Star Trek: The Original Series: Seasons of Light and Darkness by Michael A. Martin Page A

be the king,” Plait whispered in McCoy’s ear.

Eight
    Leonard McCoy felt sure that everything he didn’t know about Capellan culture could fill a good-size library. However, he was certain of one thing: that the evening’s marriage sweepstakes had produced no clear winner, and possibly not even a viable runner-up. Without uttering a single comment regarding the parade of women that had just concluded, Subteer Usaak abruptly departed, leaving it to Keer to issue the terse declaration that officially opened the evening’s festivities.
    Having forgotten to tuck his chronometer into the emergency medikit he carried, the doctor didn’t know exactly how much time had passed since Keer managed to get the actual party portion started. But the drinking had begun almost before the echoes of Keer’s proclamation had finished dying down.
    Everyone, including Capellans as young as Naheer, was imbibing something, mostly the fermented milk of an indigenous animal. And they ate copiously. Then everyone drank some more, beginning the cycle anew, in an apparently perpetual, self-renewing oscillation.
    At the rate of consumption McCoy was witnessing, the eventual need for medical intervention seemed all but foreordained.
    They were still at it even now, hordes of visiting tribesmen descending on what remained of the thoroughly ravaged lightningbeast carcasses, tearing through the roasted flesh as though unsure when they might see another meal. The Capellan women attacked the food with as much ferocity as the men; both genders proceeded with terrifying efficiency, eating and drinking in methodical silence. It was as though the act of ingestion demanded such a large proportion of their attention as to render dinner conversation impossible. Even Rigby Wieland, who frequently reminded everyone of his careful studies of Capellan manners and mores, seemed taken aback.
    Having sated his appetite, McCoy found he had little to do now apart from loitering beside one of the guttering braziers and watching the still-unfolding gustatory tableau in semidisgusted fascination.
    â€œDon’t be frightened, Doc,” said Lieutenant Plait, who had managed to sneak up on him somehow, making him jump slightly. Speaking in a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone, the science officer added, “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. You should be perfectly safe. As long as you keep your hands and feet well away from their mouths, that is.”
    â€œVery funny, Phil. Just remember, even I might not be able to patch you up if one of the local warriors overhears a comment like that.”
    â€œSorry. But don’t worry. I promised Doctor Wieland I’d be on my best behavior, didn’t I?”
    McCoy realized belatedly that the science officer had progressed past the terrible pun phase of intoxication, which was where he usually stopped. Having tipped back at least one too many tankards, Plait was swaying like a sapling in a gale.
    Then the doctor saw Naheer carefully picking his way through the crowd of preoccupied revelers directly behind Plait, the attractive young woman he’d been chatting up earlier at his side. Noticing McCoy’s distraction, Plait turned toward the youngsters and called out to them.
    Naheer and the girl turned and approached them.
    â€œMaybe you ought to consider calling it a night, Lieutenant,” the doctor said. “We could have one hell of a diplomatic incident on our hands if you start throwing up on some visiting VIP.”
    â€œRelax, Doc,” Plait said, scoffing gently around an audible burp. “I shall be a shining exemplar of Federation ideals. Watch and learn, Lieutenant McCoy.”
    Before he could say anything further, an ebullient Naheer and the pretty blond young woman at his side were standing directly in their midst. McCoy had to crane his neck to look up at them.
    Adjusting his gaze back to eye level for a moment, the doctor saw that the young woman was