“A rupture?” Skute's lower beak moved up and down rapidly. Glossy black eyes widened in surprise. “I don't understand. What could have caused this?”
“I'm not sure,” Crusher told him. “That's going to take further investigation. First, though, we need to repair his heart as soon as possible.”
“Make it so,” Picard said. He placed his hand on the upper ridge of Skute's shell and politely but firmly indicated that the secretary should step back from the surgical area. “Ambassador Nanimult is in excellent hands,” he promised the other Chelon.
But Skute appeared even more anxious than before. “Wait! Stop!” he squawked loudly, shrugging his shell out from beneath Picard's hand. Webbed hands gesticulated fussily. “You can't do this!”
Beverly didn't understand. Neither, judging from his puzzled expression, did the captain. “There's no choice,” she explained. “I have to operate.”
“No!” Skute insisted. “You don't understand. We are a very private people. It is strictly forbidden to allow one's shell to be opened in the presence of outsiders.” Webbed fingers brushed his own shell protectively. “No offense intended, of course.”
Beverly couldn't believe what she was hearing. “There's no way I can operate on the ambassador's heart without cutting through his shell somehow. We can't just stand by and let him die!”
“Ambassador Nanimult is a man of deep personal convictions,” Skute stated flatly. “He would never violate our people's sacred customs and beliefs.”
Picard attempted to reason with the Chelon envoy. “I respect your traditions, Secretary, but surely there must be some flexibility here. What is more important in this instance—propriety, or the ambassador's very survival?”
Skute shook his head vehemently. “With regret, Captain, I cannot possibly give your doctor permission to open Ambassador Nanimult's shell. You simply must save him without an invasive operation. Surely your Federation medical science has another solution?”
“But if this taboo is so important,” Crusher protested, frustrated by the assistant's intransigence, “then why wasn't the ambassador traveling with a Chelon doctor, in case of emergency?” The nearest Chelon surgeon, she was all too aware, was hundreds of light-years away.
Skute sighed theatrically. “To be quite honest, Ambassador Nanimult was supposed to have been accompanied by his personal physician, but the doctor herself fell ill at the last minute, and there was no time to secure a replacement.” His stubby tail twitched in a somewhat sheepish fashion. “The ambassador, who is a very . . . strong-willed . . . individual, has little patience with doctors at the best of times. He categorically refused to delay his departure until a new physician could be recruited, especially since he had just passed a routine check-up only a week before. That's just the way he is,” Skute added apologetically.
Picard nodded soberly, prompting Beverly to guess that the captain could personally testify to the ambassador's “strong will” and stubbornness. “Jean-Luc,” she beseeched him, “you have to let me save him.”
“Blood pressure dropping to critical levels,” Ogawa called out, adding urgency to Crusher's plea, as if any more were needed. They couldn't even set up a plasma I.V. without probing beneath Nanimult's shell.
Picard did not answer Crusher immediately. Scowling, he fixed a probing gaze on Secretary Skute, who stared back at the captain as adamantly and implacably as a Vulcan logician. Despite her overriding concern for her patient, Beverly couldn't help sympathizing with the captain's position; with so little known about the Chelonae and their beliefs, Picard had little choice but to accept Skute's pronouncements on Chelon culture.
Now it looked as though Nanimult's own obstinate nature, coupled with the Chelonae's strict sense of privacy, might cost the ambassador his life. Crusher had seldom felt so frustrated.
I know I can save him, she thought desperately, if I can just get the chance!
“Excuse me,” the EMH interrupted, “but I may have a solution to this particular dilemma.”
Beverly looked at the hologram in surprise. What with the crisis over the hemorrhaging ambassador, she had forgotten about the EMH and his veterinary duties. Her first impulse was to simply deactivate him—coping with that exasperating prima donna of a program was absolutely the last thing she needed right now—but she hesitated before voicing the necessary command. It couldn't hurt to hear him out, she realized; at this point, she was willing to listen to anyone who might know how to get around Secretary Skute's prohibitions.
Even an unusually obnoxious hologram.
