“See here now, lassie, do not touch that!” Reaching over, he gently but forcibly pulled seven pad-tipped fingers away from the top of the console. “You want to scramble up your friends while they’re in transport? The result would not be a pretty sight, I promise you.” With a sigh of exasperation, he yelled at an ensign posted to another part of the chamber. “Servantes! What are those two doing over there?”
The harried ensign looked up from where she was standing helplessly above two of the recent arrivals. Both Perenoreans were lying on their backs across the transporter pads with their heads hanging over the rear lip of the platform as they chattered incessantly between themselves.
“I don’t know, Mister Scott, sir! The translator I was issued can’t keep up.” The ensign paused a moment to listen. “I think they’re talking about energy requirements. Or maybe loop geometry. I’m not sure.”
Though he admired their intense curiosity, Scott was more than a little annoyed. Several groups of the Perenoreans and their handlers were still waiting to beam aboard, and he knew the captain was anxious to get underway. All of the aliens’ personal belongings had already arrived on board. All that remained was to beam the remaining visitors up to the ship. Meanwhile the transporter room was turning into a circus.
“I don’t care if they’re debatin’ the ingredients for a sauce for Perenorean haggis—get them out from under there and take them to their quarters! Carry them if you have to.” He indicated the console in front of him. “I’ve still got a full pack of their nosy cousins to bring aboard and a ship to prepare for the jump to warp. Tell them they can ask all the bloody questions they want once we’re on our way.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Scott!” Kneeling, Ensign Servantes spoke urgently to the probing visitors. The three of them had hardly moved clear of the critical zone before a dyspeptic Scott had the transporter energized once again.
It seemed to take forever for the increasingly exasperated ensign to get the pair she had been assigned to their quarters. Part of her frustration stemmed from the fact that in order to make room for the two dozen Perenorean guests, a number of the crew had been compelled to temporarily double up with colleagues. Federation starships were not passenger transports. They did not travel with empty holds or guest cabins. Every centimeter of space was valuable and accounted for. Wide corridors were intended to provide psychological comfort by eliminating feelings of claustrophobia, while the spacious engineering deck supplied ample room in which to work, add new equipment, and allow for flexible space in the event of emergencies.
While it was not her cabin that had been requisitioned to provide living quarters for the two Perenoreans, Ensign Servantes still felt a certain communal proprietorship toward the space. Its usual occupant had put into temporary storage all items of a personal nature; however, the cabin still retained a lived-in feel and the lingering essence of its permanent habitant. As to the Perenoreans’ own modest personal effects, these had already been delivered to the room.
“My name is Ensign Ermina Servantes. I have been designated your personal contact while you are on board the Enterprise.
“I’m sorry there’s only one bed,” she told them. Both of her charges were male. Knowing nothing of Perenorean culture, she introduced them to the cabin’s facilities without any preconceptions.
“Wonderful!” was the comment that greeted everything she said or showed them. They had no difficulty comprehending the functions intrinsic to the small living area. Their only disappointment surfaced when they inquired about access to the ship’s computer and she had to explain that it was, at least for now, unavailable to them.
“Each crewmember has a personal code. Additionally, auditory and ocular recognition is required to enable access.” Servantes smiled at the two yellow-eyed visitors whose ears seemed to semaphore all over the place as they listened intently.
“Not all of your crew are humanoid. I have seen others whose eyes are very different.” Reaching up, one slender multijointed finger indicated a large yellow orb. “Wouldn’t it be a simple matter to program ours, and our voices as well, into your security system so that we could have access?”
Servantes was immediately on guard. “Why are you so anxious to have access to the ship’s computer? You and your people are our guests on board. As guests of Starfleet, everything possible will be done for you. All you have to do is voice your request.”
The slightly taller of the pair looked at his companion, then back to their escort. “But we want to learn how to do things for ourselves. You are already doing so much for us, simply by having us on board and taking us to Earth. Hospitality is a hallmark of our species. We don’t want to do anything to take you away from your normal work routine.”
“Or your schedule for relaxation,” added the other alien. “It seems so unfair, so unnecessarily troubling, when we could do so much more for ourselves.”
“Besides,” finished the larger Perenorean, “we do not want to waste an instant of this miraculous, valuable experience that has been granted to us. Our purpose in accepting your wondrous invitation and undertaking this journey is so that we can learn more about you and the Federation. How can we learn if we do not have access to your store of information?”
“Ask a lot of questions, I suppose.” Though not of me, Servantes thought tiredly. Just the number of queries the pair had posed en route had exhausted her. “I’m sure that once the necessary procedures have been run through and suitable safeguards put in place, you and your companions will be allowed access to appropriate portions of the ship’s computer.” She tried to make her response sound as reassuring as possible.
For a second time, the Perenoreans exchanged a glance. This time it was the shorter of the pair who spoke first. His bewilderment was sufficiently profound to come through in translation.
