Star Trek - Log 6 Page 7

"Again." McCoy looked up, past the stirring form of Kirk, to see a tall Draymian he didn't recognize staring back at him. The alien wore a look which even a child could have read as undisguised admiration.

  He turned away, embarrassed by both the unabashed adulation and the fact that for the life of him he couldn't place the face of this survivor. But then, there had been so many Draymians those long days years ago. But undoubtedly this Kolti had seen very few humans, so it was natural that he should remember the doctor.

  Nevertheless, he walked over to the stranger and exchanged hand clasps and Draymian embrace with him. The patient's crushing affection was an excellent sign his body was rapidly returning to normal.

  Kirk was sitting up on the edge of his bed, exercising his neck with circling twists of his head.

  "How do you feel, Jim?"

  "Like I've been asleep for ten thousand years, Bones, and in all that time no one bothered to dust me."

  "Dr. McCoy?" He turned and saw that the Commander of Draymian security was also sitting up, a mite awkwardly, on his undersized bed. "We are a technologically advanced race, Dr. McCoy. We had thought that in a few things, such as interstellar travel and contact, we are still in our infancy. It seems that we are still in our infancy in less scientific ways as well."

  He extended a huge hand. "Will you accept the sincere apologies of a misguided child who knew no better and had only his civilization's best interests at heart? The malice lies in our memory of events, not in our hearts."

  McCoy shook the proffered hand firmly, then moved on—he still had work to do.

  "Doctor," Spock called, from where he was administering the serum, "are you certain that you are all right?"

  McCoy wiped moisture from his eyes. "Doesn't anyone understand basic physiology around here!" he snarled. "I'm working hard and under stress, that's all."

  Spock linked the phrase with the tone of McCoy's voice and his hypothetical mental state—and understood. Of course, he saw no reason to smile.

  If the Draymians had been careful at first to conceal their enmity, they showed unbridled enthusiasm when making amends. There were times during the following days when McCoy thought he would have to run and hide lest he be smothered by constant accolades. The Draymian people outdid themselves in their gratitude.

  The only difficulties arose when he was forced time and again to refuse actual gifts, explaining that regulations forbade accepting any kind of gratuity, however indirect, for services rendered in the line of duty. Their good health, he told them, was reward enough.

  When the last medal had been awarded, the last speech read, the final hyperbolic hyperbole driven home, they found themselves outside the justice building once again, high above the bustling streets and boulevards of the capital of Draymia.

  Kirk and Spock were there with McCoy, all three resplendent in full dress uniform. The Prefect was there, and Demos, of course. And a third Draymian—Kolti, now toweringly splendid in the blue and puce of Draymian Deep Space Service, Diplomatic Section.

  They were going to see a lot more of that well-cut uniform in the future, Kirk surmised quietly—especially if Kolti was an indication of the kind of people being trained to fill it.

  ". . . and so we of Draymia wish to thank you once more, Dr. McCoy," the Prefect was concluding, "for the discovery of the antidote which frees future colonies from destruction by the auroral plague."

  "Thank Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk, not me," McCoy told him. He managed not to blush—he had already blushed himself out, these past few days. At least, he thought he had, until the Prefect suddenly produced an intimidating scroll from out of nowhere.

  "And now," the alien official began, "it is my pleasure to relate some fitting personal sentiments on commemoration of—"

  "Please, your Prefectship," McCoy broke in tiredly. "Somehow I have the feeling I've heard these sentiments before. Couldn't I—please—beg off? I'd really like to get back to the ship."

  "We must apologize," Demos said, coming to McCoy's rescue by placing a restraining yet gentle hand on the disappointed Prefect's arm. There was no telling how long the security chief had worked on his own as yet concealed speech. "But as great a genius as Dr. McCoy is," he continued, "he has not yet discovered an antidote for boredom."

  Kirk and the Prefect laughed, while Spock looked normally phlegmatic.

  "I'm afraid," McCoy sallied in reply, "that while that's a disease rampant throughout the Galaxy, it's barely been touched upon."

