THIS TIME, when they visited the sacred precincts of the Obirrhat, no one even glanced in their direction.
It was more than a little strange, after the hostility they'd encountered only the day before. Almost like being invisible, the captain mused.
He made a mental note to describe the experience to Bones. After all, it was the doctor who had equipped them with facial prosthetics and subdermal dyes and optical overlays designed to make them look like Malurians.
Then it had just been a matter of having ship's stores whip up some garments, the loose-fitting variety favored by the Obirrhat, and voilà! Two denizens of the sacred precinct.
Now the only question was how long the prosthetics would last before the itching forced him to rip them off his face. Why couldn't the Malurians have had features a little easier to wear?
"How's yours feel?" Kirk asked his companion.
Scotty grunted. "Like I've got my face caught in a vise. If I'd known it was goin' to be this uncomfortable—"
The captain darted a look at him. "You'd have done it anyway." His facial muscles started to form a smile, but the prosthetics inhibited it.
The engineer shrugged. "Aye, I suppose ye're right."
Kirk pointed to the open-air market they had glimpsed during their official visit. The crowd wasn't as thick as before; some of the merchants were even starting to pack up their wares. But then, it was almost dusk, and the market evidently didn't stay open at night.
"Looks like as good a place to start as any," he said.
Scotty nodded. "After you, sir."
The Scots accent and the Malurian visage seemed wildly at odds with one another. But then, neither one of them would pass for a native if they had to talk much. They would be wise to restrict any conversation with true Malurians to as few words as possible.
As they approached the market square, the captain scanned the individual stalls. Some offered fresh vegetables. Others displayed long, ornate robes of a vaguely religious-looking nature, and still others showed metal or ceramic cookware. If there was a statue near a booth, and it still had a limb or two, it was used as a display fixture for the merchant's wares.
It smelled different here than in the other parts of the precinct. In a moment, Kirk saw why. One corner of the plaza was piled high with overflowing containers of garbage, and some of it looked ripe enough to have been around when the buildings' foundations were laid.
Personally, the captain mused, I think the cubaya would have liked it around here. Plenty to eat. But then, what do I know? I'm just an ignorant offworlder.
Feeling a tug on his sleeve, he turned to Scotty. The engineer pointed to a spot about midway across the far side of the marketplace.
There was an open doorway there, with a number of Obirrhat standing just inside it. They all appeared to have mugs in their hands. As the humans watched, others came to patronize the place.
"I may nae know much," the engineer said softly, "but I can spot a drinking establishment a mile away."
Kirk grunted. "And information flows fast and loose where there's liquor to loosen the tongue."
Scotty looked at him, screwing up his Malurian brow in concentration. "James Joyce?"
The captain shook his head. "Montgomery Scott. Shore leave on Gamma Theridian Twelve. That little place by the river, with the pretty barmaids and the birds flying around in the rafters."
"Ah," said the Scotsman. "Right you are. I dinnae remember the quote, but I remember the barmaids just fine."
Somehow, Kirk didn't think this place would be quite as frivolous as the one on Gamma Theridian Twelve. But then, they weren't here for a vacation.
"Come on," he told his companion. "Let's see if we can't find a few loose tongues."
Crossing the plaza, they walked up to the open doorway as if they belonged there. Some of the Obirrhat stopped their conversations and glanced curiously at the newcomers as they entered, but no one challenged them.
Inside, they found much what they had expected—meager lighting, shadowy corners full of tables, and a steady, vaguely conspiratorial drone of voices. Much like any other public house the captain had visited.
However, there was one way in which this place was different. There was no bar. And for that matter, now that Kirk had a chance to think about it, no waiters, either.
Yet there were men with mugs in their hands. Obviously, they'd gotten them from somewhere.
"Captain …" Scotty murmured.
"I know," Kirk replied, careful to keep his voice down. "Where does a man get a drink around here?"
It was by no means a casual concern. Without mugs in their hands, they stuck out like two very sore thumbs—a condition hardly conducive to the clandestine gathering of information.
Some of those at the corner tables were starting to look at them—warily, the captain judged. Of course, it might have been his imagination, but if they stood there much longer, trying to figure out what to do next, everyone would be staring.
Kirk was on the verge of making a quick exit when a youngster seemed to pop up from out of nowhere. He held his hand out palm up and peered at the captain.
The captain peered back. "Yes?" he prompted.
The boy's skin twitched between his cheeks and his jawline. "Don't you want a drink?" he asked.
Damn, Kirk thought. So that's how it works.
"I very definitely want a drink," the captain said. "And one for my friend here as well."
"Of course," the youngster responded. "I'll get one from Phatharas—he never waters them down." But he didn't move yet; he just looked meaningfully at his open palm.
Taking the hint, Kirk reached into the pocket of his tunic and withdrew a couple of pieces of Malurian currency. While much of the planet's economy operated through electronic funds transfer, a primitive system in and of itself, those in the environs of the capital employed an even more ancient method of wealth transfer—metal coins, like those used centuries earlier on Earth.
