"At the moment, no. But I'd be willing to offer a partnership in exchange for such funds."
"A share," said the Rythrian, "in the dilithium."
"Precisely."
"How much of a share?"
"Fifty percent."
The Rythrian laughed, briefly. It came out as a high-pitched piping. The worm danced, spewed pale green light on the walls.
"Eighty," he said.
Kirk chuckled. "Sixty."
The Rythrian shook his head, whipping his ears about. "Eighty. No one will give you a better deal than that."
"That is," added the big man, "if they do business with you at all."
Kirk looked from the human to the Rythrian. "Is this your partner?" he asked innocently. It was a necessary remark—it would lend him credibility.
Again, that high-pitched piping came out of the Rythrian. The big man turned a dark and dangerous red—and so did the worm. Seeing his emotions betrayed only seemed to make the human madder.
"No," said the Rythrian, as soon as he'd recovered. "He is not my partner—but he is correct. My competitors seldom deal with suppliers they do not know."
Kirk pretended to mull it over. "You drive a hard bargain."
The Rythrian shrugged. "Have we got a deal—or not?"
Kirk nodded. "Yes. We've got a deal."
"Good. We'll arrange to get you the money." He blinked—for the first time, Kirk noticed, since their interview had begun. "Where are you staying?"
The android told him.
Another grunt. "We will expect to see the dilithium within the month. Do not disappoint us."
The big man's eyes narrowed. "Yes," he agreed. "Don't even think about it."
Kirk met his stare, smiled again.
The worm jerked, spilling waves of bright blood-red light. It would continue to do so, the android guessed, for some time after his departure.
The next day, three of the Rythrian's henchmen came to drop off a package at Kirk's hotel room.
The first thing he did after they left was count the money. Sure enough, it was all there—and a tidy sum it was. Certainly not a sum one would want to be careless with.
Next, he checked out of the hotel, paying his bill with the smallest portion of his newfound wealth. Aware now that Kirk was somehow linked to the Rythrian, the man at the desk didn't comment on the crisp new bills he handed him. He didn't even look up.
According to the agreement by which he'd obtained the money, Kirk should then have booked space on a passenger ship—one bound for whichever system his dilithium contact was located in. But since he had neither a contact nor any intention of finding one, he didn't make any attempt to get to the spaceport.
Rather, he headed for the center of town.
Markey swabbed the bar with a wet rag for the umpteenth time that night. Not that it needed it. There just wasn't a whole hell of a lot else to do.
It hadn't been a real good week. No big ships in the spaceport, no rubes to keep the old-fashioned cash register ringing. Only a few regulars—and they weren't spending much more than time, 'cause they made their money off the rubes same as he did.
In fact, he was tempted to close up early—until the guy in the expensive suit walked in out of the mist.
"What'll it be?" he asked as the rube swaggered up to the bar. It was quite a swagger too. The king of swaggers.
"A bottle of your finest brandy," he said as he pulled over a stool. "And I mean your finest."
Then he dragged out a wad of money and dropped it square on the polished-wood surface. Suddenly, he was the undisputed center of attention.
"Money," he said, "is no object." He smiled, as if he'd made a joke.
Markey glanced at the wad. It made him nervous to see it just sitting out there, naked and inviting.
"Mister," he said, "I'll be only too happy to help you get sloshed. But if I were you, I'd put that stuff away for now. This ain't exactly Starbase Three, y'know. People have been known to get rolled around here."
But the rube just shrugged, his smile widening. "So what? There's plenty more where that came from. In fact," he said, indicating the tables behind him with a sweep of his arm, "I want everybody to have a bottle! On me! What's the sense of having it if you can't spend it?"
The regulars rooted him on, recognizing a free ride when they saw one. A couple of them even stood and applauded.
Markey looked into the rube's eyes, saw no sign of drunkenness there. Yet. So what was his story? Did he have a death wish or something?
"Well," asked the newcomer. "Are you going to serve me and my friends, or do I have to take my business elsewhere?"
