated. The
only clothing in there was a red evening gown, badly
beaten up by Kirk's struggles to escape. It looked like
the one Arizhel had worn at dinner. Kirk looked
around: this still seemed to be Charlotte's room. He
shrugged and put the dress on the bed.
    He went into the bathroom. The hotel was sup-
posed to provide bathrobes, but there wasn't one
there. He took a long look at the red dress, was rather
thankful it was so badly torn up, saving him a tough
choice.
    He opened the hallway door and peeked out. No
one was in sight. He stepped carefully into the hall.
He adjusted his boxers, jogged up and down in place.
He began jogging down the hall, backpedaling, shad-
owboxing.
    When he reached the stairs, he could hear someone
coming from the direction of his room, coming fast by
the sound of it. Kirk looked at himself, at the elevator
--not theremand dashed up the stairs, out of sight.
    On the third floor, he stopped to think. Kaden's
room was 32, down the hall to the right. Kaden ought
to have a shirt and pants he could borrow. He went
down the hall, taking the occasional right cross at the
paintings on the walls, to the door of 32. He reached
for the knob.

    Arizhel stepped from the stairwell onto the second
floor, just in time to see a tuk~edo-trousered leg
stamp into view from the left-hand corridor, from
Kirk's room. He was stomping like a stormwalker,
with something in a plastic bag held almost in front of
his face. He was bearing down on the elevator. His
feet made a curious plop-squish sound.
 Rish ducked back into the stairwell as Kirk swept

226                                                             227




straight past her, into the elevator, banged a fist on the
control buttons. Rish shook her head. The Federation
Captain grumbled just like Kaden when he was angry.
    The elevator went down, to the basement. Was Kirk
going to complain to the laundryokuve about their
ridiculous and insubordinate service? No time to
think about it now, she ran, robe flapping, up the hall
to room 22.
    The door was open. No one was there, certainly not
the ambassador, and there was no sign of her uniform.
Oblivion take all servitors! she thought, and sat down
to wait, turning over in her mind suitable punish-
ments for slow laundrymen.

Ambassador Sanchez dragged herself through the
window into the bathroom of room 32. It was warm
inside, unpleasantly hot after the cold outdoors. She
looked at the array of interesting toilet articles on the
cabinet and realized that this must be Kaden's room.
Out of the frying pan, she thought. But it was empty.
And Rish's room was on this floor, just down the
other hall. She reached for the handle of the hall door.

    There was a sound up the hall. Kirk paused with his
hand on the door of 32, turned to see what it was. The
bald laundryman was pushing his basket down the
other corridor. Kirk jogged after him.
    The basket was stopped in front of room 31. The
door was open.
    Kirk reached the door, looked inside. The laundry-
man was coming out of the bathroom, holding a stack
of towels in one hand and a passkey in the other.
Arizhel was nowhere in sight. Kirk said, "Hey there!
Just the fella I was looking for!"
 "Sir?" the laundryman said, squinting up at him.
 "I believe you've got a uniform of mine in the

laundry. If you'd send it up here, there'll be a nice tip
in it for you."
    "You want it sent up here, sir? This'11 be your room
now?"
 "Well, I meanre"
    "It's all the same to me, sir. The Klingon lady
doesn't seem to be staying here anymore, so the
room's marked down as empty. That's why I came up
to change the linens."
    "Sure," Kirk said, not having any idea what else to
say. "I'd appreciate having that suit on the double."
     The laundryman was crossing something out on his
clipboard. "Iql do my best, sir." "Fine. I'll be right here."
    The little man looked Kirk up and down, from
mussed hair to bare feet. "Too much water and wool
barathea just don't mix, sir," he said sadly. "Next
time, you'd better let me take care of it."
    "Right," Kirk said, and closed the door. So Arizhel
wasn't using this room any longer? Kirk breathed a
small sigh of relief that he hadn't opened the door of
Kaden's room. There were some surprises that
weren't at all welcome.

    Kaden stepped out of the elevator. It was dark. He
looked around in confusion. He was in the basement
again. Before he could turn, the elevator door had
closed behind him, and the car started up. Hissing, he
began walking around the basement, looking for a
stairway up, and a better weapon than the seltzer flask
in his hand.
    He passed near the laundry. The little beak-nosed
man was at work, muttering to himself.
    Kaden paused to watch the laundryman. He made a
sort of unconscious dance of his job, kicking one
washing machine shut as he opened another, juggling

228                                                               229




packets of detergent, interrupting himself to pull the
lever of a steam presser. "People can't make up their
minds," he muttered to himself as he wrung out a
cloth, cleaned a lint filter. "This room, that room,
middle of the night, how do they expect me to get it
straight?"
    As he watched, Kaden's anger passed. Maybe he
had misunderstood. Maybe the little man had just
carried Rish's uniform up to the wrong room.
    Thinking of Arizhel made him even calmer, and a
little ashamed at what he'd been thinking. Rish and
James Kirk? Kaden chuckled and turned away.
    He saw Kirk's tuxedo, still folded up near the
laundry bin. Kaden put down the seltzer bottle,
pulled off his torn, stained, litter-bedecked jacket, and
put Kirk's on. It was tight across the shoulders and it
wouldn't button, but it was an improvement. He went
back to the elevator, got in, and pushed the button for
the third floor.

