Star Trek - Log 4

by Alan Dean Foster

  He took an angry step to the side. Both tribbles fumbled to follow him, distracting his attention from the mewing horde which had quickly spread throughout the room from their landing place in the transporter alcove.

  Kirk moved up close to confront their owner. His indignation would have been helped greatly if Jones had possessed a face and disposition more like Koloth's and less like that of a beardless St. Nick. Even so, Kirk managed to work up a good dose of righteous anger.

  "You know the law about transporting species proven harmful, Jones."

  "Harmful, Captain?" The trader was a fount of innocence. Kirk made an angry gesture to encompass the room.

  "Well then, what would you call these?"

  "Tribbles, Captain."

  That was the last straw . . . or hair, in this case. Kirk had just endured the trauma of saving his ship from a previously unknown and nearly fatal weapon to save someone whom he almost wished he had never met in the first place.

  "Don't get smart with me, Jones. Believe me, I'm not in the mood."

  "Captain, really, I assure you. I wasn't being smart at your expense." Kirk eyed him warningly. "These aren't harmful. These are safe tribbles."

  McCoy stood nearby, watching and listening. He had knelt and scooped up a straw-colored, furry ball. It immediately tried to crawl up his arm, rubbing and purring. He used his other hand to pluck it off, shook it threateningly at Jones. The abused tribble purred indignantly.

  "As you are well aware, Jones, there is no such thing as a safe tribble."

  "A safe tribble," Spock amplified, in his best professional tone, "is a contradiction in terms. I am surprised, Mr. Jones, that you would attempt to fool us with so obvious a lie—particularly us, to whom tribbles are well remembered for their dangerous reproductive proclivities."

  "And they breed fast, too," Jones admitted. "Don't you see? Gentlemen, that's why these tribbles are safe." He was pleading with them. "They don't reproduce."

  Four stunned faces stared back at him. McCoy was the first to voice the skepticism all felt. "Don't reproduce? Who ever heard of a tribble that didn't . . ."

  "I've had them genetically engineered for compatibility with humanoid ecologies," the trader added quickly. "A simple gene manipulation coupled with some selective breeding. See how friendly and lovable they are?"

  Of course they were friendly and lovable. Tribbles were as well known for being friendly and lovable as they were for reproducing at astronomical rates. And this bunch was every bit as affectionate as any Kirk had seen before. They rubbed and purred and mewed and cuddled with boundless enthusiasm. And as he looked around the room, he had to admit he didn't see a hint of tribbles reproducing.

  Not that there was anything for them to reproduce on, but he had seen tribbles seemingly multiply out of thin air. There did not appear to be any more now than when they first materialized.

  "Not a baby in the bunch," Jones pointed out proudly. "You know what great pets they make, Captain. Profitable, too."

  Something had been nagging at the back of Kirk's mind while Jones had been spouting his smooth sales spiel. Now he had it.

  "Jones, how did you get away from Space Station K-Seven in the first place. You were supposed to take care of all the tribbles there. Regardless of what genetic engineering you claim to have done on these, the tribbles on K-Seven were definitely not altered for non-reproduction. You couldn't have cleaned them off in such a short time."

  Jones was fumbling at his copious pockets. "Quite so, Captain. But I managed a short parole and found myself some help. Ecologically sound, efficient, inoffensive help."

  The thing he took from his pocket was red, had numerous arms or legs or both, and looked decidedly unfriendly.

  "This, Captain, is a tribble predator. It's called a glommer."

  "Interesting, if true," commented Spock, studying the creature and reserving judgment. "Is the name derivative or descriptive?"

  "See for yourself," Jones said, winking.

  He put the glommer on the floor. Making rumbling sounds like a toy volcano, it hesitated, orienting itself. It froze stiffly, then started creeping toward the nearest tribble. Pausing a short distance from a moderate-sized specimen, it tensed. Kirk thought he could see the thick hairs on the creature's appendages stiffen slightly. Without a sound and with surprising suddenness, it sprang at its prey like a wolf spider. The tribble never had a chance as the glommer landed on it.

  It spread its body surface wide, engulfing the tribble completely. There was a harried series of barely audible slurping sounds accompanied by a violent quivering. Then the predator relaxed.

