Mudd's Angels Read online

  Star Fleet's record seemed to be darkening. Always late. Kirk understood that the calculations of subspace-time were extremely complex, but it seemed that everybody but Star Fleet could plunge into the continuum and come up earlier.

  "This is my wife, Andree." A cuddly redhead had emerged from a doorway. She grinned and held out her hand.

  "Hi, Captain, Doctor, Mister Wombat."

  "Weinberg, please, ma'am, thank you. How do you do?" Weinberg was frankly goggling. She was delicious.

  She looked at him under long eyelashes. "I do fine, do you?" She chuckled.

  "Sorry, Captain and all. I'm afraid Andree's been celebrating. She only got here yesterday and she likes it."

  Kirk smiled faintly. The man's fatuousness was understandable, but he wanted to ask—

  "Bought out Star Fleet?" said Weinberg, scratching his head with the corner of a tricorder.

  "Andree, please. Not now." She was switching knobs on a music console, and the beat of dance music roared out at them.

  "Oh, come on. We have company, Joe! Our first visitors—we should have singing and dancing, not boring talk about buying and selling!"

  "I wanted a girl with some life in her," said Joe, with apologetic pride. "I guess I got me one." Andree was whirling on one shapely leg, her rosy skirts flying. "Oh, look out, baby!"

  She had slipped on the polished stone floor, and fallen against the corner of the console. The music squawked; Joe and McCoy reached her a second ahead of Weinberg and Kirk.

  "I'm fine," she said, already on her feet, and holding Joe's hand. "Didn't hurt a bit."

  McCoy's medical tricorder was in his hand. "I'll just have a quick look at your shoulder— you're likely to have a nasty bruise at least…" He frowned, and adjusted the instrument "That's funny. Captain, I think my tricorder is malfunctioning. I'm not getting a credible reading."

  Joe stepped between his wife and the doctor, who looked up with surprise. "It seems to be all right now. What the—"

  "What's the matter, Bones?" said Kirk sharply.

  "I am getting normal, healthy, human readings from Joe here, and no protoplasmic reading whatsoever from the lady."

  "Is that possible, Doctor?"

  "Only if she isn't human."

  Joe's face was scarlet. "You don't have to go on and on about it, buddy."

  Kirk tried to smooth him down. "We meant no offence, Joe. Can you explain?"

  "Look, why don't you and your gang go back to your ship instead of interrupting our honeymoon? Andree thought a party would be fun, but you guys—"

  "I'm sorry, Joe, but some explanation is due us as representatives of Star Fleet. First, the shipment expected from you has not reached Star Base 152. Second, you claim that someone has 'bought out' Star Fleet, which doesn't make sense. Thirdly, and this may be a merely personal matter and it may not, your very charming wife arrived on the same day that the prepared crystals left, which needs clarification—whatever she is."

  "Look, fellow, we don't owe you any explanations. But I will tell you that this station is the property of the Vocational Training Institute, and the fat joker who collected the shipment was their accredited representative." Joe was speaking with dangerous distinctness. "And you are trespassing on Institute property and will you kindly get the hell out of here!" He ended in a shout.

  "I'm the payment," said Andree, sweetly. "On a kilo per kiloton basis. Worth it, don't you think?" She danced around the little group. "And now, having worn out your welcome, will you please do as Joe says and go away someplace."

  They beamed aboard the Enterprise in thoughtful silence.

  "Add the 'Vocational Training Institute' to the list, Uhura."

  "You got that about the 'fat joker,' sir?" said Weinberg.

  "I did, Yeoman, I did. What do you make of this, McCoy, Spock?"

  "I wish I'd been able to take readings on those women you saw at Coridan," said McCoy. "I can't help wondering if maybe they, too, were— not human."

  "If they aren't human, what are they?" asked Weinberg blankly.

  "Androids. Robots. Artificial people."

  "No wonder they didn't mind staying in the kitchen," muttered Weinberg.

  "… on a kilo per kiloton basis… Spock, can you calculate the weights of those twenty 'wives' on Muldoon, and see if it matches up with their production?"

  "Captain, unless you know the actual weights of these androids, I can only guess at the ratio that would apply if they were average human females. And there is no reason to assume that they are… However, on the basis of a 56-kilo average weight, it would check out. Highly unreliable," said Spock, radiating disapproval.