    In Kaden's room, Sanchez paused with her hand on
the doorknob. She tugged her blouse down over her
hips. It wouldn't go very far.
    She checked the bathroom. The plush bathrobe was
damp, and scented with what smelled like Klingon
Musk Aftershave. No, that wouldn't do.
    She thought for a moment. This was a luxury hotel,
hot and cold running bellhops. She got the Index of
Services from the desk and flipped through it. The gift
shop would probably have clothes, but it surely wasn't
open at this hour--god, how late was it?
    She thought of the laundryman with his basket.
That was really what she needed. But she didn't have
any clothes in the hotel laundry.
 But Rish might, she thought. Surely Rish wouldn't

230

mind her borrowing an outfit, just for the stroll back
to her room. It was the sort of thing friends did for
each other.
 Sanchez picked up the phone.
 "Front desk."
    "I am calling about the laundry for room 31,"
Sanchez said, in her best Klingon accent. "I wish a
suit of clothes for 31 sent to room 32 instead."
    "Yes, madam, immediately," the desk clerk said.
His voice sounded unaccountably weary. It must be
late for everyone.
 She hung up and sat down to wait.

    Arizhel was sick of waiting. The idiot laundry-kuve
had obviously forgotten her, or gotten lost, or possibly
destroyed the garment and feared reprisals. She had
gotten this far in the bathrobe: she would go to her
room, and anyone who saw her could find their own
explanations.
    Besides, she thought suddenly, Kaden was still
locked in her room's disposal cubicle. She would have
to think of an apology for that. She doubted that she
would have to think terribly hard.
    She opened the door and went out into the hall,
toward the stairs and up them. There was a laundry
basket parked outside her room. So, she thought, they
had delivered the uniform to her room instead of
Kirk's. Disobedient, but understandable, a minor
offense. And Rish was in a forgiving mood now. She
went inside. The shower was running; she didn't
blame Kaden, this place was too cold, too dry. Steam-
ing up the cubicle was the only way to get comfort-
able.
    The water stopped. A grin wrinkled Rish's face. She
would open the door for him now. And if he were

231




comfortable enough, she might not even need
explain.
 She tapped on the door, reached for the handle.

    Sanchez heard a knock on the door. It was a knock,
so it wasn't Kaden; it was a light, polite knock, so it
almost certainly wasn't Kirk. Sanchez picked up a
heavy bookend, just for prudence's sake, went to the
door, and said, "Yes?"
  "Laundry," the gravelly voice said.
    She tugged her blouse down again, then opened the
door a crack, leaned around it, held out her hand.
"Thanks a lot," she said. "There'll be a big tip for you
in the morning."
    "It's all tight, ma'am," the little man said, and hung
the laundrybag on the ambassador's hand. "I'm retir-
ing in the morning."
    Sanchez pulled the bag inside and shut the door.
She pulled it open. She immediately recognized the
contents as Starfleet Dress Uniform (Male).
    "Any old port in a storm," she said heavily, and
pulled the black trousers on. They were terribly loose
around the waist, but she draped her white blouse
artistically, and belted the outfit with one of Kaden's
gold sashes, She checked the effect in a mirror: sort of
Eclectic Revival. She still didn't have any shoes, but
the hallways were all carpeted, and if anybody asked
about it she'd tell them she was half-Japanese.
    She went out into the hall, headed for Rish's room
at the other end of the floor. Just a minute to check in,
see what had happened in the lobby. She hadn't heard
any commotion; then again, nobody could have had a
night quite like hers had been.

    Kaden got out of the elevator on the third floor,
turned left toward Rish's room. He passed the laun-

dryman, who was carrying a garment bag and mum-
bling. Kaden chuckled again. Misunderstandings:
that was why one let the diplomats exist. Nothing was
worse than a war over some stupid misunderstanding.
    He stepped around the laundry basket in front of
Rish's room, tapped lightly on the door and reached
for the handle.

