Sulu felt himself blushing. "Sir, I didn't mean that. . . ."
"The hell you didn't," said the captain. He extracted a foil from the rack, tested its weight in his hand. "And if I'd spent as much time as you have with K'leb, I'd be just as reluctant to see my hard work go down the drain." Satisfied with his choice of blade, Kirk grabbed a helmet and, one-handed, fit it snugly over his head.
The helmsman smiled. Had he been that obvious about it? Uhura had warned him time and again about being such a mother hen.
As Kirk stepped onto the strip, Sulu moved to the judge's position, at the midpoint. He waited until the captain had taken a couple of easy practice lunges, which K'leb watched with his usual intensity. Then he lifted his arm up until it was parallel with the deck.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," said Kirk, his voice slightly muffled by the mask.
The P'othparan, as usual, said nothing—though he seemed to understand much.
"Fence," said Sulu, dropping his arm and retreating from the strip.
Kirk extended his blade, took a couple of steps forward.
But K'leb just stood there. His arms hung by his sides; the point of his blade rested on the metal surface beside the strip.
"En garde," said Sulu, assuming the position himself so that K'leb would get the idea.
The P'othparan didn't respond. He didn't even look at his teacher.
He seemed to be waiting for something.
"Am I doing something wrong?" asked the captain.
Sulu shook his head, puzzled. "Not as far as I can see," he said. He thought for a moment. "Maybe K'leb thinks you're too far away. Try coming a little closer."
Kirk advanced a couple of steps, until his point was hardly more than a foot from the P'othparan's chest.
It didn't seem to make any difference. It was as if K'leb had no idea what to do—or had forgotten. Suddenly, a shudder ran through the boy—bad enough to be noticeable.
Kirk backed off, lowering his foil. "Damn," he said. "I think I'm scaring him, Sulu."
So it seemed. But why? It wasn't as if K'leb had never fenced with anyone else. Any number of Sulu's other students had taken turns with him.
The helmsman just didn't get it, and he said so.
"That makes two of us," said Kirk.
He removed his mask, looked at the P'othparan for a time. Frustration and regret mingled in his expression.
"Look," he said finally, still facing K'leb but obviously addressing Sulu. "Maybe he's just uncomfortable with me—maybe I waited too long to come to see him. Or … I don't know." He took a deep breath, expelled it. "I probably shouldn't have interrupted in the first place. He was obviously enjoying himself before I broke things up."
Sulu would have contradicted him if he could. But it seemed that K'leb was somehow uncomfortable with him—even if the reason for it was not evident.
"Why don't the two of you go back to what you were doing?" asked the captain. "I should be getting along anyway—I'm still knee-deep in reports." And with that, he headed back to the locker, already starting to pull his glove off finger by finger.
The helmsman turned to his student, hoping for a clue as to K'leb's behavior that he might have missed. But masked, silent and unmoving, the P'othparan offered none.
K'leb stared at his ne'barat, his bond-father, and wondered. For what confronted him was sacrilege.
Days had passed, and he had not seen his ne'barat at all. That alone had been a strange thing, but K'leb had accepted it—for the one called K'liford had told him of his bond-father's other responsibilities.
Now, his ne'barat had come to see him—finally. But a moment later, he had covered himself with the same garb as the others with whom K'leb had sported. He had taken up the same metal stick.
And then, he had assumed the prescribed position. As if he meant to touch K'leb with the stick, as the others had.
As if he meant for K'leb to touch him.
But surely, he knew that this could not be. No bond-son could strike his ne'barat—not even with his open hand, in jest.
What did it mean? Was it a test of K'leb's piety? Or was his ne'barat truly ignorant of the principles of the ne'barr—the life-bonding—as it had seemed when he had asked all those questions the other day?
He reached into his bond-father's mind, seeking an answer to his questions. But there were none to be found there. Only a growing roil of emotions, perhaps as great as his own.
While he stood there, pondering this, his ne'barat exchanged words with the one known as Su'lu. And now he came closer, bringing his metal stick even nearer to his bond-son's body.
Did he mean to harm him with it, to pierce him, as T'nufans had done to one another long and long ago? The stick seemed too flimsy to be a weapon, and its point was tipped—but perhaps, driven with enough force …
He could not suppress a shudder. Suddenly, his knees felt weak, and he locked them into place lest they betray him.
No, he told himself. It cannot be. It is unthinkable.
Yet there was the stick held before him. And there was his ne'barat, holding it—its point only a handsbreadth from his throat.
What cause could he have given him? What reason? Could their customs be so different that he had offended him without knowing it?
Then, abruptly, the metal stick was withdrawn. His bond-father stepped back, and a wave of relief washed over K'leb.
But he no more understood his ne'barat's withdrawal than he had understood his other actions. And it frightened him that it was so.
Nor did it help his understanding when his bond-father removed his headpiece and addressed him. Though K'liford had taught him a few of his people's words, K'leb recognized none of them in his ne'barat's speech.
And after a time, he just walked away, leaving K'leb as he had found him.
Chapter Nine
KIRK ENTERED THE TRANSPORTER ROOM.
