KIRK REACHED GINGERLY for a slice of the fruit. He glanced toward Bones, who shrugged and took one himself. "Just don't eat any of the white ones for at least a week," Bones told him, "and you ought to be safe enough."
Kirk popped the wedge into his mouth and bit into it. Tart juice squirted out as his teeth broke through the crunchy skin, and an unfamiliar vapor made him inhale involuntarily, drawing its cool, not-quite-minty aroma into his sinuses. The flavor was something like a fresh apple, only sweeter, and with a much stronger aftertaste. Kirk could see why it would be considered a delicacy. It was wonderful, but too potent to eat very much of at one sitting.
And it was half of a binary nerve toxin. Kirk would have considered these aliens dangerously insane if he hadn't seen—even eaten—similar things on Earth. Like fugu, the Japanese dish made from the poisonous puffer fish, which still killed two or three people a year.
"Worth fighting over, eh?" asked the Padishah.
A nasty suspicion had been growing in Kirk's mind since the Grand General had made his remark about "the nature of our conflict." This confirmed it.
"You mean this—which half of the Palko to eat—is what you've been fighting about all this time?"
"Yes," said both planetary leaders. The Padishah went on. "It was a matter of principle. The white bits aren't as tasty, you see, so there was no way we Prastorians were willing to switch over unless the Distrellians did so as well."
"Which wouldn't have solved anything at all!" exclaimed the Grand General. "The only thing that would have accomplished would be to make us all eat the inferior pieces."
Kirk didn't even try to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he said, "So you fought over who would have to eat the white ones. Did it ever occur to you to try a rotating schedule? Or divide up your own populations into purple and white regions?"
"We're not stupid, Captain," said the Padishah. "Every conceivable alternative was tried and dismissed millennia ago. According to our oldest records, our ancestors even tried to eliminate the Palko bush—drive it into extinction—but of course each side kept its own private seed stock and after a few years they replanted and the same conflict arose again."
Kirk could only shake his head. It seemed so pointless, but then he wondered if that really made their war any more horrible. Had any war ever been worth it? They were all about something equally silly. Which god you worshipped, or how you worshipped the same god, or whether a leader was inherited or elected. Or in the case of the Klingons, simply because they liked to fight.
Chekov broke his train of thought. "So what made you change your minds now?" he asked.
"We received an offer that was too good to refuse," said the Grand General.
"From whom?" asked Kirk.
"A friend of yours, actually," said the Grand General. "A master of diplomacy. He seems to share your knack for zeroing in directly to the heart of the matter. I've made him my political advisor."
"Where is he, anyway?" asked the Padishah. "I haven't seen him for some time."
"He was here just a few minutes ago, when the captain first called. Said he had to go straighten his cravat, I believe. But you know how he is. Punctuality isn't one of his strong suits."
The Padishah laughed. "Hah. True enough." He leaned close to Kirk as if imparting a deep, dark secret. "He seems rather fond of Nevisian women. Disappears for hours at a time with them. I'd be concerned for their reputations if it weren't for his chaperone, but she keeps a close eye on him. That is, when the Grand General isn't occupying her…ah, her time."
The Grand General colored slightly, and said, "I am merely trying to ensure that she enjoys her stay."
"I'm sure you are," said the Padishah.
"Gentlemen," Kirk interrupted. "Does this mystery friend of ours have a name?"
"Well, yes he does," said the Grand General. "Three of them. Soon to be four, but please don't tell him that. I'd like for it to be a surprise. And that of course is why I can't reveal his name to you just at the moment. He said he wanted to see the look on your face when you saw him, and I don't want to rob him of the pleasure." He turned to one of the women standing nearby and said, "Mistrae, my dear, could I trouble you to find my advisor? Tell him our guests have arrived."
"Certainly, General," she said. She walked out through the wide double doors at the end of the banquet hall, her voluminous dress billowing around her like a cloud as she walked.
Kirk watched her go, wondering what kind of problem would return through those doors with her. He no longer believed that this would be a pleasant surprise. No slap on the back from an academy classmate, no sultry "Hello, James," from an old lover, nor even a haughty "Nya-nya" from some self-righteous ambassador who might have ridden on the Enterprise to his first gig. Not with this kind of setup.
