Star Trek 03 Read online

  "How sad for you, my friend," the peddler said. His voice was surprisingly melodious. "You won't see finer stones than mine anywhere. Ah well. Now surely you'll be wanting some Sirian glow water . . ."

  "I use that," the storekeeper said in a deadly monotone, "to polish the flame gems."

  The peddler sighed and swept most of his merchandise off the counter into his sack. Only one object was left—a green-gold ball of fluff.

  "Ah, you are a most difficult man to reach. All I have left to offer you is tribbles. Surely, you will want . . ."

  "Not at that price."

  "Oooh," Uhura said. "What is it? Is it alive? May I hold him? He's adorable."

  "What is it?" the peddler said, handing it over. "Why, little darlin', it's a tribble. Only the sweetest little creature known to man—exceptin', of course, yourself."

  The object in the lieutenant's hands throbbed gently. Kirk became aware of a low, pervasive sound, like a cross between the thrum of a kitten and the cooing of a dove. "Oh," Uhura said, "it's purring!"

  "Ah, little lady, he's just sayin' that he likes you."

  "Can I buy him?"

  "That," the shopkeeper said, "is what we're trying to decide right now."

  "My friend, ten credits apiece is a very reasonable price. You can see for yourself how much the lovely little lady here appreciates fine things. Others will, too."

  "One credit," said the storekeeper.

  Sulu put his grain on the counter and reached tentatively for the tribble. "He won't bite, will he?" the helmsman said.

  "Sir!" the peddler said, making a great show of ignoring the storekeeper's offer. "There is a law against transporting harmful animals from one planet to another, as you as a starship officer must be fully aware. Besides, tribbles have no teeth."

  "All right," the shopkeeper said. "Two credits."

  The peddler took the tribble from Sulu and plopped it down on the counter again. "Nine," he said.

  The shopkeeper eyed the animal dubiously. "Is he clean?"

  "He's as clean as you are. I daresay a good deal cleaner."

  "If you don't want him, I'll take him," Lt. Uhura said. "I think he's cute."

  This set off another round of haggling. The two finally settled on six credits, whereupon the peddler began to produce more tribbles from his sack. Startlingly, no two were the same color or size.

  "How much are you selling them for?" Uhura asked the shopkeeper.

  "Ten credits. But for you . . ."

  "Hey!" Sulu said suddenly. "He's eating my grain!" He swept up what remained. The tribble's purr got louder, and its non-face went slowly round and round, giving an absurd impression of bliss. The shopkeeper picked it up, but the peddler promptly took it from him.

  "Sir," the peddler said. "That one happens to be my sample, which is mine to do with as I please. And I please to give it to the pretty little lady here."

  "That's right," said the storekeeper. "Ruin the market."

  "My friend," the peddler said, almost singing, "once the pretty little lady here starts to show this little precious around, you won't be able to keep up with 'em. Mark my words."

  Lt. Uhura put the faceless ball of fur to her face, cooing alarmingly. Kirk did not know whether to be pleased or scared; Uhura had never shown the faintest sign of sentimentality before, but she seemed to be far gone in gooiness now. To be sure, the baggy little animals were attractive, but . . .

  Queep!

  No, that wasn't a tribble; it was his communicator.

  "Kirk here."

  "Captain, this is Scott. We have a stiff message in from Starfleet Command. I think you'd better deal with it; I don't think I'm authorized."

  "All right, Scotty," Kirk told his communicator. "Record and hold. I'll be right over."

  "Well and good. But, Captain, that's not all, sir. Our sensors have just picked up a Klingon battle cruiser. It's closing in rapidly on K-7. I've challenged it and gotten a routine acknowledgement; but . . ."

  "Who's in command?" Spock said. Kirk had almost forgotten that he was still in the shop; but as usual, he had asked the crucial question. Kirk passed it on, with a grateful nod to his First Officer.

  "Commander Koloth, sir. You'll remember him from our last encounter, Captain; a real, fourteen-karat son of a . . ."

  "I get the message, Scotty. Hold on—and post battle stations. Lieutenant Uhura, pick up your pet; we're back on duty."

  He had hardly finished speaking before the Enterprise's transporters shimmered them all out of existence.

