The doctor's surface gruffness deceived neither of them.
"He'll make it all right, if he has to push himself double-shift," Scott declared as the two men entered the corridor outside Sick Bay. "He's got a good two weeks' ship-time before we make orbit around Draymia. It's only stardate fifty-five . . ."
". . . thirty-two point eight," Kirk finished, his voice slightly hoarse from the dry atmospheres of Draymia. As he spoke into the communicator, it relayed his voice back to the official log recorder on board the Enterprise, now orbiting far overhead.
"Preparing to beam back aboard ship following successful delivery of medical equipment and supplies to the planet Draymia in the Draymian star system. Kirk out . . ."
They stood on a balcony outside the chambers of the Draymian capital city administration, awaiting the arrival of the Supreme Prefect for the final embarkation ceremony. While Spock and McCoy discussed some obscure point of Draymian physiology as it related to certain of the supplies they had brought, Kirk turned and allowed his gaze to roam over the capital's skyline. Once one became used to the size of everything, built to nearly one and a quarter human scale, this world looked almost familiar. This, despite its extreme distance from the nearest Federation outpost planet.
The vegetation here was not terribly alien, likewise the animal life. But the hue of sky was just a touch too green, the tree trunks a bit too orange, the flying creatures' wings too scaly for hominess. In other words, Draymia was one of those many humanoid worlds whose weirdness was all the more disturbing for its elusive familiarity.
It wasn't a world where the local ungulates rolled around on wheels instead of walking on normal legs, or where the vegetation grew upside down like the ostrich forest on Olibaba. No, on a world like Draymia you always had the feeling that if you could just hit the right switch inside your head, there would be a little click, the proper lens would slip into place in front of your eyes, and everything would suddenly slide over into the normal.
"Hail, Captain Kirk! Hail, Mr. Spock!"
The men turned to see two Draymians emerging from the arched doorway. Kirk recognized the Supreme Prefect, but not his companion.
"Who's the other with him, Mr. Spock?"
"We met him briefly once before, Captain, on arrival," the first officer whispered, wondering idly why there had been no hearty hail for Dr. McCoy. Probably the Draymians simply hadn't noticed him yet. He filed the observation away for future consideration. "The being's name is Demos. He is the chief of the planetary security forces. He was in charge of receiving the few military-related medical supplies."
"Oh, yes," Kirk muttered. "I remember now." He broke off as both aliens halted before them. Their expressions—insofar as Kirk could now judge them—were neutral. Part of the ceremony of departure, no doubt.
Two and a half meters tall, well proportioned, the enormous humanoids could have appeared threatening. Their bulbous pop-eyes, however, gave their faces a comic cast which detracted from their massiveness.
As Kirk watched, the Supreme Prefect flicked one ear forward. The other was turned backward, perhaps to listen to some distant conversation. The effect, alongside the smooth pate, was startling. The Draymians possessed independently mounted ears, like the eyes of an Earthly chameleon.
The Prefect launched straight into the departure ceremony, as the somber-seeming Demos stood at attention at his side. The ceremony itself contained no surprises. Much was said about expanding trade and cooperation between Draymia and the Federation. There were words of mutual praise for the technical accomplishments of both civilizations, assurances of continuing friendship and interdependence, veiled polite references to those misguided races (who shall remain nameless) who might seek to interpose themselves between the goal of Federation-Draymian brotherhood, and so on.
Kirk and Spock replied where necessary, exchanging diplomatic banter with the aplomb and experience of men accustomed to far more complex goings-on. Kirk recalled one world on which merely saying a simple goodbye involved two days of feasting and athletic competition.
Finally, both the Prefect and Demos performed little half-bows and extended their hands, palms turned upward and open. "We wish to thank," he told them in his gravelly voice, "you and the rest of your Federation for your most welcome and invaluable assistance, Captain Kirk, in this and all matters."
The three men returned the gesture, which signified the taking of final farewell, as Kirk replied, "We hope through our medical assistance programs to develop and strengthen relations with all advanced civilizations such as your own, Supreme Prefect."