He leaned over to Spock and said softly, "I've got a bad feeling about this."
Spock nodded solemnly. "If I had feelings, they would undoubtedly parallel yours."
But neither of them were prepared for what actually came through the doors. First came the woman, Mistrae, looking quite amused. Then eight young men entered, bearing long, slender trumpets. They took up positions in two rows flanking the doors, and when they raised the trumpets toward one another, purple and white banners unfurled from the shafts. The men blew an elaborate fanfare, then crisply snapped the trumpets downward to stand at attention.
And in strolled a tall, overweight, nearly bald-headed man dressed in a billowy green shirt and loose gray pants, the legs of which had been tucked into the tops of his tall black boots. He had a wide, cherubic face, and an even wider black handlebar mustache. He had hooked his thumbs under his belt, and he swaggered like a king at his coronation.
Kirk recognized him instantly, by his mannerisms as well as his appearance. "Harry Mudd!" he exclaimed.
For indeed it was. The same Harry Mudd who had trafficked in beautiful women, "wiving settlers," as he called it, and who had nearly destroyed the Enterprise in the bargain. The same Harry Mudd who had later found a planet full of androids, and who had nearly trapped the Enterprise crew there as enslaved subjects for the androids to "serve." Oh yes, Kirk knew this man, though he devoutly wished he didn't.
But if Mudd sensed any of his animosity, he didn't show it. He just smiled broadly at Kirk and said in his booming, exuberant voice, "Harcourt, please. Harry is so…uncivilized."
"That's true enough," muttered Chekov.
"Ah, Mr. Chekov," Mudd said. "Clever as ever, I see. And the lovely Lieutenant Uhura. Certainly the most pleasant aspect of either of my stays on board the Enterprise. Thank you for accepting my invitation." He bowed deeply as he approached her, then caught her right hand on the upswing and brought it to his lips in a gentle kiss.
Uhura smiled wryly and said, "Hello, Harry. Good to see you again. I think."
Mudd chuckled. "Ah, such warmth and affection from my dear old friends. It truly warms my heart." He turned to McCoy, and fluttering his right hand near his breastbone, said, "Stay near, good doctor. I may need your services if I become overwhelmed with emotion. And Mr. Scott. Your engines still look to be in tune." Mudd turned last toward Spock. "I know better than to expect an effusive greeting from you, sir, so allow me to greet you warmly for both of us." He grasped Spock's right hand and shook it enthusiastically—for about a second, until Spock tightened his muscles and his arm became as rigid as a steel beam. Mudd continued to shake for a moment, his whole body quivering with the effort, then he stopped and let go, saying, "As always, you're a veritable pillar of friendship, Mr. Spock."
The Nevisians—and Dr. McCoy—laughed at Mudd's antics, but Spock's reply was direct and to the point. "How did you escape from the android planet?"
As punishment for his role in capturing the Enterprise for the androids, Kirk and his crew had left Mudd there when they escaped—with five hundred android copies of his nagging wife, Stella, to make sure he got into no more trouble.
"Well," said Mudd, turning to Kirk, "the terms of my stay there were that I would be free to go when I was no longer an…'irritant' I believe you called it. Of course since I never was an irritant, it was a simple matter of arranging for transportation once I decided to take my leave."
Kirk knew how to interpret Mudd's statements. Arranging for transportation meant…"You stole another ship," he said.
"Nothing of the sort!" Mudd protested indignantly. "The androids provided me with one the moment I asked."
"And what sort of deviltry have you been up to since then?"
Mudd looked to the Grand General. "Ah, such kidders. You can see why I love them so, can't you? Well, Kirk, my boy, sorry to disappoint you, but this is my first stop. I heard about these people's terrible misunderstanding, and I hurried here as soon as I could to offer my services."
Kirk was almost afraid to ask, but curiosity wouldn't let him not. "What services?"
"Why, the exclusive distribution of Palko fruit to the rest of the galaxy, of course. Only the white halves, to be sure, but that still nets a substantial profit, of which the Nevisians get a perfectly equitable fifty percent."