  The message from Starfleet Command was, as usual, brief and pointed. It said: "It is not necessary to remind you of the importance to the Federation of Sherman's Planet. The key to our winning of this planet is the grain, quadrotriticale. The shipment of it must be protected. Effective immediately, you will render any aid and assistance which Undersecretary Baris may require. The safety of the grain—and the project—is your responsibility."

  How complicated that was going to be was immediately made clear by the presence of the Klingon ship. It made no move to attack the station; that in fact would have been suicide, since every phaser on board the Enterprise was locked on the Klingon vessel (as Koloth, an able captain, would assume as a matter of course). Instead, Koloth stunned everyone by asking for shore leave for his men.

  Under the Organian peace treaty, Commander Lurry had no choice but to grant the request. Starfleet, however, had inadvertently given Kirk a card to play, since the phrasing of the message had made the safety of the grain his responsibility. Hence he was able to order that only twelve Klingons be allowed shore leave at a time, and furthermore he beamed over one Enterprise security guard for every Klingon. That part of it, he thought, ought to please Baris, at least.

  It did not please Baris. He did not want any Klingons on the station, period. He carried on about it quite a lot. In the end, however, it was clear that the Klingons had a right to be there, and nothing could be done about it.

  Kirk stopped off at the recreation room for a cup of coffee and a breather. Scott, the engineer, was there reading a technical journal; that was his form of relaxation. Elsewhere, however, a knot of people were gathered around a table, including Spock, Dr. McCoy, Uhura and Ensign Freeman. Joining the group, Kirk found that on the table was Uhura's tribble and at least ten smaller ones; the crewmen were playing with them.

  "How long have you had that thing, Lieutenant?" McCoy asked Uhura.

  "Only since yesterday. This morning, I found that he—I mean she had had babies."

  "I'd say you got a bargain." McCoy picked up one of the animals and examined it curiously. "Hmmm . . ."

  "Lieutenant Uhura," Kirk said amusedly, "are you running a nursery?"

  "I hadn't intended to—but the tribble had other plans."

  Spock too was handling one of the creatures, stroking it absent-mindedly.

  "You got it at the space station?" McCoy said.

  "Yes, from the pilot of that one-man scout ship. Commander Lurry says his name is Cyrano Jones, of all things. He's a system locater, down on his luck."

  "Most of them are," Kirk said. "Locating new systems on the margins of Klingon space is a synonym for locating trouble."

  "A most curious creature, Captain," Spock said. "Its trilling would seem to have a tranquilizing effect on the human nervous system. Fortunately, I seem to be immune."

  Watching his First Officer stroke the animal, Kirk raised an eyebrow, but offered no other comment.

  "Lieutenant," McCoy said, "do you mind if I take one of these things down to the lab to find out what makes it tick?"

  "It's all right with me, but if you're planning to dissect it, I don't want to know about it."

  "Say, Lieutenant," Ensign Freeman said, "if you're giving them away, could I have one too?"

  "Sure, why not? They seem to be old enough."

  Freeman looked at Kirk. "I don't have any objections to pets on this ship," Kirk said. "Within reason. But if these tribbles want to stay on the Enterpri
se, they'd better be a little less prolific."

  The tribbles, however, did not seem to get the message. Visiting sick bay the next day—another prolonged shouting match with Baris had given him a headache—Kirk found that McCoy had what seemed to be a boxful of the creatures.

  "I thought Uhura gave you only one of those things, Bones. It looks more like you've got ten here."

  "Average litter. I had eleven, but I dissected one. The nearest thing I can figure out is that they're born pregnant."

  "Is that possible?"

  "No, but it would be a great timesaver, wouldn't it? I can tell you this much: almost fifty per cent of the creature's metabolism is geared to reproduction. Do you know what you get if you feed a tribble too much?"

  Kirk's mind was not really on the subject. "A very fat tribble?"

  "No. You get a whole bunch of hungry little tribbles. And if you think that's a boxful, you should see Uhura's. She's got about fifty, and she gave away five."

  "Well, you'd better find homes for this batch before you've got fifty, too." Kirk swallowed the headache pill. "Are you going on shore leave, Bones?"