  But only for a moment. In addition to being efficient, it was also apparently ravenous. Its metabolism seemed geared to continual consumption. Bottom hairs tensing, it stalked off after another tribble. Not even a hair was left of the first.

  McCoy was impressed. "Neat, too."

  But Kirk, having satisfied himself that Jones apparently was not a fugitive from K-seven, was interested in something much more important than glommer hygiene. Even McCoy looked away from the interesting glommer-versus-tribble drama to listen to Jones' answer.

  "Jones, just why were the Klingons chasing you?" The trader looked at the walls, the ceiling, his tribbles—anywhere to avoid meeting Kirk's waiting gaze.

  "Well," the Captain prompted, "are you going to tell me you don't know?" Given any possible out, Jones leaped at it, nodding vigorously.

  "That's it exactly, Captain! I don't. The Klingons have notoriously bad tempers, you know."

  "While it must be admitted that the Klingon mental state tends toward the bellicose," Spock observed, "they still retain a sense of proportion when exercising their animosities. I do not see a Klingon cruiser captain entering Federation space to attack a Federation vessel in a fit of pique. Nor for mere recreation, or because his liver was bothering him."

  "You're right about their temper, though," Kirk added. "Captain Koloth seemed oddly upset over something he called ecological sabotage."

  Jones' eyes took on a rotundity that matched his belly. "Me? A saboteur? I ask you now, Captain, do I look like a saboteur?" He assumed an air of outraged dignity.

  "Captain Koloth was pretty emphatic about it," Kirk continued, watching the trader carefully.

  "I'm not responsible for Captain Koloth's perverse imagination," Jones insisted.

  "If it was imagination." Kirk's tone turned coaxing. "Are you sure, Cyrano, that you didn't . . ." and he held up a hand with thumb and forefinger squeezing a centimeter of air, ". . . maybe accidentally perhaps possibly perform some teensy weensy little act that might have caused the Klingons to overreact like this?"

  Jones glanced reluctantly at Spock, then at McCoy and saw no relief from that quarter. He looked at the floor.

  "Actually, it was such a little thing. I can't understand why they got so upset. You understand, don't you, Captain?"

  Kirk's tone indicated there was an outside chance he did not:

  "What did you do?"

  Jones tried to look nonchalant, even managed a slight laugh. "Nothing at all, really. I only sold . . . them . . . some . . . uh . . . tribbles . . ."

  Kirk's voice dropped dangerously. "You sold tribbles on a Klingon planet?"

  "Well," the trader protested lamely, "I didn't know it was a Klingon planet."

  "What species were the inhabitants," Kirk pressed relentlessly.

  "Oh, mixed. You know, a mongrel world. Tellerites, Sironians, a few Romulans—Klingons, too."

  "How about outside the customs port." This from Spock. Jones pretended not to hear.

  "I beg your pardon, Mr. Spock?"

  "I believe you heard me correctly, Mr. Jones. The population outside the free customs and reception station. What did it consist of?"

  Jones watched the glommer continue to devour tribbles at an astonishing rate. "Uh . . . Klingons . . . mostly."

  "What was that? Speak up," Kirk ordered.

  "Klingons . . . they were all Klingons!" Jon
es exploded. "But where I set down it was a mixed populace, Captain. So how could I tell for certain it was a Klingon planet?"

  Kirk had had enough. "Jones," he began, as though he were lecturing a five-year-old, "tribbles don't like Klingons. You know tribbles don't like Klingons. Didn't you think they might object to your selling tribbles to visitors at their landing station?"

  "Ah well, Klingons like tribbles even less," Jones confessed, ignoring Kirk's question. "It was lucky you came along and saved me when you did, friend Kirk. I couldn't have outrun them much longer."

  "I'd estimate about another two seconds," Kirk theorized, wistfully. Jones nodded in somber agreement.

  "You snatched me from the jaws of death at the moment of judgment, Captain. I should have known that in a desperate situation, our life-long friendship, the high regard in which you hold me, your unrelenting desire to see justice done . . ."

  Trying to control his stomach, Kirk switched to less emotionally charged subject matter. "I am sure, Jones, that a quick scan of our files will show that you stand in violation of three Federation mandates and forty-seven local laws plus various attendant paragraphs thereunto appended. I am formally placing you under arrest."

