There was a rapid exchange.
“He wants to know what you want with that zreel. That’s a local insect, a blood-sucker similar to the terrestrial louse,” Sara said.
The little man added something in a hostile voice and spat into the fire pit.
“He says that Chag Gara used to be just crazy, but that all of a sudden he’s become dangerous. Now, people listen to his ravings and become converted. And that’s bad for business,” Sara translated.
“Ask him why.”
Vembe responded at length, pointing indignantly to the turning joints of neelot.
“He says that if the Messiah goes marching off on a holy war, most of his customers will go along. And that would mean that the best vris house in Andros would have to close its doors.”
“A gastronomic catastrophe,” McCoy muttered, wrinkling his nose.
“De gustibus no disputandem,” Kirk said with a grin.
“What does that mean?” Sara asked.
“‘Of taste there is no disputing.’ It’s an old language, Latin. But let’s get back to the business at hand. Vembe is obviously no friend of Gara’s. Tell him that Chag committed a horrible crime in our home country and is under sentence of death by torture. Tell him we’ve journeyed many months over the seas to carry out the sentence, but we can’t until we find him.”
The woman made a quick translation. When she finished, the old hillman gave a grunt of satisfaction, started to speak, then halted. He stared down into the fire pit for a moment and then cocked his head, muttering something.
“What’s he saying?” Kirk demanded impatiently.
“I think he’s putting the bite on us. He says he’s getting old and his memory isn’t what it used to be.”
Kirk took the pouch of Kyrosian coins from his belt and handed it to the woman.
“Pay him what’s necessary. We’ll wait outside.”
Ducking their heads, and hurrying to be out of the stench, the two exited through the small door. Moving away from the odor that seemed to follow them like a rolling fog bank, they both took deep, appreciative lung-fulls of fresh air. A moment later Sara joined them. She handed Kirk a much-depleted purse, and shouldered a neelot-skin bag.
“This way,” she said, and started diagonally across the market square.
“I hope that’s not what I think it is,” McCoy said, prodding the bag she carried as they wove their way through the crowd.
“Prime vris,” Sara said as she turned her nose away from the bag. “Old Vembe’s hill code wouldn’t let him take a bribe. But he found nothing in it against selling me ten kilos at three times the going rate. At least now, though, we know where Chag Gara lives. It’s not too far from here.”
She stepped through the narrow spaces between the closely grouped buildings heading back in the direction they had come.
“Anybody in the mood for vris?”
Kirk and McCoy stared at her and shook their heads in a vigorous negative.
“Somehow, I thought that’s what you gentlemen would say,” she grimaced and heaved the bag onto a pile of trash.
Twenty minutes later, after walking down the slope leading to the western sea’s bay, they paused near the edge of a marsh. The salty tang in the air from the wind-borne sea spray tingled their nostrils. They breathed it in deeply, flushing out the last remnants of the stench of the vris. The bay and the sea were visible beyond the marsh, tinged a deep blue, almost violet, by the rays of Kyr.
Only one kind of vegetation seemed to be growing in the marsh. Barrel-shaped plants with five or six slender, spiky leaves jutting from their tops and jiggling in a gentle land breeze, made a mat that glowed golden-yellow in the sun’s rays. Among the plants moved harvesters, who tore off the leaves and piled them on sledges they dragged through the mud behind them.
“Jakim,” George explained. “Lumber is scarce in Andros, and once those leaves are processed, they can be woven into mats that are almost as strong as steel.”
She looked around as if searching for a landmark and then, nodding with satisfaction, stepped off to the right. A few minutes later, she led the way into a narrow, winding street. Soon the smell of vris was in the air again. Sara explained that they were in the section of the city inhabited almost solely by exiled hillmen. The street wasn’t paved, and an evil-smelling sewer meandered down its center. Sara in the lead, they picked their way down a walkway made of jakim mats, stepping over piles of trash and broken crockery. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of angry, drunken voices and a woman’s scream.
Only half of the mud-walled, dome-shaped, single dwellings seemed to be inhabited. The sky could be seen through barred windows in some of the homes where the roofs had fallen in. Ragged, emaciated children played on weed-covered plots among the rubble of collapsed walls.
