Read Online Star Trek V: The Final Frontier by J. M. Dillard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. M. Dillard
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brown. “We consume them.”
“I
know
we consume them. I meant
after
we eat them.”
“Ah.” Spock removed his marshmallow from the fire, slipped it from the stick, and popped it into his mouth with surprisingly little mess. He grimacedslightly at the taste. “I believe we are required to engage in a ritual known as the sing-along.”
Jim grinned, his moment of depression forgotten. “I haven’t sung around a campfire since I was a boy in Iowa. What should we sing, Bones?”
McCoy puckered his brow as he searched his memory. “How about ’Camptown Races’?”
“’Pack Up Your Troubles,’” Jim countered. He twirled his stick so that the marshmallow’s sides were evenly exposed to the flame.
Spock turned to him. “Are we leaving, Captain?”
McCoy was clearly enjoying himself. “It’s a song title, for God’s sake, Spock! Don’t
you
have any song titles you’d like to suggest?” He leered expectantly.
“Ah,” Spock said, then thought. “No.”
McCoy seemed taken aback. “The computer didn’t list any?”
Spock shook his head. McCoy deflated in obvious disappointment and confusion.
“How about ’Moon Over Rigel Seven’?” Jim suggested.
“Naw,” McCoy said. “Too mushy. Hey, I’ve got it: ’Row, Row, Row Your Boat.’”
Jim smiled. “Excellent. You know that one, don’t you, Spock?”
“I did not encounter it in my research.”
“You’ll learn it in a matter of seconds. The lyrics are simple: ’Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . . Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.’”
Spock arched a brow. “They are also quite redundant.”
“Songs aren’t meant to be logical, Spock. Bones andI will start it off, and when we give you the signal, join in. Doctor, if you please . ..”
McCoy took another swig of bourbon, gargled with it, then swallowed. He smacked his lips. “All right. . . but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He began to sing in a voice that was not particularly pleasant, but adequately on key. “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . .”
When he reached the first “merrily,” Jim joined in. Maybe it was the bourbon, but it seemed that the two of them sounded pretty good. At the appropriate moment, he signaled for Spock to jump in . . . but the Vulcan merely regarded him with a perplexed expression.
“What is it?” Kirk asked, mildly exasperated. “Why didn’t you join in?”
“I was trying to comprehend the meaning of the words,” Spock replied. “I must admit, I am unable—”
McCoy lost patience. “It’s a
song,
you green-blooded son of a Vulcan! You just
sing
it. The words aren’t important; what’s important is that you have a good time singing it.”
Spock digested this in silence, then said, with utmost sincerity, “I apologize, Dr. McCoy. Were we having a good time?”
McCoy rolled his eyes toward the starry sky.
“I
give up. I think I liked him better before he died.”
“I think we’ve fulfilled sing-along requirements. Why don’t we call it a night and get some sleep?” Jim suggested. The small amount of liquor he’d drunk had made him sleepy in his already exhausted condition. “I’m anxious to have another go at El Cap in themorning.” He had thought it but had not meant to say it aloud; he knew the instant the words were out that it was a mistake.
McCoy, who had abandoned his burnt marshmallow and was already rolling out his sleeping bag, snorted. “Over my dead body, Jim.”
“Drop it, Bones. At least until morning.”
They went to bed.
Twenty minutes later, Kirk lay exhausted in his sleeping bag, listening to McCoy’s insistent snoring. He was on the verge of drifting off when he heard someone speaking to him.
“Captain?” Spock had no doubt guessed he was awake; the Vulcan’s voice sounded unusually troubled.
“We’re on leave, Spock. Call me Jim.”
“Jim.”
“What is it, Spock?”
There was a dramatic pause before Spock, in all
“I
know
we consume them. I meant
after
we eat them.”
“Ah.” Spock removed his marshmallow from the fire, slipped it from the stick, and popped it into his mouth with surprisingly little mess. He grimacedslightly at the taste. “I believe we are required to engage in a ritual known as the sing-along.”
Jim grinned, his moment of depression forgotten. “I haven’t sung around a campfire since I was a boy in Iowa. What should we sing, Bones?”
McCoy puckered his brow as he searched his memory. “How about ’Camptown Races’?”
“’Pack Up Your Troubles,’” Jim countered. He twirled his stick so that the marshmallow’s sides were evenly exposed to the flame.
Spock turned to him. “Are we leaving, Captain?”
McCoy was clearly enjoying himself. “It’s a song title, for God’s sake, Spock! Don’t
you
have any song titles you’d like to suggest?” He leered expectantly.
“Ah,” Spock said, then thought. “No.”
McCoy seemed taken aback. “The computer didn’t list any?”
Spock shook his head. McCoy deflated in obvious disappointment and confusion.
“How about ’Moon Over Rigel Seven’?” Jim suggested.
“Naw,” McCoy said. “Too mushy. Hey, I’ve got it: ’Row, Row, Row Your Boat.’”
Jim smiled. “Excellent. You know that one, don’t you, Spock?”
“I did not encounter it in my research.”
“You’ll learn it in a matter of seconds. The lyrics are simple: ’Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . . Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.’”
Spock arched a brow. “They are also quite redundant.”
“Songs aren’t meant to be logical, Spock. Bones andI will start it off, and when we give you the signal, join in. Doctor, if you please . ..”
McCoy took another swig of bourbon, gargled with it, then swallowed. He smacked his lips. “All right. . . but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He began to sing in a voice that was not particularly pleasant, but adequately on key. “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . .”
When he reached the first “merrily,” Jim joined in. Maybe it was the bourbon, but it seemed that the two of them sounded pretty good. At the appropriate moment, he signaled for Spock to jump in . . . but the Vulcan merely regarded him with a perplexed expression.
“What is it?” Kirk asked, mildly exasperated. “Why didn’t you join in?”
“I was trying to comprehend the meaning of the words,” Spock replied. “I must admit, I am unable—”
McCoy lost patience. “It’s a
song,
you green-blooded son of a Vulcan! You just
sing
it. The words aren’t important; what’s important is that you have a good time singing it.”
Spock digested this in silence, then said, with utmost sincerity, “I apologize, Dr. McCoy. Were we having a good time?”
McCoy rolled his eyes toward the starry sky.
“I
give up. I think I liked him better before he died.”
“I think we’ve fulfilled sing-along requirements. Why don’t we call it a night and get some sleep?” Jim suggested. The small amount of liquor he’d drunk had made him sleepy in his already exhausted condition. “I’m anxious to have another go at El Cap in themorning.” He had thought it but had not meant to say it aloud; he knew the instant the words were out that it was a mistake.
McCoy, who had abandoned his burnt marshmallow and was already rolling out his sleeping bag, snorted. “Over my dead body, Jim.”
“Drop it, Bones. At least until morning.”
They went to bed.
Twenty minutes later, Kirk lay exhausted in his sleeping bag, listening to McCoy’s insistent snoring. He was on the verge of drifting off when he heard someone speaking to him.
“Captain?” Spock had no doubt guessed he was awake; the Vulcan’s voice sounded unusually troubled.
“We’re on leave, Spock. Call me Jim.”
“Jim.”
“What is it, Spock?”
There was a dramatic pause before Spock, in all
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