Banned From Argo

Dear Sirs:
I realize that the regulations of the Federation Charter forbid censorship of any informative or artistic material, other than what is strictly required by state or military security. Still, I must protest the common promulgation of a particular song, called “Banned From Argo”, which has been making the rounds all over this quadrant. This song is scurrilous, libelous, slanderous, verges on the obscene and is derogatory to my ship, officers and crew. Hearing this piece of tripe sung in every spaceport bar from here to Alpha Centauri is damaging to crew morale, and has caused more than one barroom brawl.
Is there anything that your Morale Office can do to suppress the damned thing? Can’t you at least find someone you can slap with a lawsuit? I can assure you, there’s good legal grounds for a slander case; the whole song is completely untrue, and totally misrepresents the situation on Argo.
Please respond soon.
Sincerely,

Capt. James T. Kirk
1.
When we pulled into Argo Port in need of R. & R.
Our crew set out investigating every joint and bar.
We had high expectations of their hospitality,
But found too late it wasn’t geared for spacers such as we

“Argo station to Enterprise. Docking ETA in five minutes,” said the professionally cheerful voice from the speakers. “Have a nice day.”
“Enterprise, standing by.” Kirk jabbed at the cut-off button on his chair’s arm, then stretched until he heard his neck-joints crackle. “It’ll be a long five minutes,” he added to himself.
Spock heard. “I assume, Captain,” he said, raising one elegant eyebrow, “that we should prepare for a humanoid stampede in the direction of the transporter room within four minutes and 47 seconds. Should I inform Security?”
Kirk relaxed in his chair and grinned at his First Officer. Vulcans were supposed to have no sense of humor, but Spock could be wonderfully sardonic at times. “I suspect,” Kirk answered, “That Security will be first in line. We’ll probably have trouble keeping even a skeleton maintenance crew on board for the next two weeks.”
“But sir,” Lt. Commander Scott commented from his seat at the Engineering console, “We’ll no’ need a maintenance crew after the first three days. D’ye no’ remember? Yon station will be gi’en the ship a complete inspection, overhaul an’ fumigation treatment. Thot means no one but a few engineers an’ a transport officer will be on board.”
“Of course.” Kirk rubbed his forehead. “I really had forgotten that. We’re all overdue for rest-and-recreation.”
“Especially efter dese lest two mont’s,” Lt. Chekov muttered darkly from the Navigation/Gunnery console. “If I nefer see enother Romulan again, it will be too soon.”
“Wait a minute.” Lt. Sulu looked up from the Navigation board. “If the ship’s going to be fumigated, I’ve got to move my plants.”
Lt. Uhura, just pulling the communications module from her ear, didn’t hear him. “I’ve heard,” she purred, “That shore-leave facilities on Argo are excellent. There’s supposed to be an old-fashioned market square in the groundside port city.”
Just then the turbolift doors whispered open, and Dr. McCoy stepped onto the bridge. “How much longer, Jim?” he asked, strolling up to the captain’s com-chair. “We’ve got 435 overworked crewmen straining at the leash, downstairs.”
“Just a few more minutes, Bones,” said Kirk, frowning at the viewscreen.
“Three minutes and fourteen seconds,” Spock dutifully reported. “That is, if the portmaster’s estimate is correct.”
“Doctor McCoy,” Nurse Chapel’s voice sounded from the open-intercom speakers, “Do you have the exact location of that pharmaceutical company you wanted me to visit?”
McCoy rolled his eyes and glanced toward Uhura, who duly patched him through to Sickbay. “I left the note on my desk-pad,” he grumbled. “What’s the rush, anyway? We’ve got two weeks’ leave.”
“Just checking. Out.” The speaker chirped as the connection closed.
“That girl works too hard,” McCoy muttered to no one in particular.
“We’ve all been working too hard,” Kirk smiled. “Thank whatever powers that be, Starfleet rerouted us to Argo instead of sending us all the way back to Starbase Twelve. Let’s hope this planet can give us the rest we need.”
“The facilities are reputed to be excellent,” Spock volunteered. “The planet Argo, more particularly Argus A-4, was one of the first extra-solar colonies founded after Humans achieved stardrive capabilities. Originally settled by wealthy entrepreneurs who wished to maintain a lifestyle which was fading from Earth’s culture by the 22nd century, its society is based on manufacturing and interstellar trade. Despite a rigorous adherence to a culture of classic ‘propriety’, the port city does contain extensive entertainment zones.”
“Aye, ‘propriety’!” Scott swiveled his chair around to face the bridge. “Yon means just wha’ ye think it does. Let’s hope the entertainment zones are extensive enou’ – an’ a wee bit livelier than they were the last time I came by this way.”
“I would not presume to define your tastes, Mr. Scott,” said Spock, arching an eyebrow again. “Argo Port usually caters to the local merchant trade, rather than Starfleet vessels, and I would have no data upon which to base an opinion.”
“No? Weel, I’ll say ta the rest o’ ye, if ye find night-life in Argo Port City a bit too dull, come look me up at the Hotel Avalon, for thot’s where I’ll be.”
Just then the Communications console beeped again. Uhura hastily pushed buttons. A blandly polite official face appeared on the viewscreen. It was the port secretary. “Please enter the docking area and proceed to the coupling gantry,” he said. “Welcome to Argo, Enterprise.”
Everyone but Spock replied with a spontaneous: “All right!”
Sulu’s fingers danced on the Helm controls, aiming the ship precisely into the station’s dock. “High time,” he almost sang. “Now we’ll have a shore leave that planet won’t forget!”
He didn’t know how right he was.

The Captain’s tastes were simple, but his methods were complex.
We found him with five partners, each of a different world and sex.
The Shore Police were on the way; we had no second chance.
We beamed him out in the nick of time – and the remnants of his pants.

Kirk beamed straight into the Argo Inn’s lobby, stepped off the transporter platform and promptly called back to the ship. Yeoman Janice Rand duly answered, confirmed the captain’s safe arrival in the log, and mournfully noted that her job wouldn’t end for another three days.
“Patience,” Kirk grinned. “The station personnel should take over before then. Enjoy your shore leave. Kirk out.”
He closed his communicator, grabbed his travel-bag and hurried to the check-in desk before the waiting-line could get much longer. Even so, it was a good half hour before he could get to his room, dump his bag in the closet, hurry back downstairs, get to the hotel bar and order a tall, cool, Eridani Sunset. The next step, he calculated, was to find some knowledgeable local – maybe the bartender – and ask about the nightlife in Argo Port City.
He was casting a thoughtful eye around the bar when he spotted a familiar figure. Tall slender shape, royal blue skin, silver-white hair, long smooth antennae, and a Starfleet uniform: who else could that be?
“Thelin!” he called out. “Over here!”
“Hai, Jim Kirk!” The Andorian saw him and changed course, grinning widely. “Good to see you again. Last I heard, you’d been made captain of the Enterprise.”
“True, true. And what ship are you on now?”
“My ancestors laugh. I’m a Commander – in truth, I’m in command of the Althashayn. She’s a mere scout-ship, too small for a full Captain to command, but she’s all mine and she’s beautiful. Did you see her as you pulled in?”
“That lovely little stingray of a ship? I saw, but didn’t really look her over, I’m afraid. I just got into port, and I’m seriously in need of R. & R.”
“Ah, I’ve been here over a week, and would you believe, it took me most of that time just to find out where the real fun is? Hah, my crew spent their first days here out in the backwoods, hunting. The Argo’ans worship respectability so, the city’s horribly dull -- unless you know where to look.”
“I noticed.” Kirk grimaced at his glass. “All the travel-guides in the lobby warbled about nothing but art-galleries, sports-arenas and nature-park tours. Where’s the real fun?”
“Baxter’s bar and grill, for one. To begin with, they don’t—“ Thelin tapped a long blue finger against Kirk’s glass. “—water the drinks. And they serve real, wood-grilled meat.”
“Keep talking,” Kirk grinned.
“And I have it on good authority…” Thelin leaned close. “That there is to be a real Orion poker game, in one of the upstairs rooms, this very evening.”
“Orion poker! I haven’t played that in… When and where, again?”
“Oh, finish that tankard of fruit-juice and come with me. I mean to be there early, for a good spot at the table. Do you have a thousand creds that you’re willing to lose?”
“Lose, nothing.” Kirk gulped down the rest of his drink. “I intend to eat a real dinner, then clean out all you card-sharks, and then—“
“Oh yes, Baxter’s provides that, too.” Thelin winked broadly.
“Then what are we waiting for?”

* * *

Ten minutes later, a street-taxi deposited both of them at the door of a large but plain-looking townhouse. There was a tiny lawn, a fiercely-trimmed flowerbed, a small brass plate on the door displaying the words: “Baxter’s Bar and Grill”, and absolutely no other sign that this was a business establishment.
“As I warned you, they’re Respectable up to the antenna-tips,” Thelin explained while ringing an old-fashioned doorbell. “In this town, my friend, appearances are everything.”
The door opened soundlessly, revealing a carpeted hallway and an elderly woman in an old-fashioned long dress and apron. “Yes?” she asked, volunteering nothing.
“Dinner for two, please,” said Thelin, pressing something into her hand.
The woman’s hand darted straight into her apron pocket, but Kirk saw the outline of her fingers moving as if she felt the weight and shape of the… Was it a cred-chip or a coin? Both were in use here, according to the scant information he’d gotten from the ship’s computer.
“This way, gentlebeings,” said the woman, turning away.
Kirk and Thelin followed, noting that the door swung soundlessly shut behind them. The woman led them down the quiet corridor, then through a large self-opening door on the left.
Beyond that lay the dining room, which was notable for its elegance, quiet, and -- Kirk could think of no other word for it – padding. The floor was covered with a thick maroon carpet. The chairs were all heavy wood, deep red, padded with thick cushions of dark green plush. Even the walls were hung with tapestries and curtains in dark vine-and-leaf designs. Most of the tables were filled with early diners, nearly all of them locals by their looks, many of them chatting among themselves, but Kirk could barely hear an undertone of voices or the clink of tableware.
“Sound-baffles in the ceiling,” Thelin murmured, catching his look. “This place prides itself on discretion.”
The woman led them to a table in a near corner, presented them with antique-style printed menus as big as ship-standard wall panels, and silently trotted off.
“Unbelievable,” said Kirk, peering at the long list of soups, appetizers, salads and entrees. “I feel as if I’d stepped back a couple of centuries.”
“In one sense, you have,” said Thelin. “Hah! Mud-lobster soup! Yes… The whole planet is trying to preserve the culture common to the upper classes of 19th-to-21st-century Earth. That leads to certain, ah, anachronisms.”
“Well, it certainly has its charm. Oh my stars, buffalo steak! How do we order? Wave flags at the waitress?”
“Just wave a finger. It’s considered low-brow to wave credit chips or coins, even though we won’t get out of here for less than 50 creds.”
“Ouch! The food had better be worth it!”
It was.
Kirk and Thelin took an hour to finish dinner, then lingered over dessert.
“Now that,” Kirk sighed, leaning back in his chair, “Was almost worth dealing with the Romulans. Where do we go next?”
“Watch me.” Thelin wagged a finger, and the waitress appeared as if by magic. Thelin tucked another coin in her palm and quietly asked: “Where may we view the antique paintings?”
“Room eighteen, upstairs, sir.” She pointed, with no more than a twitch of her finger, toward a dark floor-to-ceiling curtain nearby.
“Excellent,” purred Thelin. “Check, please?”
As the waitress trotted off, Kirk glanced at the curtain. “Hidden doorways? ‘Antique paintings’? Is that what they call cards around here?”
“Appearances are everything, remember. Pull out your cred-chips and brace yourself for the bill.”
“Hmm. Thelin, does it ever bother you that strangers tend to call you ‘sir’?”
“I’m used to it.” Thelin shrugged pre-her antennae. “It seems to be the common form of address, and most non-Andorians can’t recognize a pre-female neuter anyway. Ah, here comes the bill. Don’t faint.”
The total came to 63.58 CR, not counting the tip. It could have been worse, Kirk considered as he handed in his share; they could have splurged on a second half-bottle of wine, or chosen an imported brand.
“It was worth it,” he conceded, shoving back his chair. “Now, let’s part the curtain and hunt for the mysterious Room Eighteen.”
Beyond the heavy drapes lay a carpeted stairway. At its top stretched a carpeted hallway. To either side stood closed doors, which were covered in thick dark-green plastic padding.
“More soundproofing?” Kirk asked, pointing.
“Oh yes: the last barriers of Respectability. Discretion ends at the door. Hmm, seventeen, eighteen – here we are.”
Thelin pressed a tiny button almost hidden in the doorjamb, and the padded door swung silently open. Thelin stepped through quickly, and Kirk made haste to follow.
Beyond the green door, everything was different. The floor was scarred heavy-rubber tile. The walls and ceiling were covered with bare – and patchy – acoustic baffling. A single utility-lamp hung over a single huge, bare, round table. The chairs surrounding it were cheap bent-metal and plastic, more than a little stained. Along the windowless back wall ran a plain but well-stocked bar. In the left-hand wall stood another padded door, and Kirk was fairly sure it didn’t lead to a closet.
Around the table sat four other players, toying with a box of well-worn playing cards. The first was a middle-aged Klingon female in a flame-red dress, several kilos of jewelry, and a green plastic eyeshade; the glass tankard of blood-wine near her elbow was already half empty. To her right was an aging male Caitian in a once-expensive leisure suit that had seen better days; his whiskers were gray, his fur was patchy, his ears were tattered at the edges, and he reminded Kirk of a chewed-up old alley cat. Next to him rumbled and grumbled a Vrathi Incubator, noticeably overweight, with wrinkles showing in his/her four visible elbows; s/he was stripped down to the Vrathi equivalent of trousers and an undershirt, and both looked rumpled. The last of the assembled card-sharks was a tall and thin Themaxo, old enough to be long past budding-age, for Its pouches hung slack and shrunken; It wore corrective lenses on three of Its eyes, too much copper jewelry for Its age, and was smoking a pipeful of particularly rank musk-weed.
In short, they looked like a gang of truly dedicated Orion Poker-players.
“Greetings, card-maniacs,” said Thelin, grinning roguishly enough to show a bit of fang. “Is this everybody who’s playing?”
“Verdoosh couldn’t show up,” rumbled the Vrathi. “Something about legal troubles. Who’s your official-looking friend?”
“James T. Kirk,” said Kirk, wondering if he should offer to shake hands, show his teeth, growl, or what. “And who might you be?”
“James Kirk?!” hooted the old Themaxo. “The inventor of Fizzbin?”
Kirk sighed, wondering how long it would take him to live that down.
“Delighted to meet you, gentlebeing! I’m Lubthax, off the Quethali Merchant.” The old Themaxo wriggled Its chin-palps in delight. “Hokhblatt, we have a real player with us! Get the Human a drink.”
“Barmaid all day and barmaid all night, is it?” the Klingon woman grumbled, pulling herself out of her chair. “You like Saurian brandy, I hear.”
“And this is Vrrraw,” Lubthax waved at the Caitian, who purred. “He runs a small meat business down at the port supply-yards. And this—“
“I’m Tevrimm,” warbled the Vrathi, “Hmm, retired merchant, waiting for a ride home. Your ship wouldn’t be heading toward Vrath, would it?”
“No such luck,” said Kirk, taking a seat. “And we won’t be pulling out for two weeks, anyway.”
“Too bad.” Tevrimm drooped in his/her chair. “I really needed something sooner.”
“Something will turn up,” said Hokhblatt, returning with Kirk’s drink. “Everybody set with fluids? Yes? Then let’s get out money on the table.”
“Let Kirk shuffle and deal,” said Thelin, “And let’s start easy: aces high, nothing but joker wild, one cred to open.”
“Make it local cash,” growled Vrrraw. “It looks prettier on the table, and we can send downstairs for change when we call for food.”
“Suits me,” said Kirk, taking the cards.

* * *

By sundown the game had shifted to five-card draw, ten creds to open, and everybody’s glasses had been refilled at least twice. Likewise, everyone had grown more talkative.
“Gimme one,” Thelin grinned, “And raise you ten.”
“If you’re dealing to an inside straight again,” Kirk chided, “Remember: that kind of luck strikes only once in a blue moon. See you, and give me two.”
“I’m out, except as dealer,” growled Hokhblatt. “You’re getting too rich for a poor barmaid’s blood.”
“Poorrr? Hah!” purred Vrrraw. “I happen to know that you’re half-owner of that bar. I’ll see you, and take three.”
“Sure, and you wouldn’t believe what I have to pay in protection money. Enough to keep me poor, I’ll tell you.”
Kirk pricked up his ears. “Protection rackets? Here?”
“Oh gowglh, yes! I’m paying off the district police captain, the fire marshal and the sanitation commissioner. You wouldn’t believe how badly the Argo’ach want to keep the ‘vice trade’ for themselves, and gouge the hide off us foreigners. Lubthax, wake up; how many do you want?”
“Shrivelsacs, who dealt this mess?” Lubthax groaned. “Against my better judgment, I’m still in – but give me four.”
“Keeping an ace, eh? Here you go. Tevrimm, are you in this game?”
“Hm? Oh, yes. Give me two. Say, Lubthax, when’s your ship leaving? And how much for a berth on her?”
“Not for another five days, and you’ll have to pay 150 creds for really bad accommodations. Besides, we’re not going anywhere near Vrath.”
“No matter. Sign me up.”
“That desperate to get off Argo, eh?” Thelin peered over pre-her cards. “How hard are the badges looking for you?”
“Not that hard,” Tevrimm squirmed, oily sweat oozing down his/her neck-folds. “They just want more money than I’ve got. Why do you think I’ve been holed up here, playing every game I could get, for the last eight days?”
“They want money? Oho!” Vrrraw flicked his whiskers. “That means they’re looking fairly hard for you, my poor squiggle-bug. What did you do, assault the governor?”
“Oh, molt! I didn’t find out until after half the discs were already sold, I swear to Egg! How was I to know that pictures of grub-worms were considered obscene here? They confiscated all my stock and slapped me with a 5000-cred fine! I really must get out of here…”
“How,” Kirk asked, “Can anyone call pictures of grub-worms obscene?”
“Can’t you guess?” Hokhblatt rolled her eyes and gnashed her teeth. “Grub-worms look like infant Horta. Horta are intelligent beings. On Argo, pictures of the unclothed young of any intelligent being are called Child Pornography. Big sin: total confiscation and 5000-cred fine, for a first offense. Sweet set-up for any off-world vid-importers.”
“But Horta never wear clothes!”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s an excuse for total confiscation and 5000 creds. Get it?”
“Ye gods,” Kirk marveled. “A well-intentioned law, used like that!”
“As you Humans say,” Vrrraw purred, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“And I’m getting an interesting picture of Argo.”
“Veroosh was trying to get me some cash,” Tevrimm mumbled. “I’m worried that he didn’t show up.”
“Maybe he sold you out for the reward money – which will, of course, be added to your fine,” Lubthax chuckled. “I’ll raise you ten creds.”
“Don’t say that!” Tevrimm wailed.
“Calm down. I’ll get you on my ship tonight, and you can hide there until we leave. Unless you lose all your money gambling, of course. You in?”
“I fold.”
“Clever. Anyone else want to meet my bet?”
“I’ll meet it, and raise you another ten,” purred Vrrraw. “We Caitians have no problem with tattlers. Hrrrr.”
“What,” sneered Hokhblatt, “Do you pull out their whiskers?”
“No need. We just arranged for lots of supposed ‘stool pigeons’, as the locals quaintly call them, to give the badges wonderfully tempting – and false – information. Now they don’t trust the word of any Caitian, about anything. Simple.”
“Wonderful!” Thelin laughed, tossing pre-her coins into the pot. “So instead the Argo’ans think you’re all liars. How do you do any business with them?”
“We deal only with the local underground, and the spacer-trade.”
“Really?” said Kirk, idly matching the bet. “How big is the local underground?”
“Huge,” tittered Hokhblatt. “On a world like this it has to be.”
“How do you mean, a world like this?”
“Hah! Prissy, smug, hypocritical, and more self-righteous than Vulcans. Are all bets in?”
“I’ll stand—“ Lubthax started to say.
And right there they heard a distant explosion, then shouts, then loud thumps and sounds of smashing furniture.
“Grokhpyagh! That was the front door going down!” howled Hokhblatt. “It’s a raid!”
“How do you know?” Kirk asked, scrambling to his feet.
“Urghblech, I run a spaceport bar, don’t I?”
“Out! Let me out!” wailed Tevrimm, skittering for the side door. “This way!”
“Out a window!” yowled Vrrraw.
“Just a minute,” said Thelin, grabbing the coins off the table.
“Don’t lose that!” clattered Lubthax, lurching after Tevrimm.
“Hrrisss! No windows!” hissed Vrrraw, leaping over them.
“The door’s locked!” yelled Hokhblatt, tugging at it.
“Stand back!” shouted Thelin – and pre-she made a running kick at the latch.
The door surrendered, and flew open.
By leaps, bounds, hops and wriggles, they all went thundering into the next room.
The next room had been furnished for a very different purpose. The walls were festooned with fake-flower garlands and lace, but again there were no windows. The only furnishings were a fussy-frilly dressing table and chair, and an enormous four-poster bed. On the bed, amid the tumbled lacey coverlets, lay a pot-bellied male Argo-Human, a hairy male Tellarite, an Orion green slave-girl, and two shaggy dogs. It was anyone’s guess what they had been doing, but when the sudden crowd came stampeding through, the humanoids all sat up and screamed.
The dogs decided that this meant war. They leaped off the bed, barking like mad, and charged at the invaders.
The nearest invader, unfortunately, was Kirk. The dogs tried to grab him by the legs, getting only mouthfuls of cloth, but it was enough to slow him down. “Get off!” he roared, in his best command-voice.
Vrrraw, who disliked dogs on general principles, turned on the beasts. He hissed like a tiger, baring his claws and fangs.
The dogs, deciding that oversized cats didn’t fall within their job description, turned around and ran back to the bed. They leaped up among the tossing blankets and howling occupants, adding more confusion to the jolly tangle.
“Door!” shouted Thelin, pointing to another green-padded door in the far wall.
The others ran for it. Kirk barely had time to notice that his pants-legs were torn and flapping before Thelin hit the door.
Actually, Thelin executed another flying kick at the door, assuming that this one would be locked, too. Pre-she was wrong; this door was unlocked, yielded to the first hint of pressure, gaped wide and let Thelin go flying through to land in a heap on the next room’s floor. Everyone else tripped over pre-her on the way in, and most fell sprawling.
As soon as they could pull themselves upright, they found themselves in a room with even more different furnishings. This one was decked out like an ancient Arcturian torture-chamber, complete with leather hangings and tool-racks full of unguessable objects. In the midst of what appeared to be an elaborate rack, a male Klingon was doing something ridiculous with a small Horta.
“Goghblutt!” Hokhblatt shouted, seeing him. “How could you?!”
The Klingon actually cringed. The Horta promptly wriggled out of the rack and started burrowing through the floor.
“It’s not my fault,” Goghblutt wailed. “I couldn’t help myself! All those pictures of grub-worms—“
“Don’t blame me for this, you— you molt-fungus!” Tevrimm howled.
The Horta hit the floor below with a crash like colliding starships.
“That’s done it,” Lubthax groaned. “Now they know we’re up here.”
“No windows!” Vrrraw howled.
“Another door!” Thelin pointed.
They all ran for it. This time, Thelin remembered to try the knob first, which worked. Pre-she ran through into darkness. All the other card-players followed—
--and found themselves in the clutter of a broom-closet.
“Now what?” panted Vrrraw, pulling the door shut behind them. “Do we keep quiet and hope the badges won’t search the closets?”
“No such luck,” Hokhblatt growled. “They’ll search every inch of the place, looking for valuable ‘evidence’ to confiscate.”
“Hang on,” whispered Kirk. “I’ve got an idea. Everybody, hug me.”
“Not now, you mad fool!” hissed Thelin.
“Do it!” snapped Kirk. “It’s our ticket out of here!”
Everybody promptly laid a hand, paw or tentacle on him. He whoofed under the impact.
“Is this right?”
“What’s this supposed to do?”
“Shush! They’re coming!”
Everyone could hear the loud thumps of multiple boots galloping up the stairs.
Kirk managed to pull his communicator from his belt and open it. “Enterprise,” he wheezed, “Emergency beam-up!” And he hit the bug-out button for good measure.
An instant later, sparkling blue mist surrounded them.
A moment after that, the darkness of the broom-closet gave way to the bright light and space of the Enterprise’s transporter room. Behind the console stood a very surprised Yeoman Rand.
Kirk hopped off the platform and strode to the console while the others looked about, orienting themselves. He reached for the communications board and punched some buttons. In a moment, the small viewscreen revealed a picture of the activity in the house he’d just left. Kirk did a classic double-take, then looked closer.
“Damn!” he roared, turning to face Thelin. “Those aren’t the city badges; they’re the Shore Police! What the hell’s going on?”
“Then it wasn’t Veroosh selling me out,” blubbered Tevrimm.
“No: governor’s orders to clean out the back-of-the-shipyards district, before important visitors could see them.” Hokhblatt glared daggers at Kirk. “Important visitors – like you.”
“What, cleaning up so Starfleet won’t see?” Thelin’s antennae flailed. “But my ship’s been in port for a week.”
“You said your crew all went off to the backwoods, hunting,” Kirk reminded pre-her.
“Besides,” Vrrraw rumbled, “You just don’t have the clout that the Enterprise does – or else your crew isn’t as famous for being inquisitive.”
“Thanks loads,” said Kirk, poking more buttons. “Hell, you’re right. Look at the shipyards district: SPs all over the place.”
Hokhblatt and Vrrraw looked at each other. “There goes my business,” they both said at the same instant.
“Oh, Egg,” Tevrimm groaned, “And they’re even going after the respectable places, like Baxter’s. Lubthax, how fast can we get to your ship?”
“Sign me on, too,” sighed Vrrraw. “They’ll confiscate my whole shop and bank account for fines. If you can’t take me on except as crew, remember I used to be a pretty good machinist.”
“Take me, too,” Hokhblatt chimed in. “I can do amazing things with a replicator.”
“What about your Klingon friend, back at Baxter’s?” Thelin asked.
“Hah! Let his Horta sweetheart take care of him! I’m out of here.”
“Well, this is going to cost us in extra food-staples, you know…” Lubthax wriggled one palp suggestively.
“Right,” said Vrrraw, Hokhblatt and Tevrimm together. They started handing him bits of Argo’an coin and jewelry.
“Hmm,” said Thelin, glancing at Kirk. “I suddenly understand the custom, among the local underclass, of carrying all one’s cash, wearing all one’s jewelry and dressing in survival-worthy clothes at all times. Can you send us to our respective ships, Jim?”
“Can do,” said Kirk, stepping around the console. Rand hastily got out of his way. “I’m already getting a very interesting picture of Argo Port City.”
The transporter hummed twice more, leaving an empty platform.
“There,” Kirk sighed in the ensuing silence. “Now, I suppose, I’d best get back to my hotel and start over. Yeoman, you have the board.”
“Uhh, sir,” Rand giggled, “I’ll need the exact – I mean, exact – coordinates for your hotel room, sir. You really don’t want to appear in the, uh, lobby, sir.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“Uh, well, because you’re, uh, not exactly wearing pants, sir.”
Kirk didn’t believe it until he looked down and saw exactly how much damage the dogs had done. Then his language grew colorful enough to make Rand take notes.

Our Engineer would yield to none at putting down the brew.
He outdrank seven space-marines and a demolition crew.
The navigator didn’t win, but he outdrank almost all,
And now they’ve got a shuttlecraft on the roof of City Hall.

“Take ‘er oot, Mister Chekov,” said Scott. “I’ve done enou’ work today.”
“Right, Mistair Scott.” Chekov touched the controls delicately, and watched as the docking bay of the Enterprise slid away from them. “Now det we heff time, could you plis explain why we’re tekkingk de shuttlecreft instead of chust bimmingk down like everyone else?”
“Three guid reasons.” Scott ticked them off on his fingers. “First, oor transporters are due to be inspected and possibly repaired, which means they’d likely be oot o’ commission when we need ‘em. Second, I’d like t’see a bit o’ the countryside, where local transporters might no’ reach, an’ I dinna see why we should pay tourist rates for aircars when we can use oor own f’r free. Thirrd…” He gave Chekov a broad wink. “I’ve been doin’ a bit o’ tinkerin’ wi’ these engines, an’ I’d like ta test ‘em oot. Does thot answer yer questions, laddie?”
“Aye, sair. Now where shell we set down?”
“I’ll show ye.” Scott fiddled briefly with the sensor controls. A close-up of the city below spread out on the viewscreen like a detailed aerial map. “There, noo. D’ye see the spaceport, where the ship-ta-shore craft land? Ta th’ east set the big ships, an’ ta th’ west lie th’ smaller ones. We’ll land as close ta yon edge o’ the field as we can. ‘Tis less distance ta walk.”
“Walk where, sair?”
“Look again, lad. Th’ repair-shops lie in a line along th’ south edge o’ the port. Th’ line ta th’ west, a’ yon warehooses there, thot’s suppliers f’r th’ yard an’ ships. Noo look a wee bit behind there, an’ ye’ll see smaller buildin’s. Yon’s th’ true ‘entertainment district’, an’ no’ the milk-bluided amusements where th’ Argo city elders would send us.”
“You said you waire on Argo bifore.”
“Aye, lad: once, years ago; but I doobt th’ place has changed much. I made th’ mistake o’ wanderin’ inta th’ city proper.” He made a disgusted face. “Aye, an’ proper ‘twas! So proper, ye couldna find a joy-hoose nor bar whot served unwatered drinks nor aught else but th’ opera hoose an’ th’ ballgame arena. It took me five days ta learn where th’ real fun was.”
“Es prissy es thet?”
“Worse! They dinna even allow holo-virt parlors, an’ e’en th’ videos be censored t’ a fare-thee-well.”
“Not ellow holo-firts?!”
“Aye. Some years ago they decided thot th’ youngsters were spendin’ too much o’ their time adventurin’ in ‘em. No’ thot I blame the bairns; their lives be so dull, they’d do anythin’ t’escape.”
“So what do the cheeldren do now?”
“Och, they’ve invented fun o’ their own.” Scott laid a finger beside his nose and winked. “I hear there’s a marvelous undergroond network o’ computer games an’ message services. I’ll be tappin’ inta it, once we land.”
He flicked the viewscreen back to normal, and judged the distance to the port.
“Hmm. Ye do th’ flyin’, lad,” Scott decided, reaching for the communications console. “I’ll see if I canna get us a berth entirely by computer-link, an’ no’ hafta speak t’an Argo official at a’.”
Twenty minutes later, the shuttlecraft settled to a feather-light landing in Berth 103, on the westernmost edge of the landing field. Scott left Chekov to handle the routine shutdown and lockup chores, grabbed his luggage and got out. The first thing he did was head toward the nearest warehouse, looking for a public computer outlet.
By the time Chekov caught up to him, he was drumming his fingers on the now-blank screen and frowning thoughtfully.
“So, where do we go next, Mistair Scott,” Chekov asked. “Eh, is sometink wrong?”
“Aye.” Scott took Chekov by the elbow and led him, at a discreet but fast walk, further into the warehouse district. “’Tis guid ta know thot even on Argo th’ youngsters ha’ th’ wit ta question whot they’re told, an’ learn more thon they’re taught.”
“You’fe talked to friends in the computair undairground?”
“They ca’ it th’ Undernet. Aye, an’ a fine tale ‘tis, too.” Scott glanced casually over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t followed. “Th’ bairns ha’ hacked inta th’ police computer system, an’ they’ve foond oot thot th’ portside entertainment district is ta be raided, wi’in an oor or less. ‘Tis th’ orders o’ th’ planetary governor, if ye please.”
“Redded? But why?”
“There be two schools o’ thought aboot it. Th’ one says, yon governor wants ta clean oop th’ district before th’ Enterprise crew can find it an’ spend oor money there. T’other says, yon businesses havna been payin’ enou’ protection money ta suit him. Ma guess is, there’s truth in both theories.”
“Cen we warn the pipple there?”
“A’ready done, lad. Everyone who’s there has gotten th’ word, grabbed their money an’ departed.”
“So much for our shore leafe! Where shell we go now?”
“Ta where everyone else has gone, lad.” Scott grinned, heading toward a large, dilapidated-looking warehouse. “Ta th’ bolt-hole. Ye dinna believe, do ye, thot th’ governor hasna pulled this trick before? Nor thot the locals havna made plans f’r more o’ th’ same?”

* * *

The warehouse had no visible windows, only two large doors and several small ones. Scott’s practiced eye picked out the tiny lenses of security cameras peeping from under the eaves. In front of the building stood a weathered signpost, but no sign hung from it. Scott pointed to the hole drilled through the post, and the large rusty bolt driven through it.
“Th’ Bolt-Hole, as I said.”
Scott led the way to one of the smaller doors, knocked twice, waited, and then knocked three times more. The door swung open soundlessly, revealing only a short windowless corridor with another door at the far end. Alerted now, Chekov thought to look up – and noticed the tiny glass eyes of a sensor array peering down at them. He smiled and waved.
The first door closed behind them, and the second opened ahead. Scott and Chekov stepped through, into a sea of noise, fumes and shadows.
The revealed room was enormous, taking up at least half the volume of the warehouse by itself. On the back wall stood a long, long bar, stocked with every bottle and glass imaginable, and crowded with customers of just about the same description. Along the front wall stood a bank of stages, most of them displaying music holovids, some of them designed for live acts. In between lay a quarter-acre of tables and chairs, also crowded. It was difficult to see just how crowded, because the lighting was low and the air full of assorted smokes. The overhead-suction fans labored mightily, but still couldn’t keep up with the customers.
Chekov tried hard not to stare, but he would have tripped several times – over his own feet and those of other patrons – if Scott hadn’t kept a reliable grip on his arm. Like a tug towing a freighter, Scott steered them straight and true toward the bar.
“Pardon me. ‘Scuse me…” Scott recited, politely taking space against the bar between what looked like a drunken Tellarite and a sober Andorian. “Och, it looks like everra-one an’ his uncle’s here a’ready.”
“Where else should we go?” growled the Andorian. “Haven’t you heard? The SP’s raiding the pleasure-zone.”
“Aye, I’ve heard, an’ I’d like ta know why.”
“Righteousness and money,” the Andorian laughed, showing fang. “A bad combination.”
“What rotten luck,” Chekov grumbled. “Dey chose to clin op de plece chust es our ship comes in.”
“You from Enterprise?” The Tellarite roused from his stupor enough to glare. “Is your fault they shut down joy-houses!”
“It’s us dey rob, you min!” Chekov snapped back. “Four hundred and t’airty-fife crew mins a lot uff money the fun pleces don’t gat. Instead, you can bat, de Argos plen to gouge us good.”
“Just so,” added the Andorian. “How many clean, wholesome ballgames and ballets can you watch, at thirty creds a ticket?”
“T’airty creds?!”
“Not to mention, at least five creds per drink.”
“Fife creds!”
“That just for low-alcohol beer,” snorted the Tellarite. “Wine, seven creds. Fancy drinks, ten.”
“Aaaaagh!” Chekov howled. “Mistair Scott, greb de bartender, quick, bifore de good stuff is all gone!”
A hard-worked barmaid trotted up just then to take their orders. Predictably, they asked for Earth Scotch and Stolichnaya vodka. “Also,” Scott added, looking over the rest of the room, “I believe we’ll take yon table there.”
They managed to get their drinks and grab seats at the table before anyone could beat them to it. The entry door had opened several more times since their arrival, and the bar was growing more crowded still. Despite the loud music from the holovids, it was too easy to overhear the talk of the crowds at the nearer tables, and the general mood was decidedly ugly. Now that Chekov’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he could see that the drinkers at the next table were a gang of Andorian mercenaries in marine uniforms.
“I can’t believe they went after Hokhblatt’s place,” one of them was snarling. “She paid her taxes, bribes, contributions to damn-near everything. Everyone knows that you can’t milk an althegar if you butcher it for meat!”
“The governor wants big money right now,” reflected another. “My third littermate’s engineer says the dirty little politician needs campaign funds, and wants to break up the Merchant party.”
“Why?” grumbled a third. “They bring in good money, don’t they?”
“Yes,” said the second, “But they’re the ones who want to end the Propriety laws, bring in more spacer-trade, and they’re the ones who forced the upcoming special election after that scandal with the maid in the governor’s coat-closet. He’ll need to buy lots of votes to keep his fat rump on the governor’s chair. So: raid the space-trade merchants, and snare two nithgar with one net.”
“Arrh,” growled a fourth, around his tankard of what looked like Romulan ale, “I say, let’s give him a scandal he’ll never live down.”
“What do you have in mind?” asked the fifth.
“Aha, wreck the place!” laughed the sixth, showing fangs.
“Loot and trash Proper Town, you mean?” bleared the seventh.
“Now that would be thought on,” murmured the first. “Where would we start, and how would we get there?”
Scott and Chekov looked at each other.
“Should we get out uff here?” Chekov asked.
“Na, na, keep yer seat, lad.” Scott eyed his drink. “Lorrd knows, if we gi’e up oor seats, we may no’ find ithers, an’ I hate ta drink standin’ up. …Still, I think we’d best nurse oor drinks slowly, an’ order ‘em wi’ lots o’ ice hereafter, just in case.”
Right then, the music stopped briefly to change discs. In the relative quiet, Chekov noticed the crowd at the table on his other side.
The drinkers were a very mixed bag: one Horta, needing no chair, but towering over the table even as he sat on the floor; one Human from an obviously heavy-gravity planet; one Klingon-something with muscles like a bull; one creature that had to be a cross between a Vulcan or Romulan and an Andorian, and it was anyone’s guess how that had happened. All of them wore civilian uniforms with the logo “Skoov’s Demolitions” emblazoned on the back. They all looked distinctly angry.
Also at the table, gulping up a tall glass of what looked like Sangria, was a young Human woman wearing a satin jumpsuit that looked sprayed on, tons of jangly jewelry, odd puffs of lace here and there, and enough face-paint to equip a whole theatrical troupe. Her mascara was tear-streaked, which looked oddly fetching, and she was animatedly telling a story to the four rapt demolishers.
“—barely had time to grab our clothes and things. Maryanne had to leave her teddy-bear collection behind, and it just broke her heart. What would the badges do with a teddy-bear collection, anyway?”
“Sell it,” rumbled the Horta. “You can sell anything on this planet, if you know where.”
“Right. Thieves’ Market, on Greenmarket Boulevard.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Poor Maryanne!”
Scott’s ears pricked up at that, and an odd gleam came into his eye. “Eh, lass,” he said, bending closer to her table, “I’m always willin’ ta help a lady in distress. Tell me where I can find yon market, an’ Miss Maryanne as weel, an’ I’ll be happy ta help her buy back her teddy-bears.”
“Oh, would you?” she gushed.
“Coordinates 34.28, city grid,” said the Vulcanoid/Andorian demolisher. “We all know it by heart.”
“Couldn’t survive without it,” said the heavy-world Human. “It’s the only place on the planet where you can find anything you want at anything like a reasonable price.”
“Anythin’?” Scott repeated, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Such as…itchin’ powder, or stink-bombs, or chemicals for makin’ ‘em, or odd electronic parts?”
“True,” said the Klingon/half-breed, giving him an odd look. “Just what are you planning?”
Instead of answering directly, Scott leaned toward the other table. “Eh, lads,” he called to the plotting Andorians, “Would ye like ta get some revenge on th’ Argo government, wi’ none bein’ th’ wiser as ta who’s done it?”
The Andorian marines looked at each other, then swung their antennae toward him. “Oh, yessss!” they all hissed together.
“Mistair Scott, what are you doingk?” Chekov whispered frantically.
“Patience, laddie, an’ learn,” Scott grinned, then turned back to the marines. “Firrst, y’know th’ kids o’ the Undernet ha’ a’ready hacked inta th’ police computer-system, an’ ‘twouldna take much ta plant some misleadin’ messages there…”
“Yes? Yes?” The inhabitants of both tables leaned toward him, hanging on his every word.
“Ach, this is goin’ ta take some time t’explain. Let’s a’ order anither round o’ these decent drinks. Yo, barmaid!”

