Arex had no answer.
There was no place to go, nowhere to retreat, no friendly cave to hide in. They were trapped in the rocky cul-de-sac. Sulu and McCoy tried to press themselves into bare rock. There was no place to run, and the smooth walls showed not a niche, not a handhold suitable for climbing.
A pair of scale-armored skulls loomed over the last intervening boulder, horrible hisses and growls bubbling menacingly from each.
Suddenly, both jaws snapped shut, and the monster tumbled backward, rolling out of sight.
There was a frozen pause, but the dragon did not reappear. It had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Hardly daring to breathe, the two officers walked toward the open end of the trap, looked around for signs of the beast. A careful survey from the top of a nearby low slab of stone showed only unmoving rock and vegetation.
It was gone. Not a hint of armored tail showed in the labyrinth, not the faintest whiff of brimstone befouled the once-again pure air.
"The planetary computer has a funny sense of humor," McCoy commented finally.
Sulu had another thought. "Maybe it decided we weren't edible, and it's dragon-thoughts came into conflict with the computer's orders. What now?"
"Let's try and find our way back to the trapdoor Jim and Spock disappeared into," the doctor suggested. "If we have time, I'd bet we can find a way to force it open."
"Shouldn't be too hard to find again," Sulu observed, nodding in the direction they had come from. It was marked by a zigzag line of carbonized bushes and stripped trees.
They started scrambling down the now deserted slope.
"I invite you and your crew to be my guests, Captain Kirk," the computer grid boomed expansively. "On one condition."
Kirk didn't hesitate. "Name it."
"We must have more of these discussions while you are here. While fulfilling the fantasies of others does truly provide information, I determine that it does little for my creative capacities. More direct intellectual stimulation is required."
That request should be simple enough to satisfy, Kirk reflected. He turned to his first officer.
"Mr. Spock, would you care to take on that duty?"
"I would find it most appealing, Captain. Such an exchange of information should prove most interesting. Indeed, I confess that such exchanges would partly satisfy any fantasy I might conjure for myself."
"Each to his own," Kirk murmured before turning back to face the nexus. "Then it is agreed." He took out his communicator, gestured with it at the console.
"Will these work now?"
"Perfectly," came the computer voice. "All blocks and interference on your devices have been removed, Captain." Kirk smiled his thanks, wondering at the same time if the computer could make anything of the expression.
"I can see your smile in your thoughts, too, Captain Kirk," came the unsolicited reply. He smiled even wider, flipped open the top of the compact device.
"Kirk to Enterprise."
On the bridge, several pairs of eyes turned startled gazes to the communications station.
"Don't sit there a-gapin', lass," Scott urged hurriedly, "answer it!"
"Captain, is that you?" responded the surprised officer, checking out her once-again operative board.
"You were expecting a white rabbit, Lieutenant? Pass the word by sections—shore leave for the first shift to resume immediately."
The communication's officer's voice was a mixture of enthusiasm and uncertainty. "Yes, sir. There are no more . . . difficulties?"
"No, Lieutenant. Everything has been . . . repaired. A basic exchange of viewpoint was all that was necessary. It was probably just a question of mechanical error."
"Uh, Captain." Spock put a hand of Kirk's shoulder as the communicator was flipped shut.
"Yes, Spock?" In reply the first officer gestured toward the big viewscreen set in the computer face.
"It appears that shore leave has already commenced for certain members of the crew."
Kirk and Uhura both turned to stare at the screen.
Somewhere on the surface above a picnic was in progress. Things seemed well underway. McCoy and Sulu were seated lotus-fashion around an antique gingham-checkered tablecloth, which was piled to overflowing with food—everything from exotic Boolean brandy to paté de foie gras sandwiches and fried chicken. The setting was idyllic, down to the absence of ants.
The girl who had identified herself as Alice was seated at one side next to the recently mentioned white rabbit, who for once was occupied with something other than his watch.
"At last," the rabbit muttered with an expression of utmost contentment, "time enough for carrots!"
