"That's right," Sulu agreed. "We all got wet, so who'd be playing the joke?"
"Probably a minor defect in the inorganic, nonmetallic fabricator programming," Scott supplied helpfully. "I'll check it out with the specialists in charge on the next shift."
"Good enough," Kirk said with finality. "Right now, I suggest that everyone finish eating before the food gets as cold as my drink."
To set an example, he picked up a fork full of fried potatoes. But as he moved it toward his mouth, the fork suddenly wilted in the middle as if the metal had turned molten. The large helping fell in a greasy splotch down the front of his tunic. It made an interesting contrast to the stain already left by his drink.
Whether it was the awkward tumbling of solid food or the fact that this time only the captain was affected, one couldn't say; but several giggles sounded around the table. They were rapidly stifled.
McCoy hadn't joined in the chuckling. "Another coincidence, Jim?"
Kirk brushed at his shirt and gazed around the table again, more thoughtfully this time. "I'm beginning to wonder, Bones." He eyed the fork.
Something had bent the metal neatly in half midway down the stem. How, he couldn't tell. It appeared to be a perfectly ordinary fork. Close inspection failed to reveal any hidden hinge or abrasions where it might have been filed.
"I'm beginning to wonder . . ."
They finished the hexed meal in comparative silence, and without further incident. If there was a practical joker among them, he or she was abashed enough to forgo any further demonstrations.
However, the problem did not fade away. It continued to make itself felt throughout the ship . . . and in the most unexpected ways. The first new manifestation occurred following the command shift's return to the Bridge. Spock noticed an instrument lying on his console which hadn't been there when he had left. He utterly failed to recognize it. It was obvious how it was supposed to be utilized, but when he tried, he achieved nothing.
"Curious," he finally muttered, "most curious."
Kirk heard and strolled over from the navigation printout where he had been studying statistical readouts on the energy cloud.
"What is, Spock . . . what've you got there?" The first officer held it out to him. It was a small tubular device, rather like a monocular viewer.
"I found this instrument on my console, Captain. There is only this single adjustable ring to serve as any kind of control. But it does nothing . . . see?"
Placing the eyepiece against his left eye, he fiddled with the ring. At the same time, Kirk noticed the dark ring encircling his right eye. When he pulled the tube away, a matching black circle had appeared around Spock's other eye—a circle, he noted, exactly the same size and shape as the eyepiece.
"It appears to serve no useful function," Spock added. "My best efforts have failed to produce any noticeable result."
In spite of himself, Kirk laughed. So did Sulu and Uhura when they turned and saw the result.
Spock simply stood there, befuddled, glancing from the comm station, to the helm and back to Kirk. Naturally, his ignorance of the situation made it all the funnier to the onlookers.
"I'm . . . sorry, Spock," Kirk finally managed to gasp, getting himself under control. "You see, you . . ." He couldn't manage to produce a quiet explanation. Instead, he pantomimed circles around his own eyes.
Spock continued to stand there for a moment, considering this nonverbal information carefully. Then he reached up and dabbed at his face with one hand. When he brought his fingers down, the tips of two were covered with black smudge.
His lips didn't twist, but he succeeded in scowling with his eyebrows . . .
If that had been the last incident, Kirk might still have put it down to someone's idea of humor. But the "incidents," as everyone on board was soon calling them, occurred with increasing frequency. And they became less and less amusing.
Only serious thoughts filled Scott's mind as he strolled down the corridor leading back to Engineering Central. Final repairs on the damage wrought by the Romulans were nearing completion, but a few delicate adjustments still had to be made in certain heavily battered sections.
Intricate repairs required careful thought, which in turn engendered a profound hunger. He paused by one of the galley annexes, just as Arex and M'ress rounded the far corner, walking in the opposite direction.
"Officer Scott," Arex called, "if you're hungry, won't you join us for lunch. We were just on our way to mess." His soulful visage radiated friendliness.
Scott politely declined. "No thanks, Arex. I'm just goin' to grab a bit of a snack before I get back to my work. I kinna afford to let some of my younger techs alone too long with certain machinery." He grinned.
