Mudd's Angels Page 8

  "Very well. Establish communications, Lieutenant Uhura." Thinking aloud, Kirk muttered, "For this job, we really need a commercial attaché, who could talk turkey and make it sound like chicken à la king." McCoy, stopping by with the sickbay list, grinned appreciatively.

  "I beg your pardon?" said Spock.

  "What about Yeoman Weinberg, Jim?" said the Doctor. "I've just had him in for his checkup, and he tells me he's aiming for the Diplomatic Service."

  "That young psychohistorian? I'm afraid he might get carried away with some of those theories he keeps playing with—like the one about the Vulcan nerve pinch being a form of voodoo."

  "You must admit he abandoned the theory when it became experimentally untenable," said McCoy.

  "You mean when Mister Spock pinched him?" said Uhura, smiling reminiscently.

  "Quite."

  "Well, we'll hope he can accept less dramatic kinds of evidence when necessary. All right, Bones, I'll take him along. Lieutenant Uhura, request permission to land—for myself and the Yeoman."

  Ensign Weinberg presented himself in the Transporter Room slightly breathless, and festooned with notebooks, tricorders, an elaborate Universal Translator barnacled with unexpected knobs, psychotricorder, medical tricorders…

  "What is all that stuff?" said Kirk, staring at the mass of cases, straps and lenses, under which the slight frame of Yeoman Weinberg was barely visible.

  "My equipment, sir." Weinberg peered out from among the bristling assortment.

  "Look, Yeoman, we aren't planning to socio-analyze these people. We just want to ask them a few questions."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Besides, you look funny."

  "Let him take what he thinks he needs, Jim. You don't know what you may run into, even though they sounded amiable enough," said McCoy, as Kirk stepped on to the platform.

  The captain shrugged. "I suppose they could be concealing something. Very well, Ensign. Let's go." McCoy shook his head as they disintegrated into the shimmering transporter effect. He would never be convinced.

  They materialized outside a long hut, and the two guests from the Enterprise were surrounded by a horde of men, each trying to shake hands and all talking at once. A large man in a maroon pullover pounded Kirk's shoulder. "Goddamn, it's good to see you. We don't get many new faces out here!" Noisy welcomes urged them into the house, out of the hot wind. They were swept into a large cool room, ushered to comfortable chairs. Glasses with iced drinks were thrust into their hands. Questions, greetings, gossip flooded over them. Yeoman Weinberg began to disentangle himself slowly.

  "… and we have some real fresh-frozen vegetables we broke out as soon as we knew you were coming. The girls grew them. Real gardening fiends, they are… And you'll stay for a meal, of course… We thought we'd open the Meritan burgundy…" At the far end of the room, which seemed to be a community kitchen, women were bustling, and the sound of clattering pans floated over the men's voices.

  Kirk was trying to sort out the crowd. There were, after all, only the twenty; Mike introduced himself as the foreman, as he refreshed Kirk's glass to overflowing.

  "It's very kind of you, Mike, but we just want to ask you a few questions."

  "Go ahead." The foreman grinned. "As long as it's not classified."

  "I have top security clearance, if it comes to that." A pert blonde in a checked apron offered him a tray of little sandwiches. Yeoman Weinberg seemed to be taking a tricorder reading of his drink—or of his sandwich.

  "Then shoot," said Mike. "Al, Laro, you agree? We tell the man what he wants to know—and then the eats, right?"

  The noise had abated; the men were listening. They nodded.

  "Right. First business, then smorgasbord!" said the pale Laro.

  "Uh. We didn't know the station had been opened to families yet," said Kirk politely. "Nice you could bring your wives along. You must be a lot more comfortable." The hut was certainly well-kept.

  "We didn't exactly bring them." A grin washed round the group.

  "They joined you here recently?"

  Mike nodded, and threw an appreciative look toward the kitchen. "Pretty little flock o' birds, aren't they?"

  "They all seem very attractive," Kirk acknowledged pleasantly. Another plate appeared in front of him, filled with tiny colorful canapes. He waved it aside with a smile. "Mike, could you give us some production figures?"

  "Sure, Captain. For what period?" He pulled a standard tricorder from his pocket.

  "Current."