With that said, both humans and Draymians returned to a natural stance.
Kirk smiled easily, glanced back at his companions as he pulled out his communicator and flipped it open. "Shall we, Spock, Bones? Kirk to Enterprise—beam us aboard, Scotty."
The Prefect extended a hand, palm down this time, fingers bent at the middle knuckles. "If you would be so kind, Captain, a moment . . ."
Kirk hesitated uncertainly, then looked at Spock and McCoy. Both stared back at him blankly. The gestures were unmistakable, Spock seemed to say. Once the gesture of final leave-taking is made, nothing is supposed to follow.
Something of importance was happening here.
"Belay that, Mr. Scott," he said hurriedly into the open comm. He flipped it shut—for the moment.
"We await," he told the Supreme Prefect.
That appeared to satisfy the huge humanoid. He relaxed visibly and made a gesture to his companion that none of the humans recognized.
"Proceed, Commander Demos."
The security chief, with some ceremony, removed a folded sheet of opaque yellow plastic from a tunic pocket beneath his arm. It opened into the triangle favored by the Draymians.
"I have here a warrant," he announced solemnly, "in your own language, received by deep-space relay for the arrest and trial of one of your crew, Captain." He extended the yellow sheet toward Kirk, who stared at the smooth geometric form in disbelief.
"Best take it, Captain," Spock finally prompted him.
"Warrant," Kirk murmured dazedly. "Who . . .?"
"If you would be so kind as to read it aloud, please, Captain?" the Prefect requested politely.
Kirk's gaze turned down to the plastic. On it was what looked to be a perfect xerographic copy of the familiar rectangle of official starfleet command-level stationary. The format design and intricate curlicued seals bordering it were either genuine or else the finest counterfeit he'd ever seen.
"You are directed to surrender," he read in a monotone, "for trial by the people of Draymia, Dr. Leonard McCoy, medical officer, U.S.S. Enterprise assigned your command . . ." His voice trailed away.
"Let me see that please, Captain," Spock requested rapidly. Rather more rapidly than was normal for him.
Blank-faced, Kirk handed the document over. His gaze slowly swung around to McCoy.
"Well, Bones . . .?"
McCoy gaped back at him in open-mouthed confusion and could only shake his head slowly in total bewilderment. He had seen the opaque triangle of plastic, seen the inscribed borders and seals and the signatures at the bottom. But all he could do was stammer to the chief of Draymian security, "This has to be some kind of . . . bad joke."
"While there are those among you who might find certain aspects of our sense of humor peculiar," the giant replied stonily, "believe me when I say that we do not consider the wanton slaughter of thousands of innocent civilians a joke."
McCoy's jaws made more movements than were necessary to produce the stumbling response. "Slaughter . . . thousands of people . . .?"
Spock tapped the plastic sheet. "According to this, it is claimed that Dr. McCoy was responsible for a plague which ravaged the Draymian colony on Dramia II some nineteen years ago, Captain."
Kirk shook his head violently, then snatched the warrant from Spock's hands. "Let me see that thing again!" Once more his eyes roved over it, paying particular attention to the concluding seals and
signatures. He glanced up at Demos, his voice barely controlled, and cold.
"This is a copy. I'd like to see the genuine article."
Demos executed the Draymian equivalent of a shrug, stepped aside. "Naturally, Captain. I would not expect you do to otherwise. The original is inside, properly protected. This is why we arranged for you to take your leave of us here." He gestured at the building.
"Welcome to the Draymian Chamber of Contemplative Reconstruction, Captain."
"Treachery, you mean," Kirk rumbled, as he stalked off toward the open portal.
Demos' eyes bulged even more than was natural as he followed alongside. "Justice, we mean," he glowered. "Under the circumstances, Captain Kirk, I think we are showing remarkable restraint."
"Restraint? I'll show you some restraining!" Kirk muttered tightly. "The Enterprise can 'restrain' this whole city."