“Well?” she prompted the EMH. “Go ahead.”
The holographic doctor was momentarily taken aback by Crusher's invitation to speak, but he quickly recovered and launched into his proposed remedy. “By selectively turning my hands and instruments solid or intangible as needed, I should be able to operate on the ambassador's heart through the patient's shell, guided by the image on a medical monitor. That way, no primitive tribal taboos get violated; it's like the difference between a noninvasive scan for weapons and a strip search.”
Picard's eyes lit up at the suggestion. “Yes,” he said. “That could work.” He eyed Skute confidently. “I can't imagine there are any centuries-old Chelon injunctions against X-rays and such; otherwise you would have already objected to our diagnostic sensors. Isn't that so, Secretary?”
Skute's wide black eyes zeroed in on the furry orange feline in the EMH's care, and his voice ascended to a new level of indignation: “I don't believe this. You seriously expect me to entrust Ambassador Nanimult's life to the ship's veterinarian?”
“I am not a veterinarian!” the EMH protested a bit too loudly, lifting Spot from the biobed and thrusting her gracelessly into Data's waiting arms. “I'll have you know, Mr. Secretary, that I am programmed with over five million possible treatments, two thousand medical references, forty-seven—”
“Our advanced Emergency Medical Hologram is completely reliable,” Crusher asserted, cutting off the EMH's long-winded recitation of his attributes. I can't believe I just said that, she thought. “And he is a machine-generated phenomenon, just as X-rays are, so you should have no objection to using him to help the ambassador.”
“I see, I mean, I don't know—” Skute waffled, his self-important manner proving no match against the combined resolve of the captain, Crusher, and the EMH. “I suppose it might be acceptable, but I'm not sure . . .”
Picard had heard all he needed to hear. “Get to work, Doctor,” he instructed the EMH.
While the hologram raced against time to save Ambassador Nanimult, his intangible hands passing through the dense horn of the Chelon diplomat's shell, Beverly continued to study the sensor readings charting Nanimult's condition.
What she discovered disturbed her.
“Captain, if I may have a word with you in private?” She gestured toward her office at the opposite end of the ward. Her calm expression and level tone offered no clue as to what concerned her. “Data, why don't you join us?”
Leaving Nurse Ogawa to assist the EMH, she guided Picard and Data into her roomy office, then waited for the door to close automatically behind them before delivering the shocking news: “Captain, the ambassador has been poisoned.”
“Mon dieu,” the captain whispered. “Are you quite certain, Doctor?”
Crusher nodded. “I checked the primary sensor readings against my medical tricorder and came to the same conclusion both times. Judging from the results, I'd guess that the toxin was administered, probably via a hypospray, sometime in the last six hours.”
Picard's frown deepened. “Unfortunately, Ambassador Nanimult was attending a crowded reception in the ship's lounge when he was stricken; in the crush, any one of the ship's passengers could have poisoned him covertly. There are dozens of potential suspects.”
“He could also have been poisoned in his own quarters, shortly before the reception,” Crusher pointed out, “or en route to that same function.”
Picard nodded. “I
n light of your discovery, Doctor, the sudden illness of the ambassador's physician, back on the Chelon home-world, now looks extremely suspicious, not to mention convenient. I suspect a conspiracy at work.”
“Fascinating,” Data observed, stroking Spot as he spoke. Beverly knew that the android enjoyed solving mysteries in the holodeck, often in the guise of Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask, Captain, if a hypospray was found at the site of the reception?”
“Not that I know of,” Picard answered. “But I'll see to it that the lounge is immediately searched.” He paused to consider what else might be done. “Inspecting the other ambassadors, their staffs, and their quarters will be a trickier proposition; the confidentiality of their persons and belongings is protected by diplomatic custom.”
“Perhaps that will not be necessary,” Data proposed. Cradled in the android's arms, Spot purred contentedly. “Chances are, the assassin will have wanted to dispose of the murder weapon as swiftly and efficiently as possible, and how better to do so than by dematerializing the hypospray in any one of the Enterprise's many convenient replicator units?”