“Security procedures? Are we— Is it possible that our presence on board your breathtaking vessel is considered to be a threat?” Rising to his face, both seven-fingered hands covered his eyes in a gesture indicative of deep shame.
Servantes didn’t know what to say. Even more embarrassed than his comrade, the other Perenorean had turned completely away from her. Reaching out instinctively, she put a hand on the narrow shoulder and was surprised at the degree of lean musculature she could feel through the lightweight wrapping. A gentle tug was enough to turn the humble creature back toward her.
She smiled comfortingly. “It’s normal procedure. Unless they arrive pre-cleared, no one brought on board a Starfleet vessel is allowed immediate access to its computer. Surely you can understand that? These regulations apply to everyone. Your people are not being singled out. I’m sure access is just a matter of time.” Finding the following silence distinctly awkward, she edged toward the door.
“I showed you how to call for help if you have any problems or difficulties operating the cabin’s amenities. Given what I and the rest of my shipmates have been told about you, I doubt you’ll need much in the way of assistance.” Servantes was at the doorway now. “The reports say that you’re highly adaptable and fast learners.”
Some of the distress slipped away from the two visitors. “We are just anxious to learn new things, that’s all.”
His companion gestured affirmatively and Servantes found herself fascinated by the intricate and supple movements of the double-jointed arm and its seven manipulative digits.
“Your Masteresque—Doctor—McCoy compared us to a simple ocean-dwelling creature of your world called…” The Perenorean paused a moment to remember. “A—a sponge. Yes, a sponge. He said that we are constantly soaking up new information and new things.” As he stood a little straighter the coils of material that made up his attire glistened in the cabin’s subdued light.
Doctor McCoy’s observation might be flattering as analogy, she thought. Her personal take was that while their constant flow of questions could be decidedly annoying, these two were nice. Yes, that was it. Just plain nice. Although a little too fawning for her taste.
No doubt the captain lapped it up.
“You know how to operate the communication instrument.” By now the ensign was halfway out the door. “If you need anything of a personal nature, that is, anything immediate that doesn’t involve the supplying of answers to general questions, please don’t hesitate to call on me. My regular duties have been adjusted so that I can be available to assist you when and if necessary.”
The two Perenoreans promptly dropped to the floor and arched their backs. Now it was the ensign’s turn to experience a bout of embarrassment.
“We thank you from the center of our beings for your kindness and understanding,” the smaller of the pair murmured liquidly.
“Yes, well, you’re welcome.” Decidedly ill at ease with the visitors’ profound humbling, which bordered on groveling, she backed out into the corridor.
Really nice, she decided as she headed for the next deck up and resumption of her regular assignment. Easy to get along with, easy to understand, and anxious to make friends. If she could get them to limit their incessant questioning, she could see herself enjoying their company for the duration of the journey to Earth.
Over the next few days, Ensign Servantes did see them, and they did chat pleasantly, and she did enjoy their company. It never struck her that not once did they have to call for help with the cabin’s human-friendly and non-Perenorean facilities.
* * *
Specialist Wissell was supervising the last of first meal, also known as breakfast, when the alien appeared. As Wissell was very particular about his domain and about general hygiene in the food preparation area, he viewed the unannounced intrusion warily. Orders were that as guests, the Perenoreans were to have access to all nonsensitive sections of the ship; other sections would be opened to them when they were cleared and accompanied by an authorized escort. While the specialist was privately miffed that food preparation was not included among the departments classified as sensitive, there was nothing he could do about the designation.
He could, however, try to minimize both the intrusion and the interruption as courteously as possible.
“Greetings.”
To Wissell’s surprise the alien extended long fingers as if he had been shaking hands all his life. The specialist took it automatically. The grip was firm except for a distinct softness detectable at the padded tips.
“I am Couthad.” Yellow eyes roamed the web of intricate machinery that took raw materials and from them synthesized food for the crew. “Having been made aware of this counterpart to a similar installation on our colony ship that was my responsibility, I have come to admire it for myself. Your work is amazing and your end product delicious beyond imagining.”
“Yes, well.” Taken aback by the unexpected flattery, Wissell was not so easily sidetracked. “We’re still serving first-meal requests. I don’t have time to show you around just now.”
He peered harder at his deferential guest. Everyone on board had been briefed with all that was known about the Perenoreans together with suggestions on how to deal with them. Based on what the specialist knew, something appeared to be absent from this Couthad’s attire. The spiraling garb was eye-catching, just as in the images he had seen. Was he missing something important? Then he relaxed. There was no translation gear.
“I entreat you, Nurturesque Wissell. For days now, I have delayed asking questions of you out of fear that my lack of understanding would only magnify my ignorance. Please do not amplify my shame by turning me away!”
“Well, I…” The specialist hardly knew what to say. His visitor’s command of Standard was flawless. No one had ever “entreated” him before.
“All right. I suppose my team can manage without me for one morning. Escoffier knows they’ve done so before. You say that your responsibilities on the Eparthaa were similar to mine on the Enterprise?”