Fortunately, coins such as that were easy to replicate. The captain handed over the ones he'd been carrying, hoping that they'd be about the right amount. He gathered from the way the boy's eyes lit up that he'd paid more than he had to, but not so much as to arouse suspicion.
"Be quick," he told the youngster, "and the rest is for you." He said it as if a big tip had been his intention all along.
Nodding eagerly, the boy took off. Kirk watched him go out the door, and wondered fleetingly if he'd just been had by a junior-grade con man. After all, he had no guarantee that his emissary would return.
Then again, others had viewed the transaction, and no one had seemed to think it was unusual. Taking Scotty by the arm, the captain indicated an unoccupied table in the darkest of the place's four corners.
The Obirrhat at the neighboring tables scrutinized them as they went by, hardly bothering to conceal their interest. Still, as at the door, no one stopped them or questioned their reason for being here, despite the fact that they were obviously strangers. In a close-knit community-like this one, that fact wouldn't go unnoticed for very long.
They sat. And a moment later, much more quickly than Kirk had expected, the boy returned with a tray. There were two mugs on it, which he balanced easily.
Looking around, he spotted his clients in their new location and brought their order over. Lowering his tray onto their table, he removed the mugs from it and set them down before the captain and Scotty. Then, with a glance—perhaps by way of thanks, perhaps to see if they wanted anything more—he departed.
Raising his mug, the captain sampled its contents. The liquid within was milky, spicy, and quite cold—a strange combination, but in this case a pleasant one. And if there was alcohol or any other stimulant in the mixture, he couldn't detect it.
"Not bad," he remarked to Scotty.
The chief engineer shrugged. "It could use a little sprucin' up, if ye know what I mean."
Once again, Kirk was tempted to smile. And once again, his prosthesis prevented it.
For a little while, they sat there, nursing their drinks, while the captain tried to think of the best way for them to start a dialogue with some Obirrhat. Finally, unable to come up with anything particularly clever or original, he opted for the direct approach.
Turning to one of the patrons at the next table, he engaged the man's eyes. The fellow raised his mug a couple of inches in response.
"Good day," Kirk suggested, raising his own mug.
"There've been worse," the Obirrhat agreed. "On the other hand, there've been better."
Among the common people, unlike in the Hall of Government, there were none of those fingers-to-temple gestures Farquhar was so fond of; Kirk knew that from his mission briefing tapes.
"You're new here," the Obirrhat observed.
The captain nodded. "Visiting,actually."
"Hell of a time to visit, what with all the trouble that's going on."
"Actually," Kirk replied, "it's the trouble that's prompted the visit."
That piqued the man's interest. "Oh? Got family here you're worried about?"
The captain paused a moment, as if reflecting. "In a sense," he said at last. "I mean, we're all brothers here, aren't we, when you come right down to it?"
It was plain that the fellow caught his drift. He nodded. "That's the way I feel." He indicated the pair seated across from him. "In fact, that's how we all feel."
Kirk turned to Scotty. "You see? I told you we'd find a good reception in this place."
The engineering chief grunted approvingly. "I never had any doubt of it. After all, this is the sacred precinct. If ye canna find solidarity here in these tryin' times, where can ye find it?"
Their newfound friend sighed aloud. "Times are trying, all right. Just yesterday, the damned Manteil marched a procession of offworlders through the precinct—along with a couple of armed guards. It was a slap in the face, I tell you—a reminder of how little they respect us."
One of his companions chuckled. "True. But we taught them they couldn't do that kind of thing. A couple of our boys came out shooting—even took one of the guards down."
The first Obirrhat made a gesture of dismissal. "That was nothing to be proud of. We lost two to their one, and they weren't much older than the mugrunner who got you your drinks. I count it more of a pity than anything else."
Kirk frowned in sympathy, nor was it entirely an act. He'd hated to see those Obirrhat youths cut down as much as anyone else.
"At least we showed them," the second man piped up. "At least we didn't let it go unnoticed, like we've done in the past."
The first Obirrhat dismissed that idea as well. "So what? Are they going to stop treating us like something less than men? Are they going to cease their abuse of the sacred ground?"
The third man at their table, who had been silent up until now, spoke up. "They'll never stop that. Not unless we make them."
"Granted," the first Obirrhat replied. "But there's time enough for that." His eyes momentarily lost their focus. "And no need to lose young lives in the process." As he emerged from his brief reverie, he turned to the captain and Scotty again. "But then, you didn't come here to listen to us argue, did you?"
Kirk shook his head. "With all due respect, no. One can hear the same arguments wherever there are Obirrhat, I think." He looked around, as if leery of spies. "Though there are some in the precinct I'd give much to listen to."
All three of his listeners nodded gravely. "I believe I know who you mean," the first man said.
"Do you know where we might find them?" Mister Scott asked.
The question met with a mixed reaction. It seemed to Kirk the men knew, but were reluctant to give away such important information.