"As it will go," Arex replied amiably. "Any word on who was responsible for the . . . dribble glasses, someone called them, and for what happened to First Officer Spock?"
"Not a clue. And I've heard scuttlebutt about a number of other childish pranks having taken place around the ship."
Arex and M'ress exchanged glances. "We haven't hearrd anything, orr seen anything like that," M'ress purred.
"Maybe you're immune . . . lucky you."
"I hope so, considerring what happened to Mrr. Spock," M'ress replied feelingly. "Mm-aorrr . . . how embarrassing!"
"See you later," Arex added, as they continued on down the corridor.
Scott murmured a goodbye, then activated the console. Identifying himself as to name and rank, he absently ordered a grilled Swiss cheese on rye.
"No . . . make that pumpernickel," he corrected quickly. The ACKNOWLEDGE light came on promptly. Scott pressed the second button, was rewarded by the sight of a filled plate slipping into place behind the transparent receiver guard.
Reaching in, he removed the sandwich, then turned to leave. As he did so, there was a second muffled thump behind him.
Puzzled, he looked back. A second sandwich had appeared in the opening. He shrugged and withdrew it . . . only to see it instantly replaced by yet another . . . and that by two, piled atop one another.
Muttering to himself, he set his three on the floor and removed the two new ones. Two more appeared, followed by another three . . . the last made with Limburger cheese instead of Swiss.
These were replaced by, in rapidly accelerating order, wedges of fudge cake, linzer torte, falafel, three steaming bowls of chop suey, blacktop sundaes, and a dismembered, smoked turkey.
Blinking and whining like a ratchet wrench with the colic, the machine started to flush a river of food so fast Scott had no time for culinary classification.
"What the blazes . . . hold it a minute!"
His hands were already covered with cheese, melting ice cream, and sauces of various composition and ethnic origin. The lower half of his uniform was splattered.
"I said one sandwich!" he shouted frantically. "One blasted sandwich, ye great glob of gastronomical gadgetry!"
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Arex and M'ress reappeared, on the run. "Mr. Scott," Arex called, "we heard yelling. Is everything . . .?" The concerned piping of the Edoan navigator stopped abruptly. Next to him, M'ress had commenced a smooth, feline laugh. Arex joined her.
"I'm sorry, Officer Scott," he gasped. "Excuse us, but . . ."
"Go ahead and laugh, go on . . . big joke!" Scott muttered in irritation as he warded off a barrage of burritos and kidney pie. "I'll wager you two are responsible for everything that . . . hey!"
The console was ejecting food through the input/recycle slot now, doubling its firepower and making it harder for him to grab at the control panel—even though various stabs and punches at said switches had failed to produce any lessening of the comestible bombardment.
"Just a moment, Officer Scott," Arex objected, his laughter dying down. "We're not responsible for this or any of the other reported pranks. How could I program this? I have no idea if half of the . . . dishes . . . lying about are even edible."
"It could be a random program," Scott countered. "
I wonder if the captain will buy your excuse."
He dodged a stream of curried kooftah a Persian gourmet would have been proud of and took another step toward the controls. If he could just unbolt the master panel, he could bypass the circuitry and . . .
"I'm reportin' the both of ye as soon as I . . ." He paused as he reached the wall, bent to touch the first of two screw latches near the floor.
As he did so a large cream pie shot with impressive velocity out of the machine and caught him flush in the face, knocking him backward several steps. He recovered his balance and stood there, wiping whipped cream from his eyes and staring blankly at the machine.
"Believe us, Officer Scott," Arex began seriously, "we have nothing to do with . . ." but the chief engineer ignored him, backing away from the annex as if it had suddenly acquired a malevolent intelligence of its own.
That last pie had been thrown hard—and aimed.
He eyed the machine warily.
That was not to be the last of the strange occurrences to plague the ship.