  "Already been. Besides, this problem is more interesting. I understand Scotty went over with the last detachment; he'll see to it that there's no trouble. Unless, of course, the Klingons start it."

  "I can't see why they'd want to do that. Koloth knows that if there is any, I'd promptly double the number of guards. If he's really after the grain, that's the last thing he'd want."

  Nevertheless, after his next interview with Lurry, Kirk troubled to make a detour through the space station's bar. There were six Earthmen there, Scotty and Navigator Chekov among them. Five or six Klingons were at another table, but the two groups were studiously ignoring each other.

  As Kirk joined his own men, Cyrano Jones entered the bar and also moved toward them. "Ah, friends," he said, "can I interest you in a tribble?"

  He was holding one at Scott's shoulder. Scott turned toward him and found himself looking straight into the tribble's absence of a face. He shuddered.

  "I've been puffin' the little beasties out of my engine room all morning!"

  "Perhaps one of you other gentlemen—?" There was no response. With a fatalistic shrug, Cyrano went over to the Klingon table, approaching one whom Kirk recognized as Korax, one of Koloth's officers.

  "Friend Klingon, may I offer you a charmin' little tribble . . ."

  The tribble had other ideas. All its fur stood on end. It hitched itself up Cyrano's forearm with an angry spitting hiss.

  "Stop that!" Cyrano said. "Apologies for his bad manners, sir. He's never done that before."

  "I suggest," Korax said coldly, "that you remove yourself and that parasite as speedily as possible."

  "It's only a friendly little . . ."

  "Take it away!"

  There was another hiss from the tribble. Korax slapped Cyrano's arm away, sending the tribble flying across the room to land among the Earthmen. Cyrano rushed to retrieve it; Scotty handed it to him without a word.

  After looking from one group to the other, Cyrano, somewhat disconsolately, retreated to the bar, where the counterman was taking down a pitcher from a high shelf, and put his beast down on the counter.

  "Sir! I feel sure that you would be willin' to engage in a little barter—one of my little tribbles in exchange for a spot of . . ."

  The attendant turned, and upended the pitcher. Three tribbles fell out of it.

  It was worse on shipboard. The corridors seemed to be crawling with the creatures. On the bridge, Kirk had to scoop three or four of them out of his chair before he could sit down. They were all over the consoles, on shelves, everywhere.

  "Lieutenant, how did all of these tribbles get onto the bridge?"

  "Through the ventilator ducts, I expect, Captain. They seem to be all over the ship."

  "They certainly do. Mr. Spock, have a maintenance crew come up here to clean out this bridge. How many of them are there now, anyhow?"

  "Assuming one creature—the one Lieutenant Uhura brought aboard—with an average litter of ten," the First Officer said, "every twelve hours. The third generation will total one thousand, three hundred thirty-one. The fourth generation will total fourteen thousand, six hundred and forty-one. The fifth generation will . . ."

  "That's already enough. I want a thorough cleanup. They've got to go."

  "All of them?" Lt. Uhura said protestingly. "Oh, Captain . . ."

  "Every last one."

  "A logical decision," Spock said. "Their breeding rate is beyond our control. They are consuming our supplies and returning nothing."

  "Oh, come on now, Mr. Spock. I don't agree with you at all. They're giving us their love. Cyrano Jones says that a tribble is the only love money can buy."

  "Lieutenant," Kirk said, "too much of anything—even love—is not necessarily a good thing. And in view of the fact that this all started with just one tribble, clearly the only safe number is none."

  "And since feeding them is what makes them breed," Spock added, "one need only imagine what would happen if they got into the food processing machinery, or the food storage areas."

  Kirk stared at the First Officer, thunderstruck. "Storage areas!" he said. "Great thundering fireballs! Storage areas! Lieutenant Uhura, contact Commander Lurry, and Nilz Baris. Have them meet us at the station mall. Mr. Spock, we're beaming over. Lieutenant, have Doctor McCoy join us in the transporter room—on the double!"

  When the three materialized on the mall, half a dozen tribbles materialized with them. The mall did not need any more, however; it was inundated. The store where they had seen their very first tribble looked like a snowbank of fur. The storekeeper, who had evidently just given up an attempt to sweep them out, was sitting in the midst of them with his head in his hands, close to tears.