* * *

It was well after dark when Scott and Chekov came strolling out of the Bolt-Hole and headed back to the landing-field. They were walking slowly, but not staggering – at least, not much.
“I still dun’t understend why dey didn’t cetch on,” Chekov hiccupped. “Dun’t dey know det Nova brend drinks are non-elcoholic?”
“No’ likely, m’lad. Yon marines are non-Starfleet; they’d had little opportunity ta run inta th’ stuff. Anyway, by th’ time we started orderin’ thot, they were too far doon their own drinks ta notice.”
“So we left them snoring undair the tebbles. Ef course, dis will edd considerably to your riputetion, you know. But why do it in de first plece?”
“Ta keep yon wee laddies from goin’ inta Proper Toon an’ doin’ serious damage,” Scott grinned. “Aye, they’ll ha’ their fun, an’ embarrass th’ local governor an’ badges an a’ – if they remember any o’ this when they sober up – but ‘twill be harmless mischief instead o’ real damage.”
“Mistair Scott, you are a chenius.” Chekov heaved a huge sigh. “Now if unly dere was still a nice choy-house where we could spind de night…”
“Did ye no’ hear me wangle fro’ the lady th’ address o’ th’ respectable place where her not-so-respectable friends be stayin’? ‘Tis th’ Hotel Avalon, as I might ha’ guessed. I’ll warrant, we can get a bit o’ discreet fun… Hey, wha’s thot?”
Ahead of them, light-beams flashed. Running, struggling silhouettes flickered against the lights. Voices echoed: shouting, cursing, and bellowing in pain.
“Guid Lorrd, they’re raidin’ th’ parked ships! Come on!”
Scott dived into the nearest shadow and ran toward the field in its concealment, Chekov stumbling after him.
“Dey cen’t do det!” Chekov panted. “Starflit would nefer ellow eet!”
“Nay, but they might claim search-rights on th’ civilian ships – an’ they can a’ways say later thot they couldna tell a fleet shuttlecraft in th’ dark. Here, noo. We’ll hafta wait fer oor chance, then dash for it.”
The battle seemed to be centered on a middle-sized Caitian runabout, some three berths down. Unfortunately, only a single small flitter stood between the Caitian and the shuttlecraft, offering little cover. On the other hand, the battle was a lively one, drawing everyone’s attention. About half a dozen Argo Port Shore Police were trying to board the Caitian ship, armed with clubs and small stunners; the five furred and fanged Caitians, with their catlike speed and agility – armed only with their natural weapons – were giving as good as they got. One of the SPs was crawling away, howling over a scratched arm. One of the Caitian crew slumped beside his ship, trying to shake off the effects of a near miss from a stun-beam.
“They’re preoccupied,” Scott whispered, “An’ ‘tis only twenty meters or so ta th’ ship. Let’s go.”
Scott and Chekov bolted for the shuttlecraft, trying not to make noise, hoping nobody looked their way. Chekov devoutly hoped that anyone noticing them would see nothing suspicious about a pair of uniformed Humans running toward a fight instead of away from it. They managed to reach the shuttlecraft’s flank without attracting attention.
“Now dere’s unly de little problem uff gittingk inside,” Chekov whispered.
“Here’s th’ hatch. I’ll get ‘er open, ye jump inside an’ grab th’ controls. I’ll be right after ye.” Scott furiously poked buttons on his communicator.
The shuttlecraft’s near hatch obligingly swung open. The hiss of its hydraulics sounded horrendously loud.
Chekov obediently leaped through the door and scrambled into the far seat. Scott climbed in after him, not two steps behind.
“We’ve no’ been spotted yet,” Scott panted, jabbing buttons to close the hatch. “Once we start up th’ engines, though, they’re boond ta notice.”
“Too lett for dem!” Chekov gleefully slapped the control panel.
No one could mistake the sound of the warming engines, nor the growing lights from the little ship’s nacelles.
The wounded SP stopped wailing about his clawed arm, picked up his club and ran to the shuttlecraft. He yelled at whoever was inside, and banged his club on the nearest porthole. Chekov favored him with an ancient Earth hand-sign that only made the badge-man yell and bang louder.
“Up, lad! Get ‘er up fast!” shouted Scott.
“The enchines aren’t complitly warmed,” Chekov worried.
“They’ll take th’ strain. Lift!”
Chekov dutifully punched more buttons. The sound of the engines changed, whining angrily.
Now the noise distracted the attention of the other SPs. Two of them turned around to yell unheard orders at the shuttlecraft.
This gave the Caitian crew the break they needed. The crewman on the ground, now recovered, tackled the nearest badge-man and brought him down, thwacking his helmeted head on the pavement. The other Caitians double-teamed the three SPs in front of them, likewise whacked their heads on the ground, then scrambled for their own hatch. One of the SPs looked around, saw the Caitians escaping, and shot the last crewman squarely with a stun-beam. The big cat collapsed in the open hatchway. Before the badges could grab him, his fellow crewmen took his arms and hauled him through the hatch. The SP’s attempt to climb after him was met with a decisive kick that threw him back onto the ground. The hatch clanged shut, and the Caitian ship’s engines began to rumble.
Meanwhile, the shuttlecraft started to lift.
“Too slow,” Scott muttered.
“Too coldt,” Chekov explained.
The chief of the SP squad whipped his head about, glaring furiously at both escaping ships. Seeing that the shuttlecraft was more likely to get away clean, he pulled out a heavier phaser than his men had been using, clicked the selector hard over, and fired.
The glare nearly blinded Scott and Chekov. Red alarm-lights flashed on the control board.
“Och, asthore! Yon’s no stun-beam!” Scott roared.
“She’s liftingk!” Chekov yelled. “Fife miters, tin, twinty…”
“Pity we didna think ta turn on the shields.”
“…forty, fifty… We’re out uff renge.”
“Look ye there; yon Caitian made no such mistake.”
Sure enough, the Caitian ship was rising. The red-faced SP squad leader was firing at it, but the beam deflected off the Caitian’s shields in a halo of blue light.
“Go, pretty-kitties! Go!” Scott cheered.
“Sefenty-fife… Mistair Scott, de controls are sluggish.”
“Whot’s she up ta?”
The Caitian ship had stopped lifting at almost exactly twenty meters. As Scott watched, entranced, she moved forward and right in a sharp curve.
“Begod, she’s goin’ ta buzz ‘em!”
Sure enough, the Caitian swooped back toward the fist-shaking mass of SPs, picking up speed as she came. The badge-men, suddenly realizing their danger, had the sense to scatter. Even so, the backwash from the low-flying runabout knocked them off their feet and sent them skidding down the concrete in half a dozen directions, collecting scrapes and bruises, shedding their clubs, communicators and sidearms. The Caitian swung about again, in a wider arc.
“She’s huntin’!” Scott whooped. “She’s lookin’ fer more badges ta knock doon!”
On the console, unnoticed, another red warning-light came on.
“Which wey, Mistair Scott?”
“Och, back ta th’ Enterprise. We’d best see whot damage yon shot did, an’ I should file a report while th’ memory’s still fresh.”
“Eh, Mistair Scott, I t’ink you’d bitter heff a look et de board.”
Scott looked at the winking lights, and chewed his lip. “Oops,” was all he said.
“Mistair Scott, I’m heffing trouble wit’ steering.”
“Gi’e me th’ controls.” Scott jabbed more buttons. “Aye, I’d better put ‘er on manual...”
“We’re loosingk eltitude!”
“I know, I know! An’ th’ steerin’s way off… Och, I dinna think we’ll make it ta th’ Enterprise.”
“But where cen we lend? Not et de speceport!”
“A park, a groondcar parkin’ lot, anythin’ big enou’…”
Scott wrestled with the controls, but the wounded shuttlecraft continued to sink. Worse, her rubbery steering had pointed her nose toward the downtown section of Argo Port City. Nothing lay ahead but large, tall buildings.
“Oh, hell!” Scott groaned. “Just gi’e me anythin’ wi’ a flat roof!”
Bright-lit buildings flowed under them, disturbingly close, all narrow and pointy of roof. The alarm-speaker on the console bleeped plaintively.
“We’re comingk down! Try for a strit, et list!”
Scott was considering that when he saw, right ahead, the answer to his prayers. It was a big, sturdy building, heavy with elaborate stonework – and it had a big, wide, blessedly flat roof.
“There, ma bairn…” Scott crooned to the laboring ship, “Only a wee few meters more. Retros… Easy, easy noo…”
“Bozhemoi, we’re goingk to mek it!”
The shuttlecraft hovered, coughed, dropped lower, and settled with an audible groan of relief on the tiled stone surface. The roof creaked alarmingly under her weight, but held.
With a silent prayer of gratitude, Scott turned the engines off.
“We’re alife!” Chekov panted. “I rilly wish I hed a drink right now.”
“Weel, we’d best report in.” Scott sighed, and punched the comm-board.
The voice that answered him, somewhat to his surprise, was Yeoman Rand’s. Apparently she was in the transporter room, and monitoring ship-to-shore calls as well. Scott explained the situation briefly, leaving out the embarrassing details.
“Before we beam up, lass,” he finished, “Can ye gi’e me oor coordinates? I confess, I dinna know where we are.”
There was a long pause, then an odd sound that might have been a smothered giggle. When Rand’s voice came back on, it was calm and perfectly controlled.
“Sir,” she said, “There’ll be no problem getting your coordinates. You’re precisely on top of the Argo Port City Hall.”
“Oh, bluidy hell!” was all Scott said.

Our proper, cool, First Officer was drugged with something green
And hauled into an alley, where he suffered things obscene.
He sobered up in Sickbay, and he’s none the worse for wear,
Except he somehow taught the bridge computer how to swear.

Commander Spock, late of Vulcan, First Officer of the Enterprise, was busy hunting. He peered from one computer screen to another, punched in some more space for comparative split-screens, ordered the computer’s voice to repeat certain highlighted key words, and closed in on his quarry. “’Tcha-luk-ma’,” recited the computer.
“’…some Look-Ma girls…’” appeared, highlighted, on the screen.
“Yes!” Spock whispered, in a rare but excusable breach of Vulcan propriety. “Orionese origin!”
He leaned back to study the screen, and considered the implications of what he’d found.
Item: the Argo government, as noted in the planetary information summary, made considerable effort to keep ‘foreign influences’ out of the planet’s culture.
Item: nonetheless, certain phrases of extraplanetary origin had crept into the common vocabulary, particularly among the lower managerial and upper laboring classes – but only in certain areas.
Note: those areas were almost entirely limited to the groundside spaceport, the orbiting dock, and businesses directly connected to interplanetary trade.
Item: very few of those loaned words came from Federation worlds; the vast majority of them were Orionese.
Why Orionese, specifically? Certainly Argo had some trade with the Orions, being close to their regular space-trade routes, but judging from simple logistics Argo should have at least as much trade with the Federation. So, why the preponderance of Orionese words?
Item: the borrowed Orionese words were usually expletives, concerning the usual humanoid preoccupation with excretion and mating, but a good third of them referred to something else. They were common Orionese terms used in the slave-trade, for which the Orions were notorious all over the galaxy.
Item: the word ‘tchalukma’ referred to a slave purchased for ‘entertainment’ services.
“Disturbing…” Spock murmured through his steepled fingers.
This implied that several employees of Argo’s orbiting dock were allowing Orion ships to transport slaves through the local system. Worse, the use of the Orionese terms among personnel connected to the ground port and related industries implied that slaves were being brought onto – or, worse, taken out from – the planet’s surface.
Did the Argo government know? Just how high did the chain of corruption reach?
But all this was speculation. Linguistic clues were not enough to launch a Starfleet investigation. More evidence and solid facts were needed.
And the present two weeks’ shore leave presented an excellent opportunity for a private fact-finding mission.
Spock poked the computer further, saving his notes under a simple first-level code which the captain could access if necessary. The computer-voice ran through the list of Orionese words once more, and Spock memorized the pronunciations carefully; if he heard any of those words spoken groundside, he wanted to recognize them at once. Finally he jabbed the computer to silence, got up and considered his wardrobe. He could not possibly wear his Starfleet uniform; the sight of it would scare away possible informants. Something civilian, of course: some costume of a barely-successful merchant…
“A dealer in kevas and trillium,” he remembered, his lips twitching in the faintest ghost of a smile. Yes, that disguise had fooled Klingons once; it should work quite well on Argo.

* * *

Half an hour later, his tricorder and communicator concealed under loose Vulcan merchant’s robes, Spock strode to the transporter room.
The tech on duty, he noted, was Yeoman Rand. Yes, she had been training recently for the rank of transporter technician, certainly a wise career move, but right now she seemed less than pleased with the responsibilities attendant upon her new rank. In fact, she was arguing with three of the Argo space-dock technicians.
“I’m sorry, lady,” the chief tech insisted. “The sky-dock is Argo property, and Starfleet regs specifically state – section 43, paragraph G – that at least one Starfleet officer must remain on board at all times, except during fumigation – and we won’t get to that for another three days. Sorry about holding up your shore leave, but them’s the rules.”
“But with only three of us here, that means I’m stuck on board until the first relief comes up – and that won’t be for another four days!”
“Hey, sorry, but your own officers wrote the duty-roster.”
At that moment Rand’s eye fell on Spock. She did a double-take, then – with a recovery speed which Spock would have found admirable at any other time – she all but lunged toward him, wearing a desperate smile.
“Mister Spock,” she chirped, “I’m surprised to see you. You don’t usually take shore leave.”
“This is a special case,” he said, stepping onto the platform with a little more haste than was absolutely necessary. “Send me directly to the ground port, please.”
“Ah, are you sure you want to leave just now? Couldn’t it wait for a few days?”
Spock considered that some sort of compromise might be in order. “I assure you, Yeoman,” he said, “I shall return in considerably less than four days. Please energize.”
Defeated, Rand went back to the transporter control board and glumly jabbed the buttons.
A moment later, Spock materialized on one of the general-passenger platforms at the Argo Port City groundside spaceport. He automatically patted at his clothing to make certain his tricorder and communicator had arrived safely with him, then noted the somewhat ragged Tellarite standing in front of the platform.
“Get off, get off already,” the Tellarite snorted. “Not hold up traffic. This one want to leave now.”
Spock obligingly stepped off the platform. The Tellarite hopped up into the space he’d just emptied, pecked a destination onto the wall-mounted keyboard beside the platform, then stepped quickly to the center of the marked circle and beamed away.
Curious, Spock looked down the line of platforms stretching down the side of the passenger concourse, and noticed that every spot had a waiting-line. He watched for precisely one standard minute, and observed two more Tellarites, three Andorians, two Caitians, two Themaxo, several heavy-world Humans, and – yes – one Orion get on the platforms and beam off. He saw nobody arriving.
Spock turned away and strolled toward the main doors, murmuring quietly to his tricorder: “Note: there seems to be a considerable exodus of off-worlders from the spaceport. Why?”
The obvious solution was to question a willing local. Spock paused by the doors and glanced to either side. At such locations one could usually find small merchants peddling their wares, or even beggars panhandling, but today there was no one…
…Except for one lone Human, sub-species indeterminate, who sat huddled on a bench puffing surreptitiously on some manner of smoke-stick. The Human appeared to be of late middle age, of indifferent health, none too clean, dressed in a collection of Argo-standard clothing which had seen better days. The man had that slumped, cheerful-in-defeat, cynical look that defined humanoid beggars the galaxy over. Obviously, he’d be a good gossip.
Spock approached cautiously, considering the best words for the situation.
“Excuse me, gentlebeing,” he said, “But have you seen John, the map-seller?” The name, like the character, was invented but believable.
“Dunno ‘im,” muttered the Human, stubbing out his smoke-stick. “Nobody here today, anyhow.”
“How curious,” said Spock. “Where has everyone gone?”
“Just out of here.” The man glanced nervously to right and left. “Haven’t you heard? Argo City’s doin’ a cleanup on the foreigners. You’d better turn around and get right back on your ship ‘til after the big bird’s gone.”
“Big…bird?” Spock did his best to look bewildered without breaking with his disguise. “Who might that be?”
“A ship, y’dumb Vulc! That big Starfleet battle-wagon that just pulled in. Th’ Argo gov doesn’t want their crew to see something Less Than Respectable, go tellin’ tales to the Fleet. Get it?”
“I do indeed.” Spock affected a slightly-puzzled frown, just the right display of emotion for a lower-class merchant. “How, then, shall I complete my business arrangements?”
“Depends on what your business is,” said the Human, looking sly.
“I am…St’venn, a dealer in kevas and trillium.”
The Human’s eyes defocused slightly. “I got no idea what that is,” he admitted.
“Medicinal plants,” said Spock, knowing that the term could cover much ground. “I had heard of an Orion ship with a cargo of raw kevas, but I have no knowledge of her name or whereabouts. I was hoping to find the Orion sector and ask her cargomaster.”
The Human gave him a wide-eyed look. “Oh, man,” he groaned, “You don’t want to go to the Orion neighborhood. Believe me, you don’t.”
“Is that because the police are likely to be there before me?”
“You better wish.” The Human shook his head. “Hell, it’ll be safer there now that the badges’re running around. Worst you’ll get from them is beat up, all your cash taken, slammed in the pokey for a few days an’ then hit up for more money by the judge. The Orions, now… Well, if you’d been here a few days ago, you could’ve got worse than that.”
“Really?” Spock did his best innocent-Vulcan impression. “What could be worse?”
The Human looked around again, and leaned close. “You know the Orions are slavers, don’tcha?”
Spock raised both eyebrows, and carefully kept his hands from betraying his hidden tricorder. “Are you implying that Orion visitors snatch passers-by off the street, and carry them away to slavery?”
“Don’t laugh,” frowned the Human. “Take it from Ol’ Bob here, it’s happened more than once.”
Spock sat down on the bench beside the Human, whom he now labeled as Old Bob, taking care not to admit too much too soon. “Really,” he said, doing his best to sound disbelieving. “Such rumors abound wherever Orions visit. Do you actually know of any specific person, at any specific time or place, who was carried off in this manner?”
“Sure do!” Old Bob gave him a defiant look. “Lully, barmaid down at the Jet Tube, joy-girl on the side: she went off with an Orion customer one night, just eight months ago. Never came back. Left all her stuff, and everything.”
“That is hardly conclusive,” Spock nudged. “Just one example, and there could be several other explanations—“
“You want more? Ask about Tweewit, one of those…whaddaye call ‘em, bird-people?”
“There are thirteen avianoid races in this quadrant.”
“Yeah, avian-something. Cute little thing, pretty feathers. Worked as a stock-clerk for Hasper’s, just down row four. One night there’s an Orion ship upstairs, scout-boat on the ground – right out there in bay 47. Tweewit makes the mistake of walking home alone, and cutting across the yard to save time. Bingo! Gone without a trace. About the same time, the scout-boat takes off. Couple hours later, Orion ship takes off – ‘way before schedule. Heads straight back to Orion space. You wanta guess what happened to Tweewit?”
“Was there any police investigation?”
“Not so you’d notice,” Old Bob sneered. “C’mon. Orion ships don’t ask for repairs unless they’re really desperate, so they don’t get much by way of inspection. They pay big fees, never argue – hell, I think they even pay non-inspection waivers—“
“I beg your pardon?” Spock pounced.
“What, don’tcha know about that? Yeah, some little subsection of Argo local-space law; I think it falls under some kind of quarantine heading. You wanta skip any inspection at all, you post a whopping bond and don’t let anybody off. You get all your supplies beamed up, nothing but creds beamed down. Argo Port keeps half the bond after you leave – ‘surety against possible later damages’, they call it. Everybody knows what’s going on, but nobody says anything. You can bet, lots of somebodies are getting paid off.”
“Disgraceful,” Spock agreed, planning to go over Argo local-space law in exquisite detail.
“Hmm, Big Rowdy disappeared about the same time,” Old Bob went on. “Nobody missed him for days, but you can bet it was the same thing. He was a heavy-worlder, not too bright but strong as an ox. That’s what they go for, y’know: pretty girls for the fun-houses, exotics for showpieces, strong backs for the mines and farms and what-all. You Vulcs are strong, aren’tcha?”
“Indeed,” Spock murmured. “This greatly complicates my search for the kevas cargo. Have all the Orions fled the planet, then?”
“Don’t we wish! Nah, there’s still a big freighter in orbit – and not in the dock, you can bet: probably hiding on the other side of the planet, where the Big Bird won’t see it. And you see that lander over in bay 98? She looks pretty nondescript, but she’s got those big maneuvering-jets the Orions like, so stay away from her. That makes it a good bet the slaver bupfracks are still on the ground somewhere. Hell, a big bunch of ‘em came down here three days ago, an’ they’re still here.”
Spock noted that the odd word was a slightly altered Orionese insult, referring to the genetic insufficiencies of one’s ancestors and relatives.
“If they’ve got any sense, an’ they usually do,” Old Bob went on, “They’re probably holed up in their little hideaway down in warehouse 87. Sure bet, nobody else’ll take them in. You really oughtta forget the kee— whaddayecallems, go down to the Bolt-Hole, and stay safe until the cleanup’s over.”
Spock couldn’t help asking: “If the situation is as dangerous as you say, I wonder that you yourself have not shipped out or gone into hiding.”
Old Bob sighed and slumped, as if the words had deflated him. “I got nowhere to go,” he admitted. “No money. No job. No home. The badges don’t even run me in anymore; they know I’ve got nothing worth taking, and they don’t want me living for free at the gray-bar hotel. I’m too old and weak and ugly even for the Orions. Might as well stay out here and panhandle. Hey, buddy, can you spare a cred?”
Considering that the information alone was worth it, Spock handed the Human a twenty-cred chip. “I thank you for the advice,” he said, meaning it. “And I would recommend that you spend this on finding yourself a…’bolt hole’ until the current crisis passes.”
“Bolt-Hole is right!” chortled Old Bob. “I can buy my way in with this! Hey, thanks, Vulc. Gods bless.”
Old Bob hauled himself to his feet and went tottering off toward the warehouse district as fast as his bowed legs could carry him.
Spock watched him go, then reached under his robe to transmit the tricorder’s data to the Enterprise’s memory-banks. That done, he got up and strolled casually out into the field of landing-bays, looking for number 98.

* * *

Chilashmor and Grobikthia, of House Nashfrap – which was the Orion equivalent of ‘John Doe’ – were not in the best of circumstances. They had avoided the last sweep of the badges by betaking themselves into the nearest storm-drain, and their garments were much the worse for wear. They might have stayed hidden in warehouse 87 were it not for the fact that five worthy members of House Pixosha were ensconced there already, and such folk did not care for the presence of their competition. Besides, the good liquor was running out and the food-supplies were already down to siege-rations. Therefore, Chilashmor and Grobikthia decided to run for their small transport-craft and get quickly home.
By artful use of cover, and careful watch for passing pedestrians, they managed to get as far as the field unmolested. By the time they came within sight of bay 98, however, a new and unexpected problem appeared.
“Excuse me, partner-in-venture,” Chilashmor opined, ducking under the conveniently near wing of a Themaxian shuttle, “But I do believe that some rude person has reached our ship before us.”
“I completely agree,” said Grobikthia, ducking under the wing after him. “And if you do not duck down further and let me get deeper under this shuttle’s wing, I will be somewhat vexed with you.”
“I respectfully draw your attention to the fact that I am shoved in here as far as I can fit. Who is that rude person, and what is it doing?”
“With all due humility, I must point out that had your girth not expanded from indulging in too many Salty-Treats these past two years, you might have shoved in a few hand-spans further. And for your information, that obstructionist person is strolling around our ship, examining the maneuvering-jets.”
“This is not the best of news, good brother-in-trade, since those jets are homeworld-made, and any experienced spacer would recognize them as such. Is that lamentable creature wearing the sort of dress usually preferred by so-called plainclothes police?”
“Nothing of the sort, but more like the robes favored by the poorer sort of merchants found in Federation space. This, I hasten to add, is not good news either.”
“What is the creature doing now? And please remove your elbow from my ribs.”
“I respectfully submit that it is not your ribs which are impinging on my elbow, but the thick pad of fat above them. And for your information, the creature is thankfully stepping away from our transport.”
“Which way, pray tell, is it going?”
“At something of an oblique angle, toward the warehouses. Hmm, in fact, I believe it is… Yes. A male Vulcan.”
“A Vulcan merchant? Here? At this unfortunate time?”
“It is, in very truth, a Vulcan – and neither aged nor infirm. I believe it might be profitable to follow him.”
“Grobikthia, this is no time to be thinking of profit. It would be much wiser to continue our previous course to our lander, and thus escape with our skins intact.”
“Allow me to remind you that there is room on the ship for a bit of cargo, and that the badges have not yet begun their sweep of the port. Also, Vulcan indentured servants command most remarkable prices on the corporate mining asteroids. I intend to follow this potential merchandise, and you may follow or not as you please.”
Grumbling mightily in flowery Orionese phrases, Chilashmor agreed to follow. Decades of practice in sneaking after victims stood them in good stead, and the Vulcan failed to notice them. They skulked as far as warehouse 87, marveling to each other when the Vulcan cast cautious glances about him, and then tapped at the door. They noted the suspicious voice behind the door that asked to know his business there, and giggled madly to themselves as he answered: “A humble merchant, seeking shelter from the oncoming storm.” They marveled further as the door opened and their prey passed through.
“Chilashmor, I have heard parables of plushmak trotting into the slaughterhouse, but never have I seen such enacted in real life. I think it most imperative that we hasten after our quarry before the excrescences of House Pixosha snap him up instead.”
“Good Grobikthia, may I remind you that these same House Pixosha bompfracks ejected us from this very refuge not an hour ago. We acquiesced, if you recall, because there were very many of them and only two of us. I sincerely doubt that their numbers have diminished since we left.”
“In that case, let us consider strategy. Recall, please, that the Pixosha may have numbers, but we have the only available ship – theirs being hidden on the other side of the planet. Therefore, to use the appropriate Vulcan terms, it is logical that our lamentable rivals will attempt to hide the merchandise somewhere close to hand, someplace where they can keep him safely concealed for the next few days if necessary. That means that they must hustle him out the rear entrance, into the alley behind this establishment. I intend to be there, waiting, when they come out with their hands so profitably encumbered.”
“I request, then, that we find a viewing-place where we may rest in some comfort for however long that will take. I also suggest that said hidey-hole will shelter us from the view of the local badges, who must eventually come searching this way.”
“Let us stroll into the alley, then, and see what shelter we can find.”

* * *

The interior of the warehouse 87 bar was dark, smoky, crowded and ill-smelling. Spock’s Vulcan night-vision cut in immediately, showing several crowded tables and an even more crowded bar. The nearest available chair was one of six grouped around a rickety and bottle-loaded table, five of the chairs occupied by Orions, all dressed in similar clothing. The Orions were huddled over their drinks, muttering to each other, throwing half-hidden glances in his direction. They looked like lesser employees of some large merchant company, down on their luck, looking for quick money.
Perfect.
Spock looked about once more as if searching for a seat, while in fact he was checking for exits. Then he shrugged, strode to the empty chair and sat down.
The Orions all shut their mouths and looked at him.
“Greetings,” he said calmly, while secretly fingering his tricorder. “I am St’venn, a dealer in kevas and trillium. Have you any information concerning how long the present unpleasantness will last?”
“Unpleasant… Oh, no doubt you are referring to the present raids,” said one of the Orions. Judging from the way the others looked at him, he was most probably their leader. “They’ll certainly last all day, and probably into the night. Perhaps by morning it will be safe to venture out. Or perhaps…” He glanced unconsciously upward, “…not for several days.”
“Then have all the out-system ships left port?”
“Oh yes, every last one.” The Orion twitched his ears in apparent annoyance. His companions hastily did the same. “I fear we are stuck here for the duration, good St’venn. And I would not recommend that you venture out where the local badges can see you, or you might find yourself badly misused.”
Another of the Orions giggled into his glass. His neighbor quickly clouted him on one side of his head.
“How annoying,” said Spock, pretending not to see that. “And have you heard anything of a shipment of kevas, brought in before the raids began?”
The others looked blank, then turned questioning looks toward their leader.
“Ah, I believe I heard something about a shipment of kee-fas,” the leader said smoothly, “But I have no idea who brought it in, or where it might be. I could, ah, make inquiries –- for a small consideration.”
“I hope your consideration is not too large,” Spock replied coolly. “I have only so many credits to spend on obtaining a cargo.” Then he added, quickly, before the Orion could start asking how many credits: “Of course, neither can I afford to go home empty-handed. If I cannot obtain kevas here, perhaps I could purchase other trade goods which may be in demand on Villifan – where kevas are abundant, and cheap.”
The Orion leader visibly switched his mental gears. Villifan was well known as an agricultural planet with a wide-open spaceport. “Ah, that might be more likely,” he grinned toothily. “Would you have any timely news of what goods are in demand right now on Villifan?”
“Unfortunately not.” Spock didn’t so much as blink while he dropped the bait. “Of course, Villifan is always eager for additions to its labor force – hired or indentured – but other than that, I have no information.”
“Labor force, yes…” The Orion did a poor job of concealing his eagerness. “I think I can find something for you in that department.”
Excellent. Bait taken. In another moment Spock would have it all recorded. “I imagine,” he said, affecting just a touch of a sneer, “That after the present raids, the Argo government will have an excess of prisoners to dispose of. Would the authorities indenture them out, do you think?”
The reaction was not what he had expected. All the Orions burst into whoops of laughter, two of them almost choking on their drinks. Spock only raised an eyebrow and gave the leader a questioning look.
“Hoo! Ik! Oh, yes!” The Orion leader got his voice back under control. “My friend, you do not know what a truth you have spoken. Yes, the Argo government is happy to export its undesirables. In fact, they do not even charge anything for the removal of said undesirables. I suspect that if they had to, they would even pay us-- er, pay anyone available who would haul their jail-sweepings away. Heh! This means that whoever does the shipping can sell the labor contracts at an almost-clear profit.”
There. Spock surreptitiously fingered his tricorder. He had almost all the necessary information recorded. Only a few details were missing.
“I will gladly buy you a round of whatever you are drinking,” Spock said, “If you will tell me the exact procedures for obtaining a cargo in this manner.”
“My friend, I will gladly accept,” grinned the Orion. “In fact, I will also buy a drink for you while we are at it. Barkeep! Full round here!”
Spock wondered why the Orion was selling his information so very cheaply. Perhaps he hoped to make money brokering the deal. If so, this would take more time than he had expected. Spock leaned back in his chair and prepared to haggle.

* * *

Dubaliosk of House Pixosha could hardly believe his luck. A solitary Vulcan, apparently young and in good health, had just walked into his reach and was about to accept a drink. Labor contracts on Villifan, indeed: strong and healthy mine-workers were much in demand on Putrokem, and a healthy Vulcan would bring almost top prices. Only a Horta would sell for more, and so far no Orion had ever succeeded in catching one.
The only problem would be transporting the goods to his ship, which was presently on the other side of the planet and would certainly stay there as long as that grpthakking Federation starship was in port. Still, if he could keep the goods safe and well hidden for just a few days…
Well, the potential profit was worth the risk.
“Barkeep,” he called again, “A round of Red Moons for me and my friends, and a Gulakki fruit-juice for our Vulcan friend, here. That’s right, isn’t it? You Vulcans don’t drink alcohol, do you?”
“It has no effect on us,” said the Vulcan. “We do indeed drink fruit-juice.”

* * *

The bartender flinched once as he heard the order, then nodded understanding. He pulled down six glasses, took five bottles of Red Moon beer out of the cooler, and reached under the bar for a small bottle of something green.
Back at the table, Dubaliosk was haggling with the mark to keep his attention. Good.
The bartender filled the five mugs with beer and set them on the tray. The sixth mug he filled almost to the top with Gulakki-fruit juice. He unstoppered the small bottle, then paused, suddenly worried.
How much of this stuff should one give to a Vulcan?
The usual dose for an adult humanoid was five drops, but Vulcans were reputed to be strong and drug-resistant. So, six drops? Seven? Then again, Vulcans had funny chemistry, copper-based blood, and funny allergies as well; even five drops might be dangerous. The bartender unconsciously hitched his shoulders higher as he remembered the one time he’d overdosed one of Dubaliosk’s marks: a Rhamphino, big strong creature, looked like it could take eight drops, easy. But then the damn thing fell over, twitching and frothing at the mouth, and it damn-near died before they could get the antidote down its throat. Dubaliosk’s underlings had broken a couple of his bones for that, and the bartender wasn’t going to forget it. No, better safe than sorry, as the Humans said.
He carefully dripped five drops, no more, into the fruit-juice.

