orders, you intend to do about that, suh? ”
“That will do, Sawyer!” He glared until she backed down. “Recommendations?”
“One, we go for a dive just where that cable’s in such a mess and start scooping the bottom for little green men.”
“Negative,” Nyere said. “Weather’s getting heavier, and we’re losing the light. It can wait until morning.”
“We can work under infrared, Captain,” Melody stated the obvious.
“Not this close to the Mayabi Fault we don’t,” Nyere countered. “I’m not going to go plowing around down there in the dark with sand in our faces and end up falling down a crevasse. Tomorrow, when the wind’s died and the sun’s up. Tomorrow and not before.”
Melody nodded, not satisfied. His argument might have made sense, except that he’d taken such risks before. How long did he think he could keep stalling?
“What else, Melody?” Jason asked, reading the expression on her face, not liking it.
“Recommend we go pay our farmer friends a visit.”
Their eyes locked. She was calling his bluff and they both knew it.
“You’ve been listening on their comm band?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“No outgoing calls all day,” Sawyer reported. “No reports of anything unusual, no distress calls. Also no chat with the neighbors, no ringing up Mom on the mainland. Nothing.”
“Maybe they’re out doing their job. Or were until the swells started up.”
“Except for one thing, Captain.” Melody dropped it like a bombshell. “They’ve had the incoming on all day. As if they’re just sitting there listening. Waiting for something to happen.”
“You’re fishing, Melody,” Nyere said, though he didn’t believe it himself. “It’s a lax time of year. Maybe there’s a good movie on.”
“Jason, for Pete’s sake—”
“Look, maybe they’re making love in the middle of the day and they need it on for background music!” Nyere exploded. “Go find something else to do besides peeking through keyholes, will you? We’ll be there at 1400 tomorrow anyway. It’ll keep.”
“If you say so, Captain suh ,” Melody said watchfully. “So long as you realize it ain’t gonna go away by itself.”
The door to the penthouse scanned Jim Kirk and shushed open, letting him in without a word. That was good. He’d listened to enough words, spoken enough words in a single afternoon to last a lifetime.
Damn staff meetings! he thought. Damn the life of the chairbound paper pusher who brought it on himself! What was I thinking of? The one thing I always hated most about a field command was the paperwork afterward. Locking horns with a Trelane or a Rojan could get you killed, but it was the reports after the fact that busted your—
Jim Kirk sighed. Now Spock had his Enterprise and all he had left was the paperwork.
He’d started fiddling with the closures on his uniform tunic while he was still in the turbolift. Now he threw its stiff red newness (almost the color of drying humanoid blood, he thought, as if noticing it for the first time. Whose brilliant idea was that?) over a chair, admiral’s bars clanking disconsolately. He dumped his carrycase on top of it—pompous, silly thing with his name and rank holoscribed in one corner, hermetically sealed against all environmental conditions, equipped with a security lock that would implode and destroy the contents if it was tampered with.
Your tax dollars at work, Kirk thought. All it contained at the moment was a couple of medium-security tapes supplementary to this afternoon’s meetings, which he would return unread in the morning, and The Book.
The book. He’d made a great to-do about having it made up in bound form, though it had cost him a bundle and sent the Troyian bookseller into a spasm over the inconvenience. “Surely the admiral has a speed-read degree!” the Troyian had clucked, fluttering his aquamarine fingers disconsolately over the order form for such an anachronism as a book with paper
“That will do, Sawyer!” He glared until she backed down. “Recommendations?”
“One, we go for a dive just where that cable’s in such a mess and start scooping the bottom for little green men.”
“Negative,” Nyere said. “Weather’s getting heavier, and we’re losing the light. It can wait until morning.”
“We can work under infrared, Captain,” Melody stated the obvious.
“Not this close to the Mayabi Fault we don’t,” Nyere countered. “I’m not going to go plowing around down there in the dark with sand in our faces and end up falling down a crevasse. Tomorrow, when the wind’s died and the sun’s up. Tomorrow and not before.”
Melody nodded, not satisfied. His argument might have made sense, except that he’d taken such risks before. How long did he think he could keep stalling?
“What else, Melody?” Jason asked, reading the expression on her face, not liking it.
“Recommend we go pay our farmer friends a visit.”
Their eyes locked. She was calling his bluff and they both knew it.
“You’ve been listening on their comm band?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“No outgoing calls all day,” Sawyer reported. “No reports of anything unusual, no distress calls. Also no chat with the neighbors, no ringing up Mom on the mainland. Nothing.”
“Maybe they’re out doing their job. Or were until the swells started up.”
“Except for one thing, Captain.” Melody dropped it like a bombshell. “They’ve had the incoming on all day. As if they’re just sitting there listening. Waiting for something to happen.”
“You’re fishing, Melody,” Nyere said, though he didn’t believe it himself. “It’s a lax time of year. Maybe there’s a good movie on.”
“Jason, for Pete’s sake—”
“Look, maybe they’re making love in the middle of the day and they need it on for background music!” Nyere exploded. “Go find something else to do besides peeking through keyholes, will you? We’ll be there at 1400 tomorrow anyway. It’ll keep.”
“If you say so, Captain suh ,” Melody said watchfully. “So long as you realize it ain’t gonna go away by itself.”
The door to the penthouse scanned Jim Kirk and shushed open, letting him in without a word. That was good. He’d listened to enough words, spoken enough words in a single afternoon to last a lifetime.
Damn staff meetings! he thought. Damn the life of the chairbound paper pusher who brought it on himself! What was I thinking of? The one thing I always hated most about a field command was the paperwork afterward. Locking horns with a Trelane or a Rojan could get you killed, but it was the reports after the fact that busted your—
Jim Kirk sighed. Now Spock had his Enterprise and all he had left was the paperwork.
He’d started fiddling with the closures on his uniform tunic while he was still in the turbolift. Now he threw its stiff red newness (almost the color of drying humanoid blood, he thought, as if noticing it for the first time. Whose brilliant idea was that?) over a chair, admiral’s bars clanking disconsolately. He dumped his carrycase on top of it—pompous, silly thing with his name and rank holoscribed in one corner, hermetically sealed against all environmental conditions, equipped with a security lock that would implode and destroy the contents if it was tampered with.
Your tax dollars at work, Kirk thought. All it contained at the moment was a couple of medium-security tapes supplementary to this afternoon’s meetings, which he would return unread in the morning, and The Book.
The book. He’d made a great to-do about having it made up in bound form, though it had cost him a bundle and sent the Troyian bookseller into a spasm over the inconvenience. “Surely the admiral has a speed-read degree!” the Troyian had clucked, fluttering his aquamarine fingers disconsolately over the order form for such an anachronism as a book with paper
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