McCoy said, "You're selling half of a binary nerve toxin to unsuspecting customers? That's against—"
"Unsuspecting? Doctor, why would I let such an opportunity for profit go untapped? Of course I told my customers of the danger. That allowed me to triple the price I would otherwise have gotten."
Kirk supposed that was probably true. Only someone like Mudd would have thought of it, and only Mudd would have stopped an interplanetary war in order to make the deal, but it sounded as if he might actually be telling the truth this time. The truth according to Harry Mudd, of course. Kirk knew that stopping the war had never been his first priority—profit was Mudd's only priority—but the result was apparently the same.
"The only problem with all this, Harry," said Kirk, "is that you've violated the Prime Directive."
"Prime Directive?" Harry picked up another Palko fruit and rapped it on the table. When it fell apart into sections, he selected a purple slice and ate it.
"Starfleet's General Order Number One," Kirk told him, "forbidding interference with a society's development."
Mudd smacked his lips noisily, then said, "The key word there, old friend, is 'Starfleet.' I'm not a member of Starfleet. Your General Order Number One doesn't apply to me. But you, on the other hand, had better mind your P's and Q's." He leaned close as if imparting a secret, but his whisper could be heard across the banquet hall. "Your clothing, for instance, might start a fashion revolution. Haberdashery could become the dominant economic force and spark a political overthrow. Really, Captain, I'm surprised you're not more careful."
The Nevisians laughed, and Kirk took a deep breath. He had been trying to control his temper ever since he'd seen that the mystery "friend" was Mudd. What was it about that man that made him so angry? It would be easier to ask what didn't. The man was an irritant, a major one, and a liar and a cheat as well. Everything he stood for grated Kirk, but mocking the Starfleet uniform was just too much.
"It's you who should be more careful, Harry," said Kirk. "A man with outstanding arrest warrants on half a dozen planets shouldn't be needling a Starfleet officer. Even if I can't haul you in for violating the Prime Directive, I could arrest and detain you for plenty of other crimes—including a capital offense on Deneb-Five, if I remember correctly."
That one stung—Kirk could see Mudd start to sweat a bit, but the con man in him immediately went into damage-control mode. Rolling his eyes upward in a pained, I-can't-believe-it expression, he said, "Really, Captain, I'd have thought you were above the spreading of false rumors, for of course that's all they are." To the Grand General he said, "The Mudd family has been the target of slander for nearly four hundred years, ever since an ancestor of mine—a prominent physician—attempted to save the life of a national president who had been shot. He was prevented from performing his duties, and then falsely accused of allowing the wounded president to die. Mudds have had to endure these attacks on our character ever since, but we have learned to ignore them and continue our good work throughout the galaxy."
Kirk nearly gagged on Mudd's self-righteous schmaltz. He said, "What you did has nothing to do with Lincoln. I'm talking about forgery, smuggling, theft, unauthorized sale of technology, impersonating a—"
"All unproven," interrupted Mudd. "Every one of those… misunderstandings…has been cleared up. In the case of the Denebians, I have even made restitution at my own expense rather than prolong any bad feelings by insisting on a formal review in court."
"Rather than face the death penalty, you mean," Kirk said.
Mudd shook his head sadly. "Captain, if you don't control yourself I believe I may have to charge you with slander, simply to protect my good name."
This really was too much. Kirk unclipped his communicator from his belt and flipped it open. "Okay, Harry, I'll call your bluff. Kirk to Enterprise."
"Enterprise here." Kirk recognized the voice of Ensign Jolley, Uhura's backup in communications.
Kirk said, "I want you to search our latest Starfleet records on Harry Mudd. Look for outstanding warrants for his arrest."
"Yes, sir. Checking," said Jolley. Kirk and the others from the Enterprise, and the Nevisians as well, waited uncomfortably for the report, but Mudd merely smiled and ate another purple wedge of Palko fruit.