That brought another kind of response from the regulars. An ugly one.
Markey knew better than to mess with them. Loyalty was an ephemeral thing on Trank Seven. Especially when there was booze involved.
"No," he said. "You can get everything you want right here."
He'd warned the guy, hadn't he? And besides, what was he behind this bar for, if not to take money from rubes?
Grabbing a couple of bottles from the mirrored wall behind him, he plunked them down on the bar. Then a couple more, and again, until there was one for everyone. Finally, he opened a bottle and set it before Fancy Dan with a glass next to it.
"Okay," said the rube. "Come and get it!"
The regulars didn't have to be told twice. There was a screeching of chair legs and a shuffle of feet, and suddenly the bar was alive with grasping hands.
The newcomer counted out a number of credits, letting them waft down one by one around his bottle. He seemed to get a kick out of it.
"There," he said expansively. "That ought to cover it."
Markey grunted, gathered up the money. "More than cover it. You've got some change coming."
"Forget it," said the rube, pouring some brandy into his glass. "Buy yourself a new sign out front."
Just as Markey turned to open the cash register, he saw Bokeek come sauntering up to the stranger. He held his bottle close to his chest, and it obviously wasn't the first one he'd had that night.
"Say," said Bokeek, a Tetracite who made his living picking pockets, "I couldn't help but notice that pile o' bills you got there. You one o' those fancy fur traders?" He peered at the rube with deep-set, bloodshot eyes that seemed to want to pop out of his angular head.
The newcomer grinned. "No. Why? Do I look like one?"
Bokeek shrugged. "Maybe a little bit." He lowered his voice a notch and leaned closer—as if to hint that he, at least, could be trusted. "But if you ain't a trader, then where the hell didja get that stash?"
"You're being nosy, Bokeek," said Markey, intervening on the stranger's behalf. "A man puts some money together, it's his business where he got it."
"That's all right," said the rube. He turned to Bokeek. "You want to know where I got this money?"
The pickpocket nodded.
"I just asked for it. And somebody gave it to me."
Bokeek chuckled. "No, really."
"Really."
Bokeek looked at Markey and then at the rube again. "Yeah? How?"
"Simple," said Fancy Dan. "I conned him."
The pickpocket screwed up his face in disbelief.
"You?"
"Me."
And there was no pursuing the matter any further, because that's when the stranger decided to get up.
"Nice talking with you gentlemen," he said, "but I've got an appointment to keep with some very lovely ladies." He straightened the lapels on his suit. "Ladies like men with money, you know."
And with a military sort of salute, he turned and made his way toward the door.
Markey watched him vanish back into the night. So did Bokeek.
"Strangest guy I've seen in a long time," he said. "A long time."
"You don't know the half of it," said the pickpocket, suddenly a lot more sober.
Markey looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"I been followin' this oddball all night long. Everyw
here he goes, he buys drinks for the house. Then he drops that line about havin' to meet some women and leaves." He laughed. "If I was still a young man, I'd have gone with him to the next joint. But for now, I think this here bottle will do me just fine."
The bartender grunted. "I'll bet," he said, and went to clean up where the rube had sat.
"Hey," said Bokeek, "look at that."
"What?" asked Markey.
"He didn't even touch his drink." Markey inspected the glass of brandy. Sure enough, it was as full as when the stranger had poured it.
He shrugged. "Maybe the guy wasn't thirsty."
No sooner had Kirk left the bar than he ducked into an alleyway. And waited.
This time, he saw, no one was going to follow him to his next destination. Apparently, his hanger-on had been nothing more than he seemed—a scavenger following the lure of free booze.
Too bad. That meant that the Rythrian's street network hadn't located him yet.
Kirk was surprised. Hadn't he made himself obvious enough? It was difficult to believe that with all the money he'd squandered in the last twenty hours or so, word of his prodigality hadn't reached his "partner."
Or had he miscalculated somehow?
No. It wasn't possible. He had all the human Kirk's memories, his capacity for judgment—for cunning.