"Doubtless your words hold truth," the Prefect observed from behind him as they entered the building once again. "We are a practical people. I, personally, am well aware of the destructive capabilities of your vessel. We are also an astute people psychologically.
"While you could probably reduce this city to its foundations, Captain Kirk, I've no doubt you will not. You will do nothing. Your reputation has preceded you. We know of your respect for your own laws. And as you have seen, the warrant is perfectly in order and properly approved by your own superiors. You will not disobey their orders."
"Not my superiors," Kirk shot back. "Not in Starfleet. This is a judicial order, issued by administrative authority."
"Whatever the source, Captain," Demos put in, "you recognize its authority. You will not attempt to contravene it. Therefore, I am certain you will offer no resistance while I perform my necessary duty." He reached out and placed a huge hand on McCoy's right shoulder.
"Dr. Leonard McCoy, I place you under official restraint. Do you yield voluntarily?"
McCoy nodded slowly and moved forward when Demos tugged, but the motions were independent of any real thought. He could only turn to gape wordlessly at Spock and Kirk as they followed.
There was a buzz for attention from Kirk's belt as they moved through the glass and stone structure, past languidly strolling Draymians bent on other official missions.
Kirk opened the communicator, his voice thick. "Kirk here."
"Captain . . .?" That single word held a paragraph of worry.
"Sorry, Scotty, I forgot you were on hold. It seems—it seems there's going to be something of a delay here. Dr. McCoy's been arrested and—"
Over the kilometers and through the clouds the chief engineer's astonished yelp cut him off. "DR. MCCOY ARRESTED? What for . . .?"
Kirk tried to frame the word "genocide," found that the effort of linking that concept to McCoy brought him close to blackout.
"Murder," he finally managed to mutter.
"Murder?" Scott paused. When he spoke again, his voice was no longer querulous. "Sir, if you'd like me and some of the security specialists to beam down just in case, I'm sure there'd be no lack of volun . . ."
"Belay that kind of talk, Mr. Scott!" Kirk said, summoning his usual firmness. "The warrant itself appears to be legitimate, issued and authorized by the proper authorities. Mr. Spock and I are going to double-check it now. We're at the local administration building. I'll keep you posted."
"Should I put the ship on alert, sir?"
"No, Mr. Scott. While it may prove hard to restrain natural impulses, this is the time for careful consideration. The Draymians have been scrupulously correct about this. They've made nothing resembling a hostile gesture toward us. And, Scotty, this is not for general dissemination aboard. What I've just told you stays on the Bridge."
"Aye sir," Scott replied quietly.
"Kirk out."
It was all so absurd, Kirk mused, as they moved deeper into the enormous structure. Bones was no more guilty of mass murder than he was of unnecessarily vivisecting a frog. The good doctor was inherently incapable of either maliciousness or incompetence on such a scale.
And yet . . .
There was the official warrant, the insane accusation. He stared at the original communication where it was locked behind triple transparent barriers. Despite Demos' and the Prefect's confidence in his willingness to obey his own laws, Kirk found himself having to fight the urge to simply call Scotty to beam them up and out of this treacherous city. Such an action could precipitate an uncomfortable interstellar incident, he knew. The Draymians wouldn't hesitate to publicize it throughout the civilized galaxy. If the Federation didn't adhere to its own laws, why should potential allies be forced to?
He noticed that they had moved into a small office adjoining the well-guarded transmission. Demos sat across from them behind a large desk of white stone. He was answering most of the questions he had expected Kirk to ask.
"Dr. McCoy," the security chief explained, "headed a mass inoculation program against harmful diseases on Dramia II some nineteen of your subjective years ago.
"He was not yet—anointed? No, appointed—a full doctor at the time of this program. Soon after his small medical force departed, a massive plague struck. Fatalities were near total in the growing colony we'd established—established at much expense in life and wealth, Captain Kirk.