    Kirk just heard the door click over the noise of the
shower. His uniform was here right on time. That
little fellow would get'a huge tip in the morning. He
toweled himself lightly, tossed on the bathrobe hang-
ing on the door. He felt good.
    There was a tap at the bathroom door. Of course;
the laundryman would be expecting his tip now. Have
to disappoint him, Kirk thought, but how do you
explain you've left your wallet in your other pants,
and your pants are in your other room?  He pulled the door open.
    A pair of powerful arms pulled him into an em-
brace, one white bathrobe against another, and lips
brushed his throat. Instinct took over for a moment,
and then he pulled away just enough to look straight
into Arizhel's face, her extremely wide eyes.
    There was a knock from the hall and the door
swung open. Kaden strode into the room, arms
spread, mouth open in a big smile.
Nobody moved at all for a couple of seconds.
"Ghrar, "Kaden said. "Ghrar ghrarar. " Kirk wasn't
sure if it was Klingonese, but he understood it per-
fectly.
    Kaden lunged. Kirk let go of Rish. Rish fell down.
Kirk ducked into the bathroom, made for the win-
dow, the fire escape.
    The entire back seam of Kaden's tight black jacket
tipped apart. Kaden paused, groping behind himself.

232                                                                 233




    From somewhere beyond the bathroom window
came a long, fading scream�
    Sanchez appeared in the doorway, in droopy blouse
and floppy pants and Imperial Klingon Navy Officer's
gold. "Rish?"
    Arizhel scrambled to her feet, put her head down,
her shoulder forward, and ran at Kaden, spearing him
in the midsection, driving him back, back, out the
door and into the hall. Kaden hit the laundry basket,
tumbled, was swallowed. Sanchez slammed the lid
without even thinking. "Rishm"
  "Chute," Rish yelled.
  "Shoot who?"
    "Laundry chute!" Sanchez nodded and took hold of
the thrashing, bouncing basket, and the two women
drove it up the hall just exactly like a bat out of hell,
until they reached the wall panel and smashed the
basket into it. It was all NewtonJan mechanics after
that, bodies in motion tending to stay in motion,
rumble-bump-bump.
 All was quiet on the third floor.
    Sanchez and Arizhel leaned against the corridor
wall, gasping. Rish looked at Charlotte, pointed at her
clothes, and began to laugh out loud. Charlotte re-
turned the gesture, and the laughter. They pointed at
the chute, made swoop gestures, laughing too hard to
speak�
    A little distance away, at the entrance to the right-
hand corridor, the bald laundryman was tossing tow-
els through another wall panel.
    After a few minutes of watching this, Sanchez got
enough breath back to say, "Hey! Pal! What are you
doing over there?"
    The little man said, very patiently, "I'm putting
laundry down the chute. That's my job for another
�.. fifteen minutes."

    "You have two laundry chutes five meters apart?"
Arizhel asked.
    "No, ma'am. The chutes zig-zag, y'see?" He waved
his hands to illustrate. "That one I'm using is blue, for
laundry. This one's red."
     The two women were instantly silent. After a mo-
ment, Sanchez said, "And what's... red for?"
  "Incinerator," the little man said.
    Sanchez and Arizhel screamed with one voice and
ran down the stairs.

    James Kirk opened his eyes. Things jabbed at his
back, and there were tinkling noises as he moved
about.
  I seem to be wearing a piano, he thought.
    He sat up, looked around. He was in the hotel
basement, sitting on a pile of junk, wearing a very
distressed bathrobe and a towel around his neck. Cold
air drafted down on him, and he looked up: through
what was either a free-form skylight or a hole, he
could see the sky just turning pink with dawn.
    He stood up, walking carefully among spilled mat-
tress stuffing and loose piano wires. He had left his
tuxedo down here someplace, some while back. It
seemed like about two thousand years�
    After some hunting around, he found the tux trou-
sers and shirt, and put them on. His patent-leather
pumps were there too; they were most welcome. The
jacket was gone, but it had been stained anyway. Very
symmetrically. And the communicator~he'd have to
remember to get that back. McCoy was still ragging
him about the one they'd left in the gangster culture.
The seltzer bottle was just where he'd left it. Kirk
picked it up, idly wishing he had some brandy. Then
again, if he had some brandy he wouldn't have cared
about the soda.

234                                                                  235




    He sniffed the air. In addition to the other base-
ment smells, there was now a distinct aroma of
burning.
    "Ghraaar," a very familiar voice said. Kirk looked
up. Kaden was standing in front of him, smoldering.
Literally. He was covered in soot, and smoke curled
from his 'trousers and his jacket, which had stains on
both lapels. ,4 smoking jacket, Kirk thought uncon-
trollably, as the Klingon arched his fingers into claws
and came at him.
      Kirk raised the seltzer bottle. He pressed the trig-
ger. Kaden hesitated. "Ghrar?" he said.  Nothing happened.
    "It always works in the movies," Kirk said, and
dropped the bottle and ran, Kaden barely arm's reach
behind him.
    Kirk could see a light up ahead. There was a tunnel,
a ramp leading up. As long as it went somewhere, he
thought, and made for it. Kaden wasn't giving up.
    "Never a diplomat around when you need one,"
Kirk muttered, and ran for the light at the end of the
tunnel.