  "Raw crystals, one million, one hundred twenty thousand, six hundred and forty-three tons over the past eighteen months," said Mike proudly.

  "Where is it now?" This was the crucial question. Weinberg was holding his breath a bit too obviously, Kirk noted with some annoyance. If he was to go into the diplomatic service, he'd have to learn to hide his reactions better than this. He could start with poker lessons…

  "Shipped out monthly, right on schedule," replied Mike, with no shadow of surprise, anxiety or doubt.

  "But—" said Weinberg, and choked on a pink canape; and had to be pounded on the back and relieved of his plate. He finally managed to enunciate, "Shipped where?"

  "Captain?" said Mike, eying the flushed and earnest Weinberg.

  Kirk nodded. "Those shipments have not arrived where they were expected. Can you give us the receiver's coordinates?"

  Mike shook his head. "Well, damn. I wish I could, but we only load up, get a receipt for the goods, get the payment and carry on. We only mine crystals, we don't handle shipping."

  Hijack. If that's it, Kirk thought, we are up against criminals who will fight. The punishments for hijacking were severe; even if we can find them, this could be a very rough assignment.

  "Uh, sir," said Yeoman Weinberg. "Maybe we could ask to see a receipt? It might tell us something."

  "Sure," said the foreman. "Laro, bring the receipt cassette from the office, will you?" The tall, blond man nodded and went through a nearby door.

  "Mike, your crystals are not reaching the Star Base Fueling Stations. Have you any idea why?"

  "Is that what's on your mind? Well, well…" Laughter rolled around Kirk and Weinberg. As Laro returned, the joke was shared with him as well. Captain and Yeoman exchanged puzzled glances.

  Mike handed Kirk the cassette. "Might be because we aren't selling to Star Fleet any more, Captain."

  "What?" Mike's easy assurance wilted slightly under Kirk's sharp question.

  "Well, you see, our contract expired. We hadn't heard anything about renewing it, and we got a better bid. A lot better, as far as we're concerned. So we signed up with another outfit."

  "What other outfit?" Kirk hoped his bewilderment was not as obvious as he thought it might be; he, too, would have to look into the poker lessons.

  "Call themselves Galactic Trading Corporation, I think. That right, Al? We had such a blast with the rep—never saw a fellow with such a talent for making a party swing. Don't remember all the details… Here's the receipt for the last lot."

  Weinberg and Kirk gazed at the display on the foreman's tricorder. The receipt was dated a few weeks back. Five thousand, three hundred and forty metric tons delivered aboard the cargo ship Interstella, signed by squiggle; destination unspecified; port of registration, squiggle. Utterly uninformative.

  "And the contract?" said Kirk finally, looking up.

  "Well now, Captain, that's not really your business, is it?" said Mike slowly. "I think we've already been more than generous showing you as much as we have of our private records. But the contract is legit for sure. Star Fleet should have renewed, but they didn't—didn't even contact us, ship didn't show up, nothing. So we're well within our rights—aren't we, men?"

  There was a murmur from the others, agreeing. The friendly welcome had faded into watchfulness.

  "If the contract is legitimate, Captain, and there seems no reason to doubt it, and Star Fleet dropped the option, he's right. We can't do anything about it," Weinberg said softly.


  "But?" Kirk had to admit defeat. "All right. We'll report to Star Fleet Command at once" He shrugged. "I still think there was some moral obligation on your parts, Mike. After all, the plant was financed by Star Fleet."

  "You could be right, Captain, you could be right. But how the hell are we supposed to read their minds?"

  Somehow the invitation to eat with the miners was not repeated. Soberly, the Captain and the Yeoman beamed aboard the Enterprise. As they moved from the Transporter Room to the bridge, Kirk asked, "Well, Mister Weinberg, did you observe anything significant?"

  "Not really, sir." The young ensign shifted some of his instruments. "Seems like it's a problem of commercial law—not my field. One funny thing, though."

  "What was that?"

  "Don't think I ever saw a group of women so willing to stay in the kitchen before. Not one of them even seemed curious."