The two-headed dragon, who had the other side of the tablecloth all to himself, was holding a handful of long thin sticks on which tiny tank-shaped objects had been skewered. Kirk didn't recognize these until the dragon handed the skewers around and Sulu and McCoy began nibbling at the objects.
The dragon reached for another set of preloaded skewers. It was toasting marshmallows.
Not the tiniest incident arose to mar the remainder of their layover. On the contrary, it seemed that the master computer was striving to outdo itself in the production of imaginary spectacles. If Mr. Spock's undoubtedly prosaic conversations affected it, they didn't show up in the uninhibited fantasies the other members of the Enterprise's complement called for.
The closest thing to an unexpected situation occurred when Yeoman Colotti stumbled in on the fantasy world of the programmer who occupied the cabin next to hers on board ship and found herself the principal subject of his fantasy. It was a subject for wagering among the rest of the crew as to which of them would lose the resultant blush first.
Such fantasies were supposed to be beyond the highly moral instinct of the computer, but it was reveling in a new-found independence of mind.
Kirk was curious to see what form Spock's own fantasies might take, but he never had the chance. The science officer spent all his shore leave secreted underground with the central nexus. Whatever fascinating games of invention and interplay were concocted by Vulcan and machine remained unseen and uncommented upon. Only Kirk knew that his first officer was having at least as good a time as any other member of the crew.
Fortunately, the planetary machinery was sufficient to satisfy the individual dreams of every crewmember. Though, as had been shown in the Colotti case, not all dreams were suitable to group participation.
Kirk was enjoying the visualization of one of his own fantasies when he was interrupted by a steady beep from the region of his waist. Irritated at the intrusion of mundane reality, he fumbled until he extracted the communicator.
"Kirk here."
"Lieutenant M'ress, Captain. We've just received a deep-space tight-beam call from Starfleet station on Tsiolkovsky. Commodore Hachida wishes action taken on a certain matter as soon as possible. It seems we're elected."
"Rats!" He looked around at the hundreds of extras, the waiting crew that manned the props and reflectors, the three cameramen and their assistants—all of whom were patiently looking to him for instructions.
"I'm in the middle of . . . of directing a film. Can't it wait?"
"Apparently not, sirr. It's a prriorrity call."
He sighed. "Oh well." It wasn't as if they were having their leave cut short. They had spent ten days on the Omicron world, enough to sate the dreams of even the most imaginative crewmembers for awhile.
"All right, Lieutenant. Inform whoever's on duty that I'll be beaming up in a minute."
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, and Lieutenant, as a precaution you might warn other crew presently on the surface that they might be required to pull out of their fantasies at anytime and return to ship." There, that order ought to make him popular, he reflected sardonically.
"Very good, sir. I’ll have Transporter Chief Kyle beam you back up."
"Just another couple of minutes, please, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir. Enterprise out."
Kirk flipped the communicator shut, shoved it back into his belt, and turned reluctantly to the patient assistant directors.
"Mr. Griffith, Mr. von Stroheim, Mr. Eisenstein—I'm afraid I've been called away on urgent business. You're going to have to finish this picture without me."
"That will be no problem," von Stroheim said easily, adjusting the collar of his tunic.
"It has been most agreeable to work with you," added Eisenstein.
"Good-bye, Captain," Griffith concluded, doffing his famous felt hat.
Kirk shook his head sadly, surveying the imitation sets, the waiting actors and animals. His body began to take on a luminous outline, his silhouette a glistening shimmer.
"Pity this can't last," he murmured as the scene started to fade. "Nothing lasts—including us. I'm really going to miss seeing this film when you three finish cutting it . . ."
Once back on board, Kirk moved to the transporter room intercom and informed M'ress that he would take the message in his cabin. There he doffed the beret, short-sleeve shirt, silk scarf and jodhpurs, and exchanged them for his on-duty uniform. His voice sounded loud on the bridge.