“Poor devils,” McCoy muttered softly. “Any system that forces people to live like this should be changed.”
“You’re right, Bones,” Kirk agreed, “but it isn’t our place to change it and Spock’s way would only make things worse. Planets like Kyros have to be allowed to find their own way in their own time. That’s why we have General Order One.”
Ensign George paused suddenly and pointed across the street.
“I think this is it,” she said. “Vembe told me it would be a small house on the left with a red and black door directly across from a wine shop. This is the wine shop…” she gestured to the building behind them. “… and that seems to be the only place which fits the description.” Turning to Kirk, the ensign asked, “What now?”
Kirk peered at Chag Gara’s dwelling for a moment, then said, “From what we know of Gara’s proclivities, he’d be more likely to let a woman alone in, rather than one accompanied by a pair of men. If Dr. McCoy gives you the hypo, do you think you can handle Gara? We’ll be right outside in case of trouble.”
“Trust my dop,” Sara said, giving a confident nod. “She can handle any man.”
“Bones…” Kirk said. McCoy handed Sara the hypo and she slipped it into her chiton. She picked her way across the muddy street, soiling her slippers in the process. When she raised her hand to knock on the red and black striped door, a strange metamorphosis took place. Simply standing before the solid door, she became wanton and provocative.
“Can that be our prim Sara?” Kirk whispered to McCoy. “I think I’d like to meet that dop of hers.”
McCoy nodded agreement. Sara knocked, waited, and then knocked again, cocking her head as if listening for movement inside. There was no response.
“Asleep, or out?” Kirk muttered.
She turned and beckoned to them. They picked their way across the street and joined her at the door. Kirk made a gesture for silence, seized a projecting wooden lever, raised it carefully, then in one swift movement, flung open the door.
“Inside!”
They burst into a deserted building.
A rickety table stood in the center of the small, dusty one-room dwelling. On it was a dirty plate, a pottery jug, and an empty wine cup. An old crate beside it served as a chair. The walls were bare except for a frayed and worn hill robe that hung from a peg. To one side, a cot-like bed was overturned and a coarsely woven mattress had tumbled to the floor.
“Too late…” Sara murmured.
Kirk gazed around the house saying nothing for a few moments. He walked to the overturned bed and prodded the mattress with one foot. “Spock has him,” he said finally. “That’s obvious. The only question is…where?”
Sighing, he walked to the open door of Gara’s hovel. Directly across the street, a small group of hill people arrived at the wine shop. Two women separated themselves from the group and sat to one side of the wide-open entrance. The men went in.
“Maybe… maybe someone over there saw what happened and which direction Spock took,” Kirk said. “Let’s check it out.”
“I don’t think I can go,” Sara said dubiously. “It’s taboo for women to drink in hill wine shops. Vris is one thing; wine
is something else again.”
“It’s even taboo for women like your dop?” McCoy asked.
Sara nodded. Kirk shrugged. “All they can do is throw us out.”
They started across the narrow street, stepping carefully to avoid the worst of the muck, when a sudden hubbub of angry voices came from within the wine shop. A giant of a man in a fiery red mask, followed by an angry hillman waving a piece of slate, came charging out of the wine shop holding a small, roly-poly Kyrosian by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants. The large man gave a tremendous heave, and the little man went flying through the air, landing with a soggy splat in the noisome, garbage-laden streamlet in the center of the street.
He sat there a minute as if trying to get his bearings. Slowly, he rose to his feet. He craned his head back, and ruefully surveyed the befouled seat of his baggy shorts. Wrinkling his pudgy nose in distaste, he reached back with one hand as if to wipe off the malodorous mud, then seemed to think better of it. Apparently unable to cope with the situation, he just stood there helplessly, a woebegone expression on his chubby face.
“Say,” Ensign George said slowly. “I know I’ve seen that face before.” She thought for a moment. “He’s dressed differently; I think he was wearing some kind of robes before—but I could almost swear I snapped his profile the morning I came down. I’d have to check the magcards to be sure.”