"The Dramia II colony constituted our first step away from our home world. Thanks to your Dr. McCoy, the result has been that for the past two decades we have been unable to progress any farther. Since the plague incident public reaction becomes virulent at the mere mention of deep-space exploration or settlement." He looked grim.
"Such has been the result of your aid."
"You talk about this plague," Kirk shot back tersely, "as if you were certain Bones was personally responsible for it. Just because it occurred at the same time doesn't mean it was his fault."
Demos leaned forward and displayed front canines. "Believe me, Captain Kirk, we would also like very much to have the rest of the medical team that served under him. However, it appears this is not possible. Therefore we will settle for having the one who was in charge of those responsible for the disaster. It is his responsibility, whether directly or otherwise!"
Demos sat back and looked satisfied. "It is enough."
"You talk as if you'd already tried him and found him guilty."
"Captain, you cannot imagine the kind of emotional reaction the mere mention of the Dramia II debacle stirs in the hearts of the people. Feeling runs high even among those who did not have friends or relatives among the dead. It was a . . . a racial disaster. Furthermore, we could not even chance intensive study of the immediate causes lest we risk bringing the plague here, thus destroying our entire civilization. This has intensified the people's frustration and anger." He glanced away from Kirk.
"But after all these many years, we still can find no other possible cause than some carelessness on the part of Dr. McCoy and his medical team. As to his final guilt or innocence, the trial will say."
"Trial!" Kirk blurted. "Kangaroo court, you mean. By your own admission, Bones can hardly expect anything like a fair trial from your people. McCoy is a Federation citizen and—"
To every one of Kirk's plaints, Demos quietly referred to the copy of the maddening warrant, lying between them on his desk.
"His own government appears to feel that in this case such rights can properly be waived."
Kirk snorted derisively. "What kind of justice can Bones expect from a world that accepts our medical supplies with one hand and imprisons our medical officer with the other?"
"You are becoming emotional, Captain," Spock ventured.
"Of course I am!" Kirk shouted at his first officer, while Demos was muttering something about returning measure for measure.
"Bones harming other beings . . ." Kirk continued, "you know better, Spock. Anyone knows better than that—even those desk-bound morons at Administrative and Judicial know better."
The captain rambled on as Spock tried to calm him. Demos studied the two men with
some detachment.
Alone—oh, how alone!—and forgotten, the fourth inhabitant of the tiny office rested his arms on his thighs and struggled to recall the events of nineteen years past. He found only hazy memories clouded by age. So much had happened since, so little had happened then . . .
Dramia II: colony, alien, Advanced Intern McCoy. His second extrasolar assignment, his first medical command. Draymia—bustling, alive, thriving. Dramia II—a bleak, chill world, but promising. Willing giants, fish-eyed—their nervous children already his own size. Weeks of boredom, routine, of looking at nothing but alien arms—his crew anxious to move on to another assignment, more challenging, nearer home, with better opportunities for advancement.
Nineteen years. What had those hundreds of inoculations been for? What had been the contents of those ampoules? An impurity overlooked, an imperfection in sealing—what? He had known so little then, and now he knew so much. If he could only go back, go back.
"I wish I could be as sure, Jim," a voice vaguely like his own finally murmured.
Conversation in the room died, and with McCoy's words, something inside Kirk died a little, too.
II
At least the cell they put him in was comfortable.
It had no bars, and the larger chamber was no more than normally oppressive, as jails went. The furnishings within the cell were simple, but at least they were sized to McCoy's non-Draymian proportions.
"I just can't be positive," he was mumbling from behind the lightly radiant force-field. He had been talking to himself like that ever since Demos and a patrol of oversized Draymians had escorted him to this forlorn waiting place.
"Is it possible that I somehow was, somehow am responsible for the—"
"Ridiculous!" Kirk objected sharply.
"There is surely," Spock added with his usual assurance, "ample reason to believe that the termination of your inoculation program and the subsequent outbreak of plague on the Dramia II colony is coincidence."
"There's also ample reason to believe that it was a tragic mistake of some kind on my part," McCoy whispered.