  Chapter Ten

Dilithium Split

CAPTAIN TROFIMOV, TELLIHU, and T'Vau materialized
on a six-pad transporter stage. They looked around in
genuine awe. There had been nothing like this aboard
Jefferson Randolph Smith. There hadn't been any
rooms this big aboard Smith. And just ahead, coming
around the console, was a person in Starfleet uniform.
A real live Starfleet person coming to welcome them
aboard a real live Starfleet ship.
"Hello there," Captain Trofimov said, and saluted.
"Just hold it right there," the crewman said, and
reached for a wall panel. "Whoever the heck you are,
Security'11 have to figure out what to do with you."
    "Non sequitur," T'Vau said calmly. "Post hoc ergo
propter hoc." She reached out and grasped the
crewman's collarbone.
  "Ooolgh," the crewman said, and fell down.
  "Quod erat demonstrandum," T'Vau said.
  "Sic semper tyrannis," Tellihu added.
    "Shhh," said Trofimov. "We don't want to wake
him. We'd better get some uniforms, so that doesn't
happen again."

236                                               237




    They tiptoed to the turbolift. "Laundry room,"
Trofimov said, and they all hesitated, huddling slight-
ly against a shower of god knew What. But the lift just
closed and whisked them away.

    Moving slowly and carefully, learning by degrees
how to manage the cargo unit--since even an object
with zero net weight still has mass and inertia--Thed
and Orvy got their loot to the transporter stage.
  "Now what?" Orvy said.
    "This is the easy part. We put it on the teleporter
and down we go."
  "Really? Do you know how to work a teleporter?"
    "Sure. You push the handle down to go up, and up
to go down. It's easy."
 "O-o-okay. Who pushes the handle?"
 "Well, I do, of course. Unless you just want to."
 "So how do you get down?"
    Thed chewed her lip. Then a voice said, "Excuse
me," and she nearly bit it through.
    There were three aliens right behind them. One had
wings, one pointy ears, just like the three on the
planet; but these were wearing crisp new uniforms. A
commando team, Thed thought, of course.
    The humanest-looking one of the three said, "May
we give you some assistance?"
    "We, waa, woo," Thed said, and stood in front of
the cargo unit as if trying to hide it behind herself.
"That is, we, well..."
  "We want to get out of here," Orvy blurted out.
    "Right," Thed said. "On the, ah, teleporter. Thing.
Here."
 "This is not difficult," the pointy-eared one said.
    The human said, "You're new aboard this ship?
Cadet crew?"

    "Yeah," Thed said, putting her hand casually over
one of the Top SECRET labels. "We're cadets, and
we're supposed to get this... really ordinary cargo
off the ship. Funny that they told... ordinary cadets
like us to do that. You know?"
    "You don't need to tell us about stupid assign-
ments," the human said, and the winged one whistled
very loudly and flapped his red wings. "Tell you what,
we'll trade you. We can run the transporter, if you'll
tell us where the nearest messroom is." She smiled in
a crooked sort of way. "Funny us not knowing where
that is, isn't it?"
    "Sure," Thed said, relaxing. "There's one right that
way."
    The winged one chirped. The pointy-eared one
looked ready to sprint. The human held up a hand
and said firmly, "Our friends here have a job to do.
We can wait. We are still in Starfleet, after all. For at
least another couple of days..." She shook her head.
"Let's get you two dirtside."
    Thed and Orvy maneuvered the cargo box onto the
transport stage. The pointy-eared alien did something
with the controls (Orvy elbowed Thed) and pushed
the levers up (Thed returned the gesture).
  Light swallowed them, and the ship vanished.

    "I do not trust this most recent set of directions,"
T'Vau said. "These were only cadets, and highly
inexperienced ones by all evidence."
"They looked familiar to me," Tellihu said.
Trofimov turned the corner. "It's a messroom."
They walked slowly, slowly, to the slots. Captain
Trofimov cleared her throat, said very clearly, "I
would like a large glass of orange juice, please."
 Pleep.