That sounds logical enough, Beverly thought.
The captain seemed intrigued. “Go on,” he urged Data.
“What the assassin may not realize,” Data stated, “is that the molecular patterns of all dematerialized refuse are held in the system's memory buffers for exactly 24.001 hours, on the off chance that someone accidentally disposes of something valuable, as has been occasionally known to happen.”
“That's right,” Beverly said. “I recovered my wedding ring that way once, after it slipped off my finger and got stuck in a surgical glove that I recycled before I knew what had happened.” She vividly recalled her initial panic when she had first realized that the ring was missing. “Thank goodness the replicator was able to reproduce it perfectly.”
Data approached Crusher's uncluttered desk. “May I use your terminal, Doctor?” Beverly stepped aside to let him pass, and Data seated himself before the doctor's primary workstation. Perhaps realizing that the android was going to be too busy to pet her anymore, Spot scooted off his lap and onto the floor, where she began nosing around the office. Data's fingers danced over the lighted control panel in a blur of superhuman speed. “I am instructing the computer to search its memory for anything resembling a hypospray that might have been disintegrated in a replicator in the last six hours.”
Beverly held her breath expectantly, but the results of Data's search were not long in coming. An electronic chime announced that the ship's computer had completed its task. “My hypothesis was correct,” Data reported promptly. “Computer records confirm that just such an operation occurred approximately 31.623 minutes before the start of the diplomatic reception.”
“Commendable work, Mr. Data,” Picard said. The captain leaned forward, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. “Can the computer pinpoint the specific replicator unit used to destroy the weapon?”
“Affirmative, sir,” Data revealed. “In fact, the replicator in question turns out to be located in the private quarters of”—Data raised an artificial eyebrow, presumably for dramatic effect— “Secretary Skute.”
“Skute!” Crusher exclaimed. No wonder that treacherous terrapin didn't want me to operate on Ambassador Nanimult . . . ! “Indeed,” Data continued, rising from the doctor's chair. “I theorize that Skute poisoned the ambassador shortly before the reception, then covertly disposed of the incriminating hypospray in his own quarters, which happen to be adjacent to those of Ambassador Nanimult.”
The captain tapped his combadge. “Picard here. Security to sickbay, on the double.” A stern, unforgiving expression came over his dignified features. “Now then, let's go see to the ambassador's oh-so-solicitous subordinate.”
Beverly and Data followed Picard back to the intensive-care ward, where they found Skute fidgeting at the fringes of the surgical area. Two imposing assistant nurses, no doubt drafted by Ogawa, flanked the secretary, keeping him more or less out of the way of the EMH and Nurse Ogawa as they labored to repair the damage to the ambassador's heart. Crusher glanced quickly at the monitor above the biobed and was relieved to see that Nanimult's life signs were weak but stable. An infusion of an all-purpose plasma substitute was helping to raise the patient's blood pressure. I think I may have underestimated the EMH's talents, she admitted privately, even if his personality still leaves something to be desired.
“Please step away from the ambassador, Secretary,” Picard ordered in his most authoritative tone, even as a steel door slid open to admit a team of security officers in red-and-black uniforms, each one with a hand on the phaser at his or her hip.
Skute blinked in alarm. Beverly could tell that the would-be assassin knew his guilt had been exposed. His left arm retracted into his shell, and Crusher half expected the rest of his extremities to follow; instead, the skittish forelimb suddenly reemerged, gripping a lethal-looking disruptor pistol, which Beverly assumed came from some form of inner pouch. “Stay back!” Skute squawked, brandishing his weapon wildly. “I'll kill you all if I have to!”
His holographic hands still deeply immersed in the unconscious ambassador, the EMH looked up in annoyance. “If you don't mind,” he objected, sounding distinctly vexed by the confrontation brewing in sickbay, “I'm performing a very complicated surgical procedure here, so I'd appreciate a little less commotion.”