  That pronouncement was sufficiently impressive to draw from Jones a stunned gasp. Although anything was preferable to being either obliterated by or turned over to the tender mercies of the Klingons, Jones was not enamored of Federation mind-wipe techniques. Federation criminal psycho-engineers were an especially dull lot. They tended to remove one's most interesting memories.

  "You're confined to quarters until we complete our current mission. Then we'll proceed to the nearest Starfleet base and turn you over to the proper authorities."

  Jones was thinking furiously. "Captain, couldn't we talk this over?"

  Kirk's reply was a look of such overpowering silent fury that even the trader was cowed.

  "I didn't think so," the trader mumbled.

  Kirk turned to the ensign at the door. "Mr. Hacker, keep an eye on our visitor. Call security and have them prepare suitable accommodations for him." He nodded in Jones' direction.

  The ensign moved to the com. to comply.

  "Bones, let's take a couple of these so-called altered tribbles down to your lab and check out Jones' claims. If there's any truth to them, it'll be a first."

  "All right, Jim." McCoy busied himself gathering up suitable specimens.

  They headed for the elevator. Kirk looked back to Jones. "If these turn out to be normal tribbles, Jones, I'm personally going to order you placed in solitary with tribble mewing played round the clock into your cell at a dozen times normal volume."

  "Really, Captain, do you think I would lie to you about something as important, as vital, as incriminating as this?"

  "Yes," Kirk replied without hesitation. "Let's go, gentlemen." He paused as the elevator doors opened, had a last thought. "Oh, Mr. Hacker?"

  The ensign looked back. "Sir?"

  Kirk spoke as he nudged a tribble out of the elevator with his foot. "Don't listen to anything he says. And above all . . . don't let him sell you anything."

  "Yes, sir."

  At McCoy's request, they all met in the main briefing room an hour later. The doctor had spent much of that time putting the sample tribbles through every test he could thing of. He had also spent much of the time going hmmmm a lot.

  Tribbles were the most interesting things to study. And these tribbles offered some surprises. He picked up one specimen—an unusually large tribble, Kirk thought—and gestured with it as he spoke.

  "I'm afraid Cyrano Jones was right, Jim. These tribbles don't reproduce. They just get fat."

  "Are you sure, Bones?"

  "Absolutely. Any excess food turns into flesh instead of stimulating reproduction." He put the corpulent tribble on the floor. It immediately crept over to Kirk and crawled up and down one boot, rubbing and purring.

  "So I don't think we have anything to worry about."

  "Not as far as the tribbles are concerned, anyway," Kirk agreed. "This new Klingon weapon is another matter. Koloth was adamant about getting his hands on Jones. We may not have seen the last of them." He reached down and pulled the tribble off his boot, tossed it into a far corner—as gently as possible, it seemed to Scott.

  "It is an energy-sapping field of great strength, Captain," Spock commented. "It totally immobilizes a ship and its weapons capacity. But it appears that when extended to its ultimate limits, it also immobilizes the attacker as well."

  "Aye," agreed Scott. "If that's true then it's a weapon that leaves them as helpless as it leaves us."

  "I believe I just said that, Mr. Scott," observed Spock.

  There was a pause while everyone present considered this information.

  "The practical advantages of such a weapon would seem to be limited," Kirk concluded.

  "Limited, perhaps," put in Spock. "But that does not obviate its initial, overwhelming effect." He considered another moment, then went on. "The key question is, how long does it take them to recharge? They'll probably attack us again as soon as they're back up to full power.

  "If Captain Koloth has any ability in tactics, he will undoubtedly begin by destroying the remaining robot ships to prevent us from using the same trick again. That would put us in a difficult position, indeed." He looked unusually somber. "They must want Cyrano Jones very badly indeed."

  "He really doesn't seem the saboteur type, Jim," McCoy commented.

  Kirk stared at the fine grain in the wood table-top and wished his thoughts were as straight. "Yes . . . yes. And yet, I get the impression there's something he's not telling us. He is still holding something back." He took a deep breath, looked up. "That will be discovered in due time. Mr. Scott, let's see a status report on the damaged grain ship."