238                                                                    239




 Pling.
    The tray slot opened. There stood a third-liter
tumbler of liquid. Bright blue liquid.
    Trofimov reached out a trembling hand and took
the glass. She tasted it. Orange, vividly orange, with
pulp in her teeth.
    As her crew rushed to place their orders, Captain
Tatyana Trofimov wept tears of pure joy.
    Fortified, they moved on through the cargo bays.
One large door stood open, and beyond it restedwan
impossibility.
    Seven-C, read the signs, and beyond them sat the
escape pod from Jefferson Randolph Smith.
    For a moment they thought it was some illusion, or
another pod of like shape; but the door was missing,
the interior was pink and smelled of peppermint and
spoiled milk.
    Without a word, the Smith crew climbed into the
pod, and lay down on the still-damp couches. Star-
fleet would come for them. Starfleet took care of its
own.
    They dosed their eyes, and in a moment all three,
even the Vulcan, were asleep, dreaming happy dreams.

    Kaden was gaining on Kirk, and the end of the
tunnel seemed a long way away. Suddenly the gentle
downslope of the tunnel floor seemed to steepen. It
was the surface, Kirk realized. It was coated with
something slicker than vacuum lube. He tried to keep
his balance, skated on it for a moment, then tumbled
and skidded, unable to stop, even to slow down.
Behind him, there was a great Klingonese oath
and an even greater thud, and Kaden was sliding
too.
    Up ahead, the end of the tunnel loomed large: and
beyond it Kirk could see an expanse of glass over-

head. Somehow or another, they were headed for the
glass-roofed banquet hall.

    Rish and Sanchez were neck-and-neck down the
stairs. When they reached the lobby, Rish seized the
desk man by the throat and shouted, "Which way to
the basement?"
    The clerk's eyes bulged. He pointed. The women
ran.
    To BAS�ME~T, a sign said. They followed, down a
flight of slippery wooden steps.
    The steps folded flat, into a polished hardwood
chute that ejected them both into the glass-roofed
Great Hall. All around them were tables, piled high
with something under white cloth drapes.
    From another side of the room, captains Kirk and
Kaden tumbled through a doorway, bouncing over
each other.

    Kirk slid into a table, used it to pull himself out of
Kaden's way. He staggered to his feet, watched Kaden
keep rolling another half-dozen meters. The banquet
hall was full of white-covered tables... and Char-
lotte, and Rish, both stumbling as Kirk was, both at
least as peculiarly dressed.
    There was a crash from the far wall, and a shower of
lath. and foam crumbs. Dr. McCoy, Lieutenant Sulu
(sword in hand, oh God, not again, Kirk thought)
came directly through the wall, accompanied by two
of the Klingons. What next? Kirk thought, and there
was a splintering, tinkling sound from the windows
along the near wall: Ensign Chekov had just come
through the glass, wielding what appeared to be a
sword of his own. An even louder crash followed, and
a Klingon with two swords came through to stand
next to Chekov.

240                                                                  241




    "Kirrrrrk!" Kaden roared, and took two very heavy
and extremely uncertain steps toward Kirk. Instinc-
tively Kirk reached for his phaser.
    It wasn't there. Of course not, this was a diplomatic
mission. But there was something suddenly in his
hand, something flat and not too heavy. Without any
thought at all, Kirk threw it; he wasn't even aware
what it had been until it hit Kaden squarely in the
face with a great white splat.
    The Klingon captain stood still for a moment,
half-smothered in whipped cream, custard streaming
down his boiled shirt front. There was a maraschino
cherry in the middle of his forehead. Kaden reached
up, slowly scraped his eyes clear. Someone dressed all
m white linen dashed past, and then, like magic, there
was a pie in Kaden's hand.
  Blueberry, Kirk thought instead of ducking.
  Splat.
  Blueberry it was.
    The drapes fell away from the tables, and more pies
were revealed. Kirk grabbed one and flung it at
Kaden, who ducked. The pie hit Engineer Askade:
strawberry cream on impact. Askade grabbed a pie
and threw it. It took off Chekov's tam o'shanter, not
neatly. Chekov got a pie, got Ambasador Sanchez.
Good old Chekov, Kirk thought. Force Leader
Memeth had a pie in each hand, and double-shotted
Montgomery Scott with laser-guidance precision.
Bones McCoy had the look of a man on whom the
gods have smiled as he raised a lemon meringue and
delivered it on Memeth.
    There were plenty of pies. There was plenty of good
old-fashioned hostility. "To hell with the Organians,"
someone shouted; no one would ever recall who or
what race. The moment was all.