  After considerable further delay, Lieutenant Uhura reported a reply to Kirk's earlier message —from the Assistant Vice Commissioner of Inventory Accounts, to whom the message had eventually been referred.

  "The companies listed are registered to the following—do you want me to read out the whole list, sir?" asked Uhura doubtfully. "There are about fifty names here."

  "No, just give me a printout. Anything else, or just fifty names?"

  "Yes, sir. Their addresses… But they’re all the same!" She stared at her readout display. "All fifty are based on the planet Liticia!"

  "That is distinctly odd."

  "We may be nearing an explanation for some of the common factors, Captain," said Spock.

  "The fat joker, for one."

  "Yes, Doctor. And the—flavor of those company names."

  "There's more coming in, Captain," called Uhura. "Six other starships have reported similar findings, with companies buying up lapsed contracts—and all leading to Liticia. And they want a report on dilithium supplies on board the Enterprise."

  "Obtain that information from Mister Scott, Lieutenant, and pass it on. Where is Liticia, Spock?"

  "We have no information on a planet of that name, Captain," said Spock, after a few moments.

  "Well, of all the dunderheaded—wouldn't you think they'd have the sense to send us coordinates for a new-registry planet!" said Kirk crossly. "Lieutenant, compose a polite request. If I try, I'll say something rude."

  Uhura smiled. "Of course, Captain."

  "Jim, the question of sabotage is still open."

  "I suppose so, Bones. What do you think, Mister Spock?"

  "If what we think we suspect we know may be considered evidence, Captain," began the Vulcan, with distaste, "it would follow that hijacking has been eliminated; possible sabotage could be responsible for the non-renewal of contracts by Star Fleet; and the Klingons are still a possibility. I feel, however, that this summary is totally syllogistic and its logic so theoretical as to be a deception. On its own bizarre terms, it is unlikely to be both sabotage and Klingons—unless the Klingons have infiltrated headquarters, a probability of two in five billion, seven hundred million, fifty-three thousand, two hundred and one, in view of the Organian monitor."

  "And the fat joker?"

  "That is puzzling," admitted Spock. "Unless he is the hypothetical Klingon agent"

  Kirk laughed. "I thought you didn't have any imagination, Spock."

  "I do not, Captain," said Spock repressively. "But I do have an extrapolative faculty. A logical extrapolative faculty."

  "Captain Kirk! The coordinates for Liticia have just come in! They are just a little late in transmission."

  "That's headquarters for you. Just a little late —again. Set our course, Mister Chekov. Those coordinates are in our sector."

  "Star Fleet Command is now pointing that out, sir," said Uhura.

  A little later, Chekov spoke out of a reverie. "Captain?"

  "Mister Chekov?"

  "We've been here before, sir. I knew those coordinates were familiar! It's—Mudd's Planet, sir!"

  Kirk choked. McCoy winced. Spock raised his right eyebrow.

  CHAPTER THREE

  To THE BRIDGE'S collective amazement, permission to land was immediately forthcoming. Kirk summoned Doctor McCoy, Mr. Spock and Yeoman Weinberg to assemble in
the Transporter Room.

  Mr. Chekov also presented himself.

  "Yes, Mister Chekov?" inquired Kirk.

  "Nothing, sir. I—remember Mudd's Planet, I wondered if—"

  "No, Mister Chekov." The Navigator's memories were all too pleasant; that was evident from his expression.

  "Yes, sir."

  Wistfully, Chekov watched the four men shattered into sparkling nothingness as the voice of the doctor faded…"… and I never will approve of it. I was attached to my atoms, had them for years…"

  "Well, well, well! If it isn't a veritable reunion! Hello, Captain James T. Kirk. I have found it in my heart to forgive you." Fatter than ever and bulging out of a rather grubby pink tunic, Harry Mudd opened his arms in welcome. "How very delightful of you to drop in. No, do not speak." He held up a meaty hand. "Do not tremble, friends. I hold no grudges. Indeed, our encounters ever leave me with a challenging new situation. You always relieve my ennui."

  He gestured toward a lane of tall trees. "Refreshments, gentlemen. This way." Long tresses of scented flowers wound through the branches. The road was paved with marble and curved toward a pale, glimmering building in the middle distance.

  "My house," said Mudd modestly. "I rather took to the design. Saw it in a book somewhere."