* * *

“Ah, here come our drinks. Give the man five creds, my friend.” The Orion leader grinned merrily. “Now, let’s get down to details. You are new in town, and the Argo officials don’t know you, so if you deal directly with them they will certainly put all manner of obstacles in your way until they are sure of you. That could take days of tedious paper chasing. Yes, drink up; Gulakki is excellent stuff, if you like fruit-juice.”
Spock took a modest sip. “How, then,” he said, “Could I reduce the time and paperwork?”
“The obvious answer, friend,” the Orion almost leered, “Is to have someone broker the sale for you: someone whom the locals know well, and are used to, and have dealt with before. Someone like my humble self, for instance.”
“I see,” said Spock, believing that he did. “And just what fee would you require for this service?”
“Ah, no more than five percent of the payment on the labor-contract – which, I believe, is about a thousand credits per head. You need only tell me how many passengers you intend to carry, and we can easily calculate my fee from there.”
“Indeed,” Spock said carefully. “Of course I shall have to make some alterations to my cargo bay, in order to accommodate passengers. Such alterations will be costly and time-consuming. Also I must calculate the amount of food and hygienic supplies the passengers will need for the journey, which will also cost time and money. Naturally, these costs will be deducted from my profit.”
“Well, of course,” the Orion shrugged. “But since the journey from here to Villifan requires only twelve days at normal speed, I’m certain your passengers can endure replicated food and simple sleeping-pallets for that long. Perhaps a cost of no more than 500 creds, compared to a profit of a thousand creds apiece. So, how many…ah, passengers can you accommodate?”
“Hmm, that calculation would require remeasuring my cargo-space.” Spock decided that he had almost all the information he needed. Just one more detail, then he should get out with what he had. “I will, of course, also need to get information from Villifan concerning current prices. Clearly, I must return to my ship for an hour or two. Where can I find you when I return, and by what name should I ask for you?”
“Ah, I will be right here, my friend,” said the Orion leader, looking unexpectedly nervous. “And you need ask only for Dubaliosk, with whom you have an agreement. Come, let’s drink to it.”
Spock obligingly took another sip of the fruit-juice. “I should leave, then,” he said, “Before the local unpleasantness spreads any further.”
“Oh, on the contrary!” Dubaliosk almost shouted. “Please stay here, where you are most certainly safe, at least until well after dark. By then the patrols should be well past, and in any case, your chances to escape undetected are much better after sundown. It would spoil our most profitable arrangement were you to be arrested. Please, do stay!”
There was something wrong with the Orion’s insistence, Spock realized. There was also something wrong with the drink. His tongue had gone numb.
Right there, he realized what the real game was -- and how close he was to the trap.
Very quickly, he reviewed the symptoms and his possible options. There was no time for a healing trance. His best hope to counteract the unknown drug was to raise his blood pressure and metabolism quickly.
"I believe I am ill," he said. Spock dropped to the floor and tensed every muscle he could still control. That action made his back arch and his limbs shake.
The effect on the Orions was spectacular.
“It’s hit him too hard!” yelped the nearest.
“He’s going into convulsions!” howled another.
“You idiot!” Dubaliosk roared at the bartender. “You gave him too much!”
“Only five drops, I swear!” the bartender wailed, showing the bottle for proof. “It must be an allergic reaction!”
“Give him the antidote, quick! If you saddle me with an inconvenient corpse—“
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” The bartender came running to the table, holding out a small brown bottle.
Spock considered, as the frantic bartender bent over him, that the antidote might be worse than the drug. Then again, he could use some help counteracting the effects of whatever they’d given him. He allowed the bartender to dribble the bitter fluid past his clenched teeth, but didn’t stop tensing his muscles. Above him, the Orions raged and argued.
“It’s not working!”
“Dear Ancestors, what if the badges come in and find the body?”
“Get him out of here!”
“Where?”
“Out the back, through the alley—“
“Sneak him into the parking bays and dump him.”
And, from another table: “All hail the expertise of Dubaliosk and his team. Ha-haha!”
“Oh, shut up!” snapped Dubaliosk. “Grab him under the arms. This way.”
Spock allowed himself to be picked up and hauled through the clutter of tables. He was still clenching his muscles furiously, though he could feel the antidote taking effect. If the Orions wanted to leave him in the spaceport’s parking bays, he certainly had no objection.
A door creaked, and light fell across his face. Spock opened one eye just enough to be certain that, yes, Dubaliosk and company were indeed carrying him into the alley. A few more moments of minor discomfort, and he’d be free.
ZZZAP! ZZZZAP!
The bright actinic glare of two Orionese stun-beams flashed past him. Two of Spock’s carriers fell flat, and the rest unceremoniously dropped him on his back. The others swore wildly, ducked to either side and tugged weapons out of various hiding-places among their robes.
Spock relaxed his muscles, lay flat and watched in something close to amusement as the stun-beams and curses cris-crossed above him. Eventually both light and noise stopped, leaving a long moment of peaceful silence.
“Hssst, Chilashmor,” sounded from across the alley. “I believe we have stunned the lot of them. Let’s collect our prize. …Chilashmor?”
Spock watched as another Orion, dressed in a slightly different cut of clothing, climbed out of a trash-barrel on the other side of the alley. The new Orion ran to another trash-barrel, peeped in, and cursed briefly.
“Chilashmor,” he finally announced, “I cannot possibly carry both of you, and I humbly admit that I am not about to leave this prize lying about just so that I might haul your sorry backside out of the garbage. I leave you to awake in your own time and find your own way to the ship, or at least to a reliable message service.”
Having done that bit of propriety, the new Orion came scampering back across the alley and seized Spock’s right arm. Spock, still limp, let him pull – and learn by experience that Vulcans were much heavier than they looked. With much heaving, whoofing and straining, the Orion managed to pull Spock reasonably upright and started to carry him down the alley.
A sharp intake of breath and a scrambling behind them warned Spock, but not the Orion.
“You! Grobikthia!” snarled Dubaliosk, grabbing Spock’s other arm. “I should have known this was your doing!”
“I saw him first!” yelled Grobkthia, refusing to let go.
Either unwilling to use their stunners, or else out of blast-charges, the two descended into cursing and snapping at each other while pulling Spock’s arms in opposite directions. With a loud shredding noise, his robe tore in half from the top down. The two Orions promptly fell flat.
Spock, seeing that he was now effectively stripped to the waist – and his hidden tricorder was showing – decided that it was time to end this game. As both Orions scrambled to their feet and converged on him, he reached out and neck-pinched both of them, simultaneously. They fell back to the ground, also simultaneously.
Spock looked around, quickly counted the bodies, added the unseen Chilashmor in the trash-barrel, and thumbed open his communicator.
“Enterprise,” he announced into its grille, “One to beef— beam up.”

* * *

When the blue dazzle faded, Spock found himself on the Enterprise’s transporter pad, facing the console. Janice Rand was still there, and looked quite surprised to see him.
“Yeoman Rant,” he announced, “Please inform the Shore Please— er, Police – that there are seven Orion slavers lying unconscious in an alley, at the same coordinates from which you boomed-- beamed me up. I have conclusive evidoonce against them on my trickorder, which I shall now enter into the ship’s lig-- log.”
It appeared that his tongue was still a bit numb, and his legs didn’t feel too stable either.
“Mr. Spock,” said Rand, giving him an odd look,” Are you certain you’re all right?”
“I seem to be seemfering from the after-effects of an Orion slaver–drug, but do not be alarmed; I have taken the antoodite.”
“I really think you should go straight to Sickbay, sir.”
“I will, I assure you, but only afther I have entered this vata— vital data in the ship’s computer.” Spock stepped very carefully off the platform, noting that his legs worked well enough if he watched them closely.
“Ah, why don’t you enter it right here on my console, sir? Then you can go directly to Sickbay.”
“An excellent idea,” Spock admitted, keeping careful watch on his feet. He managed to make his way to the console, plugged in the tricorder without mishap, then fumbled the record buttons. Rand reached out to help him, but he waved her hand away. He could manage this.
Actually, it took him three tries to unload the data.
As the tricorder duly hummed its information into the ship’s main banks, it occurred to Spock that he had best add his personal file to the data so as to explain where he’d gotten the idea. It took him four more tries to get the transfer done, and twice he had no idea which buttons he’d hit.
“That’s done it, sir,” Rand coaxed. “Now, shall I help you to Sickbay?”
“I can minige, thank you,” said Spock thoughtfully aiming his feet toward the portal.
“I hope so, sir. It must be a very interesting planet!”
“Interesting?” Spock was intrigued by the choice of wording. “How soo?”
“Why, sir,” she said, batting her eyes innocently, “Because you’re the second officer to beam back here today with half their clothes torn off.”
Spock blinked as he thought that over, wondered who the other officer was, decided that he would absolutely not ask, and plodded toward the corridor without further comment.

* * *

Rand watched him go, shook her head in amazement, then pressed the playback button on the computer. There wasn’t much else going on, and she dearly wanted to know just what had happened to Spock down in the port city.
To her surprise, the computer’s voice replied out of the room’s speakers. From the echo in the corridor, she guessed that the computer was reciting its information on every open speaker on the ship – including, no doubt, the bridge.

* * *
Right enough, up on the bridge the port’s technicians did a classic double-take as they heard the computer duly recite:
“’Bompfrack’ – a hereditary idiot.”
“’Grpthak’ – insect dung.”
“’Bortmin’ – self-inflicted lunacy.”
“’Tchalukma’ –“
While the inspection team listened in awe, the computer gravely named and defined every filthy word in the major dialect of the Orionese language.
It was a long, long list.
5.

Our head nurse disappeared awhile in the major Dope Bazaar,
Buying an odd green potion “guaranteed to cause Pon-Farr”.
She came home with no uniform, and an oddly cheerful heart,
And a painful way of walking – with her feet a yard apart.

Argo First Pharmaceuticals was an old, large, respectable company that insured its respectability with tons of paperwork. This meant that dealing with them, even for a simple ship’s-supply order, took nearly two hours. By the time she got out the front door, Nurse Christine Chapel was tired, annoyed, and suffering from aching feet. Once out on the street, the first thing she did was look for a taxi, any kind of taxi, ground or air.
While she was looking, a rickshaw – of all things – pulled up by the curb. A middle-aged woman, wrapped in a green sari and carrying a large basket, peered out at her.
“Christine?” the woman asked. “My word! Christine Chapel, is that you?”
“It is,” said Chapel, stepping forward. “But who-- Oh my stars, is it Lana Kasagian?! After all these years?”
“Oh yes,” the woman chuckled. “Hop in: you look as if you could use a ride. What have you been up to since medical school?”
Chapel gladly climbed into the rickshaw, whose operator promptly turned around and demanded an extra three credits for the added weight.
“Here you go,” said Kasagian, handing him some chips. “Now, straight to Greenmarket Boulevard. Ah, Chris, what luck to find you here on Argo! I make regular visits, but I haven’t seen you here before. And isn’t that a Starfleet uniform? Are you working shipboard?”
Chapel gave a quick summary of her life since leaving medical school, while the rickshaw rolled off down the street and turned onto a tree-shaded avenue in a mixed commercial/residential district.
“—so that’s how you came to find me, hot and sore-footed, in front of Argo First Pharmaceuticals,” Chapel finished. “So what have you been doing since you got your last degree in exobiology? I thought you’d be on a research ship by now.”
“Oh, I fell in with bad company, you know.” Kasagian laughed, her merry brown eyes catching the light. “I got into the Naturopath Heresy, so all the big synthetics companies blacklisted me. Not that I cared, by then. I’d saved enough money to found my own little modest company, and now I supply natural medicines to like-minded pharmacies all over the quadrant. I’m here on Argo to pick up some locally-grown plants, fungi, and even helpful bacteria. I take the goodies home and process them myself. My old friend Alison – you remember her from school? – she takes care of the advertising, shipping, and general business end of things. The company has done surprisingly well in the last few years, and I just might retire very rich.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Chapel smiled. “If I ever decide to leave Starfleet, I just might show up on your doorstep asking for a job.”
“You’d get it, in a red-hot minute.”
“Say, didn’t Alison get married? I heard something about that after I left school. What’s her husband doing?”
“That,” Kasagian sniffed, “Is a long and ugly story. She had the bad taste to fall in love with dear Dr. Rochambeau Plankman.”
“Oh no, not The Roach?! How could she fall for that—that arrogant, hot-pantsed, puffed-up, self-centered—“
“She was quite young and naïve at the time, and he made special effort to charm her. She did come from a Society family, you know, and he thought she’d make a good trophy wife.”
“Oh, poor Alison!”
“Naïve, perhaps, but not stupid. It took her no more than two years to understand him completely, call a good divorce counselor, and boot him out.”
“I’m amazed she lasted that long.”
“It’s hard to give up on young love. But anyway, after that she got back into medicine and eventually linked up with me, so everything came out well.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So, where are we going?”
“To the so-called Flower Market,” Kasagian grinned. “Driver, this is fine. Step down, Chris, and have a closer look.”
Chapel stepped out of the rickshaw, while Kasagian paid the operator, and looked around her. Here the boulevard widened out into an oblong park, shaded with grand tall trees and planted underfoot with a sturdy variety of moss that resisted trampling. It needed that resistance, for the park was filled with small tents and booths and their customers. The nearest booths were selling flowers, countless vases of them, in riotous colors and wild designs. A little further up the row Chapel could see other booths selling potted plants. Beyond that, the crowd was too thick for her to make out anything else.
“This way,” said Kasagian, taking her arm. “You have to get further in to see the good stuff.”
As Kasagian led her deeper into the maze of booths, Chapel began to see what she meant. Here stood a tiny shop selling what were plainly medicinal plants; she recognized aloes, chamomile, hemp and foxglove, but there were others whose names and species she couldn’t begin to guess. Further along stood a booth selling what claimed to be herbal teas, but Chapel noted that many of the packages bore names of medicinal rather than flavorful dried plant parts. She saw much the same at another mini-shop supposedly selling spices. Another quaint signboard announced: “Yeasts for Wines and Cheeses” – but the jars on the shelf held an amazing variety of colorful molds. Kasagian stopped to examine the goods at this one, giving Chapel much time to look around.
Next door, set back far enough that it was difficult to see, crouched a booth selling “Essences”, which Chapel assumed meant aromatic oils for perfumes. Certainly the front bench was loaded with tiny colorful bottles. She wondered why the dealer had set her shop in a spot where it was hard to find. She took care to point out the booth to Kasagian, who was just loading her basket with packages.
“Perfumes?” Kasagian laughed. “Oh, that too, but primarily herbal extracts. Many of them have amazing medicinal uses, which is why I’m heading there next. Hmmm, and some of them would outrage the Terribly Respectable city fathers, if only they knew.”
The shopkeeper, an incredibly old woman, knew Kasagian on sight and welcomed her like a long-lost sister. After a quick introduction to Chapel, she whisked the two of them into the tent at the back of her booth where three comfortable folding chairs were set around a tiny folding table. On the table sat a self-warming pot that smelled of bergamot tea, and a group of exquisite porcelain cups. To one side of the tent sat a stack of sealed cartons. The old woman sat Chapel and Kasagian down at the table, poured a cup of steaming tea for each of them, and then dived at the topmost carton.
“I have your usual supplies here, Lana,” she purred, pulling out a flask whose contents gleamed emerald green even in the shadowed tent. “But this is something new and wonderful that I just concocted last month. Here’s the recipe, and notes on where to get the ingredients—” She handed Kasagian a message-padd, which Kasagian duly plugged into her own minicomp to download. “I tried it out on a few select customers, and the response was so overwhelming that I’m afraid I’ll soon be sold out. Now, just from the recipe, what do you think of it?”
“My word,” marveled Kasagian. “If these act synergistically—“
“Oh, they do! Indeed, they do.”
“Why, this should be an immune-system booster that would make corpses jump up and dance!”
“Just about,” the old woman chuckled. “I’d write it up for the journals, if it weren’t for one, ahem, embarrassing side-effect.”
“Drop the bomb, Doctor,” Kasagian nudged.
“Heh-Heh! Well, it’s also a pan-specific aphrodisiac. The real thing.”
“I don’t believe it!” said Kasagian and Chapel together. They both peered over the notes on the minicomp’s display.
“It’s true, dears. Apparently, in setting off the endocrine and nervous systems, it…ah, rouses the libido to amazing levels, in just about every oxygen-breathing species known.”
Chapel and Kasagian looked at each other. “I can see why you wouldn’t want everyone to know about this,” said Chapel. “And yet, the medical applications…”
“Precisely,” grinned the old woman. “My crowning achievement. I intend to retire on this one, Lana. Frankly, I’m giving you the secret just to keep it safe. If the Argo government found out, they’d probably lynch me. Hmmm…” She turned back to the carton, pulled out a second flask and handed it to Chapel. “Safety in numbers, my dear,” she said. “Lana, print her a copy of the recipe and source-notes. This way, if both of us are somehow stopped, the discovery will still make it out of here.”
Chapel gulped, and stuffed the flask quickly into her shoulder-bag. A moment later, Kasagian stuffed the printout in there too.
“Doctor…” Kasagian gave the old woman a hard look. “Don’t tell me you’re planning what I think you’re planning.”
“You bet your britches I am.” The old woman gave a remarkably witchy cackle, probably rehearsed. “Since rebellious kids and old degenerates simply will insist on playing with drugs, let ‘em take one that’s good for ‘em, says I.”
“Oh Heziah, not again!” Kasagian groaned. “I remember that last scandal, when you were pushing niacinamide—“
“A perfectly safe, healthy and legal vitamin, which just happens to counteract the effect of nastier drugs, and also just happens to give you a marvelous rush.”
“’Heziah’?” Chapel flogged her memory. “Wait a minute. Doctor Heziah…Palindo? Aren’t you the one who got two planetary governments to ban ‘dihydrous monoxide’ before anyone with a high-schooler’s knowledge of chemistry could catch up to them?”
“That’s me!” The old woman cackled again. “Don’t you just love puncturing stuffed shirts? Hee-hee-hee!”
Chapel burst out laughing. That ‘dihydrous monoxide’ scandal had been the joke of the quadrant three years back.
“You—you scandal-mongering, trouble-making old dope-dealer, you—“ Kasagian sputtered. “Oh, I can just see where you’re going with this one! When I hear stories of Vulcans having orgies in the fountain at high noon, I’ll know whom to blame!”
“Hah. They could use it; their birth-rate’s dangerously low.”
“Heziah, you’re impossible!”
“Oh, does that mean you don’t want to get involved? Well, just hand back that sample, then.”
“No, I won’t. I intend to put this to good use.”
“Heh-heh! So do I! …Oh, and if you have to hide out quick, I’m at the Hotel Avalon, as always.”
“I intend to take this to Doctor McCoy,” said Chapel. “Never mind the aphrodisiac effects; this could save lives.”
“Precisely.” Doctor Palindo leaned back in her chair and smugly sipped her tea. “I intend to die rich and scandalous – and to be remembered as a great benefactor of all sentient kind.”

* * *
An hour later, Chapel and Kasagian sat at a different table, in the patio restaurant attached to the Argo Inn, enjoying dinner and comparing notes.
“I’m really grateful to have met the Notorious Dr. Heziah Palindo,” Chapel smiled around a mouthful of prawns steamed with coconut. “You know, I’ll be invited to dinner at every port just for the promise of telling this story.”
“The story’s not over yet,” said Kasagian, digging into her beef-and-peapods. “We still have to smuggle the swag to our respective laboratories, analyze it, test it, gather the seeds of the ingredients, breed them under optimum conditions, harvest and extract and mix and package and sell… Oh dear, do you even have samples of all these items in your ship’s stores?”
Chapel thought about that for a moment. “Our ship’s arboretum is overcrowded as it is. There’s still room in the biostock vaults, though. Hmmm, I think we have most of these ingredients, and with Dr. McCoy’s help I should have no trouble getting the rest of them.”
Kasagian made a wry face. “Well, I suppose cloning plant and fungal tissues is halfway between natural growing and synthesizing. Nice to know that there’s some compromise between us Naturopaths and the Synthesists.”
“There’s no such conflict aboard the Enterprise,” Chapel laughed. “Believe me, in the Sickbay of a working starship, we’ll grow, clone, synthesize or trade with the natives to get whatever we need. Dr. McCoy’s attitude is that whatever works, works – and damn the theories.”
“Hmm, you seem to have a close working relationship with him.”
“Don’t even think of matchmaking, Lana. He’s a sadder-but-wiser divorcee.”
“Did someone call me?” boomed a voice in her ear.
Chapel and Kasagian flinched together, and traded horrified looks. Neither of them had heard that voice in years, but both of them instantly recognized it.
“Indeed I’m sadder and wiser. Lana, darling, so good to see you!” Dr. Rochambeau Plankman did his best to loom over the table. This was difficult, because he was only of medium height. Besides, his distinctly thick waistline gave the impression of pulling him downwards. Other than that, he was just as flashily dressed and manicured – just as loud-voiced, just as blind and deaf to subtle expressions, and obviously just as sure that he knew how to charm anything out of anybody – as he had been back in school.
“So very good to see you again,” Plankman amended, pulling over a chair from another table and sitting down without waiting to be invited. “And who is your charming companion?”
“Don’t you remember me from medical school?” Chapel asked, knowing this wasn’t much of a diversionary tactic.
“Med-- Oh yes, of course. Ah, blonde…tall… Ernestine, wasn’t it?” he chirped, clearly not remembering her at all.
“Christine,” Chapel corrected, trying to sound chilly and offended.
“Oh, right: Christine. Easy mistake, darling: there was another tall blonde named Ernestine,” he chatted, noticing nothing. “How marvelous to meet you again.”
“And what a coincidence,” added Chapel, wondering why this boor was here, now, on an off-track world like Argo.
“Isn’t it, though?” said Plankman, turning back to Kasagian. “I happened to be passing through on my way back from a conference, and I heard that you were in the neighborhood. So what have you been up to, darling, and how is your little health-food business?”
“We were just finishing dinner,” Kasagian said coldly.
“No problem,” Plankman beamed, “I’ve already eaten. I’ll just share a dessert wine with you. Waitress?”
While he waved signals toward the waiters’ station, Kasagian and Chapel traded looks and fast gestures. Chapel’s said: ‘how do we get rid of him?’ Kasagian’s answered: ‘I don’t know’.
“A local white Ziffunil,” Plankman told the waitress, then turned back to Kasagian, giving a passing smile to Chapel. “I’ve never found a bad white Ziffunil, have you? Care to join me in a bottle?”
“I never touch alcohol,” gritted Kasagian.
"I'm fine," said Chapel, pointing to her glass of plum wine.
“Just a demi for me, then.” Plankman’s hand moved as if he considered sending the waitress off with a pat on the bottom, but he caught himself at the last moment. “Where was I? Oh, right. Lana, dear, I hear that your business is doing well.”
Kasagian’s only answer was a quick nod as she dug resolutely into the beef.
“And how is Alison doing?” Plankman leaned closer to the table. “I still care about her, you know. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t wonder where she is, how she’s doing, all that. Did she ever marry again, do you know?”
“She’s fine,” growled Kasagian, around a mouthful of peapods.
Right there, Chapel realized that Dr. Rochambeau Plankman knew very well that Alison Leesburg had not remarried, that she was doing quite well as Kasagian’s partner, and that she was presently manning the main office back on Alpha Centauri Four. She also knew that Plankman hadn’t come here by accident. Now she had the middle of the story; what was the beginning and the intended end?
“I never did fall out of love with her.” Plankman affected a wistful look, which was only slightly spoiled by the waitress returning with his order. Plankman tossed a chip on her tray, poured himself a glassful of wine and reset his wistful look to fit around the wineglass. “It was she who left me, you remember. I always loved her best.”
“What, Dawn and Kitty and Moriah notwithstanding?” Kasagian said acidly.
“Momentary lapses.” Plankman waved a hand as if shooing a fly. “Just the stress of the moment. Those girls never meant anything to me.”
Kasagian rolled her eyes, but said nothing.
“I always really wanted to get back together with her,” Plankman finally played his trump card. “If you see her again, tell her all that, will you? Please?”
But why? Chapel wondered. For love, possession, or…
Kasagian struggled not to give a really rude answer, and almost choked on her drink.
Consider, Chapel thought. Kasagian’s business might be bigger than she mentioned. Alison just might have a good bit of money on her own. The Roach might know.
Find out.
“Other than that,” Chapel cut in, smiling sweetly, “How have you been doing? Where are you working now?”
“Oh, well…” Plankman made that shoo-fly motion again. “I finally left that synthetics company that I worked for when I was married to Alison. Made some investments in pharmaceuticals. Also…” He grinned conspiratorially. On him, it didn’t look good. “There’s a chance I might be appointed to the Medical Review Board here on Argo. Yes, I’m doing quite well, but there’s no one to share it with. I still miss Alison.”
Another memory clicked; the synthetic pharmaceutical business had taken a steep dip on the stock market just a year ago. Perhaps Plankman didn’t think that a specialist in natural drugs – or, for that matter, any friend of hers – would have heard about it. And now The Roach was trying to get a bureaucrat’s job, on Argo, no less. Chapel would have bet her eyeteeth that to get that job Plankman would have to spend some money, wining and dining influential people. She caught Kasagian’s look, and their eyes spoke volumes: Plankman wanting cash, Alison with plenty. Right.
And Chapel got a marvelous idea.
“Investments in pharmaceuticals?” Chapel smiled innocently. “Why, what a coincidence. I was just thinking of investing some of Daddy’s money in Lana’s company. After all, I have to put it somewhere; I can’t just leave it sitting around in a bank, and I couldn’t spend it all in a lifetime.” She marveled that she could lie so smoothly.
The way Plankman’s head swiveled toward her erased any last doubts Chapel might have had about why he wanted Alison back.
Kasagian stared at both of them, her jaw dropping.
“Wh—why, I’m sure Lana’s company would be an excellent investment,” Plankman beamed. “In fact, I know of several other excellent investments you could make too. Why, I have scads of information in my hotel room, if you’d care to come by.”
“Why, I’d love to,” Chapel cooed, trying to sound stupid, greedy and easily seduced. “What time should I show up?”
“Why not right now?” Plankman was practically drooling.
“Oh, not right now, you silly thing.” Chapel did her best not to giggle. “I have to finish dinner, then go bathe and change and do my nails, and check in with my broker first. Suppose I drop by at, say, eight?”
“Perfect.” Plankman actually grabbed her hand and tried to kiss it. “Here’s my card; I’ll just write my room number on the back. I’m right here in the Argo Inn. Eight o’clock it is.”
“And do put on something nicer than that silly suit, won’t you?” Chapel sank her last harpoon.
“Uh? Oh, of course. See you at eight. Don’t be late, now.” Plankman almost fell out of his chair in his scramble to get up. Trailing waves, smiles, and fond backward glances, he hurried away – blessedly away – to change his suit and set up for seduction.
“Christine!” Kasagian hissed, leaning over the table, “What in all the stars are you doing?!”
“I got him out of our hair, didn’t I?” Chapel grinned. “And you’ll notice that I didn’t give him my last name, or room number.”
“True.” Kasagian sank gratefully back in her chair, then tensed again. “Oh-oh. If you’re staying in the same hotel, you’re bound to run into him again. And even if you don’t, you know he’ll come nattering after me, instead.”
“I don’t have to stay in this hotel,” Chapel considered. “I’ll beam my gear back to the ship, check out and find another place. Hmm, why not the Hotel Avalon, with Heziah?”
“Why not, indeed. But that still leaves me for him to chase after – not to mention Alison.”
“Hmmm…” A really cruel plot was unfolding before Chapel’s inner eye. No, it might not work; she shouldn’t tell Kasagian yet. “Well, I’ll think of something,” she promised. Something is right. If I pull this off successfully, he’ll be too busy to bother chasing you, or Alison, ever again.

* * *

At exactly 7:30, Chapel poured a tiny amount of the green potion into a very small vial. The vial went into her fancy handbag, along with her communicator and The Roach’s card.
She gave her hairdo, makeup job and dress a careful, critical going-over in the mirror; the idea was to look innocently sexy, rich but dumb – not like an Argelian joy-girl. Well, the high neck on the Zenobian spider-silk dress would look innocent enough, and the clingy fabric of the tight bodice should do the rest. The war-paint looked just right, and the hair looked cute but not fussy. Yes.
“Let the games begin,” she murmured, pulling out her communicator.
Two brief calls later, all her gear was beamed back to her quarters on the Enterprise, the hotel was aware that she was checking out, and her bill was settled.
“Forward to the lions,” she grinned, stuffing the communicator back in her fancy purse. She left the door unlocked, and strode out.
At exactly 8:06 – just enough of a wait to look dumb and make The Roach nervous – Chapel knocked on Dr. Plankman’s hotel-room door. Down at the end of the hall, she noted with glee, a passing hotel employee had paused in his errands to give her a disapproving look. She kept her side turned to him, hoping that from that angle she really did look like an Argelian joy-girl. Now let the staff gossip.
Behind the door, she heard music being hastily turned on, and then turned down, and footsteps hurrying across the floor. Guessing what she’d encounter next, Chapel plastered a cheerful, silly smile on her face and waited for the door to open.
Sure enough, there stood Dr. Plankman with a smile splitting his face from ear to ear. He wore a green-on-green leisure suit, which did absolutely nothing for his complexion. The room behind him had endured a quick redecorating in Early Hollywood Outrageous style, complete with holographic fake fireplace, hidden speakers playing painfully corny “mood” music, and a real-life bucket of ice with a champagne bottle sitting in it. The curtains were pulled wide to show off the balcony and the view of the city beyond, and that was just about all of the décor that was original. There were a few papers and brochures set out on the coffee-table in front of the fake fireplace, just enough to provide a legitimate excuse.
“Christine, darling!” Plankman boomed, “How good to see you again. Come right in.” He took her arm with a little more force than necessary, and steered her toward the couch. “I have all the information right here: local companies, sector-wide corporations, whatever you like. Would you care for some refreshment?”
He reached for the champagne.
That’s my cue. “Why, I’d love some,” Chapel cooed, batting her eyes. “Ooh, that’s Tetterer’s, isn’t it? You have to let it breathe for a minute before you pour it, you know. Ooh, are these the companies you meant?”
She bent over the scattering of brochures, giving Plankman the benefit of her rear view. Sure enough, he fumbled the champagne cork and the frothy liquid shot all over his leisure suit. He swore, and almost dropped the bottle.
“Ooh, you poor thing!” Chapel trotted back to him, oozing concern. “Here, let me clean that up for you.”
“That’s all right, dear.” Plankman patted a handkerchief absently to the wet spots on his suit, his eyes glued to her clingy dress. “Say, would you tell me how to spell your last name, again? I never could remember spellings.”
Ye gods, he didn’t even ask my name before he set this up! Chapel marveled. “It’s Morgenstern, with one ‘o’ and two ‘e’s.” Just like the ancient Earth weapon. “And I think Rochambeau is a perfectly lovely name. Here, darling; you sit down and explain about all those companies and things, and I’ll pour the champagne.”
“Oh, right.” Plankman was eager enough to get to the couch. “Well now, the larger corporations are less likely to suffer sudden losses, but also unlikely to give you spectacular gains…”
While he ran through his opening spiel, Chapel poured one glass of champagne for herself, then quickly pulled out the tiny vial and emptied it into the bottle. Last, she poured out a glass of the now-dosed champagne for Plankman.
“The smaller companies are more of a gamble, you know…” Plankman took the glass she offered him without a second glance. “They could collapse overnight…” A wistful look darted across his face, strongly hinting that he’d learned that lesson the hard way. “But then again, they could take off like a battle-courier overnight, and you’d wake up rich the next morning.” A sustained eager look revealed that he still hadn’t learned the lesson completely.
“Ooh, so it’s something of a gamble, then?” Chapel batted her eyes once more, and took a tiny sip of her champagne.
Sure enough, Plankman took a more-than-tiny sip from his glass. “Yes,” he leered, “But I’ve always been a bit of a gambler. I’m even willing to gamble with my heart, to risk falling in love at first sight…”
Not wasting any time, is he? “Ooh, you’re a Romantic, then,” she giggled. “You know, I’m something of a Romantic myself.” Liar, liar. How long does it take for that stuff to work? And I need an excuse to keep him busy…
She needn’t have worried: the buzzword ‘Romantic’ set off Plankman’s prepared speech about life-is-too-short-to-waste, love-is-too-precious-to-deny, follow-your-heart, yakkety, yakkety, yak – every word of it copied from holovid soap-operas. All Chapel had to do was look wide-eyed, nod at regular intervals and sip her champagne. Plankman swigged recklessly as he warmed to his subject. The level in his glass sank to almost nothing.
“—so here I am, pouring out my heart to an old school chum.” He did his best to look soulful. “And perhaps we’ll go our separate ways and never see each other again, but there’s always the chance that a chance encounter might lead to something more, might strike a spark that could kindle into the love of a lifetime, and I’m always willing to take that kind of chance, to leap bravely into the unknown country of the heart. I believe in love, and I believe that you believe too. Am I right, Christine darling? Do you have that kind of faith in the power of love?”
Chapel batted her eyes again, looked soulfully into his face, and said: “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
Plankman halted with his mouth hanging open, looking faintly pole-axed.
“Champagne always does that to me,” Chapel giggled, getting up. “But I love it anyway. Don’t go away, now; I’ll be right back.”
With that, she turned and hurried to the bathroom. She paused at the door only long enough to give him an encouraging smile, and noted that he’d reached for the champagne bottle again. She shut the door behind her, and locked it.
It took effort to keep from laughing out loud as she turned on the faucet, hard enough to cover any noise, whipped the lipstick out of her purse and scrawled the words on the mirror: SORRY I COULDN’T STAY. START WITHOUT ME.
Now for the communicator, a quick beam-up call, and out of here. She flipped the communicator open.
Nothing but static answered.
Oops.
It took all of two seconds to realize that the building’s structure must be interfering with the transmission. She’d have to get out on the balcony. How could she get there from the bathroom?
Her eye fell on the bathroom window.
“Christine, darling,” sounded from behind the door, “Don’t take too long.”
Was Palindo’s Potion taking effect already?
“Just a minute, dear,” Chapel warbled back, shoving the reluctant window open. “I’ve got a snag in my pantyhose.”
Outside, the balcony ended just short of the window. She could reach it, reach the railing certainly – if she hung out the window with both hands and reached with her feet.
“Time to abandon the shoes,” she muttered, kicking them off. “They were cheap, flashy things anyway.” She slung the purse on her shoulder and climbed feet-first out the window.
From far below came the sound of surprised voices, then squawks of dismay. Obviously, somebody down there had noticed a woman’s legs sticking out of the window. Well, no time to worry about that now.
She was halfway out, belly pressed to the windowsill and feet groping blindly for the railing, when she heard Plankman calling again. His voice sounded a bit rougher. Ye gods, that stuff must work fast! she thought, just as her toes brushed the top of the rail.
“What in heaven’s name is going on up there?!” howled a voice from the ground below.
“Call the police!” shrilled another voice, female.
“Christine?” wailed Plankman.
“Patience, darling,” she shouted back. “Just let me get my skirt smoothed down.”
“It’s got to be something obscene,” echoed from below.
“What room is that?” demanded an official-sounding voice.
Chapel hooked one foot over the railing, then her knee, and she inched backward out the window.
“Don’t do it, lady!” howled someone below. “Whoever he is, he’s not worth it!”
Must be quite a crowd down there by now, Chapel considered, as she hung by her hands and knee. She couldn’t spare the effort to look down and see what was happening there. She glanced toward the balcony. If she could just get her left foot into the uprights of the railing…
“Christine!” bellowed Plankman, knocking on the bathroom door, loud enough to be heard out the window.
“She’s trying to get away from an attacker!” another voice shrilled from the ground.
Brilliant deduction, Holmes, Chapel laughed to herself. She could hear someone else pounding on the front door of the suite, and someone yelling something about Hotel Security. No more time. She took a deep breath, let go of the windowsill and pulled hard with her anchored leg.
Below, several voices screeched.
The landing was as awkward as a belly-flop. Chapel’s left foot skidded off the edge of the balcony, leaving her right knee to take all her weight, and she swung bottom-first into the uprights. She could hear her dress tear, and feel the bruises she was going to have tomorrow.
She could also see, for one upside-down moment, the sizable crowd gathered on the sidewalk below. She noticed one man with a camera, another talking rapidly into a communicator. She could also hear, through the wall, Hotel Security seriously pounding on the front door.
Whispering expletives that would have startled her captain, Chapel hauled herself up onto the edge of the balcony. She also heard Plankman pounding furiously on the bathroom door, ignoring the noise out front. Muscles twinged from her waist to her toes as she dropped onto the balcony, clawed open her purse, and pulled out the communicator.
“If this doesn’t work,” she muttered to no one in particular, “I swear, I’ll brain him with the champagne bottle – unless Hotel Security gets him first.”
She could hear the bathroom door giving way under Plankman’s hammering. She could also hear the Security staff at the door clattering their master keys. The crowd below was cheering.
“Enterprise, transporter room, Rand,” came loud and clear through the communicator – just as the bathroom door went crashing down.
Chapel hit the emergency beam-up button.

* * *
Yeoman Rand stared, not saying anything, as Nurse Chapel pulled herself up from a crouch on the transporter pad. She noted the nurse’s ripped dress, and the slow and painful way she moved off the pad, as if her thigh muscles were so sore that she couldn’t pull her feet together.
“Oof,” Chapel panted, feeling the extent of her strains and bruises. “Yeoman, could you please contact a Dr. Heziah Palindo, either in the Flower Market on Greenmarket Boulevard or at the Hotel Avalon? I’ll take the call in my quarters. Oww…”
“The Dr. Palindo?” Rand couldn’t help asking. “’Dihydrous Monoxide’ Palindo?”
“That’s the one. I have to tell her how well her potion worked. Ouch.”
“I’ll have the call sent to your quarters as soon as I contact her,” Rand promised, watching Chapel limp out the door. What potion? she wondered. And why is she the third officer to beam back here with their clothes half ripped off?
She wondered if she could persuade the infamous Dr. Palindo to chat a bit with her, or if she should check the city news and police reports first.
It seemed that there were a few compensations for being stuck on ship while everyone else went down on shore leave.