  Scott hit the necessary switch, and the triple table-screen popped up in front of them. Further manipulation of controls produced pictures which illustrated his commentary.

  "Well, sir, in the past hour we've managed to transfer all the seed grain aboard. And mind, Captain, it wasn't easy finding room to store it all. We filled the shuttle-craft hangars, all our extra holds, and we've even got containers of that quinto-triticale in the less frequently used corridors of the ship.

  "Fortunately, it was modular instead of bulk packed. Otherwise we would have had to repack every grain in smaller containers to fit on board. As it is, not only does the grain hamper movement throughout the ship, but there are a number of activities that will have to be limited, or even curtailed, until we deliver it to Sherman's Planet. For example, we can't use the Shuttle Bay at all."

  "What about the possibility of repairing the damaged grain carrier?"

  "Not a chance in a million, sir," Scott replied, shaking his head firmly. "Her engines were ninety-percent destroyed. She needs to be rebuilt, not repaired." He sighed deeply, "And we've still got that other robot ship to escort, too. I don't like it at all, sir."

  "Nor do I, Mr. Scott. But well have to manage with the grain on board, somehow. Sherman's Planet needs it desperately."

  "Aye, sir, aye . . . I know." The chief engineer sounded resigned. "It's just that everything seems to happen at once sometimes, sir. Tribbles on the ship, quinto-triticale in the corridors, Klingons in the quadrant . . ." He shook his head at the injustice of it all. "Why, sir, it's enough to ruin your whole day."

  "Let's hope the worst is over, Scotty." Kirk rose. "This meeting is adjourned, gentlemen." He reached under the table to deactivate the triple viewer. What he got for a response was a loud mew.

  "They appear to be fond of you, Captain," Spock observed with a straight face.

  "I'm not flattered." Kirk disgustedly removed the curious tribble from the control panel and hit the proper switch.

  For a little while it seemed as if Kirk's wish might, come true—the worst of their difficulties might be past. Nothing happened in the next several hours that approached crisis proportions.

  That did not mean, howeve
r, the Enterprise was without interesting activity. Down in a dimly lit corridor the glommer—forgotten by an introspective Jones—was stalking another tribble.

  The glommer got within range, tensed, leaped—and was bucked off. Growling in surprise, it hopped after the retreating tribble. Quickly overtaking the tribble, it proceeded to ingest—the effort producing rather more commotion than ever before because the tribble it had pounced on was larger than a man's head. That tribble was almost more than the glommer could handle—almost.

  The glommer paused a moment, belched, and sat recovering its strength. Discharging another deposit of converted tribble it promptly stalked off in search of further prey, now wobbling a little unsteadily from side to side.

  The calm on the bridge did not last nearly as long as Kirk had hoped. He had hoped for five days of it, time enough in which to reach Sherman's Planet.

  Instead, he had had only the few hours following McCoy's briefing before Spock broke the stillness. "Captain, sensors are picking up an approaching Klingon cruiser." A brief, hopeful pause, then, "It appears to be the Devisor."

  Kirk had been standing talking to Sulu, now moved quickly to the Science Station for a personal check of the sensor readouts. Damn! Damn Cyrano Jones and damn tribbles and damn the Klingon's persistence! He strode back to his seat, shoved the twenty-kilogram tribble off.

  "Deflector shields up—stand by all phasers."

  A sudden thought struck him and he eyed the tribble carefully. Wait a minute—a twenty-kilo tribble?

  "How fat do these things get, anyway?" He hadn't noticed any this size when Jones had first come on board. Anyway, McCoy was not around to answer, and Spock was occupied. A second later Sulu removed all thoughts of tribbles.

  "Klingon cruiser approaching rapidly, sir, on interception course. Phaser range in thirty seconds."

  "Coming in fast," Spock commented with his usual objective detachment. "Obviously they can recharge their power cells in a matter of hours. Interesting, if true." He did not explain his cryptic final comment, and Kirk was too busy to ask about it.

  "Mr. Arex, Mr. Sulu . . . use the robot ship as a decoy. Have it change course and move off due west, up seventy degrees. We can use it to give the Klingons more trouble, since they can't paralyze more than one ship at a time with their field."