Couthad accompanied his nod with a hand gesture that was the Perenorean equivalent. “I am responsible on DiBor for the providing of all synthesized nutrients.” Gazing past the specialist, the alien visitor eagerly scrutinized the complex of food-making apparatus. “While at first glance it would appear that our machinery is somewhat different in design, save for specific supplements such as trace minerals and vitamins the nutritional requirements of our respective species are not so very different.”
Wissell was agreeable. “No reason why we shouldn’t be able to eat each other’s foods. We’re both carbon-based omnivorous life-forms.” He chuckled. “I’ll let you in on a little something, Couthad.”
The alien’s command of the specialist’s language did have its limits. “ ‘Let me in on’…?”
Wissell lowered his voice. “A little joke among the fraternity of nutrient-synthesizer specialists. You do have jokes among your people, don’t you?”
The round mouth could not flatten to form a smile, but the alien managed to give an impression of the expression nonetheless. “The Perenoreans have as well-developed a sense of humor as any species we have ever encountered. Most intelligent species seem to appreciate humor of one sort or another.” His gaze narrowed. “Except, perhaps, for the Dre’kalak.”
“Yeah, from what I was able to see and learn of them, they didn’t strike me as an excessively jovial type, either.” He moved a little closer. “See, every time the Federation makes first contact, the first thing everyone on the vessel wonders about is whether the new race will be friendly and what they’ll look like. But for food specialists like myself, we have this secret desire—never fulfilled, of course—to wonder what they might… taste like.” He stood back. “Can’t help it. It’s part of our intellectual and professional makeup, I guess. How about you? Do specialists like yourself among the Perenoreans have similar feelings?”
Couthad ruminated a moment. “No. We do not wonder what other intelligent species might taste like. We do not think about eating every animal we see.”
“Oh.” Wissell was disappointed. “Ah well, no matter. It was just a joke.” One that has fallen decidedly flat, he told himself. Turning, he gestured grandly at the equipment complex behind them. Outside, the last first-meal eaters were finishing their breakfast. In a little while it would be time to gear up for second meal. The specialist was confident his subordinates could handle the routine process. “What would you like to see first?”
Couthad did not hesitate. “I would very much like to view your system for synthesizing and reconstructing the genomes that form the basis of the food products you provide.”
Wissell blinked. “Excuse me? We, uh, we don’t do that here. We’re given prefabricated supplies of multiple nutritional building blocks. These are broken down by category, then parceled out and reconstructed or rehydrated into specific menu items as requested by the crew.” He peered harder at his guest. “You use a different procedure?”
“Yes. Although I am sure it is not nearly as efficient or satisfying. We synthesize the genomes necessary to brew ten to twenty basic organic soups. Using these broths by themselves and in combination with a large variety of additives, we can duplicate almost any foodstuff required or requested. The availability now of natural ingredients on DiBor and additional imports from SiBor have greatly expanded the nutritional options available to the colony.”
Wissell studied his visitor. “What you’re describing is beyond anything I trained for. I just supervise the combining of prefabricated nutritional components. We don’t build them from scratch here. Certainly we don’t work at the molecular level.” He frowned. “You sure you’re just a food specialist?”
“Certainly that is what I am,” Couthad readily admitted. “Of course, I am also a qualified molecular biologist and trained DNA recombinant engineer.”
“Of… course,” Wissell murmured. “I’ve got to say I’m impressed. I wish I could—”
The alien quickly interrupted him. Out of sheer enthusiasm, the specialist was certain, and not out of disrespect.
“I could teach you how to create food through this process. We would need to make adjus
tments to your equipment. I think it could be done.”
“Hmm. Start with the genomes of the food base, you say? I could probably get a paper out of that, could distribute it throughout Starfleet. Might even be a promotion in it.” Wissell looked behind him, back into the depths of the food processing complex. “I’d have to work closely with you every step of the way, Couthad. Security.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly! I would not think of trying to do such a thing by myself. I would merely make the necessary suggestions to you. You could then run them through your computer to check on their viability and safety before actually implementing them.”
“Sounds promising.” The initially wary specialist began to reflect a little of his visitor’s contagious excitement. “This is very thoughtful of you, Couthad. Really. Very thoughtful.”
The Perenorean food specialist lowered his gaze. “I am only seeking to return the graciousness your kind has extended to mine, and that you have shown me personally.”
Wissell chuckled to himself. “But I haven’t shown you anything yet. We’ve only talked. You’ve just had the most superficial glance, and from a distance.” He gestured at the processing complex behind them. “Don’t you want to have at least a quick look around before we start?”
“There will be ample time, and I am sure I will see everything I wish to see in the course of our cooperation. Shall we begin?”
“Absolutely.” It took Wissell a moment to find his tricorder. “You don’t mind if I make a record of our collaboration? I don’t want to overlook any details.”
“Not at all.” Couthad sounded proud. “Anything that will aid you in remembering my small suggestions and serve to underline the usefulness of our work together is welcome.”
The Unsettling Stars Page 17