    Thed and Orvy had gotten to within sight of town
when the gravity unit started to fail. The box start-
ed to acquire weight, several hundred kilos of
it. This made it first difficult, then impossible to
handle.
    "Before you say anything," Thed said, almost calm-
ly, "We did get it this far."
 "I wasn't going to say a thing."
 "Maybe we should bury it," Thed said.
    "Take a pretty big hole. Especially without a
shovel."
 "Yeah."
 "So what do we do with it?"
 "I thought you weren't going to say that."
 Orvy just put his head in his hands.
    Thed stood straight. "We open it, that's what we
do. Maybe it's hand disintegrators, and we can use
them ourselves... And before you ask, yes, I know
how to open it. Right here's the handle." She
pointed at the red-striped, recessed grip at the
end.
 "I still haven't said anything."
    Thed grabbed the handle. It wouldn't turn. She
pushed in, and there was a click, and the grip rotated
easily. Red lights began flashing. Thed looked very
hard at the red lights. "I think maybe we better get
away from this," she said.
    "There is a certain logic in your position," Orvy
said, as they sprinted for shelter.
    The box blew open with a great deal of sound but
not much fury. Inside was a mass of folded, blue silver
material. The lump began to swell. A blob extended
itself on a shaft, like the neck of some prehistoric
monster emerging from its egg. Legs--no, wings--
began to spread.
 Scarcely half-inflated against the push of atmos-

242                                                                  243




phere, no more than an overgrown kite, the Klingon
battlecruiser drifted on the morning breeze.

     Most of the walls and floor of the Great Hall, and
 everyone in it, were coated thickly with fruit and
 syrup and cream, with rimes of flaky brown crust.
 There seemed to be an army of snowmen at war.
     Captain Kaden was stalking Captain Kirk, a
 banana-cream held at port arms. Kirk held a cherry
 custard, twin to the first shot fired, in both hands,
 ready to attack or defend as the moment dictated.
    Kaden threw. Kirk threw. It was mutual annihila-
tion. They looked around; the tables had become
depleted, and they were out of reach of ammunition
--but not of each other. They fell into a clutch that
might have been deadly had it been possible to get a
grip on anything.
    "You," Kirk said, "do you know just how tired I am
of--"
    Charlotte Sanchez pushed Kirk aside, not hard
since Kirk's shoes were frictionless. He bumped
against a table, reloaded and fired. The chocolate
custard landed top-down on Sanchez's head and
remained there, the crust tilted rakishly.
    "Stay out of this, Jim," the ambassador said. "You
don't have any authority here anyway." She planted a
hand directly on Kaden's chest. "I am sick of you,"
she said at absolute top volume, "sick of this crazy
planet, sick, sick, sick, and I don't ever want to see any
of you again!"
    "In this at least we are in agreement," Kaden yelled
right back. "We would leave this world to shiver in the
dry dark!"
 "Dry dock?" Scott said.
    "Dark, dark," Maglus growled, and dropped anoth-
er blueberry on Scott.

    "I'm busy, dagnabbit," Dr. McCoy said, shoving a
coconut custard down Maglus's trousers.
    There was an abrupt silence. Then Estervy's voice
called out, "Cut, print! Okay, everybody, that's a
wrap!"
    A metal platform drifted down from above: two
video and two film cameras were mounted on the
anti-grav unit. Pete Blackwood waved from the cam-
eraman's chair, while Princess Deedee flew the crane.
    "Smile," Estervy said, with all the primhess gone
from her voice. "You're on Candid Diplomacy."
    There was a shaft of twinkling golden light in the
Great Hall First Officer Spock materialized, looked
around at the cream-covered crew.
"Captain Kirk," he said, almost indifferently.
"Spock," Kirk said, "Spock." Then, from the heart,
"Spock." He held out his arms. "Somebody give the
captain a pie/"
 At least twelve pies intersected on Kirk.
    A shadow fell across them all. Through the huge
glass skylight, the silhouette of a Klingon battlecruiser
blotted out the sun.
    Kaden was screaming in Klingonese. Arizhel took a
firm grip on his arm, said calmly, "It's a bit low to be
ours. And a bit limp."
    The boom was indeed flopping badly, the wings
folding up. As everyone watched from below, the
Deployable Practice Target [Prototype, Klingon]
draped itself over the Great Hall of Direidi.
 Blackout.

    The Federation, Imperial, and Direidi principals,
showered and freshly dressed, sat in the hotel lobby.
Uhura and Aperokei, fortified with strong tea after
stun-weapon recovery, sat propped up on pillows. A
shadow passed the skylight as the anti-grav camera