"All right, Lieutenant. Put it through."
"Keying now, sir," replied M'ress, touching a switch that relayed the message through the Enterprise's ganglion of informational nerves. She glanced back at Arex, noticed the navigation officer eyeing her with interest.
"I wonderr what his reaction will be, too, when he rreceives the orderr," she purred raspingly. "I would think that—" She was interrupted by a violent bellow from the still open intercom.
"Ah," commented Arex, "he's heard it."
The explosion was short-lived, though indeed intense. Eventually, Kirk ran down, remembering a bit too late to switch off the open intercom in his cabin.
A short while later he reappeared on the bridge. There was still fire in his eyes, but his outward demeanor, at least, was controlled.
"Lieutenant M'ress," he began evenly, settling himself into the command chair, "order all shore leave parties back to ship. Prepare the Enterprise for departure."
"Some catastrophe on a nearby world, sir?" queried Arex innocently, not daring to look back lest Kirk interpret his facial expression.
"Famine, seismic disturbances, threat of war—the Klingons making trouble again?" followed M'ress.
"Nothing so simple as that, Lieutenants," Kirk replied. At that moment Spock reappeared on the bridge.
"Nothing so simple as what, Captain?" he inquired, moving to the library computer station.
"Priority call from Starfleet Regional HQ on Tsiolkovsky, Mr. Spock."
There was a long pause, then Spock, composed as ever finally added, "Aren't you going to officially note the information into the log, sir?"
"Give me a minute to compose myself. My system still hasn't completely readjusted, Mr. Spock. I've got to work it out."
" 'Work it out,' Captain? I don't believe I understand."
"Let's put it thusly, Spock. Were I to try and make the entry just now, it might contain certain emotional overtones, overtones that would not be in keeping with the otherwise determinedly objective nature of the log."
Spock nodded. "I believe I see now, Captain."
"A mouthful there, Spock." He looked toward the front of the bridge. "Mr. Arex . . . crew report?" Arex checked a digital readout
"All crewmembers accounted for and on board, sir. Normal operational capacity at all stations."
"Mr. Sulu, set a course for the Arcadian star system."
"Aye sir." After punching in the request for coordinates, Sulu looked over a shoulder and asked curiously, "Arcadia . . . that's an open system, isn't it?"
"Yes it is, Mr. Sulu. Very open. Arcadia is one of those rare worlds that was discovered by several representatives of various races at about the same time. As a result, too many conflicting claims made it impossible for any one species to lay honest deed to it.
"But instead of haggling over the planet, either with guns or words, it had been declared an open world by all involved. So its administration was loose and its population cosmopolitan. An ideal situation for the appearance of . . ." The thought trailed off.
"It's a rich world, though, Mr. Sulu. Filled up fast with prospectors, wildcat agronomists, and the like. That's one reason nobody fought over it. By the time the diplomats got around to a possible scheme for divvying it up, it already had a locally formed government that was ready to fight off any outside organization. The Arcadians like their controlled anarchy.
"Estimated time of arrival, Mr. Sulu?" The helmsman returned his attention to business.
"At standard crusing speed, estimated arrival time six point three days hence, sir."
"That will be fine, Mr. Sulu. No need to push ourselves, priority call or no." Kirk tapped fingers on the chair arm and muttered more softly, "I think I can trust myself to act rationally by then."
PART II
MUDD'S PASSION
(Adapted from a script by Stephen Kandel)
VI
The voyage to Arcadia was efficient and uneventful—except that Sulu beat Spock twice in a row at three-dimensional chess. That incident provided some lively ground for speculation among the crew for several days.
"Losing your touch, Spock?" McCoy had chided him after the second loss.
"Nonsense, Doctor. The law of probability favored Mr. Sulu eventually winning a pair of games back to back, as you like to say. He is an outstanding player and by now we have played so often that he is reasonably familiar with my moves. I cannot beat him all the time."
"Why not?"
"As I said, Doctor, the laws of probability rule against it."