"Is everything ready?" he asked.
"Aye, sir," said Martinez. "We have located an appropriate site. And the transporter has been thoroughly examined so as to minimize the possibility of malfunction."
"Good," said Kirk. "And the item I asked you for?"
Jason stepped forward, extended his hand. There was a box in it.
Kirk took it, stepped up onto the transporter platform.
"Remember," he told Martinez. "You are to leave this vicinity at once. Proceed to a position near the Romulan border and follow Admiral Straus's instructions—until you hear from me." He chuckled. "And you'll hear from me soon enough."
"Understood," said Martinez.
Kirk turned to Stuart, who stood at the transporter console.
"All right," he said. "Energize."
Stuart did as he was told.
He materialized a couple of miles from town, where an old-fashioned asphalt road cut through forest lands almost thick enough to be called jungles. The foliage was luminescent in the light of a full moon and the air was full of mist.
He began to walk.
For a while, the only sound was the clicking of his heels on the hard, dark surface of the road. Then the sound of a motor came to him, gradually growing louder.
When he thought it was loud enough, he stepped off the road onto a patch of ground cover—and stuck his hand out.
The driver almost didn't see him. In fact, he'd gone fifty yards or so before he managed to slam on the brakes. A moment later, a door swung open on the passenger's side.
Kirk trotted down the road to catch up. When he did, he saw that the driver was a gangly, baby-faced man, who wore his thinning hair long and loose. On one side, it was tucked behind his ear. He was chewing something with great intensity.
"Headed for town?" he asked him.
The driver turned abruptly and spat out the window, spraying droplets of dark juice. "Is there anyplace else?" he answered.
Kirk pulled himself up into the cab and closed the door. The truck lurched forward as the driver threw it into gear.
"I'm glad you came by," said
the android. "I could've been walking for hours." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "My car dropped dead a few miles back."
The man guffawed. "You must be new around here."
Kirk watched him for signs of hostile intent—but he couldn't find any. "How do you know that?" he asked finally.
"First," said the driver, "I was a few miles back, and I didn't see no rig off to the side. Second, I don't give a damn where you came from—or what you were doin'. And if you were a local, you would've known that."
Kirk smiled. "But you picked me up anyway."
The man shrugged his angular shoulders. "Just 'cause I mind my own business don't mean I can't do for my fellowman." He worked up another mouthful of juice, spat again. "Besides, it's dangerous out on the road at night. Malachi's Boots all over the place." He chuckled. "Don't want any of those suckers latchin' onto you. Turn you to deadwood before you know what happened."
Up ahead, over a rise in the road, there was a faint glow that seemed independent of the headlights.
"Is that so?" said the android, not hungry in the least for more information on the subject. What did he care about the local flora and fauna? "In that case, I really do appreciate the ride."
The driver nodded. "You need a place to stay?" he asked.
"I guess I do."
"My friend's got an inn near the center of town. It's a good deal if you don't mind the noise too much."
"I don't," said Kirk.
"Good. I'll drop you off right in front."
"There's only one problem," said the android. "I'm a little low on credits."
The man grunted. "That is a problem."
"But I have ways of putting some money together in a hurry—if I can hook up with the right people."
They topped the rise. Suddenly the faint glow became a sprawl of lights below them, made starry by the mist.
Tranktown. It matched the images the human Kirk had accumulated.
"What kind of people?" asked the driver.
The android shrugged. "Oh, say dealers in rare commodities."
"You want to fence something? Or are you looking for some continuity?"
"Either," said Kirk. "Maybe both."
He watched the man's eyes. They stayed fixed on the road ahead.
"Try Bruzavpek's," he said finally. "Ask for the Rythrian."
The android nodded. "The Rythrian."
Despite the mist, the lights below them began to collect into individual shapes. After a while, they could even hear the music.
He found Bruzavpek's on the side of town nearest the spaceport. The sign outside called it a private club, but there were no sounds—or smells, for that matter—to indicate that it was actually what it claimed to be.
If not a club, then a front. And since so few pursuits were illegal on Tranquillity Seven, what could it have been a front for—other than a smuggling operation?
Kirk smiled inwardly. The truck driver, apparently, had known what he was talking about.
He knocked on the heavy, steelbound door. No answer. He rapped again, waited. Still nothing.
Kirk was about to knock a third time—pound on it, really—when he heard a bolt slide and saw the door open a crack.
The face that peered through the opening was human, though at first glance it didn't seem so. The features were vague, blunt—bludgeoned over the course of too many fights into amorphousness.
"What?" was all the man asked.
"I want to see someone," said the android. "I've heard he does business here."
"Yeah? Who's that?"
"He's called the Rythrian."
The man's eyes narrowed as he inspected Kirk. Then he looked over the android's shoulder, searching the night and the mist.
After a while, satisfied, he opened the door. As Kirk brushed past him, he found himself in a narrow vestibule.
Beyond it was a much larger room, well appointed though dimly lit. At one time, it may truly have served as the parlor of a private establishment—before the place had been converted to its current use.
The android took a single step toward the larger room and found a hammy paw on his shoulder. He glanced at it, then at its owner.
