Read Online Star Trek - Log 8 by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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surely as if they had been shouting in Federation English.
"We haven't seen another Lactran since we arrived except these two," he declared. "Is this standard procedure, Commander Markel? Do these two have a function—are they scientists, or what?"
"It's our joint opinion that they're guards, sir," Markel told him. "Or keepers—the terminology depends on your mood of the moment. Sometimes there are three instead of two, but always at least a couple hovering around somewhere, except when large groups of them appear. They're probably there to see we don't damage ourselves, or each other."
McCoy grunted again. "Very thoughtful of them. I suppose we should feel flattered."
"You mentioned regular meals," Kirk went on. "Do they feed you or supply game so you can fend for yourselves?"
Markel shook his head. "They bring us a large case of various edibles once a week. The stuff is funny-looking, but it tastes okay. I think they synthesized our emergency rations." He smiled at a sudden thought. "If I'd known, we would have beamed down with steak and seafood instead of concentrates."
"How do they get it to you?"
"I'm not certain. We've never been able to tell if they shut the force wall down completely or just at the point where the food is sent in."
"The point?" Kirk perked up. "They always bring it to the same place?"
"Always," Bryce admitted, nodding. "Near the display case."
"Display case . . . what display case?"
"Behind this house," she continued. "Commander Markel mentioned the table our equipment was kept on. It's set up there, outside the force wall. They have all our toys in there, our digging stones and pointed sticks. That's only appropriate, isn't it?" She turned a worried, tired gaze down to the feverish navigator. "It's all part of the main exhibit—us."
"Phasers, communicators, medical supplies, tricorders, and packs—everything we brought down with us," Markel finished.
"That means my medikit should be there, too," McCoy surmised. "We've got to get it back somehow."
"Possibly we can persuade them to give it to us, Captain," Spock suggested. "It is certain that they are aware of the potential of each device. That is shown by their refusal to return the phasers at any time."
"But the medical equipment wouldn't be harmful," McCoy noted. Spock shook his head, once.
"We have already commented on the possibility of voluntary injury to a despondent captive," the first officer commented, ignoring the sensibilities around him in favor of cold reason. "That explains their reluctance to turn such material over to their captives."
"Even at the expense of losing one of those valuable specimens," McCoy snarled, staring helplessly at the recumbent figure of Lieutenant Randolph. His arms were held stiffly at his sides, the hands curled tightly into fists.
"A strong emotional projection, Doctor."
"What of it?" a belligerent McCoy objected.
"Possibly nothing, but continue with it. Reinforce it, concentrate on it to the exclusion of all else."
McCoy started to say something, hesitated, then nodded as understanding of Spock's intention dawned on him. He let the rage and frustration flow freely over him, dwelt masochistically on the image of a twisted, emaciated Randolph writhing on the couch in her death throes. His face contorted and wrinkled, and he fairly vibrated with the tension. McCoy was almost a parody of concentration.
Parody or not, it seemed to have some effect. Spock was staring out the front window as McCoy concentrated. As he watched, one of the two Lactrans abruptly turned and scurried off out of view.
"One of the aliens has just left his companion, Captain," he reported.
"Keep it up, Bones."
"I'm . . . trying, Jim . . ." McCoy's face was a portrait of exaggerated yet honest concern.
"A little bit longer. Give them a chance and we'll see what happens . . ."
They waited. Markel suddenly broke the silence. He was staring out one of the back windows and called excitedly to the others.
"Back here,
"We haven't seen another Lactran since we arrived except these two," he declared. "Is this standard procedure, Commander Markel? Do these two have a function—are they scientists, or what?"
"It's our joint opinion that they're guards, sir," Markel told him. "Or keepers—the terminology depends on your mood of the moment. Sometimes there are three instead of two, but always at least a couple hovering around somewhere, except when large groups of them appear. They're probably there to see we don't damage ourselves, or each other."
McCoy grunted again. "Very thoughtful of them. I suppose we should feel flattered."
"You mentioned regular meals," Kirk went on. "Do they feed you or supply game so you can fend for yourselves?"
Markel shook his head. "They bring us a large case of various edibles once a week. The stuff is funny-looking, but it tastes okay. I think they synthesized our emergency rations." He smiled at a sudden thought. "If I'd known, we would have beamed down with steak and seafood instead of concentrates."
"How do they get it to you?"
"I'm not certain. We've never been able to tell if they shut the force wall down completely or just at the point where the food is sent in."
"The point?" Kirk perked up. "They always bring it to the same place?"
"Always," Bryce admitted, nodding. "Near the display case."
"Display case . . . what display case?"
"Behind this house," she continued. "Commander Markel mentioned the table our equipment was kept on. It's set up there, outside the force wall. They have all our toys in there, our digging stones and pointed sticks. That's only appropriate, isn't it?" She turned a worried, tired gaze down to the feverish navigator. "It's all part of the main exhibit—us."
"Phasers, communicators, medical supplies, tricorders, and packs—everything we brought down with us," Markel finished.
"That means my medikit should be there, too," McCoy surmised. "We've got to get it back somehow."
"Possibly we can persuade them to give it to us, Captain," Spock suggested. "It is certain that they are aware of the potential of each device. That is shown by their refusal to return the phasers at any time."
"But the medical equipment wouldn't be harmful," McCoy noted. Spock shook his head, once.
"We have already commented on the possibility of voluntary injury to a despondent captive," the first officer commented, ignoring the sensibilities around him in favor of cold reason. "That explains their reluctance to turn such material over to their captives."
"Even at the expense of losing one of those valuable specimens," McCoy snarled, staring helplessly at the recumbent figure of Lieutenant Randolph. His arms were held stiffly at his sides, the hands curled tightly into fists.
"A strong emotional projection, Doctor."
"What of it?" a belligerent McCoy objected.
"Possibly nothing, but continue with it. Reinforce it, concentrate on it to the exclusion of all else."
McCoy started to say something, hesitated, then nodded as understanding of Spock's intention dawned on him. He let the rage and frustration flow freely over him, dwelt masochistically on the image of a twisted, emaciated Randolph writhing on the couch in her death throes. His face contorted and wrinkled, and he fairly vibrated with the tension. McCoy was almost a parody of concentration.
Parody or not, it seemed to have some effect. Spock was staring out the front window as McCoy concentrated. As he watched, one of the two Lactrans abruptly turned and scurried off out of view.
"One of the aliens has just left his companion, Captain," he reported.
"Keep it up, Bones."
"I'm . . . trying, Jim . . ." McCoy's face was a portrait of exaggerated yet honest concern.
"A little bit longer. Give them a chance and we'll see what happens . . ."
They waited. Markel suddenly broke the silence. He was staring out one of the back windows and called excitedly to the others.
"Back here,
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