  "I can't imagine what that would have to do with the problem at hand, Ensign." The bridge door opened to admit them. "Mister Spock, will you please consult your files… Have we anything on the Galactic Trading Corporation, or the ship Interstella? We'll have to find out who these people are—they seem to be moving in on Star Fleet territory—and legally!"

  The First Officer busied himself with his console. "Captain," he said finally, "I am sorry. There is no information in our computer on either the company or the ship. Perhaps they are too new to have been programmed into the file when it was last updated."

  Kirk sighed. "Lieutenant Uhura, send a sub-space message to, uh, the Assistant Vice Chief of Star Base Supplies. Request information on these two matters, and report the situation found on Muldoon… Bureaucrats! Why don't they keep track of their contracts? Wasting our time, throwing Command into the jitters—"

  Spock said thoughtfully, "Captain, it is certainly an error. But if this kind of oversight accounts for all the missing dilithium shipments, something is very seriously amiss."

  "You are so right, Spock. Carelessness of a phenomenal order—"

  "Or sabotage, Captain."

  They looked at each other. Kirk said grimly, "We'll continue the investigation in the field until we have a reply to our message, nevertheless— if we get a reply at all. Do you remember the Coridan System, Spock?"

  "Certainly, Captain. They were quite recently admitted to the Federation."

  "We met your parents there," said McCoy, provocatively." ["Journey to Babel," (D. C. Fontana) Star Trek 4, Bantam Books.]

  "Yes, doctor. I take it that the abundance of dilithium in that system is what obtrudes it upon our attention at the moment, however."

  "True, Spock." Kirk carefully avoided McCoy's sardonic eye. "Kindly supply the coordinates to Mister Chekov."

  "I have already done so, Captain," said Spock quellingly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THERE WAS NO difficulty in establishing contact with the Coridans. Uhura's board was jammed with invitations from the inhabited planets of the system. All expressed an urgent desire for the company of the Enterprise crew and officers, all four hundred and thirty of them if possible, with offers of entertainment ranging from clambake to corroborree.

  "Me for the clambake!" said Sulu, in an undertone to Chekov.

  "Not me. I'm for the poo-jah. Never heard of it"

  "Well, I want to know what a clam is."

  "Isn't it nice to feel so wanted?" remarked McCoy. "Whose party shall we honor with our presence, Jim?"

  "Damned if I know, Bones. We can't decide on the basis of personal taste, in any case. We have business here—may I remind you all, gentlemen?"

  Chekov and Sulu turned sheepishly back to their consoles. Sulu mouthed silently over his shoulder, "Clams!"

  "May I suggest, Captain," Spock's voice intruded smoothly, "that we explain our mission in general terms, and then see how many of these invitations are confirmed?"

  "Very logical, Spock. If they have anything to tell us—"

  "—Or anything to avoid telling us…"

  Uhura repeated Kirk's dictation on the local general band. "We are seeking an explanation of the sudden shortage of dilithium crystals. Can any of you give us any information?"

  Replies came in rapidly. "Sure, after the clambake we'll have a powwow!"… "Honey, if you personally ask me, I'll tell you anything you want to hear."… "Belt up, Merman, you got the last company for dinner!"… "Here on Blather we keep impeccable records. Handwritten!"… and a muttered aside, "Blather's very strong on church suppers. Be warned."

  Spock shrugged.

  "Draw lots," said McCoy, helplessly.

  The Enterprise hung in space, mercilessly bombarded by hospitality. The answer was obvious.

  "We'll send a contingent to each of you. Thank you," said Kirk. He turned back to his staff. "Duty Officer, we will assign one senior officer, two juniors, two yeomen and two crewmen to each planet. As soon as all assignments are distributed, send this personnel to the Briefing Room. There's some tactful probing to be done here— clam-digging, as it were. And these clams just may close up. I want to be sure each man and woman know what questions to ask."

  But Sulu, returning reeking of fish and shiny with butter, and Chekov, glistening with ghee, and all the others as the groups filtered back, reported no difficulties in obtaining answers.

  "They signed a contract with the Breetish Easht Indja Company," said Chekov. "They liked the name." He grinned. His teeth were bright red. "Betel nut. You chew it. Harmless but a leetle intaxionteexi—eentocsipating."

  "I thought I gave orders that nobody was to overindulge!" said the Captain, scowling.