"Why?"
"Because, Doctor—" Spock hesitated, stared at McCoy evenly. "Doctor, are you attempting to provoke me into amusing you?"
McCoy glanced across the lounge, looking up from the portable recorder in his lap with an expression of childish innocence.
"Who, me, Spock? Oh, no, no!"
"Well if you are," the first officer continued, choosing his words with care, "I'd appreciate it if you would just get off my back."
McCoy nearly fell off the couch. Action froze throughout the lounge as the other crew members present looked up from their own recreational pursuits of the moment to stare dumbfounded at Spock. They couldn't have been more stunned if a Tullinite fox-dancer had suddenly appeared stark naked on the billiard table.
"What did you say, Spock?" McCoy was finally able to gasp. The science officer looked mildly pleased.
"An abrasive terran colloquialism of considerable pedigree, is it not?"
"Yes, I suppose so, but—"
"The situational referents were appropriate for application, were they not?"
"Yes, they were, Spock, but—I don't know quite how to put it—it's a little too strong for what I said, Spock."
"I see," Spock admitted with solemn nonchalance. "I will keep that in mind." He returned to his chess studies. But it was a while before McCoy could bring himself back to the detective thriller he had been watching.
Kirk was relaxing in his own cabin when the call finally came down from the bridge. He checked the wall chronometer over his bed, acknowledged the insistent buzz.
"Kirk here."
"We're approaching Arcadia III, sir. Visual contact established."
"All right, Mr. Sulu." He straightened his uniform. "I'll be right up. Mr. Arex, stop her down to approach speed."
"Aye, sir."
The first thing that caught his eye on reentering the bridge was the scene on the fore viewscreen. It showed a fairly large earth-type world circled by a thin Saturnian ring and accompanied by a smattering of asteroids. They formed a small belt around the world—a second, distant, and unglowing ring. The planet had no major moon, only several thousand insignificant imposters.
The closer ring glowed with an eerie amber light, a product of computer enhancement. Without the aid of the Enterprise's electronic light amplifiers, the narrow formation
would have been all but invisible against the black background of space.
He checked over the bridge crew, noted perfunctorily that everyone was present who should be. He sat down in the command chair.
"Orbit us in, Mr. Arex, Mr. Sulu."
"Aye sir," came the double response. Both navigators slowed the ship's speed to a comparative crawl as they prepared to place her in a stable, high orbit.
He flipped on the log. "Captain's Log, stardate 5514.0. We have entered the Arcadian system on a mission for Starfleet regional peaceforce to locate an old . . ." Kirk hesitated, remembering his own words about objectivity and future perusers of the official log. The recorder paused with him, patiently awaiting the keying tones of his voice to resume logging.
". . . friend," he finally decided to finish.
That was enough to draw Spock's attention away from his hooded viewer. "Friend, Captain?"
Kirk turned to look at him. "There's no point in betraying personal animosities in the official records of the Enterprise, Spock. It's to our credit if our opinions seem to be the opposite."
"Is that legal, Captain?" The first officer looked rather dubious.
"I don't know if a personal estimation of another being is subject to log regulations, Spock. But knowing our quarry as I do, I'd rather not give him any ammunition he can use later—including anything even vaguely libelous." He stopped, stared hard at the cloud-wreathed globe swimming in the crowded star-field.
"Do you really think Harry Mudd is down there, Mr. Spock?" Odd how that simple name managed to produce such intriguing sensations in his lower intestinal tract.
Spock turned back to his readouts. "I have been correlating the information supplied by Starfleet authorities with all scattered reports of Mudd's last known appearances on Federation worlds. Processing these factors and fully integrating them indicate the probability of his presence on Arcadia III, also known unofficially as 'Motherlode,' as eighty-one percent, plus or minus point five-three."
"Spock," said McCoy in exasperation, looking around from where he'd been chatting with Lt. M'ress, "can't you just say that Mudd's probably there?"
Star Trek - Log 3 Page 8