  "It's the Taj Mahal, Captain!" whispered Weinberg. "An ancient tomb, I think."

  Crystalline waters of a pool reflected the towers, cool and still. "A bijou residence, isn't it, laddie?" Mudd flung a solid arm across Kirk's shoulder.

  At the door, a tall figure salaamed, its plumed turban brushing the paving. The door swung silently open; and a phalanx of decorative black-haired beauties, all alike and clad in diaphanous trousers, beckoned them in.

  "Uh—as you know, I have a taste for the more agreeable things in life," said Mudd, with a sidelong glance at the Enterprise party. " ‘Amid pleasures and palaces though you may roam, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.' Well, it's best to combine them, in my view."

  "Home," said McCoy sententiously, "is where the heart is."

  "Exactly so, my boy, exactly so. Whose heart could fail to be won by such a home?"

  The rooms within were varied. A marble hall of perfect proportions led into a cosy salon, and then into a drawing room draped with velvet.

  Yeoman Weinberg was silent. More and more harem beauties emerged, until the very walls seemed to undulate.

  McCoy whispered, "They're all androids, Ensign. Don't let it get to you. He's a very persuasive character, this Mudd."

  There seemed to be acres of feminine bounty before the dazzled eyes of Yeoman Weinberg.

  "Fully programmed, of course," added McCoy.

  "Of course," Weinberg gulped. A voluptuous dark-eyed temptress glided past, and smiled.

  "Yeoman! You are on duty!" said McCoy sternly.

  "Yes, sir. On duty, sir." The Yeoman hastily fumbled with his tricorders. This seemed to steady him slightly. He looked up. "Sir? Mister Mudd is the only one here besides ourselves who's real?"

  "That's it."

  "Wow, sir," breathed Weinberg.

  "… and this is my sanctum sanctorum." Mudd waved them through a pierced stonework arch. Carpeting curled round their feet as springy as new grass. Set in the center of the floor was an illuminated aquarium, covered by thick glass. As they crossed it, multicolored fishes darted among waving grasses under their feet. Chairs rolled up behind them, inviting.

  "You've outdone yourself this time, Mudd," said Kirk.

  "Do you think so? I am delighted to have your opinion to confirm my own. Aruhu, bring refreshments." Mudd waved languidly from his chair at a veiled figure, which bowed and withdrew.

  "I rather like the Aruhu's costuming. One wearies of display occasionally. Don't you agree, gentlemen, that the hidden beauty is the most enticing?"

  "Where are the Stellas, Harry?"

  "Oh." Mudd moved comfortably. "Transmogrified, laddie. I turned her into a spaceship. I thank you for the opportunity to forget her once again. I do so enjoy forgetting her." He heaved a great sigh of contentment.

  "Harry," said Kirk, "pull yourself together. We want some nice, clear explanations. What are you up to?"

  "That's her favorite line," complained Mudd. "I'm not up to anything. Nothing at all. Just living the life of the idle rich."

  "Let's start there. How did you get rich?"

  Indignant, Mudd heaved his bulk upright. "I am a salesman, am I not? I am an excellent salesman, if I do say it myself."

  "He means con man," muttered McCoy.

  "You malign me, doctor. A con man is dishonest, a low criminal type. I am very, very legitimate. Even the new name of this planet is 'Legal.' I learned my lesson."

  "All right, so you're a salesman. What are you selling and who are you working for?" persisted Kirk.

  "For myself, dear boy, for myself. Ah, here's Aruhu with refreshments."

  Led by the veiled one, jeweled nymphs poured into the room, bearing golden trays heaped with fruits—pomegranates and pineapples, smooth and prickly pears, wines and cakes and sweetmeats. Perfumes seemed to rise from the carpet as they glided across it. The lights from the aquarium shone softly variegated colors through the air, rhythmically echoed by tinkling music.

  "It's like a dream," murmured the bemused Weinberg.

  "It'll get more like one in a minute—Jim! He's got the air full of soporifics!"

  "Mmmm? Oh, has he? Who?" said Kirk, yawning.

  "Captain, wake up! Mudd, you go too far!" With effort, McCoy jumped to his feet. Spock shook the captain by the shoulder, as the Yeoman slid to the floor in a clatter of instruments, snoring.