Our Lady of Communications won a ship-wide bet
By getting into the planet’s main communications net.
Now every time someone calls up on an Argo telescreen
The flesh is there, but the clothes they wear are nowhere to be seen.

Her room at the DeFarge Hotel was quietly elegant, but Lt. Nyota Upenda Uhura was more concerned with its datanet linkage. For one thing, the room had its own private comm-line, with a meter that counted and billed only for time used, which meant that if she wished she could spend hours net-surfing without anyone from the main desk calling up to ask questions.
She lay sprawled on the big bed, wearing nothing but a soft caftan, with a whole potful of hot chocolate sitting on the bed-table nearby, her heavy-duty laptop comm-board linked up and screen scrolling. Paradise! Nothing to do for days and days but indulge in her pet pastime, and if it cost a month’s pay it would be worth it. Datasurfing out in space was like searching for pearl oysters in an often deep and empty sea, but surfing planetside was more like strolling across a lush tropical island looking for the best in coconuts.
Well, there were plenty of coconuts to choose from. She watched the datalines scrolling up the screen, and flagged the ones that looked interesting. Hmm, there was an intriguing title: Realm of the Midnight Marauders. It sounded like a bunch of kids swapping vid-games, probably worth a brief look. She poked a button, reflecting that this was really more direct, more realistic, than talking to a comp-voice – not to mention quieter, just in case anyone should pass by in the hallway outside.
There: Realm of the Midnight Marauders. Its logo proclaimed it to be A Gamers’ Forum and Defense Committee – huh? "'Defense' committee"? – and the entry protocols were surprisingly fierce. Some really smart kid had set them up; she had to work hard to get through them. What in the worlds…?
Once she broke through to the discussion-threads menu, the mystery became a little clearer. ‘Games, Suppression of’, ‘Holovids, Suppression of’, ‘Legal Resources’, ‘Political Resources’ – exactly what was happening on Argo? What gang of idiots was trying to suppress common entertainment, and why? Uhura picked ‘Games, Suppression of’ and punched in.
“—fear of ‘escapism’,” rolled across the screen, attributed to a correspondent named ‘Clarion’. “Why should anyone fear ‘escapism’? Because it implies that society is worth escaping from! It’s fear of a slave revolt, plain and simple.”
Uhura gave herself the title of ‘Dark Lady’, and cut in. “Excuse me, I’m new here,” she tapped. “Just what’s being suppressed, by whom, and why?”
There was an instant’s pause, and then the screen began lighting up with hit-indicators. In five minutes, the screen noted 34 new messages, and Uhura hadn’t read through more than three of them. She spent the next hour getting a fascinating picture of Argo society – legal and electronic. It was an impressive insight.
“Quite simply,” ‘Clarion’ summed it up, “The Argo government is trying to limit the amount of time anyone can spend, per day, either watching holovids or playing computer games. Full-Virt holosuites are limited to adults only, training programs only. Holovids are inspected and strictly censored before being released for public viewing. The government is trying to find ways to censor the entire datanet, having little luck as hackers evade them, and they’re threatening really outrageous penalties for anyone they manage to catch.”
“I’ve seen this before, on other worlds,” Uhura answered. “It’s usually a precursor – or a clear indication – of tyranny. Does the Argo government know that suppression of this kind could cost it membership in the Federation?”
That set off a fresh flurry of comments and questions. The datatraffic grew so thick that the sysop was obliged to cut in with the request that people take this topic over to ‘Political Resources’ where it belonged. The screen quickly emptied as the discussion moved to its proper zone.
Uhura considered joining them, poured herself a fresh cup of hot chocolate, then got another idea. She pulled out of the thread, punched back to the menu, and tapped in: “search: Protest, electronic”.
Whoa, that one had entry protocols and watchdogs she couldn’t believe! Uhura threaded her way through them, even ducking down into the procedural sub-basement routines a couple of times, before she got to the subject proper.
The first entry was comparatively harmless: instructions on how to ‘not spam but blizzard’ the net with short protest messages, such as “Sign Petition 233: Stop Censorship”, entered by ‘SewerRat’. The second entry, by ‘NightFlight’, described procedures for leaving messages with every elected official on the planet. A third, from ‘Bar Sinister’, told how to hack into the controls for the light-strip around one of the larger commercial buildings downtown so as to add the message: “Sign Petition 233”.
“This is basically harmless stuff,” she punched in, using her code-name ‘Dark Lady’. “So why the ferocious secrecy on the information?”
Right away the screen flashed back: “Who are you, and how did you get in here?” – signed only by ‘Sysop’.
“I’m the Dark Lady of Communications,” she typed back, a little annoyed, “And I know my business. How about answering my question?”
She could almost see the anonymous readers pausing to think that over. Then another message stitched itself across the screen.
“Are you the Dark Lady of the ship that just came in today?” asked someone named ‘Cassowary’, “And is your middle name Upenda, and do you have an unreal lion’s tooth pendant?”
Right there, Uhura guessed who it was.
“I sure am,” she typed back. “And is your middle name Dover, and didn’t we meet on Argelius Four last year?”
“Yes, yes and yes! ” came back at her. “Don’t say another word. We must meet. You say where.”
“No, your choice,” she typed back.
After a moment, an address appeared, and a time.
“A date already, and I wasn’t even trying,” Uhura chuckled. She typed in her acknowledgement and promised to be there in two hours. Then she signed off, closed the computer and got up to look over her wardrobe. Ray Dover Carlotti, as she recalled, was well worth dressing up for.

* * *

Uhura took care to arrive early, and look over the environment. The address turned out to be a wine-garden of the kind frequented by the musical and theatrical set. It was elegant, quiet and discreet, and Uhura picked out a seat at what she considered the best place. It was a small round table in a corner, half-screened by a graceful potted mimosa tree, and lit only by the candle in the amber glass on the table’s center. The light reflected subtle metallic gleams from her satin red-bronze-and-gold caftan, and glimmered from her bone-bead necklace and bracelets. She had ordered a local gold-colored wine in a balloon glass, and as she heard footsteps approach the mimosa tree she lifted the glass to her lips. It caught the candlelight at just the right angle, and looked as if she were drinking molten gold.
Ray Carlotti, pushing his way past the mimosa tree, was momentarily turned to stone at the sight of her – just as Uhura had intended.
“Ray,” she smiled, setting down the glass, “Come, sit. It’s been entirely too long since we last met.”
“Uhh, oh, yeah.” Ray stumbled over his own feet, and almost fell into the table’s only other chair. Half his navigation problem was that he couldn’t take his eyes off Uhura.
She grinned. The passing years hadn’t made him any more graceful, or subtle.
Ray Carlotti was tall, gangling, built like a string bean, with hands and feet too big for his body. He’d left adolescence behind ten years ago, but still looked like an oversized teenager. Corrective surgery had cleared up his nearsightedness, but he still held his big dark eyes open wide, as if he’d been peering at a computer screen too long – which he probably had. He fit the centuries-old stereotype of a classic Computer Nerd to perfection, even unto holding down a six-figure job as an independent computer consultant. Starfleet had tried to recruit him, and so had several Starfleet-supplying companies, but he refused to have anything to do with them – and made a fortune anyway.
“Duhh, hello, Nyo,” he managed to say, still staring at her. “Uh, are you still working for the Agents of Oppression?”
“Sure thing,” she smiled back at him. “Are you still an unregenerate Anarchist?”
“Now and forever.” He managed to wrench his eyes away from Uhura long enough to signal to the waiter. “And my current job has only further convinced me that I was right in the first place. Uh…” He changed gears, looking harmless, as the waiter strolled up. “I’ll have an Eirse Coffee, thank you – extra sugar. So, how’ve you been, Nyota?”
“Doing quite well, really.” Uhura watched as the waiter moved away. “So, what in the worlds are you doing on Argo?”
“Arrrgh, sabotaging my own work!” As he warmed to his subject, Ray’s gawkiness faded away. “The local government hired me to update their system, ‘broaden’ it, they said. What they really wanted was some way to listen in on every electronic conversation on the planet! I couldn’t believe it, told them they were in danger of violating their Federation charter, all that. They said to steer as close to the edge of the law as I could without stepping over it – at least, not in any detectable way. Detectable! Right there, I knew what I was dealing with.”
“But why, Ray?” Uhura marveled. “That’s what puzzles me about all of this: the censorship, the rationing of entertainment, now the spying on their own people – it’s not as if they were fighting a war, or even expecting one. So why?”
“’Tis the nature of the beast,” Ray sneered. “Some people need war for an excuse, and some people don’t even need an excuse. You’ve noticed that Argo’s very big on Respectability?”
“I’ve heard a few things.”
“Well, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Respectability, control, strong central government –- oh hell, they’re into corporate feudalism, and you know where that leads.”
“Oh no,” Uhura groaned. “I thought everybody had learned better, centuries ago.”
“You forget,” Ray glowered, “Argo is a very old colony, one of the first. When all the old Centralists and Corporate Feudalists and Neo-Puritans got thoroughly discredited on Earth, where do you think they went?”
“That explains a lot,” Uhura murmured, remembering Federation history. In the first century after the development of cheap stardrive, every religious cult, political faction, philosophical school and even artistic movement had gone out to colonize new worlds and put their ideas into practice. A few had been spectacular successes, some less successful, and many had failed outright. The failures had usually fallen back on the general culture of the burgeoning Federation for support, but others had mutated as necessary in order to survive. Some had mutated extravagantly, others not very far – just enough to look acceptable to the Federation Membership Board. “So, under the skin of Respectability, there lies…”
“—A nasty little oligarchy.” Ray made a face, then smoothed it out quickly as he saw the waiter returning. Ray took his Eirse Coffee and thrust a handful of local currency at the waiter, who gawked at the amount, then retreated quickly before Ray could change his mind.
“So anyway,” Ray resumed, “What I wound up giving them was a sort of emergency override, so they could break in on communications all over the planet to give warning if they had some world-wide emergency. That much I had to let them do.”
“Was this before or after the cultural censorship started?” Uhura asked.
“During! That’s been going on for quite a while. Being Neo-Puritans, they secretly believed that anything people enjoy is somehow evil. They especially hate anything the kids enjoy; they’re desperate to brainwash the kids into being good little employees and taxpayers before they’re old enough to get the vote – and, with it, what little independence an adult here can get. They especially don’t want the kids to see, hear or do anything that might encourage them to think for themselves – and maybe think of breaking the corporate mold.”
“That explains the hatred of ‘escapism’.”
“Right,” Roy smiled. “That’s also why I’ve been taking my time setting up the new system for them, so I have an excuse to stay on-planet. I spend my spare time setting up the underground computer networks and giving them all sorts of useful information.”
“’Information is the door to freedom’,” Uhura quoted, grinning back at him. She could almost picture the scene: the stuffed-shirt bureaucrats versus the scruffy techno-anarchist. She could almost pity the stuffed shirts. Almost. “It still doesn’t quite add up, Ray. Does Argo have any neighbors close enough to conquer quickly, and is the planetary government building up its military?”
“No, and no.” Ray slurped his coffee with a brief expression of bliss. “Before you ask, yes, I thought at first that they were doing all this social-control crap because they planned to go out and start an empire; that’s the usual way such societies go. But for one thing, that would turn the rest of the Federation against them, and even the craziest power-junkie wouldn’t be that stupid. Second, no, there’s nobody close enough to go out and conquer quickly and efficiently. Hell, I think the nearest inhabited planets are the Andorian colonies, and nobody with any sense wants to tangle with them. No, there’s something else going on.”
“If they’re not setting up for conquest, then why are they doing this?”
“The next best reason: money.”
“They’re enslaving their own people for money?!”
“Think: Argo’s been trying to get the best of both worlds: keeping a money-making wide-open trade port up in orbit, and their safe, controlled, cultural ‘purity’ groundside at the same time.”
“Quite a balancing act. How successful have they been?”
“Not very. Now they have two political factions – call them the Middleclass and the Rich. The Middleclass want a wide-open groundside port city too, and free trade, and they’ve been growing in political power lately – especially since that scandal about the planetary governor and the maid in the coat-closet. There’s a forced election coming up, and it looked as if the Middleclass party might win, for once.”
“Hmm,” Uhura considered. “The obvious move is for the Rich party to make some trade concessions fast: take the wind out of the open-city faction’s sails.”
“That, and give up some of their control over the spaceport.” Ray took another hit off his coffee. “In other words, make a deal with Starfleet. How many fortunes have been made selling munitions to armies? Or, in this case, shipyard and shore-leave facilities to navies. That would make up in money what they lose in control of the port. But in any case, the space-trade exposes their people to dangerous ideas about freedom and self-reliance – so it’s censorship time, with a vengeance.”
Uhura rubbed her forehead and thought about that. “But something still doesn’t make sense here,” she said. “I saw stories all over the net about the government ‘cleaning up’ the spaceport. If the Rich Respectables have been running the port, what is there to clean up?”
“Some very dirty money.” Ray licked coffee-foam off his lip. “For decades the Rich party has been putting up this big ‘respectability’ front to its citizens, while secretly running the port as a red-light district – and collecting fat bribes to let the ‘illegal and immoral’ trade go on. There are even rumors about them letting Orion slave-traders come through.”
“Ye gods!” Uhura gasped. “If Starfleet Command knew—“
“Right. That would shatter the whole deal. Goodbye big money and power. Hmm, in fact, you’ve already thrown a small monkey-wrench into the works – your ship, I mean.”
“Us? How?”
“You came ahead of schedule, with very little advance warning. The Argo government had to clean up the dockside fast, before your crew could see anything that wasn’t Respectable. That’s why they’ve been raiding the shipyard end of Port City all day, and it’ll probably go on all night. At least that will keep them too busy to chase computer-freaks for awhile.”
“You know,” said Uhura, eyes narrowing, “I hate hypocrisy almost as much as I hate censorship.”
“Nyota Upenda, I know that look. What do you have in mind?”
“…So the kingpin is this false front of Respectability, is it? Well, nothing punctures a stuffed shirt like a good dirty joke.”
“Nyota…”
Uhura pulled her minicomp out of her voluminous sleeve and began jabbing its buttons. “I’ve worked on tricorders,” she muttered. “Just a few minor additions, just a few little adjustments… There.” She shoved the minicomp at Ray so he could see its screen. “First, can you get me those parts? Second, can you get me into the main communications complex?”
Ray looked at the list, and his eyes grew very wide. “Uh…yeah,” was all he said.
“How soon?”
“Tonight.” He snickered. Then whooped. “Oh yes, tonight! They’ll be too busy with their raids to notice. But once you’ve hooked it up, what will you do with it?”
She told him.
He laughed so hard he fell off his chair, startling the waiter.

* * *

With her makeup washed off, hair pulled tight under a close-fitting turban and eyes hidden behind tinted engineer’s goggles, draped in a shapeless tan-colored technician’s jumpsuit, Uhura was unrecognizable. Ray had to look twice to realize that the approaching tech with the battered toolkit was indeed his co-conspirator.
“Did you get everything?” she whispered, glancing up at the neon-tinged midnight sky.
“Oh yes,” he grinned, tapping the larger and even more battered case in his arms. “Pray step into my beat-up groundcar, m’lady, and we’ll go infiltrate the enemy’s lair.”
“How did you get it all so fast?” she asked, wriggling her way into the cramped vehicle. The seat, she noted, was littered with technical manuals.
“Through the Undernet, of course.” He snickered as he slid into the driver’s seat. “My friends were happy to help.”
“Your friends?” Uhura sat up. “How many friends, and how much did you tell them?”
“Oh, just three or four.” He started the engine. “Hey, they won’t tell anybody – at least not until we’ve finished and got away clean.”
“How much do they know, Ray?” she insisted.
“Hey, no more than they could guess by looking at the parts I asked for. That’s why I had to talk to four of them, so nobody would get the whole picture.”
“But they all talk to each other, don’t they?” said Uhura, seeing all hope of secrecy go down the drain.
“Oh no!” Ray gave her an indignant look as he swung the car out onto the road. “They don’t even know each other. They’re not all in the same news-groups, or even in the same town. Why, a couple of them are on ships in orbit. There’s no way—“
“What ships?”
“Well, the Althashayn…”
“That Andorian scout? Ray, you know how Andorians gossip! What’s the other ship?”
“Uh, well, the Enterprise.”
“My ship?!”
“Hey, don’t worry! My contacts won’t talk.”
“Just who are your contacts, Ray,” Uhura growled.
“My lips are sealed,” he said, steering onto a darkened service road.
“Ray…”
“Uh, well, you know Commander Thelin’s a really serious computer-gamer…”
Uhura relaxed slightly. She knew Thelin. The Andorian was of clan Norothriv: old aristocracy, used to politics and intrigue, knowing when to keep their antennae curled and their mouths shut.
“And who from my ship?”
“Uhm, you know Janice Rand? She spends a lot of time on the discussion boards.”
“Yes, I know her.” Uhura slumped in relief. Rand was a friend, and wouldn’t go spreading tales. “How much further?”
“Huh? Oh. Right up here at the end of the road.”
Sure enough, ahead lay a sprawl of buildings. From the center of them sprouted a huge transmission-mast. The parking lot below it was almost empty, and most of the building’s windows were unlit.
“See? Nobody here but a skeleton-crew,” said Ray, pulling into the parking lot. “We’ll walk right through them.”
“Hmm, just one thing you haven’t explained,” Uhura considered as the engine thumped to silence. “When the solid-waste impacts the rotor-blades, the officials will hunt frantically for someone to blame. They won’t know me, but they’re bound to identify you.”
“No they won’t,” Ray preened, handing her an identification badge. “My ID’s as false as yours, and the only guy inside who could recognize me is the friend who’s letting us in.”
“An inside man, Ray?”
“Hey, where did you think I got the last bit of equipment? The Undernet Is Everywhere!”
“Good thing I brought my communicator; we just might need an emergency beam-up.”
“Then good thing your friend’s minding the transporter. Now look normal.”
Wondering what Ray’s idea of ‘normal’ was, Uhura followed him across the parking lot and into a side door of the main building. Sure enough, the door’s scanner recognized their badges and let them in.
Beyond the door lay a corridor, with lights at energy-saving dimness and numbered doors to either side. Halfway down it stood an open cargo elevator. Inside that was a simple badge-reader and keypad. It accepted Ray’s badge without comment. He pushed buttons, the doors closed and the elevator sank toward the basement. They’d seen no one so far, and Uhura couldn’t believe their luck would last.
It didn’t.
When they stepped out of the elevator, they all but ran into a uniformed security guard. He was late-middle-aged, noticeably overweight, with a uniform that was gaudy with decorations and tailored to disguise his paunch. The minute he saw them, he struck a menacing pose and twiddled his fingers around his stungun.
Ray, with studied nonchalance, started to walk past him as if he were part of the scenery.
It didn’t work.
“Who’re you?” snapped the guard, stepping in front of him. “And whatcha doing here at this hour?”
“Inspection and maintenance,” Ray growled back, flapping his badge. “We gotta get Subsection 21-B cleared before morning.”
“Inspection? At this hour?” The guard glowered accusingly, hitching up his shoulders to look taller – which only made his belly look bigger.
“Of course at this hour,” Ray retorted, sounding just the right shade of impatient and annoyed. “Low-traffic hours, low power-draw, no busy bureaucrats to get in the way. You mind?”
“Yeah, I mind,” huffed the guard, sticking his elbows out and twiddling showily with his stungun. “Nobody told me about any inspection.”
“Yeah? Well, Third Engineer Dusenberg told me to get it done tonight,” Ray snapped back. “You wanta call him, he’s up in 387 right now, going over the readouts. Maybe he’ll be happy to get yanked away from his boards for diddly-squat, and maybe he won’t. Go on and call him.”
Challenged, the guard pulled out his clunky communicator and played with it, looking to see if Ray looked worried. Ray only looked expectant and gleeful.
Inspired, Uhura said to him – loud enough for the guard to hear: “How long is this going to take, Harry? Remember, we’ve got to get down to the sewage plant sometime tonight.”
Ray caught the hint and ran with it. “Hey, don’t worry,” he chortled. “If we don’t make it, he’ll catch the flak. We get double-time-and-a-half, no matter what.”
That decided the guard. “G’wan, get outta here,” he growled, stepping toward the elevator doors. “And don’t try any cute stuff.”
“’Cute stuff’?” Uhura couldn’t help adding as they strolled off down the corridor. “What’s cute about a grade-2 inspection?”
“Who knows? Who cares?” said Ray.
The elevator doors whooshed shut behind them.
“Typical,” Ray added. “This culture breeds bullies.”
“What will happen to your friend Dusenberg when the guard gets questioned?”
“Heh! Dusenberg’s not in tonight. My buddy’s got a bypass on 387, so any calls up there tonight go to him.”
“Neat. Where are we really going?”
“Not to Subsection 21-B.”
In fact, they went to Subsection 41-A, which was down the corridor, around a corner, down a shorter corridor, around another corner, and at the end of a short passage. Ray used his badge to open the door, revealing a bank of connections and relays.
“There you are, milady,” he said with a flourish. “I think bank number 14 is what you want.”
“You stand watch,” said Uhura, peering at the spaghetti-tangle of cables. “This may be easier than I thought.”
She took the two cases, laid them flat on the floor and opened them. Ray edged to the corner of the passageway and stuck his nose, one eye, and one ear around it. Uhura eyed the bank of connections once more, then reached for a tool and a module.
Looking back, she remembered that there had been times when she’d worked faster – but there hadn’t been many of them. Ten minutes of cutting, splicing and calibrating was all it took.
“Done,” she whispered, carefully closing the door. “Let’s pack up and get out of here.”
“Shh,” said Ray, closing the cases. “We’ll have to at least pass Subsection 21-B, just in case we run into that lout again.”
Actually, it was a different lout they ran into: a Mark 3 roving robo-camera whining up the corridor toward them, lenses jiggling. They were just past Subsection 21-B when they encountered it, so their alibi looked good.
“Piece of cake, like I said,” Ray drawled to Uhura, pretending to ignore the little robot. “Didn’t really need anything but dusting.”
“We get the double-time-and-a-half anyway,” Uhura replied. “And you know something would go wrong if we didn’t inspect.”
They walked around the robot as if it were an inconveniently-placed potted shrub, and strolled on down the corridor. The elevator door was about fifty meters away.
The robot turned around and followed them, hooting plaintively.
Ray and Uhura traded glances, and then looked for hidden security-sensors. They didn’t see any signs of them, but there was still a chance of someone watching and listening – through the robot, at least. They couldn’t ignore the thing’s hooting. They stopped and turned.
“Hey, we got an escort,” said Ray, trying to sound amused.
“They want us to inspect that, too?” Uhura did her best to sound tired and indignant. “That’s not in our work-order.”
“Maybe it’s a warning or something. Won’t hurt to look.” Ray squatted beside the machine and peered at it.
On the robot’s housing sat a small screen and keyboard. On the screen flashed the tiny words: HOW’S IT GOING, RAY? --SUPERGLUE
‘Superglue’? Uhura wondered.
Ray smothered an oath, and tapped on the keyboard: WENT FINE. LET US OUT, CLEAN AND FAST.
Instead the screen displayed a new message: DID IT WORK?
Ray frowned and tapped back: CALL AND FIND OUT AFTER WE’VE LEFT, DAMMIT.
I’VE GOT A LOT OF MONEY RIDING ON THIS, replied the screen.
Uhura gave the machine a slit-eyed glare, getting some nasty ideas.
DOUBLE YOUR BET. NOW GO HOME, Ray tapped.
The robot obediently turned around and went back the way it had come.
“Just as I thought,” Ray said clearly, for the benefit of any hidden sensors. “Set to infra-red, and following our heat-signature.”
“Enough free repairs,” Uhura matched him. “Come on, our next job’s waiting.”
Nothing else followed them. Nothing kept the doors from opening for Ray’s badge. Nothing stopped them from strolling across the parking lot, getting into the groundcar, driving out the gate and away.
Only when they were safely on the road did Uhura bring up the idea she’d been chewing on for the last several minutes.
“’A lot of money riding on this’, Ray?”
“Uh, yeah.” Ray squirmed a bit in his seat. “Ol’ Superglue likes to make bets on everything. It’s just his style, nothing to worry about.”
Uhura could think of plenty to worry about. “Just what bet did he make, Ray? And with whom?”
“Why, he bet we’d succeed, of course.” Ray grinned nervously. “Bet nearly 500 creds. So did I.”
“With whom, Ray?”
“Uh, well, Thelin set it up. Us against his whole crew.”
“’Us’?! You mean, you and me and all your suppliers against his crew? You said you didn’t tell anyone what we were up to!”
“I didn’t! I mean, I didn’t mean to. He figured out most of it, and wouldn’t give me the receiver-heads until I told him the rest of it. Then he set up the bet. But hey, don’t worry; Andorians are really honorable about gambling, and none of them would try to sabotage the mission.”
“So a whole scout-ship full of Andorians knows who we are and what we did! How long do you think they’ll keep the secret, Ray?”
“Hey, forever! You know how Andorians are about honor. At any rate, the word will never get back to the Argo government. And besides—” He gave her a desperate smile. “Think of the money we’ll make. I’ll cut you in for half the profits, of course…”
“Damn right, you will. And drive faster. I need to clean out my hotel room and beam back to the Enterprise, ASAP.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because, any minute now, one of those jolly gamblers is going to make a ship-to-shore call, just to see if we succeeded. How long do you think it’ll be before the word spreads?”
“Oh.”
Ray put his foot down, and the groundcar leaped ahead.

* * *

All of ten minutes later, Uhura had herself and her gear beamed up to the Enterprise. Yeoman Rand met her with a wide and knowing grin. At the very least, she suspected something.
“Thanks,” said Uhura, deciding against a change of clothes, only pulling off her turban and goggles. “Now could you please beam me and my gear to… What was that hotel Scotty mentioned?”
“The Hotel Avalon,” Rand chirped. “And congratulations, Lieutenant. Your hack went perfectly. Want to see?”
“You were in on it too?” Uhura groaned. Nonetheless, she stepped toward the console to peer at its viewscreen. “How much did you make on the bet?”
“A good 200 creds. Come and look.”
Uhura looked at the screen. Sure enough, there stood an Argo Port City bureaucrat, droning off a list of repair-schedule updates. Only an experienced communications expert would have noticed the slight rippling in the air around him which signified tricorder emissions at work. From his slightly bored expression, he saw nothing amiss in his immediate world.
But as far as the screen showed, he was completely naked.

Our doctor loves humanity. His private life is quiet.
The Shore Police arrested him for inciting nudes to riot.
We found him in the city jail, locked on and beamed him free
Intact – except for hickeys, and six kinds of STD.

Dr. Leonard McCoy spent a frustrating afternoon trying to find out where the Argo Port joy-houses were, getting nothing but polite denials from the hotel bartenders, and by that evening he was desperate enough to call up Commander Scott and ask for advice.
“Eh, lad,” Scott chuckled in answer to his question. “Come right up here ta th’ Hotel Avalon. We’re a’ on the sixth floor, havin’ oorselves a wee party. Bring a couple o’ bottles, an’ join us. I’m in room 612.”
McCoy didn’t need to be asked twice. Half an hour later, laden down with several assorted bottles, he knocked on the door of 612, Hotel Avalon.
The door opened, revealing the front room of a large suite, a very rumpled Chief Engineer, and several giggling young women in bizarre dress. All of them welcomed him in, and were especially pleased by the bottles.
"Ah Bones, ye're a treasure! Maryanne, come welcome ma friend wha brings the bottles."

A sweet-faced redhead in a minuscule silver dress trotted up, gave McCoy a beaming smile, and led him off to one of the bedrooms.
What McCoy remembered most, afterward, was that her bed was full of teddy-bears.
“I’ll probably have little paw-prints on my neck for days,” he told her, then took care to add: “They certainly do add to the charm.”
“Oh yes, I just love my little bears,” said Maryanne, pulling a lock of red hair out of her eyes. “It was so kind of Commander Scott to get them back for me.”
“Back for you? How did you lose them?”
Maryanne spent the next twenty minutes telling about the raids, and the reason for them. When she finished, McCoy was wide awake and doing some fast thinking.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “The governor’s afraid the vote will swing to the open-port faction, because he got caught in the coat-closet with the maid?”
“By an Open-Port senator, no less,” Maryanne added. “Ooh, the juicy scandal!”
“Right. So he tried to make up for it by bringing in Starfleet’s money and cleaning up the port. Now, this might at least get rid of the nasty problem with the Orions, but—“
“I don’t think so,” Maryanne sniffed. “Orion ships can still come through the sky-port without inspection.”
“Hmm, Starfleet could do something about that.” McCoy made a mental note to suggest it to the Captain. “But meanwhile, the spacers want the joy-houses and bars and gaming-dens and everything else. The trade won’t go away; it’ll just go further underground. That means it’ll be uninspected, unhealthy, and downright dangerous. In other words, a health-hazard.”
“Tell me about it,” grumbled Maryanne. “Why, we couldn’t even get regular doctors’ visits at our place; most doctors were nervous about being seen with us. I guess it’ll be worse now that we’re scattered.”
McCoy felt his alarm-bells go off, and made a red-flagged mental note to beam back to the Enterprise in the morning and give himself a thorough checkup. “Hypocrisy kills,” he muttered. “I can make a report to Starfleet…”
“But what good will that do?” Maryanne sighed. “The Feds can’t interfere in local planetary matters. All they can do is pull Starfleet out of Argo Port, take away the money, and maybe that will oust the governor and his rich-purist faction, but maybe it won’t. In any case, that’ll just bring the Orions back – or worse.”
“Worse?”
“With the new truce working, Klingon ships have been coming by. They haven’t sent their crews down here yet, but soon enough they will.”
“Oboy,” murmured McCoy, thinking that over.
A nice mess the Argoans had gotten themselves into with their hypocrisy and greed. Either they dealt with Starfleet or made their money off the local interplanetary trade. Local trade meant Orions, and possibly Klingons, unhampered by anything but Argo’s own inadequate space-force and police. Starfleet meant money and protection, but its personnel would also demand services that the Argo government didn’t want to admit existed. That façade of Respectability would create a huge criminal underclass, with all that implied.
The only possible solution was to get rid of the hypocrisy, blast the façade of Respectability to smithereens, and make Argo publicly face its realities.
Of course, nobody from Starfleet could do that for them; it would be a breach of the Prime Directive.
But the natives themselves could pull it off, if they had the right tactics…
McCoy fell asleep pondering tactics.
In the morning, he woke up with an idea. He went to find Scott, and had a long talk with him.

* * *

The first step in the plot required calling up everyone Scott knew in the Undernet, and there they got a surprise. Every live visual transmission on Argo showed people with their clothes missing: nothing else, just the clothes. Everyone in the Undernet Underground knew about it – even hinted that they knew who had done it – and took care to appear on-screen only from the neck up.
The rest of Argo was just waking up to the phenomenon, and reactions were spectacular. News reporters (visible from the neck up) chattered endlessly about the ‘prank’. Public officials (from the neck up) thundered outrage about the ‘sabotage’, threatened ferocious punishments for the ‘subversives’, and promised arrests ‘at any moment now’. Talk-show hosts (carefully posed behind large viewscreens and desks) invited comments from listeners, and got an earful.
The officials were horrified, but plainly the rest of the Argoans were laughing their heads off. As cultural sabotage, it was a howling success.
“Weel, Bones,” said Scott, turning off his screen, “It appears ta me thot we’d best strike while th’ iron is hot – I mean, today.”
“Right,” said McCoy. “Once we’ve talked to everyone we can reach, we’ll have the girls call their friends, and—” Just then he was struck by a vision that made him laugh so hard he almost fell off his chair.
“Eh, are ye a’right, Doctor?” Scott worried.
“I’m fine. *Hyuck!* I just thought-- Heh! Scotty, imagine how this is going to look on the news reports!”
Scott thought about that for all of five seconds before he started laughing too.

* * *

The word went out: from Maryanne and her friends to all of their friends, to the Bolt-Hole and everyone anyone in the Bolt-Hole knew, from an anonymous caller to the Althashayn and from there to friends on other orbiting ships, to the Flower Market, to the survivors of Baxter’s, to the Undernet and everyone on it and all of their friends. Massive numbers of students called in sick and were absent from school. Disturbing numbers of adults called in sick and were absent from work. News media commented briefly about a new but mild virus making the rounds.
At half an hour before noon, all the telemedia stations in Argo Port City received anonymous calls advising them to have camera crews at the east side of the port by noon. Several stations were curious enough to send reporters and cameras.
At noon, the crowd assembled on the east side of the port was enormous, milling about, uncertain what to do next. At various spaces were piles of picket-signs. Maryanne and her friends were having second thoughts.
“Honestly, I’ve never done anything like this before,” Maryanne was babbling tearfully, “And neither has anybody else, and I just don’t know if I can go through with it. I honestly don’t know what to do.”
Seeing that somebody would have to take the next step, McCoy drew a deep breath and picked up one of the picket-signs. “Just do what I’m doing,” he said, and stepped out into the street. Maryanne and friends hastily followed suit. Everybody else followed them. Out they marched, into the main road leading toward City Hall.
At first the crowd was quiet, save for the low thunder of thousands of marching feet and the mutter of quiet voices. Then an incredibly old woman, recognizable only to patrons of the Flower Market, began chanting: “No More Raids! No More Raids!” Everyone could agree on that, and thousands of voices took up the chant. By the time the crowd reached the first intersection – and the first of the news cameras – the sound of their voices was shaking windows a block away.
Impressed, the reporters trained their cameras on the picket-signs, noting the slogans: “No More Hypocrisy!” “Open Port!” “Legalize the Joy-Houses!” “Legalize Safe Drugs!” “No More Censorship!” and, most telling of all: “Tell Starfleet the Truth!”
For obvious security reasons, most reporters in the field – even knowing about the Nude Problem with video transmissions – carried transmitting, not recording, cameras. The whole jolly parade was transmitted live to the nearest repeater-antenna. From there, the transmissions went to recorders at the various media stations – and also to anyone who tuned in directly on that frequency. Viewers groundside and in space were treated to the sight of a parade of thousands – all of them stark naked.
Only a few of the marchers remembered to hold their picket-signs low enough to screen their bodies from the cameras.
McCoy, worried about legal repercussions and the Prime Directive, held his sign high enough to hide his face and nothing else.
Maryanne and her friends proudly held their signs high.
Within ten minutes, everyone on the planet who had any kind of video receiver was tuned in to the parade. So, for that matter, was everyone in local space. Countless receivers and computer-banks recorded the event for posterity.
It took another fifteen minutes for the Argo government to recover from its collective fit of apoplexy, and respond.
McCoy, seeing that the march was well under way and would continue under its own power, was about to reach for his communicator, step to one side and beam safely away, when he saw another crowd running into the street ahead of him. It took him a second to realize that this crowd was made up of city police, armed with clubs and stunguns, covered with shields and body-armor.
Why armor? was McCoy’s first thought. Nobody here is armed…
Then the police fired into the crowd.
McCoy yelled in shock as he saw Maryanne go down. He dropped his sign and crouched beside her, checking for vital signs. Above him, the crowd screamed and milled about, and the stun-beams whistled. One of them grazed his back, dropping him, conscious but paralyzed, to the ground. He had a good view of what came next.
The front line of marchers went down, bodies dropping all over the street, but the massive crowd behind only heard the noise and pressed ahead faster to see what was happening. The sheer mass of flesh was too big, and coming too fast, for the stun-beams to stop. Worse, as people saw their friends being shot down, they began to throw things. Most of what they threw were bottles of water, or other drinks, that they’d brought along for the march. Most of the bottles were open, and their contents spewed all over the police and the ground in front of them. The first stungun shorted out before the crowd reached the police line, neatly zapping the cop who held it.
Then some quick-thinking Argoans got to a fire-extinguisher outlet, and opened it. Water sprayed out all over the street, the cops and the charging crowd.
At that point the police had the sense to holster their stunguns and pull out their clubs. They laid about wildly, not bothering to aim for safe targets, and McCoy winced as he heard the sound of metalized plastic hitting bone.
Even so, the crowd was simply too big to stop. Outraged marchers jumped over the bodies of the fallen, threw themselves three-deep at the police shields, and bore the badgemen down by sheer weight. After that, the noise changed to the sound of metalized clubs striking police helmets.
The remaining police backed up, backed some more, then turned around and ran. The crowd ran after them, closed in behind, and dragged them down like wolves chasing deer. The rest of the crowd paused to strip the fallen police of shields, stunguns, clubs, armor, helmets, wallets and boots before hurrying on.
McCoy, still lying helpless among the limp bodies in the street, couldn’t help sympathizing. He also noticed the camera crews, still on their feet, transmitting all of this before they ran on, following the crowd.
How long before the stun-shock wears off? he wondered, vainly trying to make his paralyzed hand reach into his pocket for the hidden communicator.
Crowd and camera-crews were gone now, and a few of the former marchers were dragging off their stunned friends, when squealing tires and sirens came sounding up the cross-street.
Ambulances? McCoy hoped.
No, it was a fleet of Argo Port City paddy-wagons. They came whooping to a stop, their doors opened, and out sprang several more local badges. They began grabbing up the fallen bodies and throwing them into the waiting wagons.
Dammit, that’s dangerous! McCoy thought, watching them. These people were limp and helpless; they could be badly injured being thrown around like that. He wished there was just one reporter left, recording this. Someone had to get proof, show it to the world.
As two badges picked him up by the arms, McCoy got a quick glimpse of the building across the street. The windows were packed full of watchers, several of them with cameras.