He would wait a little longer to see if his plan had borne fruit.
An hour passed, another. The fog gradually twisted into new shapes, writhed again into still newer ones. Every now and then, the wind stirred the silence with the sounds of distant revelry.
He watched men come out of the bar, other men go inside. But always one at a time. If the Rythrian meant to catch him, he'd have sent his hirelings out in pairs—at the very least.
Nor did these men have a look of purposefulness about them. They were no different than the glassy-eyed specimens he'd seen inside.
Yet another hour. Dawn was not that far off. And he needed to find another place to stay before daylight revealed him.
After all, it was only his trail he wanted the Rythrian to find. Not Kirk himself.
Suddenly, footfalls—an echoing clatter on the paving stones. Keeping as much of himself hidden as possible, the android peered into the fog.
There were four men emerging from it. Three were nondescript, though he might have recognized one or more of them if he'd tried.
But it wasn't necessary. The sheer size of the fourth man, about whom the others seemed to cluster, told Kirk all he needed to know.
The man with the scar looked angry. As if he'd rather have been doing something else at this time of night.
Excellent, the android told himself. The Rythrian didn't disappoint me after all.
He waited a few more minutes, until the group of four had entered the bar. Then he crossed the street and headed for the part of town where a man could lose himself forever—or so they said.
Of course, in his case, a single day would be more than sufficient.
Chapter Ten
AS THEY ENTERED the turbolift, Kirk pressed the plate for the transporter level.
"Are you sure I can't change your mind?" he asked Spock.
The Vulcan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his face calm and expressionless.
"Quite sure, Captain."
Kirk frowned.
"Come on, Spock. Even you need some rest and relaxation now and then—despite your pretenses to the contrary."
Spock grunted softly. Apparently, Kirk noted, he'd penetrated that aura of Vulcan indifference.
"It is not a pretense that my people require less rest than humans do," he said. "Though, of course, we cannot go without it indefinitely."
"Then why not come down to Tranktown? For a little diversion? Hell, you might find it interesting."
"There are any number of diversions available here on the Enterprise," Spock noted.
The turbolift came to a stop then and the doors hissed open. Together, Kirk and his first officer headed for the transporter room.
"What is more," Spock added, "the best way to rest is to actually rest. You yourself have often returned from a shore leave anything but rested."
Kirk had to admit that Spock had a point there. But he didn't have to admit it out loud.
"Aren't you a little sick," he asked, "of being cooped up in the ship? It's been weeks since you were planetside. Isn't a change of scenery the slightest bit appealing?"
Spock shrugged. "I am quite comfortable on the ship," he said. "More comfortable, no doubt, than I would be on Tranquillity Seven."
"I see," said Kirk. "In other words, you don't think Tranktown will be your cup of tea."
"My … cup of tea?" asked the Vulcan.
"You don't think you'll find it attractive, "amended Kirk.
"In all honesty," said Spock, "I do not believe so, no."
The captain sighed. "I feel badly about that, Spock. When I accepted Admiral Straus's offer, I thought it would be good for the whole crew."
"Obviously," said Spock. "Nor is there any need to berate yourself. My decision is mine alone. It would be illogical for you to take responsibility for it."
Kirk chuckled. "I think I've just been let off the hook."
Spock arched an eyebrow. "Let off the hook, sir?"
"Excused," he explained. "Pardoned."
The Vulcan seemed to file that away for future reference.
As they arrived at the transporter room, the doors parted automatically. Inside, they found Scotty holding court before McCoy and a couple of transporter-room personnel. The chief engineer had just spread his hands apart in preparation for a punch line.
"An' so he says, 'A' don' know where ye been, laddie, but a' see ye won first prize!'"
The laughter that followed was nothing short of uproarious. Kirk even found himself smiling.
"That was a wonderful story," he told Scotty. "I'd like to hear the beginning sometime."
"Aye," said the Scot. "That ye will, sir. And there's a whole lot more where that came from."