VI
The pranks multiplied, accompanied by a corresponding decrease in subtlety. Finally it reached the point where even the ship's repairs were being interfered with. The apogee of absurdity was reached when a glowering Kirk came stomping onto the Bridge to stand, hands on hips, just inside the elevator portal.
Arex turned from the navigation console and Spock from his library computer station while M'ress glanced across from communications. "Okay," Kirk announced in a no-nonsense, anything-but-amused voice, "this whole thing has gone far enough."
There were equal parts frustration and anger in his tone. This sudden fury was unlike the captain. Everyone stared at him, baffled.
"What has . . . sir?" Arex finally ventured.
Kirk bestowed a baleful glare on the innocent navigator. "I just picked up my clean uniforms from the service chute, Mr. Arex. When I put one on, I discovered this." He turned his back to them.
Lettered across the back of his shirt, in bold yellow, were the words: KIRK IS A JERK.
Below this someone had stenciled a simplistic childlike face with crossed eyes and a silly grin.
Events aboard had progressed to the point where no one was surprised at any kind of report. But this blatant assault on Kirk's position produced astonished stares from the Bridge personnel. It had progressed from flat humor to outright insult.
There was a brief, startled giggle from somewhere. Everyone looked nervously at his neighbor, but the giggle was not repeated. It had been indeterminate as to source or gender—fortunately for the giggler.
Everyone was sure of one thing. They hadn't laughed—and each in his own way tried to convey that information wordlessly to Kirk as he examined each one in turn. "When the outburst of hysteria has concluded, I'd like an explanation for this recent burst of puerility."
"That," suggested Spock in a strange tone of voice, "may be more difficult than it seems. I was watching both Lieutenant Arex and Lieutenant M'ress closely. I saw no one laugh. Needless to say," he finished quietly, "it did not come from me."
"Someone certainly laughed," Kirk countered, his anger dying as curiosity took over.
Further discussion was interrupted as M'ress suddenly rose from her chair to point past Kirk. "Captain, look behind you."
"Really, M'ress," a thoroughly fed-up Kirk muttered, "you're going to have to be more clever than that."
"It's not a joke, sir," Arex confirmed.
Kirk whirled . . . and took a couple of steps backward. A thick clinging fog was billowing inward from the turbolift shaft. It swirled around his legs, hugging the floor.
"Now what?"
Spock was preparing an answer. The computer supplied it readily. "The source of the atmospheric aberration appears to be centralized two decks below, Captain."
Fog or not, the lift operated efficiently. When Kirk pressed the emergency-stop switch and the door slid aside, it was to reveal a corridor filled from deck to ceiling with a roiling, eerie mist.
Spock took two steps into the cloud and stopped, pulling a small sensorscan from his hip. He took readings and measurements while Kirk fidgeted nervously behind him.
"Well?"
"Frankly, I had expected something else, Captain," he replied, without going into specifics on what the "something else" might be, "but this appears to be a normal, everyday water-based fog . . . except that such occurrences are not normal on a starship. Perhaps the humidification monitors are—"
Taking another step forward, he began flailing wildly as his legs started out from under him. He twisted and fought for balance with inhuman control. Kirk moved quickly to grab him—then found himself slipping and sliding as though on bearings. But by using one another for support and finally struggling to the projections on a nearby door, they were able to avoid a serious fall. After regaining their balance, it took a bit longer to catch their breath.
That accomplished, Spock disdained the sensorscan for less detailed but more immediate methods of study. He knelt carefully. Nearness to the source of the trouble brought revelation.
"Amazing," he murmured. "The deck here is covered with ice."
"It was almost covered with us," Kirk rumbled. "What kind of ice, Spock?"
"From all indications, normal water ice, Captain. It does not appear to possess exotic or dangerous properties . . . beyond the obvious physical ones, of course."
"Ice," Kirk said, staring down the corridor into the frosty miasma. "I don't know what's happening on this ship, Mr. Spock, but it's got to stop before somebody gets hurt. Whoever's responsible for this is getting carried away with his own inventiveness."