  "Doctor, don't you have an antidote?" snapped Spock.

  "Mm. Right here," answered McCoy, toppling over.

  Spock, apparently unaffected as yet, bent over the prone doctor and pried the hypospray from his lax fingers. Within a few moments the Enterprise contingent had recovered its senses and the perfume had wafted away.

  "Now what was that all about?" said Kirk with irritation, as he got up from his so-soothing chair.

  "Just wanted to make sure you would relax, as my guests," said Mudd sheepishly. "No harm intended. Guess I misjudged the dosage."

  "Let's get some fresh air," said Kirk, disgusted. "You had orders to develop this planet with the androids. Let's begin where we left off. What have you done about the planet, besides giving an accommodation address to God knows who?"

  "I'm go glad you asked, Captain." Mudd's smile threatened to split his ample cheeks. "By all means, fresh air." He snapped his fingers. "The five-seater to Door Seven, immediately."

  They filed down a tapestried corridor, which opened on to a vast courtyard. McCoy said to Weinberg, "You can't let your guard down for one minute with this man."

  "I can see that," answered Weinberg thoughtfully. "It looks like he is really behind the crystal shortage, somehow."

  "It appears probable," agreed Spock.

  A small sleek aircar was waiting in the courtyard. "Gentlemen, we will tour Liticia in style. You can't possibly see a whole planet from the ground, after all." Mudd bowed them toward the moving glideway that led to the open door of the car.

  "And he is always plausible," added McCoy. "Remember that." Weinberg nodded.

  Captain Kirk hesitated. The entire landing party should not be entrusted to the pudgy and treacherous hands of Harry Mudd. But he wanted the experience and judgment of both Spock and McCoy with him; and that left only the unseasoned Weinberg, who had shown signs of succumbing to the succulent attractions of the Mudd Mahal. Obscurely, Kirk felt that it would be essential to guard their flank. Well, Ensign Weinberg was On Duty.

  "Yeoman, you remain here. I want you to keep your communicator open both to us and the Enterprise, so that nothing is happening that is unknown to us all."

  "Yes, sir." Weinberg stepped off the glideway and began searching among his equipment for his communicator. He moved away from the aircar.

  The Captain, Spock and McCo
y seated themselves on soft-cushioned chairs. The car floated upwards, its engines humming softly, and Mudd said, "A drink, gentlemen?" Trays, already filled, unfolded across their laps. "This little car flies herself. She's programmed for a grand tour, and a grand tour you shall have."

  "Last time we were here," observed McCoy, "you had to live under a dome—this planet was uninhabitable on the surface."

  "So glad you noticed that, dear boy," said Mudd. "Yes, we have created an Earth-type atmosphere here—a little ecology-juggling here, a little chemical balancing there, and eureka! Nothing to it, when you know how. We have techniques for accelerating natural processes— and of course, where we can't, a little mechanical know-how—for instance, the trees in that wood behave like trees, look like trees, produce oxygen like trees, but they are trees like the girls are girls. Fully programmed."

  "Wish you would pass on some of those techniques to the colonists," said Kirk, thinking of some of the bleak and barren places where settlers were struggling with nearly unlivable planets.

  "Certainly," said Mudd, surprised. "If they can pay… Hmm. Could be quite profitable. Tell you what, laddie, —you could do some splendid advertising for us—on commission, of course."

  McCoy rolled his eyes to heaven. Spock snorted. Kirk withered Mudd's brashness with a freezing stare.

  "Uh. We have now passed the perimeters of the central complex, and you will see, radiating outward from it, arable land under intense cultivation. Three to six crops a year, all for export, of course."

  "Real crops?" said McCoy. "Or fully programmed potatoes?"

  It was Mudd's turn to originate a withering stare. "Doctor, I don't think you can be paying attention. A fully programmed potato would be absurd.

  "There to the west, please observe the former Patchwork Desert, now known as the Patchwork Farm Area. Underground, we have discovered deposits of wulframite, petroleum and various rare earths. Over the area to your right, you will observe the refining and chemical plants. Just beyond these hills we will see Landing Field Six."

  "Talk about fully programmed," muttered McCoy, yawning.

  Small cargo vessels were landing and taking off from the field. Single rails for freight transport radiated from the field to convenient depots for the industries. Mudd's Planet had been developed to the last millimeter.