* * *

The stun-shock didn’t wear off until McCoy was inside a cell, along with several other limp bodies, many of them female and familiar. McCoy shook the last pins-and-needles feeling out of his hands, and went to examine the wounded. He saw bruises, cuts, swellings, possible broken bones, probable concussions, and muttered some unprintable things about the Argo police.
His communicator was gone, and his wallet too. He remembered a pudgy badge at the station patting over the bodies as they were unloaded, removing any goodies he found, including jewelry and money – and McCoy took care to remember his face. He had a sore shoulder himself, from where he’d landed hard on the floor, and he wasn’t going to forget that, either.
Meanwhile, nobody except possibly Scotty even knew he was here.
Maybe that thieving badge would see his Starfleet ID, get worried, and report it to his superiors. Then again, maybe not; how would the man explain getting the wallet in the first place? McCoy’s best hope was that stripping prisoners of their valuables was standard legal practice here, so the badge would have to share the wealth, and somebody would see the Starfleet ID. If not, he’d have to trust that Scotty would come looking for him.
At any rate, what he had to do now was tend the wounded. Some of them were beginning to wake up, and were groaning with pain. McCoy tried yelling for a guard, but none came. With an oath, he made his way to the crowded cell’s lone faucet, hoping at least to wash the wounds clean. He had nothing else to work with, and too much to do.

* * *

As soon as Scott materialized, he hurried off the transporter platform and went straight to the console. Yeoman Rand made way for him.
“Lass,” he said, working the viewscreen controls, “Did ye see whot hoppened doon at th’ portside?”
“You mean the riot?” said Rand. “Sir, I not only watched; I recorded it.”
She jabbed buttons on the console. The small screen blossomed into a professional- cameraman’s-eye-view of the march – and then the attack. Whatever had been done to Argo’s communications system to make clothes vanish, it didn’t include the metallized plastic of police armor. To the camera’s eye, armored police had fired into a crowd of naked – and obviously unarmed – civilians.
Scott stared, his jaw dropping, as the scene unfolded. He saw nude bodies falling, then others fighting back – and winning – with nothing but water and the weight of their bare bodies. It occurred to him that, taken purely as a battle scene, this was a legend in the making.
Just then a light on the small comm-board flashed. “Incoming call, sir,” said Rand, pressing another button.
“This is Commander Thelin, of the Althashayn,” said a vaguely familiar voice. “Enterprise, who’s receiving?”
“Er, Commander Scott here.”
“Ah, Kirk’s friend. Sir, have you received the current news broadcast from Argo Port City? Have you seen what I’ve seen?”
“Aye, seen it a’,” said Scott, snapping back to his immediate problem. “Mr. Thelin, there’s no Communications Officer aboord. I’ll need yer help analyzin’ a’ th’ broadcasts ye can find. I’m tryin’ ta locate an’ individual fro’ ma crew…”

* * *

Everyone in the cell was awake now, and in the adjoining cells as well. The background chorus of groans and curses made McCoy think of the waiting room of Hell. Thanks to the number of prisoners, there was at least one person with some medical training in each cell; McCoy communicated with them by shouting into the corridor. Nobody had anything more to work with than water and spare clothes, but at least none of the injured was getting any worse at the moment.
“But some of them will get worse without treatment,” McCoy muttered angrily. “How long before they send food, supplies, a doctor, anything?”
His temporary assistant, an Argo woman with training as a shipyard nurse, crouched over one of the patients and peered worriedly into the man’s eyes. “Doc,” she said, “I’m worried about this concussion. His eyes are still wrong.”
“Keep him warm and still.” McCoy ran a distracted hand through his hair. “Has anyone here ever been in this hellhole before?”
Maryanne, holding her sprained wrist in her lap, raised the other hand. “I have,” she said. “The guards come at regular times, about four hours apart. With this big a crowd, though… I just don’t know.”
“Four hours?! These people need help right now!”
“Hey, we’ll last, Doc,” mumbled one of the concussion cases. “Hell, I’ve taken worse’n this in bar-fights. I ‘member one time—“
“Shh. Not now. Rest,” the nurse shushed him.
“Hey, Doc,” Maryanne smiled hopefully at him, “It was worth it. We wanted to make a big public stink, and we sure did.”
“Yes, we did,” McCoy had to agree. “Bigger and much badder than I expected. But who would have thought civilized people would react like this? It’s barbaric!”
Right then, a familiar blue glow formed around him. McCoy gasped in recognition, barely had time to hear the startled shouts around him—
--and then he was standing on the Enterprise’s transporter pad, looking straight at Scotty and Yeoman Rand behind the console.
“Are ye a’ right?” Scott called hurrying toward him.
“Nothing worse than bruises,” snapped McCoy, hopping off the platform. “But I’ve got to get to Sickbay, fast. Keep those coordinates, and try to locate the other cells. I’ve got to beam them some medicine, bandages—“
“Bones, I dinna think thot’d be a guid idea.”
“What do you mean, not a good idea?! There are injured people down there!”
“Weel, I mean, we beamed ye oot on th’ sly. ‘Tisna exactly legal ta slip prisoners oot o’ planetary jail, ye know. If we sent supplies doon, someone official might see it an’ make a guid guess.”
“They already know they caught a Starfleet officer, unless that badge kept my wallet for himself. We send the supplies. Yeoman Rand, can you come along and help me?”
“Yessir. Uh, Mr. Scott, I guess you have the console.”
McCoy didn’t exactly run all the way to Sickbay, but Rand had to trot to keep up with him. Once there, McCoy began hauling containers out of cabinets and loading a grav-cart with them. He was bending over to reach into a lower shelf when Rand saw the bruise on his head.
“Sir, you have a head-wound,” she pointed out. “It’s not bad; it looks no worse than a hickey.”
McCoy patted his head and found the bruise. “I didn’t even notice it before,” he marveled. “Too busy, I suppose.”
“Sir, shouldn’t you check yourself further before handling the sterile bandages?”
That made McCoy stop and think. “You’re right, I should. Hmm, I’ll step over here under the scanner, you poke that button and then hit ‘hold’ when the words stop showing up on the screen.”
Yeoman Rand dutifully did so, and frowned at what the screen displayed. “Sir,” she said carefully, “I really think you’d better look at this.”
Puzzled, McCoy got up and peered at the screen. He stared. Then he howled.
“Ye gods, all that and lice too?! Dammit, Maryanne!”
He dived for another cabinet and began pulling out more containers.

Our helmsman loves exotic plants. The plants all love him too.
He took some down on leave with him, and we wondered what they’d do,
‘Til the planetary governor called and swore upon his life
That a gang of plants entwined his house – and then seduced his wife.

“Fumigation, fumigation…” Lieutenant Sulu muttered to himself as he trudged back to his cabin for the third time. “All crew quarters too, and no more room in the arboretum. What am I going to do?”
As his door closed behind him he paused to gaze fondly at the last flowerpot and its contents, standing placidly under the carefully calibrated growing-lamp. It was a big pot, and a big plant: a mature Argelian Blue Velvet bush-orchid, nearly a meter tall, its delicate fronds spread out like dark-turquoise lace. It was a prize specimen of an exquisite ornamental, valued all over the galaxy for its ethereal beauty, lovely even when not flowering, and devilishly hard to grow. It was the centerpiece of his collection, and there was absolutely no room for it in the ship’s arboretum.
“Sylvia,” he sighed to the adorable thing, “There’s no other solution. I’ll have to take you with me.”
That settled, his next problem was transportation. He turned around, went back into the corridor and trotted off to ship’s supplies. He came back ten minutes later with a small grav-cart, just big enough to carry the loaded flowerpot. Sulu eyed the flowerpot and calculated that maybe five minutes’ careful work would get the pot onto the cart. Then he could tow it to the transporter room and beam down…
And what then?
He imagined himself beaming into the lobby of the Argo Stilton or some such, with Sylvia in tow, everyone noticing and remarking on her beauty: then the inevitable envy, then greed, then hordes of bureaucrats descending on him with tons of regulations about importing alien lifeforms, confiscation with no repayment, and Sylvia winding up in some greedy official’s home or office. He’d seen such officious thievery before.
The obvious solution was to beam into a wilderness area, leave Sylvia there…
No, that wouldn’t work. Argo lifeforms just might find Sylvia edible, and delicious. He’d have to take her somewhere safe, cultivated – yet someplace where she wouldn’t draw attention. Someplace like…
Well, why not a botanical garden?
The more he thought about it, the better the idea looked. No one would question the presence of a rare and valuable plant in a place designed for rare and valuable plants. If the caretakers noticed her, they’d just assume that some official had brought her there without properly informing them. They’d take good care of her, probably even have the proper food for her symbiotes, the pale green Elf-Moss that grew at her roots… No, one couldn’t count on that much. He’d best feed them before he took Sylvia down.
While he was dusting the moss-food around Sylvia’s roots, Sulu had another thought; what if the caretakers took her out of the pot and planted her? He’d have the devil’s own time getting her back.
Wait, there was a solution for that, too. Another quick trip down to supplies brought him a small homing beacon and a soil-sampling probe. With meticulous care, he inserted the beacon deep among Sylvia’s roots. Now he could always find her again and beam her up, symbiotes and all.
When he pictured beaming Sylvia out of her pot, then back in, he knew he was going to need expert help.
* * *

“Psst! Janice, do you have a moment to spare?”
“I have hours to spare. I’m going to be stuck up here for days. What’s on your mind?”
“A tricky piece of transporter work. Are you interested?”
“I’m interested in anything interesting, right now. What’s the problem?”
“See this map? Here, where it says Anslinger Gardens: first, I have to find just the right spot in those gardens to hide Sylvia. Then we have to beam her out of her pot and into just the right depth in the ground. Once the ship-wide fumigation is over, we have to beam her back into her pot without damaging her roots. Can you do it? Is it even possible?”
“Sulu, the latest development in transporter technology is applying it to microsurgery. Yes, it’s possible, and yes, I can do it. Now tell me why you’re going to all this trouble to keep your pet orchid from going through Customs.”
“Thieves, Janice. I don’t want to risk losing her to some greedy bureaucrat with convenient fine print in the regulations.”
“Hmm, and according to what I’ve picked up from the local chat-lines, Argo bureaucrats are famous for that. All right, I see your point. Let’s have a look at that map.”
“Here: these gardens in the fanciest part of town, right between all these big mansions.”
“We’ll have to get a closer look. Get over to Sensor Control, and I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”

* * *

Three hours before sundown, a small patch of slightly-swampy soil near the easternmost wall of Anslinger Gardens was briefly lit by the blue glow of a transporter beam. When the glow faded, the ground was more compacted and less swampy – thanks to the sudden addition of one cubic meter of finest-grade potting soil, which just happened to contain the roots of an Argelian Blue Velvet bush-orchid and its Elf-Moss symbiotes. Although the transport was perfect, soil-surfaces matching exactly, Sylvia was shaken by the experience. Her lacey fronds quivered, curled into tight little velvet fists, and waited several minutes before they uncurled again. No one but a few resident birds saw the event, and in another moment the garden returned to its usual tranquility.
What Rand hadn’t noticed, she not being a botanist, was that the surrounding soil was unusually high in nitrogen, phosphorus, and metal-salt content.
What Sulu hadn’t noticed, he being distracted with other problems, was that the tight little knots at the tips of Sylvia’s main branches were not leaf or flower buds. They were not buds at all, since Sylvia had passed her flowering stage.
They were seedpods.

* * *

Sulu, delighted at the successful piece of work, soundly kissed Yeoman Rand and then beamed down to a modestly-priced hotel. Once there, he checked out the local listings of officially-sanctioned entertainments -- and was lucky enough to find an Ancient French-style fencing tournament.
While attending the tournament, he had the even better luck to meet an adventurous Argo girl named Doris, who liked spacers. She invited him to an Underground party afterwards, where he completely lost track of time. He certainly didn’t notice that a light rain fell on Argo Port City between midnight and dawn.

* * *

The rain filled the slight hollow by the wall, carrying the nitrogen, phosphorus and mineral-salt compounds to Sylvia’s roots, and up to the roots of her symbiotes. The Elf-Moss feasted on the new food until it became as close to drunk as a plant could manage. The merry Elf-Moss secreted new chemicals, complex and arcane, a part of its metabolic cycle which the botanists of Argelius had never noticed.
Sylvia too gloried in the rich food, drawing it up and processing it hungrily. In the tropical river-valleys of her original home, summer floods had brought these chemicals down from the hills every breeding-season, to be used up before the cool dry winter began, a phenomenon the local scientists hadn’t yet discovered, which explained why none had ever had much luck getting the bush-orchid to seed in captivity. The sudden abundance of chemicals and water had come at just the right time; Sylvia had seedpods waiting for them.

* * *

Next morning, Sulu and Doris awoke and ordered breakfast. While munching on assorted fruits and crescent rolls, they turned on the vid-screen to look for anything interesting.
What they got was an eyeful: news reporters, talk-show hosts and various officials – all carefully shown from the neck up – reporting on, commenting on, or denouncing the Present Transmission Problem. It took them less than five minutes to determine just what that euphemism meant. After that, they laughed until their sides were sore. Doris came up for air long enough to whoop: “What a glorious joke! I wonder who could have done it.”
“I can’t imagine,” Sulu chuckled – and then stopped. A sudden suspicion sneaked into a corner of his mind. He knew what amazing things Uhura could do with any kind of communications gear. Could she possibly…? No, of course not! Why should she bother? How would she get into the system, anyway? This had to be an inside job. Some local must have done it. Sure.
But still…
The thought nagged him at odd moments all morning.

* * *

The rising heat of day sent the Elf-Moss into full enzyme production. The subtle chemicals worked through the soil to Sylvia’s roots. She acknowledged the chemical signal, drew water up from the ground and even from her leaves, and sent it into the swelling seedpods. The pods expanded with amazing, almost visible, speed. The seeds ripened and the chamber at the base of each pod began to fill with water. Minute by minute, the membrane dividing the lower chambers and the seed-chambers stretched, and the pod walls thinned.

* * *

Sulu could never understand the passion some girls had for shopping. Yes, it was interesting to see what the markets displayed, and it might be profitable to compare prices on things one really needed, but looking at goods and spending money had never struck him as a pleasure. He waited politely, itchy with boredom, while Doris oohed and cooed over clothes and decorations that looked no different, really, from what she was already wearing.
The fourth time that Doris asked him: “Which do you think would look better on me, this one or this one?” he simply pointed to the one on the right, excused himself to go check out the shop across the street, and made his escape.
The shop specialized in cameras, video equipment, commercial-grade tricorders, and the like. Much to his surprise, Sulu found a digital recorder that covered the full range of a tricorder and vid-camera besides. It had remarkable storage and charge capacity, and the price was ridiculously low. On examining it, he was delighted to see that the frequency selector could be adjusted to study any detail of any lifeform: as good as any of the portable tricorders in the Enterprise’s Biolab, except that the sensing distance was less than a hundred meters. Hey, with this he could study plants right down to their molecules! He paid for it fast, and didn’t bother to have it wrapped.
A moment later, when Doris came trotting in with an armload of bags and bundles, he cheerfully waved the camera at her and told her to pose. Doris refused, but she didn’t ask him to carry any of her bundles, either. She took her purchases home in a ground-taxi, promising to meet him for dinner at “the infamous Baxter’s” that evening.
At loose ends for the next few hours, Sulu strolled off to play with his new toy. He tried it on buildings, busy streets, passing pedestrians and their pets, and finally thought of going to Anslinger Gardens to check on Sylvia.

* * *

The morning sun soaked her in energy, and Sylvia’s branches strained under the weight of their burdens. Her seed-pods were swollen to the size of fists: the seeds ready, their coats almost fizzing with growth chemicals waiting to be loosed, the lower chambers stretched and beginning to strain with built-up water pressure. Her roots sucked more water out of the soil, digging so fiercely that the whole structure began to tilt toward the wall. The hour of her release was near, and Sylvia’s normally hypersensitive leaves were too limp from their labors even to quiver at the sound of approaching footsteps.

* * *

Sulu stared at Sylvia for a long moment, struggling to believe what his eyes told him. Yesterday he hadn’t even seen the seedpods on her branches, but today they were bared, gleaming, enormous, and clearly ripe. He’d always heard that Argelian Blue Velvet pods were small, and took forever to form…
His first thought was that something was terribly wrong. His second thought was to remember the multicorder in his hands. He worked the frequency selector in a desperate hurry, turned it wide open, and pointed it at Sylvia.
The multicorder whistled for half a minute before he felt that he had readings enough. He reset the switch and pored over the readout on the screen. Then he looked at Sylvia. Then he looked at the screen again. Then he let out a whoop that startled the birds off their perches. Then he kissed the multicorder. Then he almost kissed Sylvia.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” he announced to the surrounding plants, birds and sky. “Nobody’s ever seen this before! Nobody’s even guessed. Sylvia, you’ll make me famous!”
The dutiful little machine explained it all: massive doses of nitrated minerals and phosphorus, the growth hormones from the symbiotes, the true natural breeding cycle revealed at last. Sulu had it all, the complete data, everything explained. He knew of half a dozen journals that would happily publish his findings. Even Commander Spock would be impressed.
“Got to get all this back to the ship,” he whispered to himself – looking around quickly to make sure that nobody else was near, nobody had heard or seen… Did he dare leave Sylvia here, where someone else might see? Yes, dammit: the fumigation. But if he could publish first—
Sulu all but ran out of Anslinger Gardens, looking for a communications center from which he could contact the Enterprise’s computer.
Behind him, Sylvia continued to pump water into the lower chambers of her seedpods. The pressure steadily grew.

* * *

A frustrating half-hour later, Sulu gave up trying to upload his multicorder directly to the Enterprise, and simply asked Yeoman Rand to beam him up. Ten hurried minutes after that; he had the data safely stored in the computer under his personal code. It took him another hour to write his report on the true optimum breeding conditions of Argelian Blue Velvet and transmit it off to the Federation Journal of Botanical Sciences.
After that he realized that he had skipped lunch, and was ravenously hungry. Dinner with Doris wouldn’t be for hours, and the ship’s replicators were offline for inspection. There was no help for it but to beam back down to the city. Remembering to bring his wonderfully helpful little multicorder, Sulu strolled back to the transporter room to share his good news with Rand and ask for a beam-down to the nearest halfway decent restaurant.
“Don’t ask me what’s a good place,” Rand replied. “I’m not the Argo veteran in the crew.
You might ask Commander Scott; he’s holed up at the Hotel Avalon right now. Hmm, for that matter, so is Lt. Uhura…”
Sulu sighed, and tapped up the city map. The guide index showed a respectable eatery in the city, almost directly below, near the groundside spaceport. “This’ll do,” he said. “I’d invite you along with me to celebrate, but—“
“But I’m stuck here. Enjoy lunch.”
Two minutes after that, Sulu walked in the door of the Starburst Bar and Grill and asked for a seat by the window. The only available table there was small and cramped, but he didn’t care. He could aim his delightful little multicorder out the window and play with the readings while he waited for his order.
“You and Sylvia, darlings,” he murmured to his toy, “You’re going to make me famous.”
The diner was crowded, the waitresses hard-worked, and Sulu had gained no more than a cup of admittedly very good coffee when he noticed something odd in the street outside. There was a cloud of dust – no, a large crowd of people – coming up the street, carrying signs and apparently chanting.
Some kind of religious parade? he wondered, even as he lifted the multicorder and aimed it.
As the crowd drew closer, he saw that there was nothing religious about it. The words of the chant, as the multicorder faithfully analyzed them, were: “No More Raids!”. The signs had more to say, and none of that was religious either. This was a classic political protest, such as he hadn’t seen in years. They’d no doubt parade through half the city advertising their grievance, gather at some socially significant spot to make long speeches detailing their grievance, hand around a petition for everyone to sign, then publicly present it to some government official. The pattern was almost as formal as a classic Noh play, and would make for some interesting vids. If he weren’t waiting for his lunch, he’d be tempted to follow them with the multicorder.
Wait a minute. There was something outside the classic pattern: a large group of armored ground-police coming up, forming a line across the street in the path of the marchers. What in the worlds were they doing there? Sulu turned the multicorder and aimed it at them.
The next second, the police began firing stunguns into the crowd.
Sulu stared, his forgotten multicorder still running, as the bodies began falling. He saw the second line of marchers try to stop or turn and run away, but the sheer mass and momentum of the crowd behind pushed them forward.
Can’t the police see that? Sulu raged silently. Can’t they understand that those people can’t stop fast no matter what they do?
Now the thrown bottles began flying, water splashing everywhere, one of the stunguns shorting out and taking its wielder with it. More water sprayed from somewhere on the opposite side of the street – the fire-extinguishing system, Sulu guessed – making the stunguns useless. The police line was backing up; surely now they’d have the sense to back off and let the parade through.
But no: they pulled out long metallized clubs and began striking at the marchers. Sulu saw them lashing, hard, at people’s heads – and winced as he thought of what that kind of blow could do to a Human skull. More marchers fell, but now the main mass of the crowd fell upon the police line, an avalanche of bodies pressing on the shields. The first of the badgemen fell over, and was swallowed in the mass of flesh. The rest turned and ran. The crowd ran after them.
Not quite believing this, Sulu swept his eyes – and his multicorder – over the litter of bodies left behind. This was impossible. The officials couldn’t just leave bodies lying in the street! Somebody had to come and help them, someone—
Then he saw a very old woman in a flower-patterned caftan picking her way among the bodies. She was shaking her fists and, according to the multicorder, swearing a blue streak. She raised one hand, which held a small bottle of some emerald-green fluid, and shouted after the departed police: “I’ll get you good! I know where your water-distribution plant is!”
Just then, the sound of sirens approached. Thank all the gods of every species: that must be the ambulances coming.
The old woman swore again and scampered off, quick as a cat, down a side street.
A fleet of bulky groundcars came up the street and stopped at the intersection. Strange, but the vehicles didn’t look like ambulances…
They weren’t, and the troops jumping out of them weren’t medical personnel. Sulu watched, multicorder running, as the police grabbed up bodies and threw them – actually threw them, like so many logs – into the gaping backs of the groundcars. They showed no concern at all for how the victims landed. Sulu wondered how many would have broken skulls, limbs or backs from this action alone.
Gods and ancestors, one of those bodies looked exactly like Dr. McCoy!
Sulu watched, trying to be sure, getting the odd impression that the victim was looking straight at him while the cops hauled his body to the groundcar. The multicorder kept humming.
It wasn’t until the last body was picked up, the vehicles closed, their police crews back on board, that Sulu realized his multicorder was still running. He’d caught it all.
Someone had to see this!! Someone had to know. Sulu thought of taking the news to the Captain, but had no idea where he was. Rand might know; she knew where Scott and Uhura were, anyway…
“May I take your order, sir?” a voice sounded in his ear.
Sulu turned to see the waitress hovering by the table, stylus poised over her order-pad. He realized that his appetite had utterly vanished.
Just the coffee,” he said, fumbling at his belt for a cred-chip. He handed her a fiver and headed for the door, looking for a clear space from which to call Rand and beam out, forgetting everything else.
He had completely forgotten Sylvia, too.

* * *
Sylvia was ready. The tips of her seedpods split and gaped open, revealing the waiting seeds. Spores from the flowering Elf-Moss below drifted up on the slight convection currents and settled on the exposed seeds. The water-chambers of the pods bulged, the thin membranes straining to their limits. Her leaves curled tight in expectation.
A light breeze swept through the garden, barely enough to ruffle leaves, but enough to add the last needed stress. The separating membrane between the seeds and the water-chamber of the topmost pod tore through.
With a sound that older civilizations would have called gunfire, the seeds shot into the sky on a spray of water. They shot high, higher than the garden wall, flew over it – then lost momentum and began to drop. They landed on the fine-trimmed lawn of the yard beyond the wall, the grounds of a huge and well-kept mansion.
The stress of that first shot was enough to rupture the membranes of the other pods. In a rippling fusillade, much like an ancient machine-gun, Sylvia’s seeds flew to freedom – into the sky, over the wall, finally down into the welcoming topsoil—
--onto the lawn in the back yard of the Argo governor’s mansion.

* * *

Five minutes later, Sulu knocked on the door of room 612 at the Hotel Avalon. The door opened to reveal Commander Montgomery Scott in an interesting state of civilian dress, or rather, undress.
“Sulu, lad!” His breath smelled noticeably of Scotch, but his eyes were keen as ever. “Come on in. Whot brings ye here?”
For answer, Sulu walked in and held out his multicorder. “This, sir,” he said. “I think you should see this. And I think Dr. McCoy may be in danger.”

* * *

In the central Argelian jungles, life was wildly abundant and always hungry; nothing vulnerable would live long. Through ages of high-pressure evolution, the seeds of the Blue Velvet bush-orchid had learned not to be vulnerable. The moment they impacted with the soil, the shock of landing shook loose the row of folded leglets along their sides and stirred them to action.
The leglets began to push, aiming blindly downward, toward the welcoming soil – and the spores of the Elf-Moss came along for the ride. There were blades of grass in the way, but that didn’t matter; the seeds’ sharp noses pushed them aside. Now a mat of grass roots blocked the downward path, but the seeds’ needle-noses pushed them aside too. The leglets shoved harder. Reluctantly, the roots parted or tore before that ruthless determination. The seeds’ noses touched the blessed moist topsoil.
At the signal of that touch, the seeds’ noses opened and folded back to reveal a different set of leglets. These were sharp, sturdy, set in a ring, and designed for digging. They burrowed into the ground like tiny drill-bits, tossing up little mounds of loosened dirt. As the seeds buried themselves, the almost-microscopic spores of the Elf-Moss were stripped from the seeds’ skins, finding a home for themselves in the loose soil at the surface, while the burrowing bush-orchid seeds sank out of sight.
Once the last of the seeds was buried, once air no longer touched them, the leglets withered and fell off, their duty done. The seed coats absorbed water and minerals from the rich soil, softened and fell apart, releasing growth hormone into the dirt immediately around the seeds. The liberated seeds thrust down their first roots and took firm hold of their new territory. Devouring water and nutrients and growth hormone with almost animal speed, the roots pumped water into the seeds’ leaf-heads.
The leaf-heads uncoiled, thrust upward, broke the surface again and raised themselves into the open air. There they encountered the sweet blanketing sunlight. The leaf-heads split apart and spread wide, stretching to catch every last photon.
The tiny plant was still vulnerable, but not nearly so much as the seed. Now the whole system was in place: roots, stalk, leaves and symbiotes. Now the infant plants could eat, grow, put on thick bark, put out predator-sensitive leaves, and hold their own in a hungry jungle world.

* * *

Governor Kingrich was locked in his office, yelling at his viewscreen. His kids were supposedly off in school – but his wife Nargina knew that the boys had called in sick and then taken off, probably to go trawl for girls in the nearest shopping mall. None of her family needed her, not for anything worthwhile, which meant that she had nothing worthwhile to do – again.
Nargina was disgusted with the lot of them, disgusted with her life, disgusted with the world. She sauntered through the mansion’s overstuffed clubroom in her Tourmaline spider-silk morning gown and considered opening up the wet-bar, pouring herself several tall cool drinks, and getting placidly drunk. With Kingy busy on some crisis or other – or possibly talking some other maid into the coat-closet – the boys off skirt-chasing and the servants staying carefully out of the way, it was unlikely that anyone would bother her until dinnertime. She could stay mildly plastered for that long.
A passing glance around the room swept her eyes across the windows, giving her a view of the back yard. It was a lovely day, and she might as well enjoy the weather. She strolled out the back door and gazed aimlessly around the yard. There was the wall that divided the yard from Anslinger Gardens – which she hadn’t visited in years. There were the Earth rosebushes that she’d planted years ago – now sadly neglected. There were the forgotten fruit-trees – whose fruit nobody bothered to pick and eat anymore. Maybe she should get back into her gardening; she had enjoyed that, once. There was nothing Politically Significant about gardening. Kingy’s only objection to it had been the time it took, time which he thought could be better spent on her accompanying him to various public functions, being a good little ornament…
Wait, what was that patch of spotty roughness near the wall, marring the perfection of the lawn? Annoyed, she came down the steps and strode to the offending patch of strange vegetable color, bent down and looked closer.
She stared for a minute, her brain trying to make sense of what her eyes saw. Then she jumped up with a screech that could have made dogs howl. She recognized those seedlings; any gardener, professional or amateur, in this entire quadrant would know what they were.
“Argelian Blue Velvets, complete with Elf-Moss!” she dithered. “Dozens of them! Hundreds! Oh my gods!”
She turned around and ran for the gardening shed. Ten minutes later, totally ignoring the now sad state of her dress, she came hurrying back with a shovel, a trowel, and as many flowerpots and bags of potting soil as her wheelbarrow could carry.

* * *

There was no way to move the party, so the conspirators gathered in Uhura’s room down on the fourth floor. Uhura had her communications gear spread out all over the desk, and was listening intently to her communicator. Nurse Chapel was sitting on the couch, looking alternately amused and furious. Chekov was hovering nearby, looking worried. Sulu was holding his own communicator to his ear and arguing in whispers with Scott’s voice.
“Nay, we doan’t call the Captain,” Scott hissed from the speaker. “Dinna force th’ mon ta refuse or deny. We handle it oorselves, so he can reprimand us later, if he must.”
“You think he’ll want to stay ignorant about this?” Sulu whispered back. “What if we can’t get Bones out? The captain will have to know.”
“No’ ‘til then-- Wait, Rand’s got a fix on him. Hold… There he is! Scott oot.”
“They’ve got him!” Sulu announced gleefully. “Dr. McCoy’s back on board!”
“He’s sefe!” whooped Chekov. “Eh, in det case, I cen go beck to de party – or meybe to de interesting Bolt-Hole.”
“Go ahead,” said Chapel. “Just be very careful not to lose your communicator. Hmm, and Heziah doesn’t seem to be in the hotel just now…”
“I’ll call you if anything else happens,” Uhura promised, not taking her eyes off her screens.
Whistling happily, Chekov trotted out the door. Sulu started to follow him, then stopped and looked back at Uhura.
Uhura, he saw, was looking from her minicomp screen to her laptop screen, comparing the news-camera versions of the Nude Riot with the readouts from Sulu’s multicorder. “Interesting difference,” he noted. “Somebody really had fun with Argo’s communication system.”
Uhura gave him barely a glance, only went on looking at her screens.
“You know,” Sulu went on, “Whoever did it knew a lot about communications hardware – and the odd uses of a tricorder.”
Now Uhura gave him a full-faced look. “The technology’s available right here in town,” she said, pointing significantly to Sulu’s new multicorder. “If you had set the frequency on that thing just a little higher…”
“Yes, I suppose a local could have done it. I mean, what motive would an offworlder have for playing a prank like that?”
“What indeed?” Uhura smiled.
Sulu gave the laptop’s viewscreen a long, significant look. It showed what was unmistakably Dr. McCoy being thrown into a paddy wagon. “Right,” Sulu smiled. “Well, I’d best be off. I have a dinner-date.”
“Good luck, then,” Uhura called after him, “D’Artagnan.”
Sulu caught that, and laughed. He waved her a knowing salute as he strolled out the door.
He was halfway down the corridor before he remembered Sylvia.

* * *

Nargina’s morning gown was muddy up to the shoulders, and the skirt was hopelessly shredded. Her slippers had long since disappeared in one of the mud-holes now dotting the lawn. Sweat gleamed on her skin, under splotches of dirt, and her hair had come loose and was clinging to her neck. She looked like a classic Shakespearean madwoman, and didn’t notice.
She had a good three dozen of the precious little Velvets potted and stacked in the greenhouse, and she was filling the wheelbarrow with another half-dozen filled pots. She glanced at the sinking sun and shoveled faster; at this rate she’d get the last of them safely into the greenhouse by twilight, and she didn’t want to miss any of them in the dark.
“Faster, faster,” she muttered, jabbing her spade into the soil.
“Nargina!” yelled a familiar voice from the back door. “Nargeeeeeena!”
She flinched automatically – but only for an instant. Forget him, she decided fiercely. This is important!
“Nargina,” snapped Governor Kingrich, marching up to her. “What the bupfrack do you think you’re doing?”
“Shoveling,” she snapped back, not bothering to look at him.
“Shoveling what?” her husband yelped, his voice climbing an octave higher.
“My fortune!” she roared. “Credits by the shovel full! My future by the wheelbarrow-load! Now get out of my light!”

* * *

Sulu stared at Sylvia, not quite believing what his eyes and the multicorder showed him. Seedpod to seeded out, in less than 24 hours: the Journal would have a conniption fit. Sylvia drooped, exhausted, almost visibly panting like a tired dog. Every seedpod was shriveled, empty, falling away.
And where were the seeds?
There wasn’t seed nor seedling to be found, and Blue Velvet seeds were famed galaxy-wide for their sprouting-speed. Something should have showed above the ground by now, somewhere nearby, unless…
Sulu looked closer at the angle of Sylvia’s trunk. Wasn’t it just a few degrees out of line? If those seedpods had discharged with enough force send the seeds flying – and flying far enough – they would have gone clean over the wall.
“Into somebody’s back yard, I’ll bet,” Sulu groaned, slinging the multicorder back on his shoulder.
The wall had originally been rough stone, and years of weathering had worn handholds in it that an experienced Starfleet explorer could use. Besides, there was a nice thick Barnard’s Ivy growing all the way to the top. Sulu gritted his teeth and climbed.
He was nearly at the top of the wall when he heard the voices below.

* * *

“No, I am not going to stand in the background while you make another grzekking speech! This is a thousand times more important!” Nargina hadn’t yelled this loud in years, and it felt surprisingly good. “You caused that riot, you and your heavy-handed Respectability laws: you go deal with it.”
“This is a Major Political Crisis, and all you care about is a bunch of plants?!” Kingrich was actually hopping up and down, like a small child in a tantrum. “Have you gone out of your mind?”
“No, I’ve finally found it – and watch your feet!”
“I’ll—I’ll have the Surgeon General examine you!”
“I’ll tell his wife first. She’s a gardener too.”
“I’ll divorce you!”
“Fine! You can keep the children!”
Sulu, looking down from the wall, had no idea whom this squabbling couple could be, but he recognized the gardening tools. He could see, from the carefully packed flowerpots, that the lady with the shovel was another plant-lover who knew the value of Argelian Blue Velvet. At least Sylvia’s children would have good homes.
He could also see that the red-faced bouncing man was about to step on one of the seedlings.
“Hey, you oaf!” he yelled down. “Watch your feet! You’re about to trample that seedling!”
Startled, the battling pair turned to look at him. The man’s foot was still dangerously close to the seedling.
“That’s an Argelian Blue Velvet, you idiot!” Sulu howled. “Don’t you know what they’re worth?”
The woman grinned, recognizing another gardening fanatic.
Governor Kingrich stared at the interloper, and recognized the uniform. He remembered that those damned plants came from another planet. Suspicions clicked. With the sure instinct of a politician, he pointed a thick finger at the stranger and yelled: “You! It’s all your fault!”
He stamped his foot for emphasis.
It came down on the seedling.
Nargina screeched like a banshee and charged at him, swinging the shovel.
Kingrich did what any sensible politician would do. He ran for his office.
Nargina followed him, shovel at the ready.
“Oops,” said Sulu, watching the chase. It occurred to him that now would be a good time to get out of here.
He scrambled back down the wall, realizing that his sudden appearance just might cause people to come searching the garden. That meant somebody might find Sylvia. It was time to get both of them out of here.
He hit the ground and grabbed his communicator.
47 seconds later, Sulu and Sylvia materialized in the Enterprise’s transporter room, both looking the worse for wear.
Yeoman Rand took in Sylvia’s drooping fronds, Sulu’s rumpled uniform and the stray ivy leaves in his hair. For a moment a really wild speculation played through her imagination.
“I really don’t want to know,” she said, “What you two did on shore leave.”
Sulu puzzled over that, then let it go. “Let’s just say it was lively,” he admitted. “Can you find me another botanical garden, in another city? Better yet: on another continent.”
It took a good half hour to find a suitable spot in a small city at the other end of the main continent. Rand had just finished beaming Sulu and Sylvia away when the urgent/civilian-channel/ground-to-ship message came in.
At first Rand thought it was a joke. Then she realized that this really was the planetary governor screaming hysterical accusations. The man was so furious that he’d forgotten about the Communications Decency Problem, and was visible from the knees up.
Rand took care to record the message, in full detail.