“Let’s see if we can’t help him with his immediate problem,” McCoy said and went into Chag Gara’s hovel.
A moment later, he came out with the frayed hill robe and, making a mopping gesture, handed it to the little man. He took it gratefully and, after vigorous scrubbing on the seat of his pants and the backs of his fat legs, handed it back to McCoy with a courtly bow and a spatter of guttural Kyrosian.
At Kirk’s inquiry, Sara translated. “He says we’ve earned the gratitude of Ker Kaseme, first among healers.”
“Ah,” said Kirk, “that explains McCoy’s concern. A colleague was in distress.”
“Simply a matter of professional courtesy, Jim,” McCoy said, tossing the soiled robe through the open door of Chag Gara’s hovel.
“Sara,” he added, “I must admit to a certain curiosity as to why the ‘first among healers’ was bounced from a slum bar at ten o’clock in the morning. Ask him—diplomatically, of course.”
She shot the little man a quick question. His reply was a rather lengthy one, punctuated by many gesticulations.
“There’s an ‘ex’ in front of his title,” Sara said. “It seems that jealous colleagues had him expelled as head of the Healer’s Guild on trumped-up charges involving alleged misconduct with certain of his younger female patients. As a result, he is now destitute and forced to have his morning cup…”
The little man swayed slightly and hiccupped.
“Better make that ‘cups,’ ” she amended, “… at an establishment that is somewhat more modest than it has been his custom to frequent. This morning there was an unfortunate incident, a misunderstanding over a several-day-old bar bill.”
Kirk looked at McCoy. “Say, Bones,” he said, “We may have something here. As a rule, a barfly doesn’t wander far from his home. Sara, ask him if he’s noticed anything unusual going on over here.” Kirk gestured to Chag Gara’s house.
Ker Kaseme started to reply to Sara’s question. Suddenly, his voice hoarsened. He croaked out a few more words and then, smiling apologetically, brought an imaginary wine bowl to his lips and made sipping sounds.
“He says that he’s had an attack of an old throat condition that makes speech impossible, but that perhaps some wine might relieve the spasm.” Sara smiled and shrugged her shoulders as she translated. “Seems our day to get taken,” she added.
The little man croaked a few more words and pointed up the street in the direction of the harbor.
“He says he did observe something unusual last night. When his voice recovers, he’d be glad to tell us about it. In the meantime, he recommends a wine shop near here which is patronized by jakim weavers. After what was just done to him, he refuses to honor the local establishment with his presence any longer.”
“It seems he’s got us over a barrel,” Kirk said. “Let’s go. We’ve got to find out about Chag Gara!”
The little healer in the lead, they set off through a maze of winding streets and alleys, until at last he halted at the entrance to a wine shop that seemed no more prepossessing than the one across from Chag Gara’s. He bowed and waved for the other three to enter.
It was dark inside, and the ceiling was so low that Kirk had to duck to keep from bumping his head on a low-hanging beam. The odor of hot, highly spiced wine filled the place, and animal fat lamps along the walls cast deep shadows across the scattered tables. A sprinkling of customers, already well into their drinking day in spite of the earliness of the hour, sat hunched, staring intently into their wine bowls as if waiting for some important message or revelation.
The rotund man tossed his gray locks and led Kirk and the rest to a long, high table at the back, which served as a bar, and pounded his fist on its top in thirsty impatience.
A hulking Kyrosian behind the table was ladling wine from a steaming cauldron into a bowl held in the shaking hands of an obviously bung-over customer. He turned his head in Kaseme’s direction.
As soon as he saw who was there, he laid the ladle down carefully. Then, moving swiftly and smiling malevolently, he advanced on Kaseme, growling in Kyrosian. Kaseme let out a squeak of terror and scuttled behind Kirk’s broad back for protection.
The tavern owner’s little red pig eyes fastened on Kirk.
“What now, Sara?” Kirk demanded, staring back at the wine shop operator.
After a rapid exchange, Sara reported. “Kaseme has a bar bill problem here, too. The bartender says he’ll take it out of Kaseme’s hide, if he isn’t paid now.”