  Chekov straightened to attention—at a 190-degree angle. "Yes, sir. Deedn't kow eet was alcoholic, sir. Deedn't want to be impolite, sir. But here's a copy of their contract, sir. Very sorry, sir."

  "All right, Chekov. At ease." Chekov toppled over. Sulu picked him up and set him on his feet again, where he stayed at attention—still listing to starboard.

  "Good grief, it is the British East India Company… Mister Sulu?"

  "The Yukon Fur Trading Company, sir."

  As the reports came in… The South Sea Bubble Company… The Muscovy Trading Company… "Vozdhrovia!" mumbled Chekov… The Governors and Company of the Merchants of the Levant… The Great Western Railway Company… All with the same story. And contracts.

  Yeoman Weinberg was puzzled. "Those names. I've heard some of them before. The Yukon Fur Trading Company… and railways?" He snapped his fingers. "That's it! They're old Earth historical companies, part of the history of exploration and economic empires. Way back in the eighteenth century or someplace…"

  Spock had been listening to the Yeoman with approval. "That is indeed the case, Captain. Those were the names of traders who went from Old Europe to the Eastern and newly settled territories, and established commercial relations."

  "There's a bad smell in my memory around them," mused Weinberg. "I can't quite remember why."

  "A great many were unscrupulous, exploitative and financially unstable. A few were of great mutual benefit," Spock went on. "Some, of course, opened the way for political exploitation, with effects that lasted for centuries."

  "But does all this ancient history get us any further with the dilithium problem?" said Kirk impatiently. "All right, so there seems to be a bunch of commercial enterprises with antique and rather silly names. But who are they? What are they up to?"

  "Klingons!" said Chekov thickly, grinning vermilion. "KLINGalingallingalingalons…"

  Kirk turned, startled. "Mister Chekov, you're dismissed. Go to bed."

  "It could be, Jim," said McCoy, considering, as Chekov wandered away, murmuring happily. "They could be preparing to renew hostilities. And if they could corner the dilithium market?

  "We have a treaty." [See "Day of the Dove," Star Trek 11; The Trouble With Tribbles," Star Trek 3, Bantam Books.]

  McCoy shrugged. "Who knows? We don't know what we're up against, and that's a fact."

  Kirk shook his head. "There are too many possibiliti
es. Klingons, sabotage, hijacking—God knows what's behind all this." He called to Lieutenant Uhura. "Please code and send an addendum to our previous message to Command. Give them all these names and get planets of registration, owners of record, all that. We'll have to check them out. We can't interpret anything until we have those data."

  Yeoman Weinberg appeared on the bridge, looking owlish and naked without his paraphernalia. "Sir, I've been talking to the groups that went to the parties."

  "Well?"

  "Sir, everybody tells me about all kinds of exotic feasts, and all kinds of hosts; but the same comment seems to have come up everywhere when they asked their questions."

  "What comment?"

  "About the agents, sir. The company representatives. They all seem to have been alike, big fellows with a lot of tall stories and jokes, very sociable. I get the impression that they sort of charmed the miners into signing up, even if they thought they ought to wait for Star Fleet."

  "Charmed them, or conned them?" said Kirk bitterly.

  "Is it different, sir, at the time?"

  McCoy laughed. "Touché. It isn't, till you find out afterward."

  "Funny all those reps were alike, sir."

  "It would be logical to employ the same agent in the same territory," said Spock. "Except—"

  "… that these were all different companies."

  "Perhaps," said Spock. "The nearest dilithium source is the cracking station on Akladi. Shall we set the course, Captain?"

  The Akladian couple were almost as welcoming as the Coridans. Kirk, McCoy and Yeoman Weinberg were ushered into their sitting room, which was furnished with furs and leather. Akladi was not a planet of great natural gifts, except for the isotope of protactinium necessary for the cracking of dilithium. Clearly, there had been some luxury trading in the background.

  "Well, we are surely sorry, Captain and friends. They just picked up the last prepared shipment yesterday." The short, dark man laughed. "Sorry to have to say this, but the schedule has really picked up since they bought out Star Fleet. I used to wonder if those freighters would ever get here—they were always late."