A gang of Klingons landed, and nobody seemed to care.
They stomped into the nearest bar to announce that they were there.
Half our crew was busy therein, and invited them to play,
But the Klingons only looked at us – then turned and ran away.

Ship-Commander Khokhptui came from very minor Klingon nobility, and therefore commanded a very minor ship, the Skwatzplatt, on a very minor mission – namely, chasing an Orion slaver. Khokhptui was also ambitious, and hoped to parley success into promotion. It irked him considerably that the wretched Orion ship was fast enough to have kept ahead of him all the way from Empire territory, across the now-defunct Neutral Zone, and deep into the Federation zone.
The thrill of flying into previously forbidden Federation space soon lost its charm, as the wily Orion continued to elude him. Khokhptui had taken out his temper on every member of the crew and much of the machinery, with the result that the ship’s environmental system kept the temperature too high and the crew was getting sullen. Khokhptui was in a foul mood when he finally chased down the Orion ship in the Argo system.
Four ship-days of searching and eliminating the outer planets didn’t improve his temper. Neither did the discovery that the next planet inward was thick with population, industry, a port full of in-system ships and a few interstellar vessels besides. Khokhptui fussed and fumed for another two days, during which he bypassed the industrialized planet to search the barren inner worlds until he was absolutely certain that the Orion wasn’t there. That left only the industrial planet, with its complement of big, fast, alien ships; the Orion had to be hiding somewhere in orbit around that world.
Privately admitting that sometimes discretion was the better part of valor, Khokhptui ordered his ship onto full Cloak, set the sensors to maximum range, and all but tiptoed toward Argo.
The first news his sensors reported was that the two biggest ships in port bore Starfleet markings. The next bad news was that the smaller ship was the Althashayn: Andorian-based and doubtless Andorian-crewed. For complicated historical reasons, no Klingon wanted anything to do with Andorians. Third, and worst, the other Starfleet vessel was the notorious Enterprise. Treaty or no treaty, the last thing Khokhptui wanted was a fight with either – let alone both – of those two ships.
Khokhptui cursed and punched his console a few times before he realized that there really was a bright side to this situation. The Federation had draconian laws against slavery, and no love whatever for the Orions. This meant that the Orion ship wouldn’t dare show itself in reach of the Starfleet vessels’ sensors.
In other words, the Orion had to be hiding on the other side of the planet.
Addressing a brief prayer to his family gods and ancestors, Khokhptui ordered the Skwatzplatt into very high orbit and a slow course around Argo.
Sure enough, there it was: a big, over-engined, armed freighter of Orion design, huddling in low orbit almost exactly around the world from the spaceport. The quarry had been run almost to ground.
Chortling, Khokhptui maneuvered his ship – slowly, carefully, leaving no noticeable ion-trails – directly above the Orion. Quivering with impatience, he brought the Skwatzplatt’s weapons to bear on target.
At the last minute he realized that he’d best use the short-range beams if he intended to fire straight down toward a Federation planet. There was, after all, a small continent below him. A rain of ship-fragments dropping into an ocean might be excused, but burning a piece of inhabited real estate was another story. Those Starfleet ships would be on him like bloodworms, and there would be all Klingon hell to pay. He growled the necessary orders.
Just as his gunner was switching to the short beams, he spied the Orion’s engines flaring.
“Yukhhblagg! He’s going to run!” Khokhptui howled. “Fire!!”
The rattled gunner fired.

* * *

The crew of the Orion ship, Pixosha Bounty, had been test-flaring her worn engines, with absolutely no idea that there was anyone on this side of the planet besides a few comsats and themselves. So, when a bolt of Klingon disruptor-fire missed the port engine-nacelle by little more than a whisker, the general reaction of the crew was simply to gape in shock.
The captain, made of sterner – or quicker – stuff, managed to snap out a rational order.
“Run!” he yelled. “Fly! Flee! Get away-- Not up, you dolt! He’s above us! Evade, dammit! Evade!”

* * *

For the next twenty standard minutes the Pixosha Bounty and the Skwatzplatt ran a nerve-wracking chase just above the atmosphere. The Orion ship ducked, dodged and skittered, but couldn’t shake off the Klingon long enough to dash for open space. The Klingon managed to stay above the wriggling Orion, blocking its escape, but didn’t dare blanket the area with long-range disruptors and couldn’t lock on with the short-range beams. Desperate shots from the Orion missed wildly. Hopeful shots from the Klingon came teasingly close but couldn’t score any direct hits. The sky over Argo’s eastern continent was lighting visibly from the fire, and somebody was bound to notice and complain soon.
Finally the Pixosha Bounty made a desperate bid for safety, and shot off laterally at top speed. The Skwatzplatt promptly followed, still above and only a little behind the scrambling Orion. Around the planet they raced, out of nightside and across the dawn terminator, into daylight.
Khokhptui was snarling at his gunner to hit the froshthaks already when he caught the first glimpse of what lay just ahead on the Orion’s flight-path. “Wait! Wait!” he amended his former order. “Stop firing! Full engine stop!”
Dead ahead – and now within firing range – sat the planetary port-control satellite, the orbiting spacedocks, the defense satellite array, and the whole fleet of parked ships. The Orion ran straight for them, then slowed, then almost daintily settled in parking orbit just below – and almost exactly between – the space-docked Enterprise and the free-floating Althashayn.
For a moment, nobody on the Skwatzplatt said anything. Then Khokhptui’s First Officer, an old fellow named Knash who was something of a wit, announced: “How desperate was he, to seek sanctuary among the Fedratzk? Does he think they’ll pat him on his little green head?”
The whole crew bellowed with laughter.
Khokhptui, not knowing whether to laugh, curse or howl, settled instead for some fast and furious thinking. He saw that already the comm-board was blazing with telltale lights as every manned satellite, station and ship in that mess started beaming furious queries at the Orion. He wondered briefly what excuses the Orion captain would make to all those questioners; would he actually admit that he’d been chased there by a Klingon? For that matter, the Fedratzk were known to have sensors that could detect, if not pierce, a working Cloak. Treaty or no treaty, how would they react to the presence of a Klingon ship in stealth mode?
“Sensors at maximum,” he growled. “Keep a close watch on that ship, and see if you can intercept his transmissions.”
The comm-tech had no luck catching the Orion’s replies, if any, to everybody’s hails. Khokhptui clawed irritably at his chair-arms while he waited for some sign that the Fedratzk had noticed him, determined not to drop his Cloak until then.
Then Knash, who had been keeping an eye on the sensor-station, reported: “Ship-Commander, he’s using transporter beams, ship to surface.”
“What? Where? Find out! Is he sending his crew to the surface?”
“I can’t tell,” said Knash, furiously working his dials. “He might be bringing someone up.”
“Commander,” the comm-tech reported, “There are more transmissions to the slaver, from the station, from ground, from the Fedratzk ships – everybody.”
“Ho, look!” Knash shouted, pointing to the screen.
Everybody could see the Althashayn’s phaser-ports opening. It was impossible to tell at this distance, but they seemed to fix on the Orion ship like malevolent eyes.
“And they’ve stopped transporting,” Knash added. “I think the locals made them stop.”
Khokhptui chewed his moustache and thought fast. “Did you get the transport beam’s ground target?”
“Hmm, somewhat.” Knash twitched the Klingon equivalent of a shrug. “It was to the port, but I can’t say more than within a hundred-glopthik radius.”
Khokhptui swore, not knowing what else to do.
“But from what the sensors tell me…” Knash peered closely at his screen. “Gvrokk, yes! I detect Orion lifeform readings in…hmm, one of these two structures.”
He pointed to the display on his screen. Khokhptui tromped over to Knash’s station and peered over his shoulder. The buildings, long rectangles of typical Fedratzk design, were close together and looked rather like warehouses. Perhaps they were barracks.
“Hah, so he did beam his crew to the surface,” Khokhptui decided. “We’ll go down there and take the lot. Attention! Everyone but bridge personnel, meet me at the transporter in five vibbgiks, ready for battle! Bridge crew: keep monitoring, keep Cloaked, and talk to the Fedratzk only if they manage to find and hail you.”
“In that case,” Knash asked carefully, “What do we say to them?”
“Anything that will keep them preoccupied until we get back. Attack team, let’s go.”
He strode off to the transporter platform, anticipating a lovely brawl, certain that the clever-tongued Knash could handle any questions the Fedratzk might throw at him.

* * *

Captain Kirk was sprawled on his bed at the Argo Inn, with nothing much to do but watch the local video broadcasts and scowl over reports of the Nude Riot, when his communicator beeped. Not the hotel comm-system: his own communicator. Puzzled, Kirk damped the vid’s sound and took the call.
“Sir, it’s Lt. Uhura,” said a somewhat breathless, familiar voice. “We’ve got a problem. In fact, we have a few problems.”
Aw, not on shore leave! was Kirk’s first thought. Then he recalled just how dull this shore leave had been since he parted company with Thelin. Hey, a problem would at least be interesting. “Explain,” was all he said.
“First, an Orion freighter has just pulled into low orbit between the Enterprise and the Althashayn. He started beaming up personnel from the spaceport until the local authorities ordered him to stop – and the Althashayn, uh, took steps to persuade him, sir.”
“What steps?” What’s Thelin up to?
“Opened his phaser-ports, and aimed them at the Orion. That’s all.”
That, Kirk considered, would be enough – given the Andorians’ reputation. “All right. What else?”
“Mr. Spock informs me that there’s a problem of collusion between the locals and the Orion slave-trade—“
“What?!”
“—which is why it’s awfully strange that the Orion would show up right now, with two Federation ships in port, let alone call attention to himself like this. Oh, and you know there’s been some civil disturbance in the city…”
“I noticed some of it on the newscasts.” But how would that effect his crew? “Is there more to it, Lieutenant? Something they haven’t mentioned?”
“Uhm, quite a bit, sir. I think you’d better confer with Commander Scott, Lt. Sulu and Dr. McCoy, at the Hotel Avalon.”
Now what were his officers all doing there? “Can you patch me through?”
“I could, sir, but Sulu has some vid-footage you need to see – see without the Argo Communications Problem, I mean.”
Curiouser and curiouser. “All right, I’ll go there. Do you have the location?”
“Uhm, yes, and it’s a bit of a problem, sir. It’s way out on the other side of town – maybe an hour by groundcar.”
“All right, I’ll transport. Link me to whoever’s on the Enterprise.”
“That’s another problem, sir. The planetary governor himself is yelling all sorts of nasty things at the Enterprise, and has forbidden them to transport anybody.”
The governor?! Who pulled his chain? And how? “All right, then. Connect me to Commander Thelin, on the Althashayn.”
Fortunately, there was no problem there. A few minutes later, Kirk materialized on the Andorian’s transporter pad. The first person he saw was Thelin, antennae twitching furiously, waiting for him.
“Jim,” Thelin said fast, “We have a problem.”
“Several of them, according to Uhura. Which one do you have in mind?”
“Well, in order: Argo Port City is on the edge of political collapse, there’s an Orion slaver in orbit above us, and I have reason to think that there’s a Cloaked ship – possibly Klingon – sneaking around nearby.”
“And I was worried about boredom,” Kirk muttered to himself.

* * *

Khokhptui and his assault team, all twenty of them, materialized on the narrow street between the two buildings in question. The few pedestrians who sighted them took one look and decided they had urgent business elsewhere.
Khokhptui put on his fiercest scowl, struck his most warlike pose, and tried to decide which building to search first. They both looked like nothing but warehouses, no difference between them – except that one of them had a post stuck outside with a large bolt driven through it. Hah, perhaps that post was used for chaining slaves!
“That one,” he said, pointing.
Now the only problem was to find a workable door and get inside.
Straight ahead stood the big double doors of a groundside cargo entryway, but they were closed and obviously locked. In fact, judging from the dust gathered at the sill, those doors hadn’t opened in years.
Since some of the locals had already seen him and his troops, there was no point in stealth. Better to make a fierce and intimidating entrance. He pointed to the double doors and commanded: “Blast them open.”
His troops obligingly aimed their weapons and fired.
The result was truly spectacular. For an instant the juncture of the doors glowed cherry red, then the metal vaporized and expanded in a cloud of steam. Khokhptui and his team, experienced with disruptors, had had the sense to fire from a safe distance, and now stepped back even further. The steam-cloud promptly condensed, and a fine rain of glowing metal droplets fell to the ground. The dust sizzled.
When the sizzling stopped, the ground before the doors was paved in a rough semi-circle of fine-grained, hot, metal gravel. The doors were still smoking, but a gap where they had met before was big enough for two lines of Klingons to pass through, shoulder to shoulder.
Oddly enough, behind the doors hung a thick curtain made of heavy cloth. It stretched from floor to ceiling and away to either side, and didn’t seem to have been harmed by the disruptor blast.
“Blast curtains,” Khokhptui guessed. “So, they don’t have Fedratzk force-field technology. Good.”
But to himself, he hedged his bets. That cloth might be proof against energy-weapons. He didn’t know exactly what was on the other side. Stealth might be useful at the moment.
Khokhptui tiptoed up to the curtain – wincing as the heat of the new gravel baked through his boot-soles – drew out a large vibro-cutter, turned it on and poked the curtain with it. Yes, it cut smoothly. Grinning widely enough to show his back teeth, he cut the curtain from as high as he could reach, all the way to the bottom. Then he waved a fast follow-me signal to his troops and charged through.
Howling the Klingon equivalent of “Go-go-go!”, they all galloped through the curtain after him. The force of the charge was enough to carry them several meters into the room before they realized—
--that the curtain had been designed to contain not energy-blasts, but sound-waves. The noise of what Fedratzk called “heavy industrial” music was raging all around them, so loud that it could be felt more than heard.
--that most of the warehouse was one huge bar-room, full of bar, tables and an enormous crowd of drinkers. The area on which the attack-team stood was in fact a theatrical stage, and the pressure of their feet on the floor sensors had just turned on the stage lights, surrounding them in a multicolored glare.
--that sharing the stage with them were hologrammatic figures engaged in what Khokhptui barely recognized as a Human form of entertainment known as a “music video”. The holograms, considerably larger that the real-life Klingons, were engaged in something incomprehensible and probably obscene, with the attack-team right in the middle of them.
--that the patrons of this huge drinking establishment, now turning to look at the newcomers, were in truth spacers: assorted Humans, Caitians, even Andorians for the love of the gods – many of them wearing triple-be-damned Starfleet uniforms, most of them rising to their feet and reaching for what had to be weapons.
There wasn’t an Orion in the lot.
“Wrong building!” snapped Khokhptui, realizing that this was one of those situations in which it might be wise to attack – quickly – in a different direction. “Quick, to the other one! Fast, fast, before they escape!”
So they all turned around and ran back out through the torn curtain.
By the time they got to the front of the other warehouse, Khokhptui was in the lead again. For that reason, he didn’t notice that the patrons of the Bolt-Hole were streaming out of the hole in the loading doors behind him.

* * *

Knash was sitting in the command-chair when the Althashayn’s sensors managed to find the spot where the Skwatzplatt had to be. The resulting communications beam was tightly focused and aimed; no one could have mistaken just whom it was aimed at.
“Klingon ship,” said a familiar voice, “Identify yourself. This is Captain James Kirk of the USS Enterprise. Why are you here under Cloak?”
Kirk. Enterprise. Oh, hell! Knash decided that his best defense right now would be the truth. He signaled the pilot to turn off the Cloaking Device and replied, as sweetly as any Klingon could manage: “Greetings, new allies. We came here pursuing an Orion slaver, the same one now brazenly displaying itself near your ship. We request that you hand him over to us for his crimes against the Klingon Empire.”
While he waited, holding his breath, Knash could hear faint sounds of some fast and furious discussion going on at the Human’s end of the open frequency. Somehow, Knash realized, he’d managed to stir up a vizzgruth’s nest among the Fedratzk without even knowing it.

* * *

“Around the back,” Khokhtpui hissed, remembering those protective inner curtains. His troops dutifully trotted after him around to the warehouse’s back, which presented nothing but a single door – too small to admit a proper charge.
“Fire,” he said, pointing to the wall. With any luck, he’d catch this batch completely by surprise. He waited while the cloud of disrupted metal fizzled away.
But this time there was no protective curtain behind the wall. Daylight shone through the new opening, into another barroom, this one full of – yes! – surprised Orions, all of them scrambling to get away from the sudden daylight. Given only a few more seconds, they might actually escape.
“Charge!” bellowed Khokhptui, leading the way at a run.
His troops followed, howling gleefully.

* * *

Commander Spock stepped into the transporter room feeling a good bit steadier, keeping a firm hand on the shoulder-pouch that held his tricorder and box of info-discs. He was mildly surprised to see Yeoman Rand still behind the console; her shift should have ended 27 minutes ago. Well, no matter. He had more important problems to attend to.
“Yeoman, please beam me to the Captain’s location,” he said, striding toward the platform. “And it might be best to inform him of my imminent arrival.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Rand, “But the planetary authorities have ordered us not to beam anyone to or from the ship.”
“What?” Spock’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline. “Why?”
“Something about a riot in port, sir, and the governor’s blaming the Enterprise crew.”
“I must speak to the Captain immediately.”
“Speaking is easily done, sir,” said Rand, poking buttons on her communications panel. “He’s on the Althashayn right now. I can’t beam you there, but Commander Thelin could; they haven’t thought to shut down the Althashayn yet.”
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Spock went to the comm-panel to contact the Andorian ship.

* * *

Chekov was in the crowd that ran out of the Bolt-Hole after the Klingons, and he had thought to report everything to Uhura via his communicator. He was still reporting when Orions began boiling out of the warehouse across the street.
“Good griff, dere are Orions runningk out uff de plece! End I t’ink I see Klingon disruptor-fire behint dem! And de crowd wit me is gettingk wery nesty—“
“It’s those damn slavers!” roared a heavy-worlder on his right. “They’ve come out of hiding!”
“Those are the bums that disappeared Lully and Big Rowdy!” bayed a male Human voice.
“Let’s get the sshathinns!” howled an Andorian off to the left.
That, the crowd agreed on. Chekov was almost knocked off his feet as the tide of bodies surged forward, waving assorted weapons, tools, bottles and barstools.
The panicking Orions, busy trying to escape the Klingons behind them, ran straight into the mixed crowd ahead.
“Bozhemoi!” was all that Chekov managed to transmit before the noise drowned him out.

* * *

Knash, listening to the background noise at the other end of the transmission, wondered why no official reply was forthcoming. He was also beginning to wonder what had happened to Khophtui’s expedition.
“Hello?” he tried. “Kirk? Enterprise? …Have you forgotten me?”
Kirk’s voice snapped back a single word: “Later!”
Then the frequency went dead.
Assuming the worst, Knash got up and dashed to the communications board. “Get me the Commander, fast!” he said.

* * *

“That’s the last I’ve heard, Captain,” Uhura reported. “Can you beam up Mr. Sulu with the multicorder records?”
There was a moment’s pause before Kirk answered. “Gather up everyone, Uhura. We’re beaming everybody to the Althashayn before that city goes any crazier. Bring every recording you can lay hands on; we’ll get this mess sorted out somehow.”
“Yessir.” Uhura started to reach for the channel button when she heard an Andorian voice in the background, and couldn’t resist eavesdropping.
“Jim,” said what was recognizably Thelin, “We’ve just had an emergency request from the surface, relayed through your ship. Apparently there are three Human women down there at the spaceport, asking for asylum. One of them claims she’s a friend of Nurse Chapel’s, and she has a hand-truck full of medicinal samples. The really old one swears she’s Dr. Palindo, she’s bringing several odd bottles with her, and she’s demanding to speak to Dr. McCoy. The third…well, she’s this absolutely crazy-looking woman in a torn dress, clutching a purseful of cred-chips in one hand, and with the other hand she’s dragging a large grav-cart full of flowerpots. Uh, she says she’s the governor’s wife, sir.”
At that point the transmission cut off from the Althashayn’s end. Uhura filed away the extra bit of information and turned her attention toward locating the Enterprise’s crew.
There was surprising resistance from some of the crewmembers toward the bug-out order.
“Not without Sylvia!” said Sulu.
“No’ wi’oot Maryanne an’ her wee friends!” said Scott.
“Not while all those innocent people are lying injured in that jail!” said McCoy.
“What the vrrath,” said Thelin, hearing the news. “Bring them all up. This may be a small ship, but we’ve room enough in the cargo-bay.”
“We can’t just break citizens out of the local jail,” Kirk agonized. “It’s in violation of Federation law.”
“It’s a violation of Federation law to leave injured people without medical help!” McCoy countered.
“Maybe we could beam them directly to the local hospitals,” Thelin considered.
“Hee-hee,” laughed a perfectly wicked old woman’s voice in the background. “Beam ‘em up, sonny. They’re being seriously neglected – and in less than an hour, I calculate, everybody else on Argo will be too preoccupied to notice.”

* * *

Khokhptui and his men came charging out of the hastily-emptied warehouse/bar, and smack into a street-riot.
They stumbled to a halt and stared in amazement at the sight of mixed Fedratzk of every description merrily pounding on the Orions. Astonishingly, the Fedratzk seemed to be doing as good a job of it – and having as much fun at it – as any Klingons could. Still more surprising was the sheer variety of objects the Feds were using for weapons. Khokhptui tried to catalog them for a moment, then gave up.
“Furniture…?” he wondered.
“Where did they come from?” asked one of his team.
“Probably from the first bar,” another guessed.
“Who would have thought they’d follow us into battle?” said a third.
“Or that they’d lay such an efficient trap without conferring with us?” marveled a fourth.
“And so quickly, too,” added a fifth.
Khokhptui, taking all that in, considered that it might be unwise to try and take the Orion prey from a crowd of this size – and enthusiasm. After all, he could always report to the Council that he’d planned it this way. Besides, he could still make a try for the Orion ship.
Also, his comm-bracelet was hooting a get-back-here-fast signal, doubtless from Knash.
It was time, he decided, to make a smart political gesture.
“All hail our noble allies!” he bellowed above the roar of the crowd. “True warriors and worthy allies, I shall tell the Klingon High Council of your swiftness and eagerness in battle. You may claim these wretches as your prizes of war.”
With that, he signaled his troops to gather close, and punched the emergency beam-up button.

10.

Our crew is Starfleet’s finest, and our record is our pride,
And when we play, we tend to leave a trail a mile wide.
We’re sorry ‘bout the wreckage and the riots and the fuss;
At least we’re sure that planet won’t be quick forgetting us!