  Lurry and Baris came running to meet them—for once, without Darvin. "What's the matter?" Baris panted.

  "Plenty—if what I think has happened, has happened. The warehouse, quick!"

  Baris needed no further urging. They left at a dead run, kicking tribbles out of the way.

  There were two guards before the warehouse door. "Is that door secure?" Kirk demanded.

  "Yes, sir. Nothing could get in."

  "Open it."

  The guard produced a magnetic key. Nothing happened. "Don't understand it, sir. It seems to be . . ."

  What it seemed to be will never be known, for at that moment the door slid open. There was a sort of silent explosion. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of tribbles came tumbling out, cascading down around them all, wriggling and seething and mewling and writhing and throbbing and trilling and purring . . .

  They stood aghast as the mountain of fur grew. Spock recovered first. Scooping up a tribble, he examined it with clinical detachment. "It seems to be gorged," he observed.

  "Gorged!" Baris gasped. "On my grain! Kirk! I'll hold you responsible! There must be thousands—hundreds of thousands!"

  "One million, five hundred and sixty-one thousand, seven hundred and seventy-three," Spock said, "assuming, of course, that they got in here three days ago, and allowing for the maximum rate of grain consumption and the volume of the warehouse."

  "What does the exact number matter?" Baris said despairingly. "The Klingons will get Sherman's Planet now!"

  "I'm afraid," Kirk said slowly, "that you're right about that."

  McCoy had been kneeling among the tribbles, examining them closely. At this point he looked up.

  "Jim?"

  "What is it, Bones?"

  "Mr. Spock is wrong about these animals. They're not lethargic because they're gorged. They're dying."

  "Dying! Are you sure?"

  "I venture to say," McCoy replied with dignity, "that nobody on this station knows their metabolism better than I do. Yes, I am sure."

  "All right," Kirk said with sudden energy. "Bones, take some of them back to your lab, and some of the grain, too. If they're dying, I want to know why. Then repor
t back to me. I'm opening a formal hearing and investigation. Commander Lurry, I presume we can use your office. I'll want your assistant, and Captain Koloth—and Cyrano Jones, too."

  "What good will that do?" Bans said. "The project is ruined—ruined!"

  "Regulations require it," Kirk said. "And as for the project—well, that remains to be seen."

  The scene in Lurry's office strongly resembled that moment in the classical detective novel when all the suspects are lined up and the shrewd sleuth eliminates all the obvious suspects and puts his finger on the butler. Lurry was seated behind his desk; nearby, in the visitor's chair, sat Cyrano Jones, stroking a tribble in his lap. Standing, with various degrees of uneasiness, interest or defiance, were Koloth, Korax, another Klingon aide, Spock, Baris, and McCoy, with Kirk facing them. And there were, of course, several security guards standing by. The Klingon captain spoke first:

  "I had heard that you Earthers were sentimental about these parasites," he said, "but this is carrying things too far. I want an official apology from you, Kirk, addressed to the High Command of the Klingon Empire. You have restricted the shore leave of my men, harassed them with uniformed snoopers, and now summon us here like common criminals. If you wish to avoid a diplomatic crisis . . ."

  "Don't do it, Kirk!" Baris burst in. "That'll give them the final wedge they need to claim Sherman's Planet!"

  "Oh, as to that matter," Koloth said silkily, "it would seem that the outcome is already settled."

  "One thing at a time," Kirk said. "Our present job is to find out who is responsible for the tribbles getting into the quadrotriticale. The Klingons have an obvious motive. On the other hand, it was Cyrano Jones who brought them here, apparently with purely commercial intent. There's no obvious connection."

  "Beggin' your pardon, Captain," Cyrano said, "but a certain amount of the blame might be lyin' in sheer ignorance of the little creatures. If you keep their diet down below a certain intake per day, why sure and they don't breed at all. That's how I control mine."

  Kirk stared at him. "Why didn't you tell us that before?"

  "Nobody asked me. Besides, Captain, any man's common sense should tell him that it's bad for little animals to be overfeedin' 'em."