244                                               245




crane peeled the Klingon cruiser from the Great Hall
roof.
    "Time for us to introduce our principals... and
our principals, if you take my meaning," Estervy said.
"This is Ross Goch Flyter, also known as Ross Red."
    "Oh, only when I'm writing," Flyter said. "And this
is Esther Vicinanzo, late of---"
    "Starfleet Academy College of Humanities," Lieu-
tenant Sulu said suddenly. "You were head of the
drama department before Dr. Slaff."
    Estervy bowed politely. "Always happy to be recog-
nized. You studied under Dr. Horvendile, didn't you,
Mr. Sulu? I taught him that high-prime parry busi-
ness."
    Ambassador Sanchez said, "Starfleet Academy has
a drama department?"
  The officers all stared at her.
    "Oh, my dear," Estervy said quietly, "we're not all
swaggering, tin-plated, toot-toot, prepare to board,
sir, types."
    Sanchez said, "Touch~." Kirk's face tightened, but
his lips stayed straight as a steel rule.
    Gladiola appeared to prove she wasn't a pile of dust
somewhere, and the stunt teams took cautious bows
and promised to send best wishes to those who
weren't up and walking yet. Estervy hit one of the
"dilithium statues" with a hammer, shattering the
plastic resin. The street magician who had switched
noisemakers for Uhura's and Proke's communicators
returned the genuine articles. Rik, the mechanical
effects specialist, showed off the artillery simulators
and spring-metal collapsing swordsmMemeth grunt-
ed in what might have been approval--and Ilen the
Magian obligingly drank the ginger beer in the little
flask.
 "To understand our particular mode of...

approach to this situation," Flyter said, "you simply
have to understand the principles that Direidi was
founded on."
 Kirk said, "Which are?"
    "If I could explain them, I'd be wrong," Flyter said
happily. "We're not anarchists. Or maybe we are, but
we're not nihilists. There is a strong Dada element, I
confess. Or maybere"
    "The constant factor," Estervy said, "is that we
came a long way out here in order to not be part of
Federations or Empires or Anything Elses more struc-
tured than a game of contract bridge."
    "Unfortunately," Flyter said, "what we thought
was space noise, that would isolate us from all of you,
turned out to be Hecht radiation. If we hadn't bought
this cheap second-hand sensor gear--" Estervy kicked him politely.
    "Ahem," Flyter said. "At any rate, our little para-
dise turned out to be the biggest dilithium lode for a
kiloparsec around. Sooner or later, we were going to
be discovered, by one or more of you."
    Ambassador Sanchez said, "You knew about the
Organian Treaty."
    Estervy said, "The Organian Treaty automatically
hands over the planet to the most efficient finder.
Efficiency is another thing we were running away
from."
    Flyter said, "There wasn't any hope of arming
ourselves against you... either of you. So we deter-
mined just what our most potent available weapons
were. We started working on Plan C."
 Arizhel said, "What happened to A and B?"
    Estervy said, "Not C as in alphabetical order. C as
in Comedy."
    "Or Con game," Flyter said. "Or Cream-pie Cho-
rale."

246                                                                 247




    Kirk said, "You can't run a society based on...
comedy routines."
    "You can't?" Flyter said, almost innocently. "I
thought it was rather a common thing� Not under that
name, of course."
  Sanchez was trying, and failing, to conceal her
giggles.
    "And what will you do when true enemies come?"
Kaden said, not very fiercely at all. "With what will
you meet the armed one?"
    "With the thing none can stand against," Estervy
replied, in perfect Klingonese. "Being laughed at."
    "It is," Spock said mildly, "a most credible threat.
Which is all that one can ask of a weapons system."
    "You see?" said Flyter. "Vulcans are the greatest
straight men in the galaxy."
    "That's all very nice," Aperokei said, "but who's
got the Black Bird?"
    Kaden said, "What are you talking about this time,
Lieutenant?"
    "Oh, I know what he means," Estervy said. "Who
gets the dilithium?"
    "You understand, we don't want any part of any of
you," Flyter said, a serious undertone creeping into
his voice. "I mean that very sincerely. But what we're
sitting on is so valuable, you'll find some way of
getting it, no matter what we do. And besides," he
said more lightly, "your languages both have a word
for 'being laughed at.' But somewhere out there, there
might be someone who doesn't. I'd be very afraid of
them."
    Estervy said, "What we propose is to join the
Federation--"the Klingons, except for Proke and
Arizhel, tensed--"on a provisional basis, of course,
and contingent on the Federation's contracting out all

Direidi dilithium mining to the Klingon Empire. The
percentages of commerce, percentages of trade--"
she sang the words--"we'11 leave to your Empires'
legal minds, who'd get hold of it anyway."
    Flyter said, "You're going to have to watch each
others' backs. If we don't like the way one of you
behaves, the other had better get it fixed... or else.
And you've seen our 'or else.'"
    Charlotte Sanchez was helpless with laughter. Kirk
said, "You're joking."
 "Just this once, we're not."
    After a long pause, Estervy said, "It even saves time
for everyone. Ambassador Sanchez is already here
�.. as is the Klingon mining expedition, am I cor-
rect, Force Leader Memeth?"
    Memeth nodded. He was smiling. There actually
seemed to be some warmth in it.
    "And we'd also like to invite Lieutenant Aperokei
to remain, as... Special Cultural Liaison. If that's
acceptable."
    Proke said quietly, "I am still subject to my cap-
tain's orders�"
    Kaden said, "I have long considered the many ways
that I might be rid of you, Zan Aperokei, but I admit I
never thought it would be to a command of your own.
Kai Proke!"
    Pam, in toque and apron, appeared in the doorway,
wooden spoon held high. "The Great Hall having
been scrubbed, first call to dinner is issued. And this
time, there will be no strange noises from the
kitchen."
    They stood. Kirk offered Ambassador Sanchez his
arm. "No, uhm, hard feelings?" he said.
    "It was in a good cause," Sanchez said. "Besides,
every comedy needs a hieros garnos."