On the other hand, he and Scotty were passing themselves off as representatives of another region. And communication among the various Obirrhat communities was essential if they were to stand up to the Manteil.
In the end, opportunism won out over caution. "If you like," the third Obirrhat offered, "we can take you to them."
"We would like that very much," the captain told them. "In fact, the sooner the better."
The Obirrhat exchanged glances. "Why not now?" the second one said.
They reached an unspoken consensus. Almost at the same instant, they raised their mugs and drained them. Kirk and Scotty did the same. With all the spice in their drinks, it wasn't easy, but they managed.
"Come," said the first Obirrhat, and made his way toward the door through the growing crowd. The disguised humans followed, and the other two Obirrhat brought up the rear.
Outside, it was full sunset. The sky in the east was a riot of golds and greens, and the dying light was reflected on the ancient walls of the market square. It gave the place an ethereal quality that was almost startling and hard to reconcile with its very earthly appearance during the day.
The third Obirrhat, the taciturn one, must have seen the look in the captain's eye. "Beautiful," he said, "is it not?"
Kirk nodded. "Indeed."
"It's the first time you've seen it?"
"The first time," the captain echoed.
"In that case," the Obirrhat remarked sincerely, "I envy you a great deal."
They crossed the plaza, with its tables and booths now empty of merchants, retracing some of the steps Kirk and Scotty had taken just minutes earlier. However, instead of heading for the broad thoroughfare, the Obirrhat led them to another exit, the narrowest street they'd seen yet. Truth to tell, it was little more than an alley.
As they entered the cool, deep-shadowed space between the buildings, the captain could see that the passage eventually terminated in a cul-de-sac. So their destination had to be somewhere before that point—one of the various doors that opened on the alley—though none of them looked particularly auspicious.
Of course, that would be the whole point—to look inauspicious. If you're hiding something or someone you don't do it in a place that draws attention to itself.
About halfway to the dead end, the second Obirrhat turned to Scotty. "Where did you say you were from again?" he asked.
"We didn't say," the engineer told him. "But as it happens, we're from Torril."
The man nodded. "Never been there myself," he commented. "Nice place?"
"The nicest," Scotty answered.
Good going, Kirk thought. Very smooth.
Naturally, they'd done some research on the geography of the region and picked a likely town as their point of origin. But not truly being natives, they had to avoid in-depth conversations about the place.
As it happened, the second Obirrhat didn't have a chance to inquire further, because the first one stopped and knocked sharply on a small, wooden door. There was a distinct pattern to the knock, too—two raps close together, followed after a second or two by another, and finally three more in succession.
The door opened. A pair of silvery eyes caught the light, flickering as they glanced from one caller to the next.
"It's all right," the second Obirrhat said. "They're friends from Torril come to have a word with us."
The sentinel grunted, turned to others deeper within, and barked something the captain couldn't quite make out. Then he gestured for them to come inside.
They entered, moving slowly because it was difficult to see—and even more so after the door closed behind the last of them, cutting off the light filtering in from the alley. Reaching out instinctively, Kirk felt a wall and followed it.
They continued that way for what seemed like a long time, considering how small the precinct buildings looked from the outside. The captain used the time to think about what he was going to say to Menikki and Omalas, who might not give them a whole lot of time to communicate once they learned whom they'd invited into their hiding place.
He was still mulling over his choice of words when a small flare of blue light-erupted off to his right. A moment later, a second flare erupted on his left. Even before his eyes adjusted to the illumination, the captain could see that whatever corridor they'd been traveling had opened into a large room. It was full of Obirrhat—perhaps a dozen of them, not counting the ones he and Scotty had come in with. In fact, the newcomers were surrounded by them.
The second Obirrhat stepped forward and indicated his companions with a sweep of his arm. "A couple of visitors," he said, "from Torril, come to confer with our leaders."
One of the others in the room eyed them in the glimmering light. "How interesting," he remarked. He looked at Kirk. "I am from Torril. And I've never seen you before in my life."
The captain cursed inwardly. They hadn't taken into account the possibility that delegations from other cities might have begun to arrive already in the precinct—though in retrospect, it seemed a rather large oversight.
A moment later, Scotty paid for their mistake. One of the Obirrhat behind him delivered a crushing blow to the back of his head, driving him to his knees. As the engineer crumpled, Kirk whirled, expecting more of the same.
His expectation was on the money. Moving to his right, he eluded the rock-wielding fist that would have laid him out alongside Scotty. Then, gripping his attacker's wrist with both hands, he pivoted, dropped to one knee, and flung the man over his shoulder.
Screaming at the pain of his broken wrist, the Obirrhat hurtled into two of his onrushing compatriots. Hoping to take advantage of the confusion, the captain went for his unconscious engineer, aiming to scoop him up in his arms and make for the exit.
Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way. Though he managed to reach Scotty without anyone intervening, he'd barely lifted him off the ground before something hit him hard in the side of the head.
His last thought, before he lost consciousness, was that all McCoy's hard work had been for nothing.