His smile faltered momentarily when a shrill voice from beyond the doorway called out, "Harcourt!" but he gave no other sign of discomfort when a hatchet-faced, red-haired human woman dressed all in black stepped into the banquet hall and screeched, "Harcourt Fenton Mudd, what have you been up to now? There you are, you elusive rascal. You should know better than to try to give the slip to me. I can track you through solid—" She stopped when she saw the Enterprise officers, then said more quietly, "Hello."
"Hello, Stella," said Kirk, squinting to see what number she was. This had to be one of the android copies of Mudd's ex-wife, still watching over him even though they had let him off the planet. That made much more sense than Mudd's version of the story. But if this was an android, it had removed the numbered necklace they usually wore to distinguish multiple copies of themselves. Could there be only this one?
Stella walked up to the group and eyed everyone coldly, but her expression softened incrementally when the Grand General took her hand and said, "Ah, Estelle my dear, I'm so glad you could join us again. These are our guests from the Enterprise."
"We've met," said Kirk.
The android—if that's who this was—made no objection to his statement. She merely turned to Mudd and said, wagging her finger in his face in time with her words, "Just when I was beginning to trust you, you sent me off on a wild goose chase. There was no Denebian slime devil in our quarters. I—"
Mudd laughed. "Of course there wasn't, my little fussbudget. I merely wanted to greet the captain without your matchless beauty distracting him. But now that you've arrived, I'm as grateful as ever for your presence." He looked straight at Kirk as he said that, and Kirk winced at the tone in his voice. Maybe marooning him with five hundred copies of her had been a bit extreme.
The Grand General certainly seemed taken with her, however. He continued to hold her hand, and his prominent eyes followed her every move. There was no accounting for alien taste, Kirk thought.
His communicator beeped, and he said, "Kirk here."
"No outstanding warrants, sir," Jolley said. "I do have an annotation from Vulcan planetary security that they would like to hire him as a consultant if he would consent to tell them how he breached their computer network, but that's the only current activity in his file."
Kirk turned to Spock, not bothering to wipe the incredulous expression from his face. "Vulcan would hire him rather than charge him with data piracy?"
Spock said impassively, "The best method for stopping piracy is often to hire the pirates. As distasteful as it may seem in this instance, it is a logical course of action."
"Logic be damned," Kirk said. "This man is a menace to the Federation, and whether or not you know it yet, Grand General, he's a menace to the Nevis system as well. I'd advise you to—"
"Vendikar," Mudd said quietly. "Eminiar VII."
Alarm bells rang in Kirk's mind. "How do you know about that?" he demanded.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Mudd said, shaking his head sadly. "Certainly you wouldn't want me to compromise my information sources. But if you keep ranting on with these slanderous accusations, I'm afraid I'll have to mention your unfortunate breach of discipline on those planets to the proper authorities."
Chekov pushed forward and said belligerently, "The captain didn't do anything wrong on Vendikar. He—"
"That will be enough, Mr. Chekov," Kirk said quickly. The last thing he needed was his hotheaded navigator complicating the issue. To Mudd he said, "All right, Harry, we'll do it your way. We've got time."
"Do what my way?" Mudd asked. "Time for what?"
"Time to let your true colors show." To the Grand General Kirk said, "Give him enough rope and he'll eventually hang himself with it. But he has a knack for taking everyone around him down, too. I'd suggest keeping an eye on him."
The Grand General smiled. "I keep my eye on everyone, Captain. Including you. But really, I must insist that you put aside your differences while you are here. Distrel and Prastor are celebrating the end of millennia of war; certainly you and Mr. Mudd can find it in your heart to make peace as well, can't you?"
Mudd grinned at Kirk. "I have no quarrel with you, Captain, even though you stranded me—quite illegally I might add—on a planet full of androids. Forgive and forget, I always say." He held out his hand to shake.
Kirk stared at the proffered hand, then looked up at Mudd's face. His cherubic baby cheeks and thick handlebar mustache seemed like a mockery in themselves even without the silly grin to go with them. Could Kirk actually shake hands with this con man? It looked like he would have to, for Mudd showed no sign of dropping his arm any time soon, and the longer he waited the worse it made Kirk look. So Kirk reached out and clasped Mudd's sweaty hand. "All right, Harry," he said. "Let's give it a fresh start. And may the best man win."