  The Prefect made the Draymian equivalent of a resigned sigh and folded up his lengthy scroll. "Very well, then . . . go in peace and health, Dr. McCoy—the health you have given to future settlers. We will see you again some day, I hope."

  "I have a hunch Federation vessels will be calling at Draymia with increasing frequency, sir," Kirk predicted. "I wouldn't be surprised if we were assigned another stop here. We'll be looking forward to it."

  "It is well, then," the Prefect concluded, satisfied.

  Embraces were exchanged all around. Then the three officers stepped back toward the ornamental railing.

  "Beam us aboard, Mr. Scott."

  "Aye, Captain," came the chief engineer's happy acknowledgment back over the communicator.

  "I don't know about you, gentlemen," Kirk said as the elevator carried them toward the Bridge, "but I'm ready to get back to Alco Starbase."

  "And I," McCoy informed them fervently, "am about ready to get back to the normal, daily routine of passing out pink pills and examining sore throats!"

  "I would hope such exotic efforts," Spock began as the doors slid apart and they entered the Bridge, "would include resumption of the normal, daily dispensing of the regular vitamin rations to the crew, in proper proportions according to their biological requirements."

  McCoy hesitated just inside the portal. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Well, you have been somewhat derelict in your duties of late, Doctor."

  McCoy gaped at him. "Derelict in my duties? I've been held in solitary confinement on an alien world, accused of mass murder, and forced to find an antidote for a previously incurable plague in an incredibly short period of time—with only your help, I might add—and you can say I've been derelict in my duties?"

  "Hippocrates," Spock replied calmly, "would not have approved of attempts at finding lame excuses, Doctor." He called the elevator and stepped inside, leaving Kirk and a flabbergasted McCoy alone by the doorway.

  McCoy proceeded to make several unidentifiable mouth noises, none with complimentary overtones, which seemed to relate vaguely to Spock's ancestry.

  "Calm down, Bones," Kirk finally told him, working hard to stifle a smile. "You know Spock—he's just trying to get your goat."

  "Goat," McCoy sputtered, "I'll give him my goat . . . with anthrax, yet!" There was a wild look coming into his eyes. "Jim, do you think Vulcans are subject to anthrax? Do you think they're vulnerable to—"

  Kirk couldn't contain himself any longer. He broke out laughing, was joined by Uhura, Sulu, and the high, amused piping of Arex. McCoy glanced around the room, immediately saw he would get no sympathy from this bunch.

  He finally got hold of his emotions. "Jim, if I'm ever in jail again, don't send a Vulcan to release me. If you do, you'll have to send someone else to drag him out. You'll have to!"

  He became silent then, and the wild look was replaced with a smile of uncommonly fiendish glee. It sobered Kirk.

  "Bones," he asked worriedly, "what are you conjuring?"

  "Vitamin supplements," McCoy was muttering. He sounded almost cheerful, "Yes, vitamin supplements." He looked up. "Excuse me, everybody . . . I have some work to do . . . some supplements to prepare. I've been derelict in my daily duties."

  Kirk could hear him singing something about vitamin supplements until the turbolift carried him out of range.

  PART II

  THE PRACTICAL JOKER

  (Adapted from a script by Chuck Menville)

  V

  "Since I have evid
ently failed to make myself clear so far, Nurse Chapel, I will repeat it once more," Spock told her tautly. "Vulcans are not subject to dandruff."

  Chapel leaned back in the office chair and eyed the first officer of the Enterprise compassionately.

  "Perhaps there is a different Vulcan term for it, then."

  "Such a disease is not possible," Spock insisted. He scratched behind one ear. "However, I am compelled to admit that for an impossible affliction, it is proving most distracting."

  "What is?" Both turned as McCoy walked in. "Hello, Christine. Hello, Spock. Is something the matter?" His voice was overflowing with innocence.

  "Something has been the matter for a number of days, Doctor. Ever since we departed Draymia and before we began the survey of this non-system grouping of type-four asteroids." He glanced back across the desk.

  "Nurse Chapel insists I have contracted a disease common only to decadent physiological systems, something she identifies as dandruff. I have explained patiently that Vulcans are not subject to such primitive afflictions."