Although somewhat lacking in perspective, the EMH had a point, Beverly realized; an intensive-care ward was no place for a shoot-out. Captain Picard understood that, too. “Everyone keep back,” he instructed all present, gesturing for the assistant nurses to distance themselves from the desperate Skute. “Listen to me, Secretary. Don't get yourself into any deeper trouble than you're already in. If you put down that weapon, I'll see to it that you get a fair trial on your homeworld.”
“No!” Skute blurted, his lower beak quivering. The prospect of answering for his crime clearly horrified him. “I want a shuttle,” he insisted, “and two days' head start!” Cold black eyes darted from left to right and back again, perhaps trying to pick out the most suitable hostage. A chill ran down Beverly's spine as Skute's gaze settled on her. “You,” he decided, nodding at Crusher. “Get over here.”
“Belay that order, Doctor,” Picard said firmly. Holding his hands palms up to demonstrate that he wasn't armed, the captain stepped between Skute and Crusher. He spoke slowly and evenly, so as not to panic the gun-wielding Chelon. “Your scheme has failed, Skute. You might as well surrender, and tell us who put you up to this.” He took a single, cautious step toward Skute.
“Stop! I'm warning you!” Skute aimed his disruptor directly at Picard, while keeping one eye on the rest of the room's occupants. The only individual the assassin wasn't watching out for was Spot, padding silently behind him on four stealthy paws. In response to Picard's advance toward him, the terrapin stepped backward and tripped over the underfoot feline. His rigid shell crashed hard against the floor.
Taking prompt advantage, Picard dashed forward and kicked the disruptor out of the startled Chelon's grip. The weapon spun away from Skute's webbed fingers while the disarmed assassin rocked helplessly on the floor, unable (like any other tortoise) to right himself without assistance.
“Good cat, Spot!” Data raised his pet, who merely rubbed herself against Picard's leg.
“So, it seems,” Picard explained to the recovering ambassador, “that Skute was secretly affiliated with a group of fanatical isolationists and xenophobes. He'd hoped that your suspicious death, in the presence of so many non-Chelonae, would turn your people against the prospect of closer relations with the Federation.”
“Well, even if that's what Skute intended, I'm afraid he's achieved rather the opposite effect.” Ambassador Nanimult was recuperating in sickbay, his bed propped up at an angle to allow him to recline comfortably within his shell. His wrinkled head resembled Skute's, beak and all, but there was a silvery tint to his scales, and his dry, gray flesh, vis
ible at last, was even more wizened. “This unfortunate incident has only raised my opinion of the Federation and its representatives. I am deeply indebted to you and your doctors, Captain.”
“I'm glad we were able to help you in time,” Beverly said, “despite the best efforts of Secretary Skute.”
“Former Secretary,” Nanimult said, correcting her. He shook his head slowly, visibly troubled by his erstwhile assistant's duplicity. “What he told you was partly correct, Doctor. We are a deeply private people, some of us more private than others. But no sensible Chelon would ever shun life-saving surgery simply to protect the sanctity of his or her shell. Only a fanatic like Skute could have presented such a ludicrous argument with a straight face.”
“Clearly, Skute had his own reasons for trying to prevent Dr. Crusher from operating on you,” Picard observed. The scheming secretary had been confined to the brig until such time as he could be safely handed over to the Chelon authorities. “Although we could not have known that at the time.”
Thankfully, we found a way around Skute's stringent prohibitions, Beverly thought, which reminded her of something else she needed to take care of. One final courtesy. “Activate Emergency Medical Hologram.”
Like a genie summoned from a lamp, the EMH materialized at the foot of the bed, between Crusher and Picard. “Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” he requested, per the inflexible dictates of his programming.
“No emergency,” Crusher informed him, then turned back toward Nanimult. “Ambassador, I'd like you to meet the surgeon who actually performed the operation that saved your life.”
Although startled by the hologram's abrupt appearance, Nanimult, veteran diplomat that he was, recovered his aplomb with admirable speed. “You have my gratitude, sir,” he croaked heartily.
Beverly smiled. “I'd like to thank you as well, Doctor,” she said, realizing, with a touch of contrition, that she had never before addressed the EMH that way. “Your assistance was invaluable.”
The Amazing Stories Page 4