As if on cue, the strange giggle was heard again. Kirk had no need to look around for possible concealed bodies—he and Spock were alone in the corridor. That annoying giggle was loud and distinct this time. In fact, it was faintly feminine and almost—almost familiar.
Kirk took a step toward what he thought might be the source of the sound. Was someone hiding in that fog after all? Instantly he found himself sliding crazily. Only Spock's firm grip enabled him to recover his balance again.
"That laugh—it sounds very much like the one I thought I heard on the Bridge a few minutes ago. There's something awfully familiar about it." He eyed his first. "What do you make of all this, Spock?"
"Despite the increasing number of incidents, Captain, the evidence seems to point to a single guilty party."
"How do you know it's not sev—" Kirk's eyes widened. "You think you know who it is, don't you?"
"Not who, Captain—what. I believe that our practical joker is the Enterprise herself."
"The Enterprise . . .?" Kirk hesitated, mulled the hypothesis over in his head. Then familiarity and fact came together, and everything else fell into place.
"Everything makes sense now. That carefully calculated feminine tone—it's the voice of our main computer!"
"Precisely," Spock agreed.
"I want all hands to stations, all computer techs to work doubleshift. We're going to run a complete cybernetics systems-check from bow to stern and get to the bottom of this." His voice grew threatening.
"Trick glasses and offensive food-processing equipment is one thing. But when some circuit failure starts affecting the ship's programming . . ."
"I heartily concur, Captain. This must be stopped before these pranks grow any more serious.
"At the moment, though, we have a less lethal if more immediate problem." He used his eyes to indicate the floor behind them. "Getting from here to the lift again in one piece, since the floor is now frozen over behind us."
There is no problem, however, that is ultimately insoluble under assault from the combined abilities of a Federation cruiser captain and his science officer. Crawling carefully on hands and knees, they made their way safely back to the elevator.
While Arex and M'ress handled their duties forward and Kirk and Spock pondered the problem posed by the apparent breakdown of the central computer, an off-duty Uhura
and Sulu were approaching the main door to the Recreation Room. McCoy joined them a moment later.
Uhura touched the switch beside the door latch. A small transparent indicator lit up in green with the word UNOCCUPIED. They followed a small beep provided for the benefit of color-blind, non-Anglo-reading personnel and guests.
Uhura fairly purred with satisfaction. "Good; nobody home . . . at least we can enjoy our free time without worrying about practical jokes."
The heavy door slid aside. McCoy trailed them in. "Exactly what the doctor ordered," he quipped, taking in the restful (if illusory) scene of park grounds and fountains.
"The standard re-creation," Sulu observed. "Now for something a bit more original and relaxing." He activated the control which shut the door behind them, closing them off from the rest of the ship.
A moment later an electronic chime struck three times, and Spock's voice filled the empty corridor as it did every chamber and walkway aboard.
"All hands to your stations—this is a general alert. Repeat, all hands to your stations. Second and third computer shifts, report to briefing, second and third computer shifts, report to briefing. Repeat, all hands to sta—"
But within the sealed environment of the Recreation Room, the order went unheard. Possibly something was wrong with the inside intercom speakers.
Possibly . . .
Sulu moved to the only visible sign of electronic presence in the big room. This isolated fixture was a small console located to the right of the main door. He proceeded to activate it, clearing the park scene from the room.
They stood in the chamber as it actually was, now—a vast hall with distant, curving walls. Ceilings, walls, deck were a uniform malleable white. It was like standing inside a smooth ivory dome.
"Something soothing and homey," the helmsman murmured with anticipation. "What'll it be?" he asked his companions. "Anyone object to a swim at the beach?"
Sulu turned his attention to the intricate keyboard and display screen mounted above. A detailed, three-dimensional schematic of the room program would appear there as the console operator designed it. The console itself consisted of a standard keyboard, plus numerous other controls for adjusting such things as climate, time of day, special effects—and many more. Sulu keyed the latter—only officers and qualified enlisted personnel were permitted to manipulate such touchy details as temperature and oxygen content.
Star Trek - Log 6 Page 9