248                                                                   249




,,Am,,

"Tell you later," Sanchez said.

    The landing parties were gathered outside the
Hotel. Good-byes were said, and Estervy distributed
small packages. Uhura found the silver harp in hers,
none the worse for its adventures. Sulu and Memeth
received trick swords, Askade a tabletop sculpture of
faux dilithium. Chekov and Korth were awarded the
Direidi Cluster for Valor Under Par. Scott and Maglus
got heavy cylinders that gurgled when tilted. McCoy
was given a cryostore cube filled with frozen ham
steaks, biscuit dough, and red-eye gravy, along with
Pam's recipes for all of them. Kirk and Kaden re-
ceived small brown-wrapped parcels, with strict in-
structions to open them later. And Estervy gave
Arizhel a leather-bound Shakespeare, pointing out the
marked passages in As You Like It, Much Ado About
Nothing, and The Merry Wives of Windsor.
    The departing crews started for the small plat-
forms, still draped with the wrong empires' flags. In
the glass streetcar pavilion, the band struck up the
same tune they had played on the visitors' arrival, and
the Direidi chorus sang:

We hope that you've enjoyed your stay
 Although the good times don't last
   Forever, it's true
We're sorry that you're on your way
 And hope that pleasant memories
  Accompany you
And now you're all packed up, and
Your visit's complete
We're gonna count the silver
And burn all the sheets

So until you come again someday
We hope that you've enjoyed your stay

We hope that you've enjoyed your stay
 We're gonna miss you sorely
  And hang down our heads
This really is a sad, sad day
 We're gonna draw the blinds and
  Cheek under the beds
You know you're welcome here
As sumac in leaf
So here's a hearty wave and
A sigh of relief
Although we'll miss you anyway
We hope that you've enjoyed your stay

    As she walked away from the hotel, Uhura paused.
She turned to look at Proke. They held the pose for a
long moment. Then Uhura said, "Here's lookin' at
you, kid."
     Aperokei's face froze. Slowly he said, "If you can
stand it, I can stand it... say it, Uhura."
  "Good-bye, Proke."
    He nodded. She turned away, went to join the
Enterprise crew.
    Both stages were illuminated, and the landing par-
ties vanished.

    Kirk had locked the door of his cabin and activated
the privacy circuits. He tore the paper from his
parting gift. As he had feared, it was a videocassette.
Sweating just slightly, he popped it into the desktop
player, and watched from above as pies were thrown.
The sound was recorded live. Everyone involved was
clearly identifiable.

250                                                  251




    When the fight was over, the tape went suddenly
from color and sound to scratchy black and white and
tinny organ music. Flyter and Estervy were on the
screen, wearing dark suits, white shirts, narrow
neckties... and round derby hats.
    Flyter smiled fussily and flapped his tie at the
camera. Estervy blinked, raised her hat, and spoke,
though there was no sound. Instead the screen went
black, except for an ornate white border and fancy
lettering:

CAPTAIN KADEN HAS ONE TOO.

    The two figures reappeared, waving, tipping their
hats. An organ chord played, and another title card
appeared:

THE END

    Kirk took the cassette from the player. Now what
was the combination of his personal safe...?

    On Cargo Deck C, three figures approached the
deck officer, who looked up from her reading. The
three wore Starfleet uniforms, but stained with some-
thing like paint, and smelling to high heaven. The one
in the middle looked human. The one on the right had
wings. The one on the left had pointed eyebrows. The
ensign, who was well-read and not overly supersti-
tious, thought of Faust escorted by good and bad
angels, or maybe a William Blake illustration.
    "Pardon me," said the one with wings, "but we'd
like directions to--"
    "No, that's all right," said the middle one, "quite
all right, entirely all right. We'll just find our own way,
thanks very much."

252

    "I sing the hypotenuse," said the arch-eyed one,
"sweeping square of other sides! Pythagoras led bold-
ly, on his great gold thigh!"
 The trio walked on up the corridor.
    The ensign looked after them for a moment. She
supposed that there was someone she ought to say
something to about whatever had just happened.
    But whom? she thought. What? And most impor-
tantly, why?
  She picked up her hook.
 Enterprise sailed on.

253