  "Yes, it's an affliction common to the inefficient human organism . . . and it seems," McCoy added, leaning over to stare pointedly at Spock's scalp, "that you have an advanced case of it. My, my . . . no wonder you've seemed so peevish lately."

  "I am never peevish, and I tell you," Spock said in exasperation, "I do not have it. It is simply not possible for—you are smiling, Doctor. I don't believe anything I've said can be taken as amusing."

  "Been getting your daily vitamin supplements, Spock? I know I was badly neglectful . . . you reminded me though. Remember?"

  "Yes, I have to admit that you have returned to schedule with admira—" The first officer suddenly paused. If it was possible for a Vulcan to take on a suspicious expression, Spock had just acquired one.

  "Vitamins . . . Doctor, is it possible that you harbored some irrational resentment against me for the comments I made regarding your efficiency, on our departure from Draymia? Is it possible that you . . .?"

  Spock rose abruptly from the chair. "I do not think," he said coldly, "that an analysis of my supplements will be necessary."

  McCoy allowed himself a smile. "Oh, don't be so stiff about it, Spock. Besides, it can only worsen your condition. I'll remove the additive I put into your supplements immediately, and your primitive affliction will vanish in a couple of days. In exchange, we won't hear anything more about my performance as ship's doctor for a while . . . will we?"

  "Is that a request," Spock asked, still frozen, "or a threat?"

  "Let's call it a reasonable adjustment of circumstances, arrived at by mutual consent of two intelligent beings. I could have arranged for something rather more radical than dandruff, you know. Besides, I'd think you'd find the situation interesting, from a scientific point of view. I didn't even know if it would work. Always nice to see theory confirmed. As far as I know, you're the first Vulcan in history to be plagued with—"

  "Please, Doctor. I agree. Just correct it, please."

  "All right, Spock, relax." The grin again. "It's not fatal." He walked past the desk and punched out commands on the computer annex there.

  "Something you might be interested in—here's the molecular schematic I had to design to produce the proper results. Took a neat little bit of organic doodling, I can tell you. Vulcans have so many antibodies in their blood it's almost impossible to find something to penetrate all those generations of acquired defenses."

  "I'm sure, Doctor," Spock said dryly, peering at the diagram of bonded atoms on the screen, "that it taxed your abilities considerably."

  "Speaking of taxing our skills," Nurse Chapel wondered aloud, "how much longer are we going to be stuck on this mineralogical survey before we can continue on back to Alco Starbase for a little rest and recreation?"

  Glad of a chance to change the subject, Spock explained. "The extent and density of this free cluster has exceeded all previous drone estimates. Despite this, the captain estimates that we are now several days ahead of schedule. He is as anxious as the rest of us to be done with what is really a minor operation and he sorely resented the orders when they came through.

  "Orders remain orders, however. We should be finished with the survey any day. A great deal of value has been learned, even if the learning has been monotonous. The cluster appears to offer considerable commercial promise. The asteroid masses are all irregular in shape, probably the remains of an exploded planet which tore loose from its parent system. Nonetheless they have remained tightly packed together. Some are of considerable size and a few are much larger than Ceres in the Sol system. I venture to say that within a few years the activity here will—"

  There was a deep rumble and everything shook.

  Chapel nearly fell backward out of the chair. Both Spock and McCoy had to grab for the computer console to steady themselves. The tremor died away quickly, leaving them suddenly tense. McCoy and Chapel exchanged nervous glances.

  An alarm began to sound. From time to time short rumbles rose above the wail and irregular vibrations could be felt underfoot. But the first, serious jolt was not repeated.

  "You okay, Christine?"

  "Fine, but what happened?"

  "I don't know." He looked over at Spock. "What do you think? Spock? Where'd he disappear to?"

  Spock was already on his way to the Bridge. Only a very few things could produce the shaking and accompanying rumble they had experienced. Most of them were natural. Only one was artificial in origin. Experience told him it was the latter. They were under fire.