Admiral and Adjutant-General Beatrice Ling took a long look around the courtroom.
Actually, it was the Althashayn’s cargo-bay: the only place in the ship big enough to hold the attendant crowd. Commander Thelin had clearly done pre-her best to decorate the space, provide comfortable seating, arrange for an adequate sound-system and a computer terminal. She made a mental note to commend Thelin for pre-her thoughtfulness.
But she had to wonder just why the Commander had arranged for the huge display screen mounted on the wall behind the impromptu judges’ bench. Right now, it was displaying just what her viewscreen showed – only large enough for the entire crowd to see. Clearly the Andorian intended to display some of the more interesting evidence to the whole crowd, all of Argo, and probably the whole Federation besides.
She also knew that, despite the massive amount of notes, vids, records, tricorder and multicorder discs she’d seen, there was a lot more going on here than met the eye.
For one thing, the Communications Decency Problem still hadn’t been cleared up, which was why the vid-cameras discreetly placed around the cargo-bay were set to view the participants only from the shoulders up. And yes, those cameras were necessary; with all the political stink over this case, the proceedings simply had to be public.
For another, with most of the Enterprise crew rounded up and sequestered back on their own ship – all those who weren’t here on the Althashayn – there was no way that the continuing civil disturbances in Argo Port City could be blamed on the ship’s personnel as the governor kept insisting.
For a third, after the Starfleet personnel had provably beamed up from the surface, the population of the city had stopped rioting and started the most remarkable protest in Federation history. The people of this famously Respectable society had, if you please, dropped whatever they were supposed to be doing and gone on a rampage of frenzied mating: in the offices, in the shops, in the streets – anywhere and everywhere. Even sick people in hospitals had recovered quickly, jumped out of their beds and gone chasing after the nurses. Nobody could explain it, though there were plenty of theories.
The only exceptions were children and regular heavy-use alcohol drinkers, which made Ling wonder about the Argo representatives sitting at the table to one side of the courtroom.
Something was rotten in the state of Argo.
However, thanks to the Prime Directive, Starfleet was limited in what it – or she – could do to deal with that.
Well, the subsequent proceedings should uncover much of interest, to judge from the restlessness of all the witnesses. It was time to begin.
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye,” she began, hoping the ancient formality would please the Andorians, who were sticklers for such things. “This court is now in session. Be it known that this is an investigative hearing to determine what charges, if any, shall be brought against Starfleet personnel or—” She glanced first at the gang of amazingly well-behaved Klingons sitting to one side of the crowd, then flicked her eyes at the Argo officials on the other side of the room. “—any allies, employees or contractees thereof.”
The crowd muttered, very softly.
“Commander Thelin,” she went on, “Since it was yourself who first contacted Starfleet Command to report these incidents—“ –just ahead of the governor, as if you were playing Beat The Other Guy To The Cops-- “—please take the witness’ chair and give your report.”
Even as Thelin got to pre-her feet – which, Ling guessed, would expose pre-her to the cameras from the waist up – the slightly paunchy Human male identified as the Attorney General of Argo jumped up and furiously waved his arm.
“Your Honor, I protest the taking of a statement from one of the accused before hearing the case from the prosecution! I also object to these hearings being held on a Starfleet vessel, which can only be intimidating to my client.” He glanced at the paunchier and redder-faced man beside him, whom the records identified as George B. Kingrich, Argo’s planetary governor. “Both of these actions indicate a prejudice against the law and government of Argo.”
Oho, so you’re going to play it that way, are you? Ling smiled to herself. You’ll soon find that Starfleet Adjutant-Generals don’t intimidate that easily. “Objection overruled, Counselor. You were informed before these proceedings started that this was an investigative hearing convened by Starfleet, concerning Starfleet personnel, and must therefore be conducted on Starfleet property. Since your government has placed the Enterprise under interdiction, this is the only other site available. Understand that we have agreed to the interdiction only as a courtesy to you; if this isn’t enough for you, you have my apologies. If your witness feels uncomfortable in these surroundings, he need not be present until called to testify. As for this court hearing Mr. Thelin first, recall that the Commander did in fact make the first complaint to Starfleet. You may protest to the Federation Council if you like. Meanwhile, this is my court. Please proceed, Mr. Thelin.”
The government’s lawyer sat down, his expression smooth, as if he’d expected to lose this point. Kingrich looked furious, as if he hadn’t expected to lose anything.
Thelin proceeded to the witness’ chair, gracefully sat down and placed pre-her right hand over the sensor-plate as if it really were just part of the furniture.
As Thelin recited the formal oath, Ling wondered if Andorians – and this Andorian in particular – were good enough at controlling their reactions to keep the sensors from picking up any indication of “falsehood-stress”. Vulcans certainly could. Even a few Humans had been known to beat the machine. On the other hand, there had been enough cases where the thing’s sensitivity had picked up signs of stress due to other causes. In short, one couldn’t completely trust the computer. Ling sighed, wishing for the millionth time that she were telepathic.
At least she had learned to be very good at reading the machine.
“We arrived at Argo Port two local weeks ago,” Thelin began calmly. “We had never visited this port before, and therefore could not have recognized any unusual activity if we had seen it. We—“
“Objection! Prejudicial!” The Attorney General was on his feet again. Ling wondered if he realized that his paunch was now visible to the cameras, and thus – quite bare – to all of Argo.
“Overruled, nothing of the sort,” Ling deflected him calmly. “The Commander merely anticipated my next question. Proceed, Mr. Thelin.”
“We docked, submitted to landing procedures and beamed down to the city,” Thelin went on, the indicator from the chair remaining coolly dark. “We found shore leave facilities adequate to our needs, if not what we had expected.”
The Argo A.G. twitched as if about to say something, then thought better of it.
Ling noticed that. Dig. Something worth finding here. “Please specify,” she said.
Thelin gave an elaborate Andorian shrug. “My people are hunters, Admiral. We found excellent opportunities for hunting wild game – some of them quite wily and difficult – in the wilderness areas beyond the city. This satisfied our needs.”
“But not what you expected?” Ling prodded. “How so?”
Thelin twitched pre-her antennae in what could have been amusement. “This being a Human world, we expected to find the usual places of Human entertainment within the city, close to the groundport. Those we found initially—“
The indicator light flickered once, almost too fast to see, but Ling saw it. So, Thelin at least had found something interesting later on. Hmm.
“—were closed. We found this odd, with so many Human in-system ships in port.”
Someone in the back of the room snickered, very softly.
Ling noticed that neither the Governor nor the A.G. twitched a muscle.
“Ten days after our arrival, the Enterprise pulled into port. I encountered her captain in the Argo Inn hotel. We spoke for awhile, then went to dinner, and afterwards went sightseeing.”
The light flickered again, just barely. Thelin and Kirk must have found some interesting sights to see. Also, they had probably gossiped outrageously, as Starfleet’s sailors usually did.
And, judging from the transporter records, there was something else.
“According to the logs,” Ling cut in, “You both then beamed to the Enterprise. Why?”
“Well, I wanted to see Jim’s ship,” Thelin smiled.
The tattle-light winked, once. Truth, but there’s more to it. “Was there any other reason?” Ling prodded.
Thelin’s antennae grew still – perfectly rigid, in fact. “We were chased by some unrestrained dogs,” pre-she said.
The light stayed dark. Either Andorians could beat the machine or there was no more to the story. Ling glanced again at the transporter records. There was a little more to the story. Good control, Thelin.
“The logs show that more than two persons beamed up,” Ling snapped. “Who else was with you?”
“Some civilians,” Thelin replied smoothly. “The dogs chased them, too. After we arrived, we all beamed to our respective ships.”
The light stayed dark. Ling imagined Kirk, Thelin, and a bunch of other spacers, being chased down a dark street by a pack of dogs -- and wished somebody had recorded that scene. Reluctantly, she moved on.
“Why did you return to your ship instead of to your hotel room?” she tried, not really expecting to dig up anything interesting here.
Thelin shrugged pre-her antennae. “Since the Althashayn was now out of dock and finished with fumigation and repairs, I did a routine check on the ship’s status. Then I went to my quarters and retired for the night.”
“Why there?” Ling tried.
“I was tired. Besides, the Argo Inn was rather painfully expensive…” Thelin spread pre-her antennae in a what-did-you-expect gesture.
Ling could sympathize with that. And the tattle-light stayed off. “Proceed.”
“Next morning I went to check the local news, and noticed that on every live broadcast the people appeared naked.”
The courtroom audience exploded into laughter. The governor and the A.G. grew red-faced. Ling waited for the noise to settle, wishing she’d thought to bring an antique judge’s gavel.
“I spent some time observing the phenomenon,” Thelin continued.
I’ll just bet you did, Ling smiled.
“Then I contacted my crew to ask about the disposal of the meat from the game we’d hunted. I noted then that our own transmissions were unaffected by the, hmm, Nude Problem. It seemed to affect only planetary frequencies.”
“That means it was some spacer who did it!” Kingrich burst out.
“You’ll get your turn, sir,” Ling quelled him. “Mr. Thelin, what did you do then?”
“Well, first we brought up the meat and secured it in the ship’s supply locker. Then we watched the local broadcasts for awhile. Then we caught the first broadcasts about the protest march.”
“And, of course, the protesters appeared nude?” Ling couldn’t help asking.
“Yessir. That’s why I used the ship’s sensors to locate the protesters and see if they really were marching naked down the street.”
The audience giggled.
“In fact, they weren’t,” Thelin continued. “They were wearing normal clothes.”
“Request, Your Honor!” The A.G. hopped to his feet again. “Make him produce those records! Examine them to see if those rioters were carrying weapons, dangerous weapons which they could have turned against Our Noble Police Forces, weapons that wouldn’t have shown up on our contaminated communications systems!”
“I have them here,” said Thelin, poker-faced, pulling two datadiscs out from under pre-her shirt. “This one shows the Argo broadcasts. This one shows our sensor recordings.” Pre-she got up and handed them to Ling. “On neither of them will you find any weapons among the marchers. The civilians carried nothing but signboards and plastic containers of various drinks. If they had indeed borne weapons, I think they would have used them when the police began shooting at them.”
Ling noted that Thelin was not touching the truth-sensor when pre-she said all that. Still, she knew the Andorian was speaking the truth; she had seen both those recordings herself, hours ago, and had drawn the same conclusions herself.
“Objection! Objection!” the A.G. was howling again. “Calls for a conclusion!”
It does indeed, thought Ling, noting that while resuming pre-her seat Thelin was looking not at the judge’s bench but at the large screen behind it. You’re hoping I’ll play these recordings in front of all Argo! Ling realized. No, not now I won’t. Too inflammatory. Ling pressed the button to sound the loud Judicial chimes from the computer, wishing again for a real, solid gavel.
“I have already viewed these recordings, Counselor,” she announced frostily. “Yes, you will receive copies. Yes, Mr. Thelin’s conclusions are inevitable given the evidence there shown. No, none of the protesters were carrying weapons; therefore, I can see no excuse for the way the police behaved.”
“But there are lots of objects that you spacers don’t call weapons,” the A.G. insisted. “Things that can still cause damage, and are forbidden by planetary law. In fact, almost anything can be used as a weapon—“
He stopped there, realizing he’d said one sentence too much.
“Yesss,” Thelin smiled dangerously, showing pre-her fangs. “Your bureaucrats would have pulled the teeth from our jaws if they could. We had the devil’s own time just arranging to hunt outside the city—“
“Order!” Ling snapped, hitting the chimes again. “Avoid the irrelevant comments, Commander, and proceed.”
“Hmm, yes. We observed the protest march, then observed the city police attacking the marchers—“
The A.G. shot to his feet again. Ling hit the chimes to forestall him and gave him an icy look. He sat down again, fuming. Kingrich looked as if he were on the verge of a heart attack.
“—and we observed the marchers overwhelming the police, at the cost of a few hundred bodies left lying in the street. I recognized some of Kirk’s crew among the fallen—“
The tattle-light went on, pulsing. Now, precisely what did that mean? Obviously Thelin wasn’t lying about observing the march and its disastrous finish; could it just indicate Thelin’s emotional reaction to what pre-she had seen? It was, Ling considered, a scene guaranteed to provoke a strong emotional reaction.
“—so I contacted the Enterprise, reached Commander Scott and reported my findings.”
The light went off.
“I spent the next few hours locating my crew and making certain that none of them were among the wounded or captured.”
‘Captured’? Not ‘arrested’? Interesting choice of words, Ling considered. Then again, Andorians didn’t have police, or jails. They used a clan-vengeance system that worked remarkably well. And they really hate slavery. Hmm…
“Then I recalled them all to the Althashayn, fearing that they might otherwise become embroiled in the local trouble.”
Standard Operating Procedure. “Were any of them upset about having their shore leave cut short?”
“Not really. As soon as they were aboard, I arranged for a Hunters’ Feast from the game we’d taken.” Thelin smiled at the memory. “That kept us busy until well after midnight, local time, after which we all went to bed.”
Ling could believe that. Andorian Hunters’ Feasts were legendary, and nobody would miss a chance to attend one – or to sleep it off afterwards.
“In particular,” Thelin smiled nastily, “We took care to purchase the wine and beer out in the countryside, where we got much better quality and prices than could be found anywhere in the city.”
The audience roared. The governor looked as if he’d bitten into an apple and found only part of a worm.
“Next morning, as we were cleaning up the remains of the feast, we observed an Orion slave-ship—“
“Objection!” That came from another quarter: the corner of the room where a cluster of Orions huddled by themselves. The speaker was apparently their leader. “I object most strenuously to this vile slander. The Pixosha Bounty is a most respectable freighter, and there is no way that anyone outside the ship could have determined her cargo – since, in truth, she carried none.”
Why not? Ling wondered. Did the Klingons pursue too close for you to pick up a cargo anywhere between the Empire and here? Or did you dump your cargo on the ground along with your crew? Suggest we search, later. Meanwhile… “Sustained,” Ling had to grant him. “Commander, confine your remarks to observed facts, not speculation.”
“Yessir,” said Thelin. Still, the tattle-light pulsed and Thelin’s antennae were laid back tight against the scalp, and pre-her teeth were showing. “We observed an Orion ship of cargo-carrying design, with large engines and weapon-racks, and with – as our sensors showed and we duly recorded – the peculiar internal decking in the cargo-area which is used only for cargoes of small livestock.”
The audience growled ominously. Neatly said, Thelin, Ling admitted, even as she hit the chimes again.
“This ship came rushing from around the planet, “ Thelin went on, “and settled into orbit just between the Althashayn and the Enterprise. Understandably, we trained our sensors on it. We then observed this ship beaming up personnel from the surface.”
“That was our own crew,” the Orion cut in fast. “We were most certainly not abducting any persons from the city, and I must protest the implication—“
“Wait your turn, sir,” said Ling, stealing a sidelong glance at the Argo governor. The man was doing his best to maintain a pious look. “Proceed, Mr. Thelin.”
“When we heard the portmaster order the Orion ship to stop transporting, we trained our phasers on the Orion, which then ceased transport. We also notified the Enterprise, only to be informed—" Thelin gave the governor a hard look. “—that the ship was under interdiction, and no one was allowed on or off. I eventually spoke with Captain Kirk, and brought him up to my ship.”
“Why?” Ling asked, trying to picture the situation, which didn’t quite coalesce.
“Because the sudden appearance of the Orion ship suggested that something had been chasing her. We needed the sensor equipment of a major Starfleet vessel to identify the pursuer. Since Kirk couldn’t get to his own ship, he came to mine.”
“I see. And did you find that pursuer?” As if I couldn’t guess.
“Yessir. We detected a Klingon ship, under Cloak, parked in orbit only a few kilometers away. When we hailed her, she de-Cloaked and explained her presence.”
“Which was?”
“She’d been chasing the Orion, sir. All the way from Klingon space, they said.”
The Orion captain looked as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t dare.
“And what did you do next?” Ling pushed.
Thelin paused for a moment, and the tattle-light flickered. Clearly, much had happened in there that Thelin wasn’t about to say.
“Seeing that there was civil uproar in the city,” Thelin went on, “that the Enterprise was under local interdiction, and that there was a budding interstellar dispute on our doorstep, I hailed Starbase Twelve and sent for you, sir.”
“Indeed.” But that had been over a standard day ago. Even her high-speed courier couldn’t get Ling from SB-12 to Argo in less time than that. “And what occurred between the time you reported and the time I arrived?”
Oho, how the tattle-light flickered!
“Well, sir…” For the first time, Thelin looked the slightest bit flustered. “We searched for Kirk’s crew and beamed them up. Then some refugees requested asylum, so we beamed them up too. Then the Argo government called us and demanded that we hand over Captain Kirk for something to do with ‘seductive plants’. Then the Klingon demanded that we give them the Orion ship, and the Argo portmaster insisted that we let them beam up the rest of their crew and leave. I compromised by putting a tractor-beam on the Orion and telling everybody to calm down and stay put until you arrived. Then the Argo Space-Navy ships surrounded the Enterprise and the dock and threatened to shoot if she moved, which she didn’t. Then the planetary transmissions all but stopped, except for the governor yelling for Kirk’s scalp. Then our sensor scans showed the Orgy Protest going on. Then the Argo ship-commanders and the space-dock officers started arguing among themselves. I talked them into letting the Enterprise’s crew beam to their ship, and they agreed, providing I kept Kirk here. Then everybody still transmitting argued for the next several hours. Then you showed up, and I gave you all the records and went off to get some sleep. The rest, you know.”
The ensuing silence was long and loud.
“Hmm, yes,” Ling agreed. “Now, does the Counselor for Argo wish to question this witness?”
“I do!” The A.G. bounced to his feet and all but stalked over to the witness’ chair. He struck a dramatic pose and intoned: “Please explain to this court why you harbored a fugitive from justice.”
That made everyone sit up and take notice.
“Fugitive?” said Thelin, looking a bit stunned. “What fugitive?”
“I refer to Captain James T. Kirk—” The A.G. pointed to the little knot of Enterprise officers along the far side of the room. “—whom you were lawfully required to hand over to our authorities, as you yourself just admitted. That fugitive, Commander. Why didn’t you?”
Thelin’s antennae began flattening again.
“I did not comply with that order,” the Andorian said, very coolly, “Because it was so incoherently presented that I could not be certain it was valid. In fact—“ Thelin flicked a glance toward the Althashayn’s comm-officer, who dipped pre-his antennae and lifted a small comm-unit. “—the initial communication was recorded, and we will replay it for you so that this court can judge whether or not my concern was justified.”
Before Ling could think to prevent it, the Andorian comm-officer pushed a button on the hand-held unit. The large screen behind the bench flared into a remarkable scene, complete with audio. Ling had to crane her neck to see, but there was no mistaking the words on the soundtrack.
Yes, that was Governor Kingrich, stark naked, literally bouncing up and down as he accused the Enterprise’s captain of, if you please, sending down an “invading party” of “alien plants” to “seduce” the governor’s wife. The whole picture was ludicrous, and it didn’t help that the man did not have the kind of physique that looked good without clothes.
The audience roared with laughter.
The A.G. glared at the governor, who tried to disappear into his chair.
Got around me neatly, Ling smiled humorlessly at Thelin. And this is being broadcast live to Argo! There goes the election. What perfect, brilliant vengeance. You deserve something more than a scoutship, Thelin.
“After that,” Thelin continued as the recording ended, “How could I take those charges seriously?”
Ling thought that the A.G. would have the sense to give up right there, but he didn’t. He pulled himself up to his full height – which made him look taller only because Thelin was seated – and proclaimed as if he were posing for the cameras: “Then what’s your excuse for harboring all the other fugitives from justice? What’s your excuse for engineering an outright jailbreak? Or did you just let Kirk do it from your ship? Which is it, Commander? Which?”
Thelin’s eyes crossed slightly, and pre-her antennae wavered in opposite directions. “What fugitives?” pre-she asked, as the tattle-light flickered. “What jailbreak?”
“I mean the 452 prisoners stolen out of the Argo Port City jail! Escaped through locked doors! Nobody else could have done it. Where did you put them?”
The tattle-light flared for an instant, then went dark.
“Let me remind you, sir,” Thelin said coldly, “That there were several other ships in orbit at that time – including the Orion. Your own people also have use of transporters – and, if you’ll recall, most of your city’s population was involved in a bizarre political protest. You need not look to me to find whoever freed your jailbirds.”
The A.G. turned smartly on his heel and sent a righteous glare at Ling. “Your Honor,” he said, “I demand to see the Althashayn’s transporter records! Let’s see if they beamed up anyone from the city jail’s coordinates.”
Thelin didn’t so much as twitch an antenna.
You won’t find anything, Ling smiled to herself. I didn’t, and I know what kind of games can be played with transporters. She poked the computer until it spat out a datadisc. “Here you are,” she said, handing it to him. “I have already reviewed those records, and found no instance of the Althashayn transporting anyone from those coordinates.” Just one beam-up from there, and that went to the Enterprise, and I know who it was. Try opening that can of worms.
The A.G. took the disc, glared at it, obviously wanted to say something more but thought better of it. Instead he turned back to Thelin.
“Isn’t it true,” he snapped, “That of your own certain knowledge, the officers of the Enterprise conspired to violate the Prime Directive by starting riots? By obstructing the police? By the illegal landing of a shuttlecraft? By contaminating planetary communications? By importing unregistered alien lifeforms? By helping felons escape from prison? By causing bizarre civil disturbances? Isn’t it true? Isn’t it?”
The resulting roar from the audience would have drowned out any reply – but Thelin didn’t make one. Pre-she only stared at the A.G. with pre-her jaw dropping and antennae wobbling in complete bewilderment.
You shouldn’t have fired all your guns at once, Ling thought, hitting the chimes again.
“Duhhh…” said Thelin. Then, after a moment’s pause to think: “No.”
And the tattle-light stayed dark.
You fool, Ling marveled, staring at the A.G.; pre-she answered your question literally. No, pre-she had no certain knowledge of any conspiracy! As for the rest of it…
The A.G. only sneered as if he’d made his point. “But you and James Kirk have been friends since Starfleet Academy, correct?”
“Of course.” Thelin looked a little less bewildered.
“And you’ve followed the news of your old school friend’s career, haven’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“Then,” the A.G. pounced, “You can’t help but be aware of his notorious track-record for breaking the Prime Directive whenever he meets a society he doesn’t like, now can you?”
The whole audience gasped.
I see where you’re going, Ling guessed. Fool, don’t you realize that you’ve just poked a hornets’ nest? Now that you’ve mentioned the subject—
But Thelin was up to the task. Antennae slicked back, Thelin replied with all the frosty formality learned by growing up in a large and ancient Andorian clan. “On the contrary, Counselor: I know full well that Captain Kirk has done nothing of the kind.”
The A.G. did a double-take, then shifted gears. “No?” he almost purred. “Have you never heard of Vendikar and Eminiar, or the Feeders of Vaal, or—“
“He was cleared on all charges,” Thelin snapped, before Ling could cut in. “There are clear grounds wherein the Prime Directive does not apply. These include: immediate and unavoidable threat to the survival of the Federation itself, or the population of any world thereof, or the population of any ship thereof, or the population of the planet in question. Said threats include but are not limited to: acts of war, acts of piracy, acts of serious crime including murder, slavery—“
“Yes, yes,” the A.G. cut in quickly, “But none of that applies here.”
“That,” Thelin counterattacked, “Remains to be seen, does it not? Why did those Orions come here, of all places, to hide from pursuit?”
The audience rumbled.
“It was simply the nearest place to hide!” cut in the Orion commander. “I insist that we be given opportunity to refute these vile slanders!”
The A.G. paused for a moment, clearly nonplussed. Ling decided it was high time to interfere. “Do you have any further questions for this witness?”
The A.G. thought for a moment, glanced toward the governor, then shook his head. “Not at this time, Your Honor. However, I reserve the right to recall.”
“Yes, of course. Does anyone else have questions for this witness?”
Nobody did.
“Then by all means, let us give the Orions a chance to, as they say, refute these slanders. I call— What is your name, Captain?”
“It is Immaliosk, of House Pixosha, “ said the Orion, rising gracefully to his feet. “And my proper rank is Captain-of-Commerce, of the Pixosha Bounty.”
“Then come take the witness’ seat, Captain. Do you understand how the sensor-system operates?”
“Not entirely,” Immaliosk admitted.
“When you place your hand on that sensor-plate, the computer records minute physical changes which indicate the particular stress caused by stating untruths. Do you understand this?”
The Orion gave a blank stare for a moment, then blinked rapidly. “I must protest,” he said, voice jittering slightly. “This machine is not designed for Orions, and is most likely to give inaccurate readings.”
“To establish parameters, we can ask you some simple questions, ask you to tell the truth on some of them and lie on others. We have found this system to be accurate with most intelligent species in the known galaxy.”
“But not all species,” Immaliosk insisted.
“Not energy-beings or silicon-based metabolisms, but that would hardly apply in your case. Do you wish to give your statement or not?”
The Orion twitched noticeably, caught on the horns of indecision. “Then I fear I must decline,” he said. “I cannot trust this machine, nor can I risk revealing commercial trade-secrets which are protected under Orion law—“
“I’ll bet!” snapped a voice from the audience. Cruel laughter answered from the crowd.
“—but I wish to state for the record that the Pixosha Bounty is a respectable merchant ship, which was engaged in perfectly lawful business when we were fired upon and pursued by these unnecessarily ferocious Klingons. We fled, attempting to evade, for many standard days, and entered the Argo system only in order to protect ourselves. We had hoped that Federation justice – and the presence of Starfleet ships – would dissuade our pursuers from attacking us. We had absolutely no other business here.” With a flourish, he sat down.
“Then let’s move on.” Ling suppressed a smile and looked at the huddle of Klingons. “We call Ship-Commander Khokhptui to the witness’ seat.”
The Orions looked nervously at each other, but said nothing.
Amid a general muttering from the crowd, Khokhptui stood up and swaggered to the chair. He glowered at the sensor-plate, then sat down with a flourish and slapped his hand down defiantly. “I am commander of the Skwatzplatt, of the House of Khokhraap, of Khraapzdink Province, of—“
Ling suppressed a yawn and waited politely until Khokhptui had finished the formalities. His prolonged speech gave the lie-detector sensor good background readings.
The moment he fell silent, she cut in with her first question. “Precisely when and why did you bring your ship into the Argo system?”
“Hah. Seven standard days ago, and we were pursuing an Orion slaver. We chased him all the way from—“
“Objection!” “Objection!” the A.G. and the Orion captain howled simultaneously, jumping to their feet. “The Pixosha Bounty is a perfectly respectable merchant—“ “I object to this prejudicial characterization—“
“Quiet!” Ling roared, startling both of them. “In fact, that was my next question. Commander, what made you think this ship was a slaver?”
“Ahah! We caught them trying to steal farm-workers from Ikyaagh province, on Kloptugh Four, that’s what!”
“We were only questioning those people concerning local markets—“ the Orion whined.
“Trying to force into your cargo-hold, you mean!” Khokhptui glared around the room as if daring anybody to contradict him. The tattle-light stayed dark.
“I see,” said Ling, tossing a warning glance to the Orions. “So when and where did you finally locate the ship?”
“Two days ago, in low orbit over this planet, on the opposite side from the spaceport.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Chased him! He ran to the spaceport and cowered under the wings of the Fedratzk ships.”
The Orion captain started to say something, then changed his mind.
“What happened next?” Ling asked. As if I didn’t know.
Khokhptui squirmed a bit in his seat. The tattle-light flickered, though he hadn’t said anything. “Hmm, I observed that the slaver was using his transporter. Guessing that he meant to hide evidence of his crimes, I took a landing party down to the same coordinates.”
“And what did you find there?”
“Hah!” The Klingon grinned, showing teeth. “A warehouse full of Orions, many in ship uniforms. We chased them out into the street, where the local citizens fell upon them. I congratulate our Worthy Federation Allies for their prompt response and their bravery in battle.”
“Thank you, Commander. What did you do next?”
“Hmm. Seeing that the locals had the Orions well in hand, we returned to our ship. There we made proper claim to the Orion ship, and spent the next day in tiresome arguments over regulations. There we have stayed ever since.”
“Thank you.” I saw the recordings. That mob was enough to impress even you. Ling glanced toward the Argo A.G. “Do you have any questions to ask of this witness?”
“Yes, yes!” The man bounced to his feet and stalked toward the waiting Klingon. Noting Khokhptui’s toothy grin, he stopped just out of reach. “So, Commander: you admit that you entered Argo space on a mission of war?”
“Not war,” Khokhptui sneered. “Not war to chase a slaver. Fedratzk law says so.”
“Then why did you approach the planet under Cloak? Under radio silence? Without announcing your presence or intentions?”
“Why did the Orions fly here?” Khokhptui countered. “Good guess: this is their safe base! If slavers have friends here, best not to warn them, eh?”
The A.G. almost blushed, but plowed ahead with his argument. “Oh? And is that why you secretly beamed down to the city? Demolished two doors and a building wall? Discharged illegal dangerous weapons? Threatened visiting merchants? Started a riot? Answer the question, Commander!”
That’s several questions. Ling was about to cut in when Khokhptui beat her to it.
“I answer all questions at once,” he laughed. “Yes! We didn’t know this was not a slaver’s base until the Fedratzk pounced on the slavers. It was no riot, but capture. Now you tell me, Inquisitor: what became of those slavers, eh? Did you let them go again?”
The Orions in the corner tried to shrink out of sight. The tattle-light stayed dark. The A.G. carefully backed away.
“No further questions for this witness,” he muttered, resuming his seat.
“Does anyone else have questions for this witness?”
One of the Orions stood up. “Who’s going to pay for damages to our warehouse?” he whined, “Not to mention bodily injury and damage to clothing?”
“Your insurance company!” shouted an anonymous voice from the crowd.
Everybody else laughed raucously, except for the Argo officials, who tried to look elsewhere.
“Silence, please,” Ling insisted. “This witness is dismissed. For the next witness…” May as well bite the bullet. “…we call Captain James Kirk to the witness’ seat.”
The crowd’s muttering grew to a roar. Khokhptui hastily got out of the way and trotted back to his corner. Kirk, looking a little bewildered, got up and walked to the chair.
Ling noticed that the tattle-light started blinking irregularly the moment Kirk put his hand on the sensor. Just to be certain, she asked him the usual questions about his name, rank, and ship. He gave the usual answers, and the light stayed off. Interesting. “Please proceed,” was all Ling said.
“I don’t see what I can add to the reports.” Kirk smiled that famous smile – as the indicator-light flickered. “I docked at the orbiting spaceport, sent my crew down on shore leave, and beamed myself to the Argo Inn.” The light stayed off. “I went to the hotel bar, where I met Commander Thelin, who invited me to dinner at a local restaurant.” The light stayed off. “Afterward, we met with some civilian off-worlders and went sightseeing.”
The light flickered, just barely. Again, Ling wondered what sights they’d seen.
“While we were doing that, we were attacked by some dogs – which tore my pants.”
The audience snickered. The light stayed off.
“I called for an emergency beam-up to my ship for all of us. I then dispatched the others to their various ships, changed my clothes and beamed back to my hotel. I spent the next day mostly watching local video programs.”
Jim Kirk, wasting a whole day of shore leave just watching vids? Ling wondered. I can’t believe it. “Just why did you do nothing but watch vids all day, Captain?”
“Well,” Kirk laughed, “They were something to see, with everybody naked and trying to hide it.”
The tattle-light stayed dark. Ling could believe it.
Kirk frowned. “Then I saw the news of the protest march and the riot. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening trying to find out if any of my crew was involved. That’s not the way I’d planned to spend my shore leave, thank you.”
The A.G. pricked up his ears like a hunting-dog.
“Understandable. Go on.” I’ll let that Argo idiot ask the obvious question.
“On the third day, I received notice from my Communications Officer that an Orionese ship had just hurried into parking orbit right below and between my ship and the Althashayn, and—“ Kirk turned an unreadable look toward Kingrich. “—that the local government had forbidden all transporter activity between my ship and the port city.”
The governor opened his mouth, but the A.G. grabbed his wrist and shushed him.
“I then beamed to the Althashayn,” Kirk went on, “where I discovered a Cloaked Klingon ship in orbit nearby. With Commander Thelin’s help, I hailed the Klingon ship, which then de-Cloaked and stated its business here. Upon hearing reports that there was yet another riot in port, I became worried for the safety of my crew. I located them with my Communications Officer’s help and beamed them onto the Althashayn, since I couldn’t send them to the Enterprise.”
Must have been crowded, Ling considered.
“I kept watch on both the Klingon and Orion ships, while Commander Thelin sent word to Starfleet Command at Starbase Twelve. I collected reports, eventually received permission to send my crew back to the Enterprise, and waited here until you arrived. End of story.”
Only after Kirk finished speaking did the tattle-light flicker, just a little.
But not all of the story, thought Ling. Let’s see if anyone else brings it up first. “Thank you, Captain. Does anyone else have questions for this witness?”
The A.G. was on his feet in an instant, practically licking his chops. He barely waited for the formalities before stalking toward Kirk. “So, Captain,” he began, “You admit to violating a direct order?”
Kirk looked perfectly bewildered. “What order?” he asked.
“The order banning transportation of your crew! You just admitted to violating that order!”
“Oh, I see what you mean.” Kirk smiled blandly. “No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. It was the Enterprise that was interdicted. There was no order banning transport to the Althashayn, which is what I did.”
“Legal hair-splitting!” the A.G. shouted. “You deliberately circumvented a legal order, snatched your crew out of reach of the planetary police forces who were attempting to arrest them for rioting, and even helped prisoners to escape, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
“Certainly not.” Kirk gave the A.G. a frosty look. “I saw no evidence that any of my crew caused either the Nude Riot or the Slaver-Bashing incident. Neither did I know anything about local police trying to arrest any of my crew.” The light winked, just once. “I simply wanted to get my people out of danger.”
“Sightseeing”: flicker. “None of my crew”: flicker, Ling considered. I see it! It wasn’t your crewmen the local badges were chasing; it was you! Let’s see if Noisy Boy figures it out.
“No? No?!” snapped the A.G., striking a pose where he thought the news cameras could see him to best effect. “Your Honor, he’s lying! Lying! And that machine of yours is letting him get away with it!”
That, Ling decided, might win him some points with the local politicians, but it didn’t do him any good with Starfleet. “The equipment was examined and tested by your own technicians just before this hearing began,” she warned him. “If you want it tested again for accuracy, you may take the seat yourself. Do you wish to do so?”
“Not at this time!” the A.G. answered fast. “I’m not yet finished with this witness.” He turned back to Kirk, scowling like a seagull trying to pry open a particularly tough clam. “Well now, Captain, you have a very interesting record, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’d call interesting,” said Kirk, looking bewildered again. “Do you mean battle tactics, first contacts, rescue missions, explorations—"
“I mean your record of severely altered societies left in your wake, whole cultures changed, planetary governments collapsed! I mean all the times you’ve danced around the Prime Directive to play judge-jury-and-executioner on societies that you didn’t happen to like! I mean—“
“Hold it.” Kirk raised a hand – not the one resting on the sensor-pad. “Starfleet knows my record, and has never found me guilty of any such violation.”
The audience snickered. The light didn’t even flicker.
“How convenient for you.” The A.G. shot a theatrically accusing look at Ling. “So you’ve made excuses to Starfleet, who swallowed them whole. How clever.” He struck another dramatic pose for the cameras. “And what sort of societies do you like, Captain?”
“The kind that don’t mistreat their people,” Kirk replied.
The audience snickered.
“More to the point—“ The A.G. turned to his table and grabbed a sheet of paperplast from his open briefcase. “What sort of societies do you like to provide leave for yourself and your crew?” He waved the sheet in front of the cameras. “Let’s look at the record. Yes. You like places that provide the most sordid, shocking, depraved forms of entertainment: booze halls, drug dens, uncensored holosuites, gambling clubs, houses which provide women of no virtue for immoral purposes! That’s your idea of fun, isn’t it, Captain? Isn’t it?”
Ling rubbed her eyes. Pure grandstanding for the locals, she knew. Useless here, maybe good for politics there. Just what are you hoping to win?
Kirk only shrugged. “Nobody goes to an amusement park to read law-books,” he said.
The audience roared. The Klingons laughed so hard that two of them fell off their chairs.
The A.G. gave a grim look to the cameras, clearly realizing that a punch line that good would spread across the galaxy before this hearing was over. It would probably show up on political stickers before the day was out.
Boomerang! Ling chuckled to herself. You’ve made yourself look like a puritanical idiot in front of all your voters, not to mention the rest of the galaxy. I can’t believe you’re going to stand there and keep putting your foot in your mouth…
But he did. The A.G. turned back to Kirk and did his best to salvage the situation. “So, Captain,” he snarled, “When you come across a quiet, peaceable, respectable, decent, moral society – like ours – why, you just have to liven it up a bit, don’t you? Don’t you, Captain?”
You pathetic, provincial, politics-obsessed jackass, Ling thought, biting her lip. Even your own voters won’t fall for this.
Kirk pressed his hand firmly on the sensor-pad. “I,” he said carefully, “Have done nothing whatsoever to attack your society. Neither have I ordered my crew to do so, nor even suggested it to them.”
The light stayed off.
“For that matter,” said Kirk, leaning forward, “None of my people attacked unarmed citizens in the streets, or attacked people in restaurants, or attacked crews of shuttlecraft in the landing-yard, or censored the planet’s communications systems until your own people rebelled. Argo’s troubles are Argo’s own doing, and I won’t sit here and let you blame my crew for them.”
The audience erupted in a thunder of cheers. Ling hastily hit the chimes, and again, and again.
“No?” the A.G. bellowed over the dwindling noise. “No?!” He ran to his briefcase and came back flourishing a handful of paperplast sheets. “None of your crew was involved in the riots at the port? Nor frequented illegal drinking establishments? Nor displayed a half-naked woman swinging off a balcony? Nor assaulted police in the landing-yard? Nor landed a shuttlecraft right on the roof of City Hall? Nor caused the public indecency on the communications net? No? Then explain why none of this happened before you got here!”
Kirk started to answer, then caught himself. “You mean,” he said sweetly, “None of this happened before the Orion ship got here. Don’t you think that’s the likelier connection?”
The Orions jumped to their feet and yelled in outrage, but they were drowned out by the roars from the rest of the audience. Ling sighed, and hit the chimes again.
“We’ve never had problems with the Orions!” the A.G. shouted, his voice sounded stressed. “But public indecency, protest marches, orgies, wives leaving their husbands over arguments about gardening— that’s all alien, totally alien, to Argo society! And it started the day you came in! It’s your fault!”
“…’gardening’?” Kirk puzzled.
Time to end this circus, Ling decided, hitting the chimes. “Counselor, that was not a question. Do you have any other question for this witness?”
The A.G. collected himself, and tried one last shot. “Yes. Captain, do you deny that you covered up for your crew’s involvement in these things?”
There was a long pause. The light flickered, flickered, but never stayed on.
“Specify,” Kirk finally said. “Covered up, to whom?”
The A.G. paused for only an instant. “To Starfleet Command, for one.”
“I gave the Admiral all my records,” Kirk answered.
Flicker, flicker.
“And to the duly constituted authorities of the government of Argo, for another!”
Kirk leaned back, smiling. “Counselor, I’ve looked at all those charges you leveled against my crew,” he said. “But I didn’t get to see them – and I didn’t know anything about them – until after I was on board the Althashayn. Not until after the Klingons de-Cloaked and stated their business, at least. All those events –“ Flicker. “—except for the Orgy Protest and possibly the massive jailbreak – happened before I even beamed up. There was no way I could have even known about them before then, let alone covered up for them.”
The light stayed dark.
The A.G. glowered, knowing that there was a story there, but he had no way of getting at it. “No further questions,” he growled, trudging back to his seat.
Bravo! Ling marveled. That’s the neatest evasion I’ve ever seen. You did it; you beat the tattle-light! But I suppose I could expect that from the man who beat the Kobayashi Maru…
“Does anyone else have any questions for this witness?” she asked.
“I do!” bellowed Khokhptui, rising to his feet. “I wish to ask him about the Corbomite Maneuver!”
“That,” Ling smiled, “Is outside the boundaries of this hearing. Catch him yourself, on your own time. I hereby declare a one-hour recess. Gentlebeings, let’s go have lunch.”
The audience laughed, rumbled, stood up and began working its way out the door. Ling caught Kirk’s eye and beckoned to him. He came over to the improvised bench, smiling calmly, which she knew was a good act. She took care to turn the computer off while he watched.
“Off the record and just between us, Jim,” she said, very quietly. “I know you; I know how you like to be kept informed – especially about your crew. When did you really learn about your people’s fun and games?”
Kirk’s grin turned a little sheepish. “Actually, I began hearing the first of it maybe half an hour after I talked to the Klingons. I didn’t learn all of it until I had time to sit down and read the reports, several hours later.”
“Mhm. Just which incident did you learn about first?”
“Well…” Kirk squirmed a little. “When we tried to beam McCoy up, he refused to come unless we helped all the injured in the jail, so Thelin beamed them to every hospital emergency-room in the city. It really was necessary. McCoy insisted that they needed immediate medical attention, and they weren’t getting it where they were, and it’s not as if we took them off the planet or even out of the city…”
“And besides, it was Thelin who did it: not you.”
“Well…”
“But why were you so certain that the prisoners wouldn’t receive adequate medical attention in a reasonable amount of time? You know what Federation laws are about that.”
“Well, a civilian informed us that the, uh, Orgy Protest would begin within an hour, and that meant the police would be too busy to provide adequate medical assistance in reasonable time, sir.”
“What civilian, Jim?”
“Uhm, a refugee who asked for asylum. She wasn’t an Argo citizen: just a tourist who wanted to get home safe.”
“Her name, Captain.”
“Uhm, Dr. Heziah Palindo, sir.”
“Oh. I…see. Well, that certainly gets you off the hook for causing the Orgy Protest. I’ll bet the old witch did it herself. ‘Dihydrous Monoxide’, indeed…”
“Will that be all, Admiral?”
“No such luck. Tell me who really master-minded those other pranks.”
“Well, sir, let’s just say that my crew are trained to act independently if necessary.”
“Mhm. We’ll see just how independent they were. I’ll be calling your bridge officers to testify, immediately after recess. Enjoy your lunch, Captain.”
Ling noted, with the faintest of smiles, that Kirk looked distinctly worried as he walked away. She decided that she’d start with the lower-ranking officers first and work her way up.

* * *

“Ensign Chekov, please tell us what happened immediately after you first left the Enterprise.”
“We flew down to de lending-yard end parked de shuttlecreft.”
“And then?”
“Mistair Scott went to call some friends. Den he took me to a bar for specers, near de yard. We steyed dere, drinking, until well efter dark – I didn’t note de time.”
This is like pulling teeth, Ling thought. But the light hasn’t flickered once. “Proceed.”
“We went beck to de shuttlecreft, end we saw de Shore Poliss fightingk wit’ some Caitians. We didn’t want to get inwolffed, so we snikked to our ship end took off.” Now the light flickered. “Es we took off, one uff de Shore Poliss fired a phaser et us. It demeged de creft so dat we began loosingk eltitude end enchine power. Mistair Scott meneged to lend her sefely on de flet roof uff a larche buildingk. Den we called de Enterprice for help.”
“Did you know that the ‘large building’ was Argo Port City Hall?”
“No, sair. Not until efter we called de ship. We couldn’t moof de shuttle, so we bimmed beck to our hotel.”
“What did you do next?”
“I met a nice girl in de hotel bar, end took hair to my room.”
The audience snickered knowingly.
“Hmm, yes. And what did you do the next morning?”
“We steyed in de hotel, watching de vids end leffingk et de nekkid pipple.”
The audience guffawed, and the Klingons were loudest. Ling made a mental note to look into Klingon nudity taboos.
“Den we saw de newscests uff de protest march, end det wassn’t so funny.”
Everybody stopped laughing.
“I called de ship, end lairned det eferybody hed sin det broadcest. Mistair Scott told me to stey sefe in de hotel room, so I did.”
“With your lady friend?”
“Uhm, yes. I didn’t leafe dere until de next day, when I went beck to de bar.”
The light flickered, just once. Something he hasn’t mentioned there, Ling considered. Probably about the girl. Don’t ask. “Do you mean the bar in the hotel?”
“No sair, de first one. I wass dere when de Klingons ceme chargingk onto de stege, right in de middle uff de hologrems. When dey turned end went beck outside, eferybody went out to look for dem, so I did too.”
“And what happened then?”
“Den we saw de Klingons go to de beck of de warehouse eckross de strit. A minute leter, all de Orions in de world ceme runningk out de front door. De crowd recognised dem, end fell on dem wit’ grett ent’usiasm.”
“I see. And what did you do?”
“I called de Enterprice end reported what I saw. Den I got ordairs to bim up to de Althashayn, so I did. I’fe been here efer since.”
“Thank you. Does anyone else have any questions for this witness?”
“Just one,” said the A.G., riffling through his notes. “Ensign, when you fled from the landing-field, why did you disobey the direct order of the shore police to turn off your engines and surrender?”
“Sair!” Chekov looked righteously indignant. “I nefer haird eny such ordair.”
The tattle-light stayed dark.
“End bisides, surrendair for what? We were not inwolffed in de argument bitwin de bedges end de Caitians.”
The A.G. only shook his head. “No further questions,” he said, not looking up.

* * *

“Lt. Sulu, the transporter records show shipment of an unusually massive item from the Enterprise to a city botanical garden, just before you beamed down yourself. Can you explain that, please?”
“Er, yessir. That was my prized Argelian Blue Velvet bush-orchid. There was no room for it in the ship’s arboretum, and everything else was due to be fumigated, so I couldn’t leave it on the ship. I thought that the best place to put a botanical specimen was in a botanical garden.”
The Argo governor was squirming in his chair, and only the A.G.’s grip on his arm kept him silent.
“Hmm…” Ling flipped quickly through the lieutenant’s personal record, seeing the flagged note under Publications. “I see that you are the author of the recent – hmm, very recent – article in the Journal of Botanical Science, concerning the breeding of Argelian Blue Velvet. Is this the plant which inspired that article?”
“Yessir. She seeded out while on the ground, and I recorded it.”
“An interesting addition to our scientific knowledge. Did you know the plant was about to seed when you sent it down?”
“No sir, it was a complete surprise to me. In fact, it was purely by accident that I put the plant in a patch of topsoil that contained just the right minerals to trigger the seeding-function.”
“Quite a lucky accident. What did you do after you beamed yourself down?”
“I attended a sporting event, met a nice girl—“
“I think we can skip over that part,” said Ling.
The audience tittered.
“So when did you part company with the nice girl?”
“Uhm, that was…late the next morning. I’d just bought a new multicorder, and I went to check on Sylvia—“
“Another nice girl?”
The audience laughed again, louder.
“No sir, that’s my Blue Velvet bush. That’s when I discovered she was pregnant—“
The audience roared. Ling, suppressing a good laugh of her own, quelled the noise with her chimes.
“Anyway,” Sulu went on, blushing a little, “That’s also when I did my study with the multicorder. I rushed back to the ship to record my findings and write my article for the Journal. After that I beamed back down and went to lunch.”
“A nice morning’s work. What happened next?”
Sulu’s look darkened. “While I was waiting for my order, I saw the protest marchers coming up the street.”
“Were they in fact naked?”
“No sir, they were all fully clothed.”
“Did you observe any of them carrying weapons?”
“No sir. In fact, I scanned them with my multicorder and saw that they had no weapons at all, brandished or concealed.”
“We have a copy of that recording in evidence. Does the Counselor want a copy?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Just a moment… Here. Mr. Sulu, please proceed. What did you see the marchers doing?”
“Walking, carrying signs with slogans on them, and chanting.”
“What were they chanting?”
“It was ‘no more raids’, sir.”
“What did that signify to you?”
“Nothing. I had no idea what they were talking about.”
“Go on. What did you observe next?”
“Sir, I saw the city police come running out in armor, with batons and stunguns, and start shooting into the crowd.”
The A.G. started to jump to his feet, then changed his mind and sat down fast.
“Several people fell, at least a hundred that I could see. Then the people behind them started throwing water.”
“With or without the bottles?”
“Both. They soaked the police, whose stunguns then stopped working. Then the police went at them with clubs. I saw them hit people on the head with those things.”
“I see. And did that stop the marchers?”
“No sir. They kept coming. Then the police turned and ran.”
The audience laughed again, not a pretty laugh.
“I saw bodies lying in the street. Then the police vans came. I thought they meant to help the injured, but they didn’t. They just grabbed the bodies and threw them like firewood into the vans. Then they drove off.”
“And you got all this on your multicorder?”
“Yessir. And I've given disc copies to everybody."
Ling cast a thoughtful eye on the governor and the A.G. Neither of them said anything, but the A.G. held the datadisc as if he thought it might bite him. It will, it will, thought Ling. “Please proceed.”
“I thought I should report this to the captain, but I didn’t know where he was. I contacted Mr. Scott and Lt. Uhura, and took the information to them. After that, I went to the botanical garden and rescued Syl-- my plant.”
For the first time, the light flickered.
“Then I went back to the hotel and stayed there until I received the beam-up order. I’ve been here ever since.”
“I see.” Ling made a good guess. “And what became of the seeds from your Blue Velvet?”
The light flickered again, but then, Sulu was looking definitely pained. “They fell over the wall onto somebody’s private land. I never got any of them back.”
Somebody in the back of the room gave an indignant squeak, then hushed.
“And where is your Sylvia now?”
“I beamed her back to my quarters on the Enterprise.” Sulu shrugged. “It looked as if there wasn’t going to be a fumigation after all, with the ship under interdiction, and nobody said I couldn’t send a plant to the ship.”
“Well, at least you have your original plant and your scientific fame. Does anyone else have any questions for this witness?”
“I do!” bellowed the governor, before the A.G. could open his mouth. “You! You’re the one who planted those damned things! You seduced my wife, you—you—“
“Huhh?” Sulu’s astounded look couldn’t have been faked. “I never met the lady – not unless she’s 23, and her name is Doris, and she wasn’t wearing a wedding-ring when I met her at the fencing tournament—“
The tattle-light stayed dark. The audience was laughing again.
The A.G. grabbed Kingrich and almost wrestled him back into his chair. “I do, Your Honor,” he shouted above the noise.
“Proceed, then,” said Ling, punching the chimes for something closer to silence.
The A.G. got up and stalked warily toward Sulu, who looked bewildered.
“Concerning this precious plant of yours,” he purred, “Did you obtain any of the requisite permissions bringing it here?”
Sulu’s face turned as smooth as carved ivory, and his voice did something similar. “Certainly not,” he said.
The A.G. raised his eyebrows. “’Certainly not’? You mean you make a habit of introducing alien lifeforms into unsuspecting people’s ecosystems?”
“Only when those lifeforms are well-known, valuable, highly prized – and the people are plagued with officious thieves,” he said.
The A.G., caught off guard, gaped at him.
Sulu seized the opportunity and charged ahead. “I talked to other spacers who had visited Argo, and had good reason to fear that my Blue Velvet would be stolen by bureaucrats if I let them know I was bringing her down. Considering what happened to her seedlings, I was right, wasn’t I?”
The audience laughed and hooted. Ling sighed and punched the chimes again.
The A.G. had the sense to give up, if not gracefully. “Take note, Your Honor, that this man has just admitted to violating Argo customs law. I have no further questions at this time.”
Somehow I don’t think anything will come of that charge, thought Ling, noting that the governor looked as if he were about to explode. “Does anyone else have any questions for this witness?”
“I do!” shouted an old man off in a far corner. “I’ve got an Argelian Blue Velvet, and it cost me a bundle, and I’ve never managed to make it seed out. How do you do it?”
So much for the charge of ‘introducing alien lifeforms’; the Blue Velvet was already here. “Please!” Ling groaned. “Ask elsewhere! Next witness, please.”