"Well," said McCoy, "the gang's all here." He turned to Transporter Chief Kyle as he stepped up onto the platform. "Four to beam down, sir. And don't spare the horses."
"Aye," said Scotty, following him. "An' lose our coordinates as soon as ye possibly can."
Kyle chuckled. "Whatever you say, sir."
"Actually," Kirk interjected, "that'll be three to beam down."
McCoy and Scotty looked at him simultaneously.
"Three, sir?" asked the chief engineer, his brow suddenly furrowed.
"Three," confirmed Kirk. "Mister Spock has decided to remain on the ship."
"Oh damn," said the doctor. "Is this true, Spock?"
"It is," said the Vulcan.
"But why?" McCoy pressed. "Don't tell me you can't stand a little fun?"
"Spock's already gone over this with me," said the captain, holding up his hand for peace. "No need to rehash it, Bones."
McCoy snorted. "Blast. And here I was looking forward to seeing him loosen up a little."
"Perhaps another time," said Kirk, joining the others on the transporter platform. He turned to Kyle, who stood ready at the controls.
"All right, Chief. Let 'er rip."
"Captain?"
Spock took a step forward.
"What is it?" asked Kirk, a little surprised. Had Spock suddenly changed his mind?
"There is the matter of the P'othparan, sir. If you are gone too long, he may infer that you've abandoned him."
Kirk felt himself shrink from the subject.
"That's all been explained to him already," he told Spock. "I had Mister Clifford see to it. And in any case, I don't plan to be away for more than a day or so."
Now that he thought about it, though, was that enough? What if the P'othparan decided that he'd been deceived, and Kirk had abandoned him?
He regarded his first officer.
"But just to be on the safe side, Spock, would you keep an eye on him?"
&nb
sp; The Vulcan's usual calm seemed to crack just a hair. He looked almost … uncomfortable.
"I, sir?"
"If you don't mind, Spock. I know you'd rather be doing other things. But everyone else will be beaming down at one time or another. And I don't want him to fall through the cracks."
Spock regained his air of dispassion.
"As you wish," he said.
Kirk smiled. "Thanks."
"All right," said McCoy. "Enough dillydallying. Are we going to see this Tranktown or not?"
Kyle looked to Kirk. "Now, sir?"
The captain nodded. "If you please, Mister Kyle."
And a moment later, the transporter thrummed to life.
Tranktown hit Leonard McCoy like a shot of hard liquor. Flanked by Kirk and Scotty, he strode down the center of a crowded pedestrian thoroughfare—a flow of wild-eyed mostly-humanity that swirled and eddied and sometimes reversed itself, drawn to this attraction or that one.
Nor was there any shortage of attractions—depending on one's taste. Holorenas, where violent sporting events unsanctioned by the Federation could be seen in three-dimensional computer simulation, for the ultimate purpose of heated wagering. Animatoo shops, where one could have his or her body adorned with living images—hordes of parasitic cells, really, preconditioned to form certain color patterns when injected under the skin. And, of course, s'ris dens, where one could pursue one's deepest desires, live one's wickedest dreams—all in the privacy of one's own mind.
From the nearby spaceport, there was the boom and fire of an outdated cargo carrier, straining to free itself from the fetters of Earth-normal gravity. But it was hard to hear over the brassy riffs of the street musicians, the deep-throated laughter of the thickly packed revelers.
Tranktown was bright and gaudy, dark and mysterious, revolting and beguiling and mesmerizing all at once. And the sky above it, a velvet expanse bedecked with a thousand jewels, was of a piece with what went on down below.
"Hey," cried Scotty, barely audible over the din. He grabbed McCoy's arm. "Will ye look at that!"
The doctor followed Scott's gesture to a black-suited juggler, visible through a gap in the crowd. The man was tossing shiny metal objects into the air—dangerous-looking things with a number of sharp points and edges. McCoy couldn't tell how many, because the things were spinning too quickly, and on more than one axis. But the patterns they wove as they whirled gyroscopelike were absolutely lovely.
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