  He emerged on the Bridge in time to see the main viewscreen overloaded by a blinding white glare. It faded slowly, the imagery reforming as the ship's scanners strove to recover from the intense dose of light.

  He acknowledged a perfunctory greeting from Scott, who stood at the Bridge Engineering Station, as he made his way to the library-computer console.

  The familiar whooping cry of the red-alert alarm was louder here on the Bridge, in deference to any sufferers in Sick Bay. He knew it was sounding the length and breadth of the battle cruiser.

  Another blast rattled the Bridge enough to separate feet from deck momentarily, despite the artificial gravity. Yet another blast in the same place from a slightly more powerful photon bomb, and Spock's feet would leave the deck permanently.

  Behind him Kirk's voice resounded—terse, businesslike—in complete control, although the source of the mysterious attack was still unknown.

  "Scotty, give us maximum shielding, full power on the deflectors."

  "Aye, Captain." Scott carried out the order, then turned his post over to a panting, just-arrived subordinate. The chief's place was back in Engineering Control, and he headed there in haste.

  "Photon bombs," Uhura muttered. "But who?"

  Kirk ignored the lieutenant's musing. "Mr. Sulu, bring us about to a new heading. One hundred twenty degrees north, up twenty. Initiate evasive pattern one."

  "Aye sir," the helmsman responded promptly, working the instruments.

  Kirk's businesslike manner now found a moment for open anger. "Mr. Spock, where were you?"

  "I have no real excuse, Captain. I was suffering from a prolonged distortion of subcutaneous follicular tissue."

  "Yes, I noticed it. But if you don't find out who's attacking us, you're liable to have it cured forever."

  "My own opinion exactly, Captain."

  The requisite information was already appearing on the sensor screens above his station. To complement the printed readouts, the computer provided him with a three-dimensional schematic of their pursuers, along with classification, type, armament, displacement, number of crew and probable port of origin.

  At the moment all the statistics were superfluous. "Romulans, Captain." He studied the main viewscreen, which still showed their last survey target—an enormous, rapidly shrinking hunk of stellar debris the size of a small moon.

  "Apparently they were lying in wait for us on the far side of that major asteroid."

&n
bsp; "By the Thane of Comorron!" came a furious voice. The burr was unmistakable. Scott had reached Engineering and when he'd overheard Spock's pronouncement, had yelled through the line Kirk had left open. "A cold-blooded ambush! That's goin' a bit far, even furr the Romulans. Let's give the cowards a fight they won't fergit!"

  Kirk sympathized with his chief engineer, but kept his tone even as he hit the broadcast return. "Negative, Mr. Scott. I've already received several damage reports. Combined with the fact that we appear to be outnumbered three to one, I think we'd better settle for some well-directed name-calling."

  "Discretion is the better part of valor, sir? I've always felt that was a bit of a contradiction in terms."

  "Just stand by to give me all the power you can spare from the deflectors, Mr. Scott."

  "Aye, sir," Scott said, making no effort to hide the disappointment in his voice. Kirk switched Engineering off. Sometimes Scott's spirit ran away with his better sense.

  "Sulu, give me full power on the rear sensors."

  "Aye, Captain."

  The view in the main screen shifted as more explosions flared around the ship. Now though, under battle conditions, the visual scanners were automatically compensating for the intense radiation.

  The three ships were tiny flecks, but Kirk felt he could make out the distinctive outlines, coming straight for them.

  "The Romulans continue to pursue, Captain," Spock reported. "And they are increasing their speed. They also appear to be separating further, changing from attack position to an intricate entrapment maneuver."

  "Can we outrun them, Mr. Spock?"

  Spock hesitated, studying readouts as fast as the battle computer could supply them. "Indeterminate, Captain. With three ships in pursuit, prediction becomes extremely complex."

  "Keep working on it." Lips set tight together, Kirk turned his attention back to the viewscreen and muttered under his breath. "They must want us badly to continue to pursue after their initial attack failed. Too late now for them to plead accident." His expression twisted into a faint grin. "The Romulans are coming." His voice rose as he called to Spock.