* * *

“I don’t know what I can add to these proceedings,” said Chapel, her hand resting lightly on the sensor-plate. “I beamed to my hotel, then went to Argo First Pharmaceuticals to arrange a shipment for the Enterprise’s medical stores. Then I met an old friend and we went shopping, then to dinner.”
The light blinked, so faintly that Ling wasn’t sure she’d seen it. How close, she wondered, was this ‘old friend’?
“Later,” Chapel smiled slightly, “I moved to my friend’s hotel. Like everyone else, we had fun watching the livecast vids the next day, until the newscasts showed that nasty business with the protest march. After that, I stayed in my hotel room until ordered to beam up to the Althashayn.”
Stayed in your friend’s hotel: right. Nothing interesting here, Ling decided. “Did you personally observe any of the incidents referred to in the charges?”
Chapel thought for a moment. The tattle-light blinked just once, again, then went dark. Chapel shrugged. “No, I didn’t see any of that directly,” she said.
The light stayed dark.
“No questions for this witness,” said the A.G., before Ling could ask.
No one else asked anything either.

* * *

“Lt. Uhura, please tell us what happened from the time you first beamed down.”
Uhura bowed her head politely. “I checked into my hotel, went to my room, changed clothes, checked the local news—“
The light blinked, then went dark.
“—then made a date with an old friend.” She smiled. “We spent the night together.”
The light blinked again, just once.
The audience snickered, again. Ling sighed. In one sense, shore-leave stories were terribly predictable.
“Next morning, I spent several hours watching vidcasts. After the reports of the first riot, I decided to stay in the hotel. I remained there until summoned to the Althashayn, where I’ve been ever since.” She shrugged elaborately. “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
The light flared. The computer squalled: “Untrue! Untrue! Subject has made an untrue statement!”
Everybody in the room jumped.
Uhura merely glowered at the machine. “Well,” she said haughtily, “If you really want me to tell you every intimate detail of what I did with my boy-friend, I suppose I can tell you that.”
“Not necessary,” said Ling, struggling to keep a straight face as she punched the chimes. The damned machine is so very literal… “And did you personally observe any of the incidents referred to in the charges?”
“I did not,” said Uhura, very precisely.
“Thank you. Does anyone else have any questions for this witness?”
The A.G. thought for a moment, looked hard at the computer, then raised a hand. “I do. Lt. Uhura, were you personally involved in any of the incidents described in the charges?”
The tattle-light flickered.
Uhura gave him a cold look. “If you mean, sir, did I attract attention by swinging on the hotel balcony, the answer is no, that wasn’t me. I assure you, I had better things to do with my time.”
The light stayed dark.
But I’ll bet you know who did swing on the balcony, Ling considered. Petty stuff; let it go.
“No further questions,” sighed the A.G.

* * *

“Lt. Commander Scott, please tell us why you chose to take a shuttlecraft down to Argo Port City, instead of using the transporter.”
“Weel, sir, I’d just retuned th’ engines, an’ wanted ta try ‘em oot.”
“Was there any other reason?”
“Aye, usual security precautions. Wha’ hoppens if th’ transporter system fails, f’r example, or—“
“Yes. Tell us what happened when you landed.”
“Why, naethin’ hoppened then. We parked, an’ then went t’a local bar, where we stayed until late. As we were comin’ back ta th’ shuttle, I saw a fight goin’ on in th’ landin’-yarrd. ‘Twas th’ Shore Police knockin’ aboot wi’ a crew o’ Caitians. An’ I noticed—“ He turned a hard glance toward the governor. “—thot the badge-boys had stunners an’ clubs, while the kitties had naethin’ but their bare hands.”
“Objection!” snapped the A.G. “Let the record show that Caitians are naturally armed with enormous claws and fangs.”
“Neither o’ which is a distance-weapon,” Scott snapped.
“Their fangs are no longer than ours,” called one of the Andorians.
Ling punched the chimes. “So noted,” she said. “Please proceed, Mr. Scott.”
“Not wantin’ ta get involved in th’ fracas, we tiptoed off t’oor shuttle, got in an’ took off.”
The light blinked.
“What happened while you were taking off, Mr. Scott?”
“Why, one o’ th’ badge-boys saw us leavin’ an’ took a shot at us – wi’ a phaser, an’ no’ set ta stun, either. We didna ha’ oor shields up – weren’t expectin’ ta need ‘em – an’ we took th’ shot in th’ engine controls. We soon lost power, an’ I had ta land ‘er wherever I could.” He grinned. “’Tis lucky yon buildin’ had a flat roof, or we might ha’ come doon in th’ street.”
“Indeed. And what did you do then?”
“Ca’ed th’ Enteprise an’ got beamed off th’ roof. I spent th’ next several oors tryin’ ta find a way ta’ retrieve the shuttlecraft—“
The light flickered. Ling guessed that he’d done other things with his leave-time – such as find another bar and look for another engineer to commiserate with.
“—an’ couldna arrange it. I was still at it when I heard aboot th’ disturbances in port. I didna manage ta locate th’ captain—“
Flicker.
I’ll bet you didn’t want to, Ling guessed, Not with that shuttlecraft stuck on the roof.
“—so I starrted roondin’ up th’ rest o’ th’ crew.,,”
Flicker.
Whom did you call first? Ling wondered.
Scott paused for an instant, and Ling caught his fingers tapping on the sensor-plate. “I learned thot oor Chief Medical Officer had been injurred while tryin’ ta treat some o’ th’ victims o’ th’ Nude Riot, so—“
Flicker.
Yes, McCoy’s records show he was injured – also that he caught some interesting diseases… Ling smiled to herself.
“I got him beamed oop ta th’ Enterprise an’ sent him ta Sickbay. I warned everyone else I could reach ta stay off th’ streets while a’ th’ fun was goin’ on, an’ I tried ta monitor th’ situation. Next day, I learned thot th’ ship was interdicted, an’ then heard aboot th’ Orion ship showin’ oop. I finally contacted th’ captain, an’ then we a’ beamed over ta th’ Althashayn, where we brought th’ rest o’ th’ crew. I’ve been here e’er since.” He shrugged, and fell silent.
Plenty of details left out, Ling considered. Then again, probably preoccupied with the little problem of the stranded shuttle. “And where is the shuttlecraft now, Mr. Scott?”
Scott cringed in his seat and looked miserable. “Still on th’ roof,” he mumbled. “I havna been able ta get th’equipment there ta fix it.”
So that’s what you were doing with your unexplained time, Ling guessed. “I assume,” she said, looking hard at the governor, “That the Argo government will allow you to take whatever equipment and personnel are necessary to repair and retrieve the shuttlecraft – unless the governor particularly wishes to keep the craft for a trophy, or an ornament.”
The audience bellowed with laughter. This time Ling let it run its course.
“Of course we will,” grumbled Kingrich. “The roof and nowhere else. Just get the damned thing off of there!”
“Indeed. Mr. Scott, did you personally observe any of the other incidents listed in the charges?”
“No sir.” No light.
“And—" She glanced again at the A.G. “—were you personally involved in any of the other incidents mentioned in the charges?”
Flicker.
“No more nor I’ve just told ye.”
No light.
“I see. Does anyone else have any questions for this witness?”
“I do.” The A.G. got up slowly, and paced toward Scott with a slit-eyed smile on his face. “So,” he said, “You admit to the totally-unauthorized addition to our City Hall, do you?”
“Aye. I hadna much choice. Ask yer police-commander why thot mon had a full-range phaser, an’ why he fired on us.”
“You say your craft landed there because it was damaged by phaser-fire, do you?”
“Aye, an’ the marks’re there, plain ta see.”
“I’m sure they will be, once you’ve finished ‘repairing’ it,” the A.G. sneered. “You certainly know that nobody has been able to get up to that roof to provide an independent inspection of the damage.”
“Use a bluidy ladder, or realign one o’ yer own transporters. How did ye get the domned roof on th’ buildin’ in the firrst place?”
“Meanwhile, suppose you tell us how much of the damage to the craft was caused by something other than phaser-fire.”
“Weel…” Scott knitted his eyebrows in thought. “We landed a bit rough. I suppose there’s some scrapin’ on the bottom—“
“You admitted that you spent the afternoon and evening in a bar, drinking. Just how drunk were you when you got into that shuttlecraft?”
Scott fixed him with a steady glare. “No’ at a’,” he said. “We were drinkin’ Nova brand f’r the last oor an’ a half.”
“I’m not asking about your taste in particular liquors—“
“Let the record show,” Ling cut in, “That Nova is a non-alcoholic whiskey. If Mr. Scott had drunk that for the previous hour and a half, he was certainly sober by the time he reached the shuttlecraft.”
The A.G. scowled at Scott, then at the witness’ chair, which hadn’t flashed or made a sound. He tried a different tack. “You say it was a duly-authorized police officer who fired on you? You’re sure? Are you absolutely certain it wasn’t one of the spacers involved in the brawl?”
“Positive,” Scott smiled toothily. “As I said, th’ Caitians had only their bare honds. If ye want witnesses, besides Chekov there’s th’ Caitians themsel’s. They a’ escaped too, y’know.”
A chuckle went through the audience, the loudest of it coming from the Klingons.
“And do you know,” the A.G. tried again, “Why a duly-authorized police officer fired on you?”
“Havna a clue.”
“Wasn’t it because you were resisting a direct and lawful order? Isn’t it because you were fleeing from justice? Isn’t that true, Commander?”
“No’ a bit of it! I heard no sich order, an’ we hadna done anythin’ but try t’ avoid a brawl!”
The light stayed dark. The A.G. frowned at it, but didn’t give in. “And just why, if you spent hours in a spaceport dive, did you drink only non-alcoholic liquors? What were you planning, that you took such care to stay sober?”
“I was plannin’ on flyin’ th’ shuttle ta th’ ither side o’ toon, where ma hotel was.” Scott smiled wickedly. “I didna want ta pay local prices f’r a taxi.”
The light stayed dark. The audience snickered.
“Is that the only reason?” The A.G. tried to sound knowing, though he was clearly fumbling around in the dark.
Scott’s eyes narrowed. “Nay, t’isn’t. Th’ crowd in th’ bar had been talkin’ aboot a’ th’ raids yer badge-boys had pu’ed on a’ th’ dockside businesses, an’ their mood was ugly. I was afraid they’d get up an’ do somethin’ serious aboot it, so I wanted ta be able ta get oot o’ th’ way fast, if I had ta. Turns oot I was right; they did do somethin’, didna they?”
“Argo is not on trial here, Mr. Scott!”
But it will be, at this rate, Ling chuckled to herself.
“Nay, an’ I’m no’, either. I’m just sayin’ ye brought it a’ on yersel’s.”
There was a quiet but ominous rumble from the audience.
The A.G. thought for a moment, then came back from a different angle. “You say you beamed up Dr. McCoy after he’d been injured in the riot, correct?”
“Aye.”
Flicker. Ling guessed that there might be more to Scott’s concern than the doctor’s reputation.
“And just where did you beam him up from, Mr. Scott?”
Flicker. Oho.
“Fro’ th’ coordinates where we finally identified his lifesigns,” Scott answered fast. “We had ta use th’ ship’s sensors ta find him, since someone had made off wi’ his communicator.”
The A.G. glanced at the nonresponsive chair. “And just where were those coordinates, Mr. Scott?”
“How should I know? I doan’t know everra spot in th’ city. Remember, I didna know ‘twas City Hall I’d landed on ‘til someone told me.”
“Isn’t it true,” the A.G. pounced, “That you found him in the city jail? Isn’t it true that he’d been arrested with the rest of the rioters? Isn’t it true that you helped a jailbird escape from justice?”
Ling actually saw Scott’s lips briefly form the word ‘justice’ before he answered.
“Naethin’ o’ th’ kind!” he snapped back – and the light stayed off.
Nicely done, Ling had to admit.
“Then how—“ the A.G. almost crowed, turning back to his table and grabbing something from his briefcase. “—how did these unmistakable items wind up in the hands of the police?”
He held them up where everyone could see: a Starfleet standard communicator, and a wallet. He flipped the wallet open to reveal McCoy’s ID card, its hologram-portrait visible almost completely around the room.
Scott gave him a long look, and the tattle-light didn’t flicker once.
“F’r aught I know,” he said, “Ye picked the mon’s pocket while he was lyin’ helpless fro’ th’ beatin’ yer badge-boys gave him.”
The audience buzzed like a gigantic wasps’ nest.
That was too much for Kingrich. “Are you accusing our noble police forces of being thieves?!” he bellowed, clambering to his feet.
Scott looked him dead in the eye. “Aye,” he said, “I bluidy well am. Fro’ whot I saw o’ th’ riots, I wouldna put anythin’ past ‘em.”
That made the crowd sit up and roar. The governor started to splutter. The A.G. hurried over to his table and made him sit back down. Ling punched the chimes repeatedly. It took a long time for the noise to subside.
This, Ling reflected, is going to be one for the books. “Counselor, do you have any further questions to ask this witness?”
The A.G. looked at her, looked at Scott, looked at the audience, and looked at the cameras. “Not at this time, Your Honor,” he retreated.
“Then I strongly recommend that you return the doctor’s communicator and wallet.”
“See if there’s any money left in it!” shouted some anonymous voice from the audience.
“And I must remind all of you that these outbursts only impede this investigation. If you cannot remain quiet, I will have this room cleared.” Not that I’d dare, with all of Argo watching, but let’s hope they believe it. “Does anyone else have any questions for this witness?”
For once, the room was absolutely quiet.
“Next witness,” said Ling. “Dr. Leonard McCoy.”

* * *

“Waal, I beamed directly to my hotel, got changed and went out to see the city. I had no idea where the interesting spots were, so I called up Scotty— er, Commander Scott, I mean – to ask him what he knew. He had a small party going in his hotel room, so he invited me in.”
What kind of party? Ling wondered. “Then he wasn’t busy trying to get the shuttlecraft off the roof?” she couldn’t help asking.
The audience snickered, but quietly.
“He’d given that up for the night.” McCoy shrugged. “I guess he couldn’t find the personnel to help him; after all, there was hardly anybody left on the Enterprise.”
“I see.” I can believe that. “Go on, please.”
“I stayed over at his place—“
Flicker. Not alone, I’ll bet.
“—and in the morning we had fun looking at the vidcasts.”
Flicker. You and half the planet, no doubt.
“Then I got word about the protest march—“
Flicker. Who told you?
“--and figured I should go there.” McCoy frowned. The light flickered repeatedly. Emotional stress. Why? Ling wondered.
“I couldn’t believe what I saw. The way the police laid into those people-- I didn’t hear them shout a warning or anything; they just pulled out their stunguns and started shooting. People were falling all over the street, landing hard on the pavement. I bent over to look at a fallen girl—“
Flicker-flicker. Understandable, Ling considered. Or was the girl someone special? Ask. “Did you know this woman personally?”
McCoy paused for only an instant, and the light flickered frantically. “She was the girl I spent the night with,” he said.
There wasn’t a sound from the audience.
“I understand. Go on.”
“I bent over to see how badly she was hurt, and a stun-beam caught me across the back. It didn’t knock me out, but I couldn’t move. I saw all the rest of it: the badges slamming people with those clubs – I swear I heard bones break!”
“I understand your concern, but what happened after that?”
“Well, after the crowd chased the police away, we all just lay in the street. A few civilians came and helped carry people away, but nobody else – until more badges showed up in big groundcars and started throwing people into them like so many sandbags. That’s where I got the bruise on my head. Other people got worse.”
Bite the bullet. “Did they take you to jail?”
“Hell, yes. They threw everybody into cells with no more care than they’d thrown us into the groundcars. People got more injuries there, too. And yes, I saw the badge-boys searching people’s clothes, taking away wallets, jewelry and other valuables. That’s where I lost my communicator.”
“What became of the confiscated items?”
“As far as I know, the police still have them. Must have been a good haul.”
“Proceed, please.”
“Well, we got no food nor medical attention. As soon as I could move – which must have been an hour later – I started examining the others, doing what I could for them with no medical supplies at all. Maybe another two hours later, I was suddenly beamed up to the Enterprise.”
“And did you tell him where you’d just been?”
“No sir, I was too busy yelling about the people needing medical attention. Scotty sent me off to Sickbay, where I grabbed some supplies and made him beam them down to where I’d just been.”
“Just when did you inform Mr. Scott that he had, in fact, taken you out of jail?”
McCoy looked thoughtful. The light flickered briefly. “You know, I don’t recall that I ever did tell him. I just ranted about how those people had been treated. I really don’t know when he found out.”
Ling picked her words carefully. “Did you tell anyone that you were a fugitive from justice?”
“Justice?!” McCoy flared – while the light stayed dark. “You call that justice? Armed thugs attacking harmless people in the street, throwing them around like sandbags, no food, no medical attention—“
“Please calm yourself, Doctor. We’ve all seen the recordings.” That’s how he did it. ‘Justice’ is the key word. Isn’t legal terminology wonderful?
“All right.” McCoy made visible effort to calm himself. “I went back down, trying to get help for the injured. Finally the captain got hold of me and brought me up to the Althashayn. I’ve been here ever since.”
“I see. And did you personally observe any of the other incidents listed in the charges?”
“No ma’am. I was a little too preoccupied.”
“And were you personally involved in any of the other incidents?’
“No ma’am. Same reason.”
The tattle-light stayed resolutely dark.
“Thank you.” She couldn’t resist turning to the A.G. and saying: “Your witness.”
The A.G. didn’t catch the joke. He got up and padded carefully to McCoy. “So,” he said, “You’re the jailbird, are you?”
“Damn right,” said McCoy. “And I’d like to know what crime you’d charge me with.”
“How about ‘participating in a riotous assembly’?”
“It wasn’t a riot until your boys showed up!”
“Didn’t you incite that march yourself?”
“Whaat?!”
The light flickered furiously.
“Didn’t you cause it? That sort of thing isn’t part of Argo’s culture; some off-worlder had to start it.”
“There were a lot of off-worlders in that crowd – and they said they had good reason! Raids, censorship, corruption—”
“Answer the question!” the A.G. shouted. “Did you or did you not incite that riot?”
“Hell, no!” McCoy shouted back.
And the light stayed dark.
Of course! Ling almost laughed. It wasn’t a ‘riot’ until your badges started it!
“But you participated!” the A.G. backpedaled.
“I went to help the injured!”
“Participation is a crime! You’re a wanted criminal on Argo!”
“Let’s see you make those charges stick in any honest court!”
“Gentlemen, please,” Ling cut in, turning up the volume on the chimes. “Counselor, the witness has answered your question. Do you have anything else to ask?”
The A.G. chewed his lip. “Just one thing more,” he finally said. “Did you instigate the massive jailbreak the next day?”
Flicker-flicker – then dark. What the hell? Ling wondered.
“Probably,” McCoy shrugged. “I certainly ran around yelling to enough people about that mistreatment. I guess somebody took what I said seriously. I don’t know who actually beamed them out, though. I’m sure it wasn’t anybody on the Enterprise.”
The light stayed off.
Of course, Ling smiled. Everybody was either on the ground or on the Andorian ship.
The A.G. finally gave up. “No further questions,” he said, plodding back to his seat.
“Does anyone else have any questions for this witness?”
“I do,” said an unexpected voice.
Everyone looked, and saw Thelin come padding toward the witness’ seat.
“Proceed,” was all Ling could think to say.
“Doctor,” Thelin asked quietly, “Are you not that same McCoy who healed the Great Mother of the Horta from a deadly phaser-wound?”
“Well, yes, but that was mostly a lucky accident.”
“You healed her, even though she had slain several Humans and appeared to be a fearsome monster?”
“Well, I’ve learned not to judge too much by appearances.”
“And did you not risk your life, on the Vians’ world, to save the woman named Gem?”
“Yes, but I figured I could survive…”
“And did you not save the city of Leesha, on Bey-Andor, from the Vethashann Plague?”
“Well, I had a really good medical synthesizer.”
“And you stayed to use it, when other Humans fled for fear of catching the disease?”
“Aw, they just panicked. It turned out that Humans are immune.”
“But you didn’t know that at the time, did you?”
“Well…I made a good guess.”
“I was on the Yorktown, which evacuated those who fled. I have relatives in that city.”
“Hey, I’m glad I could help.”
Thelin turned around and bowed formally to Ling. “I would state for the record,” pre-she said, “That this particular Human is so devoted to healing that he has repeatedly risked his life to save others. This is not the sort of being to encourage any activity which might cause harm to anyone.”
With that, Thelin turned around and walked back to pre-her seat. There wasn’t another sound in the room.
Just try prosecuting McCoy for anything, after that! Ling rolled an eye at the A.G., who didn’t even bother to look up. “If there are no further questions,” she said, “I would call Commander Spock to the witness’ seat.”
“Hold it, hold it!” the governor broke in. “You can’t question a Vulcan with that thing; they’re immune to it.”
“That is not precisely the correct term,” Ling commented.
“That is not precisely the truth,” said Spock, taking the chair. “Considerable discipline and training are required to avoid alerting sensors of this nature.”
“Your objection is duly noted, Governor," said Ling. "We will proceed anyway.”
“In any case,” Spock added, settling his hands precisely on the chair-arms, “I shall have little to say myself. Most of my evidence is recorded.”
The governor and the A.G. exchanged worried looks.
“Then please tell us what occurred after you first arrived on Argo,” said Ling, keeping an absolutely straight face. She knew what was in those records.
“I put on civilian dress, concealed a tricorder under my clothing, beamed down to the spaceport and went looking for an informant.”
“Informant?” the audience buzzed, then hushed.
“What did you hope to be informed about?” Ling asked, hoping it was just the right question.
“I needed more evidence to prove conclusively that Argo was being used by the Orion slave-trade.”
The crowd burst into a thundering uiproar. Ling rang the chimes repeatedly, but it took long minutes to restore quiet.
“I did, in fact, obtain such data,” Spock went on, pulling datadiscs out from under his shirt. “These are readouts from that tricorder which I wish to enter into evidence.”
You’ve said the magic words, Ling smiled to herself as she took the discs. With no further ado, she pushed them into the computer’s slot and punched the playback buttons – knowing full well that the big screen behind her would display everything.

* * *

It took just under an hour and a half to view the readout. It took just over ten minutes, and the help of the Althashayn’s Security staff, to quell the chaos that followed. The last distinct voice Ling heard as the noise died down was Immaliosk wailing: “I had no idea what my cousin was doing! I don’t know anyone named Grobikthia! Just try me on that machine, and I’ll prove it!”
Ling pulled her hair out of her eyes, punched the chimes one more time, and announced: “Gentlebeings, I see no reason for Starfleet to press charges against the crew of the Enterprise. I do see good reason for Starfleet to launch a different investigation of conditions on Argo, and that will be included in my report.”
The A.G., shaking his head, only closed up his briefcase. The governor shot a venomous look toward Kirk and the whole Enterprise contingent. “Well, the interdiction still stands,” he snapped out his parting shot. “None of you get to set foot on Argo again!”
Even as he said it, he saw Nargina – now dressed in a ship’s-issue replicated jumpsuit – come picking her way toward Sulu. She was holding a small potted plant in her hand.
“Banned! All of you, banned!” he yelled as he headed for the door.

Epilogue

As the Enterprise officers appeared on the transporter pad Janice Rand studied them carefully, trying to read their expressions. Chapel and Uhura where whispering animatedly together. Scott materialized in the act of playfully punching Chekov in the shoulder. Sulu was holding a small potted plant as if it were the Holy Grail. Spock looked imperturbable, as always. McCoy and Kirk had their arms around each other’s shoulders, looked exhausted, but were grinning from ear to ear. As they solidified they resumed their conversation.
“—call that an almost-clean victory,” Kirk was saying. “As for not being allowed back here, I could care less.”
“I’m still furious.” McCoy grumbled. “I didn’t ‘incite’ a damn thing; it was the badges who caused that riot.”
“When you have time, Doctor,” Spock cut in, “I would like your help in analyzing that peculiar potion which I ingested, and its antidote.”
“Hmm, do you recall anything about its characteristics?”
“I did obtain a brief glimpse of the bottle; the liquid appeared to be green.”
Behind him, Nurse Chapel muffled an explosion of giggles.
Uhura paced ahead, calmly dignified, with her innocent-looking laptop tucked discreetly beneath her arm. Only the faintest of smiles twitched the corner of her mouth as she passed.
“Dinna worry, Chekov,” Scott was saying. “Ma team will have th’ shuttlecraft back aboarrd wi’in th’ oor. Nane th’ worrse f’r wear, I hope.”
“I’m chust sorry I won’t get beck to det bar again. I wondair what heppened to dose sefen spece-marines, end de demolition crew.”
“Weel, we can be sure they didna join in any o’ th’ fun thot firrst night,” Scott considered.
“I should t’ink not! You drenk dem under de tebble.” Sulu, holding the little plant as if it were a baby, was murmuring: “There, there, pretty thing. Your mama’s safe on board, and you’ll see her soon. There, there…” He went out the door, not taking his eyes off the plant.
In a moment, they were gone.
This, Rand decided, needs to be immortalized in song.
And who was better equipped to do it than herself? Nobody on the ship knew about her secret hobby, but half the galaxy knew her more popular songs – all published under the name of ‘Starbard’, sung by some of the most famous bands in the quadrant.
Which band could do justice to this? Phoenix? Urban Tapestry? Windbourne? Avalon Rising? Maybe the Black Book Band…Smiling to herself, she reached under the console, pulled out a recording pad, and began to write.
And we’re banned from Argo, every one:
Banned from Argo, just for having a little fun.
We spent a jolly shore-leave there, for just three days or four,
But Argo doesn’t want us anymore!

--END--

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Morgan_Primus Sun 10 Jan 2021 10:53PM UTC

I would simply suggest you utilise spaces between character comments and paragraphs.
This site doesn't always render files properly, I get this. x

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1. LeslieFish Mon 11 Jan 2021 04:52AM UTC
  
  I know, I know! There was sufficient space in the original manuscript that I sent to AO3; it disappeared when it went up on this site. Why? I dunno.
  
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2. 1. Morgan_Primus Mon 11 Jan 2021 01:06PM UTC
    
    Lol. It's happened to me before too. x
    I type my stuff up in a markdown editor with preview. When I copy paste the manuscript in preview mode, the manuscript posts the way I want it to. If I don't, then I have to go in and manually add the spaces in the little word processor AO3 has (in their rich text mode, not HTML), which is aggravating as heck, lol. x
    
    Last Edited Mon 11 Jan 2021 01:32PM UTC
    
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LeslieFish Mon 11 Jan 2021 01:40PM UTC

Dammitol, I tried to clean up the spacing on this, but the site wouldn't accept my edit.
--Leslie <;)))><

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Joy (Guest) Mon 25 Jan 2021 08:21AM UTC

Love the story! It was an entertaining read and great to find out everything behind the song "Banned from Argo".

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1. LeslieFish Tue 26 Jan 2021 06:01AM UTC
  
  Heheheheheh. Glad you liked. Yes, half the fun was filling in the "rest of the story" from unexpected viewpoints.
  
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jjmcgaffey (Guest) Thu 28 Jan 2021 06:26AM UTC

Love it! I've heard/sung BfA a million times, and getting the rest of the story is great. I love that although there's a lot more to it, the song is still perfectly accurate (for what Janice saw, at least). Thank you!

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1. LeslieFish Thu 28 Jan 2021 07:04AM UTC
  
  Thanks greatly; glad you liked. Oh yes, the fun of writing this was keeping -- technically -- to the outlines of the song, while telling a totally unexpected tale, and the funnier the better. I'm delighted to learn that I succeeded. Enjoy!
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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jjmcgaffey (Guest) Tue 02 Feb 2021 08:00AM UTC

I may have slightly messed up - I track all my reading on LibraryThing.com, and I included this book (I'd downloaded the epub version, so I can read it again!). Then I was told some authors prefer these works not be listed in places like that, which hadn't occurred to me. If you'd rather, I'll remove it from my LT catalog, of course.

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1. LeslieFish Tue 02 Feb 2021 08:43AM UTC
  
  Hi, Jinc. No, I'm not upset at all. Go ahead and list "BFA" on LT; I'm just narcissistic enough that I want my story read as far and wide as possible. Hey, it's not as if I were getting royalties from it; I'm in this for the fame, not money. Go ahead and list it wherever you like, with my blessing. Best,
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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2. 1. jjmcgaffey (Guest) Tue 02 Feb 2021 04:01PM UTC
    
    Excellent, I agree - more people should read this. Thanks!
    
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Beacuzz Wed 03 Feb 2021 07:30PM UTC

You are a beautiful god/goddess! I have always wondered if someone had written a fic for this song but I am so glad I found yours! It had me rolling in laughter the whole time and the fact that Rand was the author is so unexpected but perfect. I bow to you!

Last Edited Wed 03 Feb 2021 07:30PM UTC

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1. LeslieFish Wed 03 Feb 2021 07:37PM UTC
  
  Awwwww, (*blush*) thanks. Glad you liked. Well, yes, it had to Yeoman Rand who wrote the "song"; she's the one crew officer who isn't mentioned in it!
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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Grevenbicht (Guest) Tue 09 Feb 2021 08:08PM UTC

I just heard the song for the first time today and I decided to search it up on ao3 on a whim. So I’m very surprised and happy to see this fic, good job!

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1. LeslieFish Wed 10 Feb 2021 03:24AM UTC
  
  Heheheheh. I hope it lived up to your expectations!
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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alessandriana Thu 11 Mar 2021 04:28AM UTC

Amazing. <3

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kharnate Wed 31 Mar 2021 02:04PM UTC

This was as fun to read as the song is to listen to. Thanks for both.

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KWolffe (Guest) Sun 18 Jul 2021 01:30AM UTC

Great story! Well written, funny, & a good read.
I can see this becoming a book I revisit often!

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Zee_McZed Sun 18 Jul 2021 03:33AM UTC

One of my favorite filk songs, and now one of my favorite fics. Thank you.

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1. Leslie Fish (Guest) Sun 18 Jul 2021 12:21PM UTC
  
  I'm glad you all enjoyed this. Now you'll have added reason to grin whenever you hear the song.
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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Wolfjackle Thu 05 Aug 2021 05:35AM UTC

I only just found out there was a fic expanding on the song and had to read it!
It was even better than I could've expected. I love every single thing about this fic (and the song). Had a blast reading it.
Thanks for sharing!

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1. Leslie Fish (Guest) Thu 05 Aug 2021 06:28AM UTC
  
  Glad you liked. Best,
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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Catstaff Sun 07 Nov 2021 10:26PM UTC

Like the Klingons, I laughed so hard I fell out of my seat! (Thanks for the bruises, lol!)
This is pure perfection, and I only wish I'd spotted it sooner. On the other hand, it's apparently in comments over on YouTube - I sent the song link to a friend, who replied with the link to the story, which she said she saw in the comment section. Thank you so much for writing the story behind the song, I love it.

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1. Leslie Fish (Guest) Tue 09 Nov 2021 10:45AM UTC
  
  Hi, Cat. Glad you liked. Wow, I didn't know that the song was linked to here from YouTube; I'd best go check it out. Thanks much!
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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2. 1. Catstaff Tue 09 Nov 2021 11:42AM UTC
    
    Okay, turned out she sent me the link to the story, but the link isn't on YouTube, at least not in the video I'd sent her. But in the comments, someone does mention that there's a novelization over here, so she apparently decided to go looking for it.
    And I'm really glad she did!
    
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Pangolotl Wed 17 Nov 2021 04:16AM UTC

I've been a fan of the song for years, and I love that there's now a backstory for it! I especially liked how you subverted the original lyrics to show how it was unreliably narrated, and wove them all together.
I have to ask, how long did it take you to write this? Did you only start in the past year, or has this been many years in the making?

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1. LeslieFish Mon 22 Aug 2022 12:07AM UTC
  
  Hi, Pang! I've had this story ready and waiting for years. I originally tried to sell it to the pro. book publisher that's been doing the Trek books, but they wouldn't take it. So, finally, I wound up posting it here.
  
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telemain Fri 17 Jun 2022 04:26PM UTC

Brilliant and hilarious - it's great to see an alternate but still "author-ized" (hah) take on the events described in the song. Just one thing - phonetically replicating Scotty and Chekov's accents is tough to read and worse for those who use screenreaders. Plus, I bet you gave your spellchecker an identity crisis.

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1. themuppetyone Sat 29 Apr 2023 10:55PM UTC
  
  Too true. My brain had a lot of trouble parsing those bits.
  
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2. 1. Leslie Fish (Guest) Tue 02 May 2023 09:09AM UTC
    
    Okay, about those accents; I used them so that, in a close-packed action scene, the reader can readily tell just who's talking without my having to add "he said, he said". Besides, the original actors took such care to use those accents that it wouldn't be authentic Trek-TOS without them.
    --Leslie <;)))><
    
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themuppetyone Sat 29 Apr 2023 10:53PM UTC

Okay, I have loved this song since I was 12 (late 80s) and found a recording of it at my first Trek convention. And the fic was SUCH A DELIGHT and did SUCH JUSTICE to the song! Thank you! That was exactly what I needed today.

Last Edited Sat 29 Apr 2023 10:54PM UTC

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1. Leslie Fish (Guest) Tue 02 May 2023 09:05AM UTC
  
  Heheheh. Glad I could be of help.
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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TechUnadept (Guest) Thu 25 May 2023 03:39AM UTC

"The next room had been furnished for a very different purpose. The walls were festooned with fake-flower garlands and lace, but again there were no windows. The only furnishings were a fussy-frilly dressing table and chair, and an enormous four-poster bed. On the bed, amid the tumbled lacey coverlets, lay a pot-bellied male Argo-Human, a hairy male Tellarite, an Orion green slave-girl,"
Okay, fair enough...
"and two shaggy dogs."
NOOOOOO!!!

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1. LeslieFish Thu 25 May 2023 07:18AM UTC
  
  Heheheheh. I mention nothing of what all of them were doing, or how, but those dogs have a minor place in the plot. *Snicker*
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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filkferengi Thu 13 Jul 2023 07:15PM UTC

Hi, Leslie,
This is even more delightful than I thought it'd be! I posted the link for this over on the Bujold for the delectation of the filkers & ficcers, along with links to a youtube video and the Tomboat cover that's on bandcamp. Unfortunately, there's no version of you singing it available on bandcamp. Is there any way you can get "Folk Songs For Solar Sailors" up on bandcamp, so folks can give you money? Goodness knows, Eli's been doing an amazing job getting recordings out and on bandcamp, but Argo's pretty foundational for your catalog. Thanks again for a fun story; I cackled so much, the cat almost cared. ;)

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1. Leslie Fish (Guest) Sat 15 Jul 2023 07:38PM UTC
  
  Thank you, FF. Alas, I know nothing about the marketing end of my music; you'll have to talk to Eli Goldberg about that. I know that there are several videos of BFA on YouTube, but I have no idea how to transfer them. Glad you liked the story version.
  
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WindyWheat Wed 16 Aug 2023 03:15AM UTC

Ms.Fish you are an inspiration.

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1. LeslieFish Thu 17 Aug 2023 05:19AM UTC
  
  Awww, thanks. Glad you liked.
  --Leslie <;)))><
  
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WinterRose16 Sat 26 Aug 2023 11:09PM UTC

I can't believe you wrote the most famous filk in fandom and then turned it into a story that feels like it could be a missing episode. Love that the Klingons have a bit more of the TNG vibe about them.

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1. LeslieFish Sun 27 Aug 2023 09:08PM UTC
  
  Awww, thanks.
  
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Banned From Argo

LeslieFish

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Morgan_Primus Sun 10 Jan 2021 10:53PM UTC

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LeslieFish Wed 03 Feb 2021 07:37PM UTC

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Catstaff Sun 07 Nov 2021 10:26PM UTC

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Leslie Fish (Guest) Tue 09 Nov 2021 10:45AM UTC

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Catstaff Tue 09 Nov 2021 11:42AM UTC

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LeslieFish Mon 22 Aug 2022 12:07AM UTC

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themuppetyone Sat 29 Apr 2023 10:55PM UTC

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filkferengi Thu 13 Jul 2023 07:15PM UTC