Kirk tossed the money pouch to Sara. “Find out what it is and pay it,” he said impatiently. “We haven’t got all day.”
At a quick word from Sara, the bartender’s scowl vanished. He turned to a shelf stacked high with smooth, black slates, rummaged through them, finally producing one almost completely covered with hatch marks. It took nearly all of Kirk’s remaining money to wipe it clean.
Kaseme, no longer feeling endangered, snapped an order in a haughty voice and led the party to a table. He went through his first jug of wine in no time at all, and was waving for a refill when Kirk caught his wrist, calling a halt.
“Tell him that’s all the medicine he gets until I get some answers,” he ordered.
Kaseme looked woebegone at Sara’s words, croaking and rubbing his throat. Kirk glared at him. Kaseme shot a wistful glance at his jug, then began to talk. When he was finished, Sara snapped a few more questions. He responded to each with a shrug and a raising of his palms indicating he didn’t know the answers. Finally, in response to a question from Kaseme, Sara nodded her head. The little man took his wine jug and trotted happily to the bar.
“Well?” Kirk said.
“Problems,” she said unhappily. “Less than an hour ago, a tall hillman wearing a black and red clan mask went into Chag Gara’s house. When he came out, he was carrying a figure wrapped in a blanket over one shoulder. Ker said a couple of the neighbors tried to interfere, but the hooded man paralyzed them with just a touch. So they let him carry Chag Gara away.”
“The nerve pinch!” McCoy burst out.
“Yes,” Kirk said nodding somberly. “It has to be Spock. Only a Vulcan can do that, and now he’s got Gara.”
“It looks as if Spock is invulnerable now,” McCoy muttered.
“We’ll find a way to stop him,” Kirk replied, his voice ringing with more confidence than perhaps he actually felt. Kaseme returned from the bar and plopped down happily, sipped from his wine bowl, and watched the other three talk.
“There’s nothing we can do down here now,” Kirk said. “We’d better get up to the ship and figure out our next move.” He began to
stand, but McCoy, gazing at the smiling, curious face of Ker Kaseme, held up a hand.
“Just a second, Jim. We may be missing a bet here.”
“Specify.”
“Our friend here.” McCoy tipped his head toward the healer. “Dops are fine as far as they go, but we’re still strangers in town.”
“So?” Kirk demanded. “What does Kaseme have to do with it?”
“He knows the town. As a healer, he had to have been able to move through all the levels of society. He may be down at the heels now, but he was head of the guild. He probably has a lot of important, official friends who might help us. And,” McCoy looked around at the somnolent figures slumped at the tables of the dingy bar, “he certainly knows the seamier side of Andros rather intimately, I imagine. I think it’s about time we put Scotty to work on our secret weapon.”
“What do you mean?” Sara asked curiously.
“Money.” McCoy tapped Kirk’s depleted purse which lay on the table. “Scotty can turn out perfect replicas of the local coinage for us by the bushel, using the matter converters. I’ll bet if we filled Kaseme’s pockets full enough, he could get the charges against him dropped in no time. He’d make a perfect front man.”
Kirk nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, Bones. We can’t use the inn as our safe house any longer. Spock knows about it, and he’s apt to counterattack any time. If Ker could get back into the Healer’s Guild, he could rent a house as a clinic. It would be a perfect cover for our operations.”
The little Kyrosian drained his bowl and smiled at Kirk. Kirk smiled back and handed him the purse of coins.
“Sara, ask him if…”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Captain’s log: Stardate 6724.2:
Ker Kaseme is once again a healer in good standing. He is so delighted with his sudden change of fortune that he has his proclivity toward wine and women under control and is giving us absolute cooperation. He has opened a clinic in a large house near the central square. The back of it is reserved for our use and, because of the constant flow of patients in and out of the clinic part, we can enter and leave without question. McCoy and I now have implants and we are able to pass as native healers, members of Kaseme’s staff. Kaseme knows which side his bread is buttered on and has accepted our identity switch. He must be puzzled, though, when McCoy displays some of his own mannerisms. Kaseme doesn’t know it, of course, but he is our chief surgeon’s dop.
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