"Check you," said the near-shapeless mouth.
Kirk shrugged, raised his arms. Felt the man's hands searching him for firearms, though that—supposedly—was the one thing you couldn't buy on this world. Those who profited by the tourist trade—and that was nearly everyone, directly or indirectly—had no desire to kill the goose that laid their golden eggs.
The frisking process was nearly over before the man found the small container in the android's inside pocket. Reaching inside his jacket, Kirk himself pulled it out. Held it in his palm.
"It's not a weapon," he said. "It's what I've come to see the Rythrian about."
The animallike eyes regarded him. "Open it," said the man.
Kirk opened it.
The man's eyes blinked, his fleshy face illuminated by the glow. "All right," he said finally.
Kirk closed the container again.
"Come," said the man.
The android replaced the container in his pocket and followed him into the next room.
There were three other men inside. Two were strong-arm types. The third, it seemed, had come to do business as Kirk had—judging by the small sack he kept on the table beside him. But he neither looked very happy to be there nor very eager to be recognized.
Selling off a family heirloom to pay a gambling debt? the android wondered. Or a s'ris addict, fencing stolen goods to support his habit?
Kirk chose a sofa, sat. Looked around, noticed that the lighting was provided by hlinga worms in transparent cylinders. Of course—a touch of old Rythria in a foreign land.
The worm nearest the man with the sack threw off an azure glow, in accordance with his mood. The one near the android, however—like most of the other worms around the room—radiated a yellowish, almost white light.
Nor did it change as he sat there. Kirk was grateful that the worm could not distinguish between controlled emotion and no emotion at all. As it was, the strong-arm types would just label him a cool customer and let it go at that.
In time, the door at the back of the room opened and yet another human emerged. He looked neither at Kirk nor at any of the others as he headed for the vestibule. The dough-faced man followed him in. There was the sound again of the bolt sliding back, the opening and closing of the door, the replacement of the bolt.
"You're next," said one of the other hired hands. The android looked at him, but he was talking to the man with the sack.
Gathering up his burden—which was fairly heavy, if the way it hung in the sack was any indication—the man passed through the doorway in the back of the room. Kirk had a glimpse of someone big—very big—before the sack bearer disappeared inside.
He wasn't in there long. It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes before he came out again—without the sack.
Since there was no one else waiting in the room, Kirk got up from his seat on the sofa. He looked inquiringly at the strong-arm types.
"That's right," said the one who had spoken before. "It's your turn now, eager beaver."
The android looked at him just long enough to make the man uncomfortable. Then he crossed the room to the door, opened it onto what had to be the Rythrian's office.
Except for the wan, yellow light of a hlinga worm, the room was dark.
Two sat behind a table. One was the Rythrian himself, judging by his long flaps of earlobe and somewhat protuberant eyes. The other was human—a massive, swarthy man with a long scar from brow to jawline. It was the man he'd caught a glimpse of moments before.
Kirk closed the door behind him.
"Sit," said the big man. His voice was harsh, rasping. Somewhere along the line, Kirk judged, he'd damaged his vocal cords.
The android pulled out the only unoccupied chair and sat. The worm writhed in its plexiglass cylinder and the quality of the light changed subtly
—seemed to grow paler by a shade.
The Rythrian noted it, looked back at Kirk.
"So? What have you got?" he asked. His voice was pleasant, almost melodious, in contrast to his companion's.
Kirk reached into his jacket—slowly enough so that there would be no misunderstandings—and produced the leadbound box. He placed it on the table, felt for the hidden latch. Touched it.
And the top sprang open revealing the dilithium crystal within.
For a moment, the Rythrian's eyes opened even wider—though the worm's light remained appreciably the same, a tribute to his self-control. Then he looked up again.
"It appears to be genuine," he said.
Kirk closed the box, replaced it in his inner pocket. "Do you think I'd be foolish enough to try to pass a fake off on you?"
The Rythrian shrugged. "People have tried more foolish things. You'd be surprised." He paused. "How much do you want for it?"
Kirk smiled.
"Actually," he said, "I didn't have it in mind to sell it."
The Rythrian's brow lowered perceptibly.
"No?" he asked. "Then why are you here?"
"To make you a proposition. One that involves a lot more profit—for all of us."
The Rythrian leaned forward.
"What kind of proposition?"
The worm turned in on itself, and the room grew sullen.
"You have a market for dilithium? In large quantities?"
The Rythrian stared at him. "We do," he said finally.
"I have a source who can supply large quantities."
That elicited a grunt. "What do you call a large quantity?"
"Thirty crystals," said the android. "Forty. Maybe more."
"And just where do you intend to get that kind of dilithium?" asked the Rythrian. "You'd have to own your own mine."
Kirk nodded. "Or know someone who has access to one."
"An insider? At a Federation mine?"
"Perhaps," said the android.
"Interesting," said the Rythrian. "And you need someone to fence it all for you."
"That," said Kirk, "and more than that. An operation like this one requires an investment. In transportation. In cooperation."
"So it does," said the Rythrian. "But I don't imagine you have those kinds of funds at your disposal."
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