Thank you for some lovely reviews. Time to reveal the terrible fix Enterprise is in...

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O-eight-thirty-five. Trip turned a corner and almost smashed right into Malcolm, who was coming from the other direction. They both came to a halt at the last moment. Grey eyes met blue ones.

"How timely," the Security Officer said. "I was looking for you, Commander."

Trip heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Look, Malcolm, I have no time right now for your glitches." Seeing the man open his mouth to reply, he put out placating hands. "I know, I know; I promised I'd give ya a hand with the torpedo launchers. But somethin' has come up."

"Trip –"

"Listen, I'll come by the Armoury later," he cut him off, passing a nervous hand through his hair. Blowing out a breath, he explained, "Ya have no idea what kinda bomb is about to explode. No pun intended."

"If you are referring to the rumour Rostov has been spreading through the ship, I am quite aware of it. That's why I was looking for you."

Trip blinked. How could Malcolm know and keep such cool? Damn the man!

"I don't think there is a single living being on the ship who hasn't heard about it by now," Malcolm added. His eyes darted sideways for a brief second. "Except perhaps for Porthos and Phlox's menagerie; which couldn't care less anyway."

"You shouldn't take it so lightly, Lieutenant," Trip snapped. "I don't think you realise how serious the situation could end up bein'."

"Is it true, then?" Malcolm enquired, frowning. "It isn't a joke, or last night's movie that has caused Rostov to have some particularly horrid nightmare, and hallucinations?"

"I wish," Trip blew out. "It's all true. I've spoken with–" Trip's gaze shifted above Malcolm's, to the form that had appeared behind him. "T'Pol..."

"I doubt she can grasp the potential problems," Malcolm commented.

"I might fail to understand exactly the gravity of the consequences, Lieutenant, but I am quite accustomed by now to your species' volatile reactions."

Malcolm swivelled on his heels, blushed and snapped to attention all at once. "Subcommander, I meant…"

T'Pol latched her hands behind her back. "If the rumour is true, I believe we might need to give the situation the proper consideration."

"It's true. All true," Trip repeated tautly. "I just checked."

"What does the Captain have to say about it?" Malcolm enquired.

Brown, blue and grey eyes met.

"I don't know," Trip finally blurted out. "I'm not even sure he knows."

"Everybody seems to know," Malcolm pointed out again, in disbelief.

Trip winced. "Yes, but rumours aren't supposed to reach the Capt'n's ears."

"I suggest we find out."

The logical proposal had, of course, come from T'Pol. Trip nodded once. "Let's go."

"Computer, erase that."

Captain Archer was having a difficult beginning to his day.

Pacing his ready room, he tried for the umpteenth time to find a better way to begin his report on their first contact, the day before, with the Zanthians; a way that wouldn't make him appear like a total dolt.

Meeting the bald, stocky people had been a festival of errors and misunderstandings, and not at all amusing. Archer looked at his right hand, turning it around a couple of times, and grimaced. How on earth was one to imagine that extending a hand in greeting... Hell, he had seriously risked becoming the space version of Captain Hook. Once again he sent a silent thank you to his Security Officer and his fast reflexes; if the appendage was still attached to his arm it was because in the nick of time Malcolm had shoved him out of the way of a very large and sharp-looking ceremonial sword.

And that had only been the beginning.

Ducking under a bulkhead, Archer let out a sigh. Thank God they had brought along the right present. He'd never look at his salt shaker with the same eyes again: the humble mineral had saved their lives, managing to turn their hosts' irate scowl into a smile of delight. At least they had done something right! Zanthians considered the stuff an expensive delicacy, and the generous promise of a crate of it had paved their safe return to Enterprise, much to everyone's relief – especially Malcolm's.

By the way, he'd better remember to put an official commendation on the Lieutenant's file. The man had had a hell of a day, but had given proof of great professionalism.

With a sigh, Archer let himself drop into his desk chair. He tried to force his mind back to the job at hand, but it refused to obey. He glanced at his watch: o-eight-forty-five; he could call a senior staff meeting, in the Situation Room. Maybe this could wait until after that… Reaching for his cup of coffee, he brought it to his lips, only to replace it a moment later with a wince. What kind of a hellish brew had Chef concocted this morning?

His doorbell rang and he looked up in surprise.

"Come," he called, secretly glad that someone was going to provide a good excuse for postponing his seemingly impossible task. He hadn't expected his entire senior staff to file into his room, though.

Greeting his officers with a smile, he quipped, "Either this is a mutiny, or something very serious has come up."

"The second, Capt'n," Trip said, straight-faced. "Which might very well lead to the first."

Archer frowned. "What are you talking about, Trip?" Now that he thought about it, he had noticed a few unhappy faces around the ship that morning.

Trip exchanged a quick glance with Malcolm and T'Pol, and blew out a breath. "You know that crate of salt we sent down to the Zanthians?"

"The one that convinced that charming midget of a Monarch to grant us his gracious pardon after Malcolm had sneezed in public, you had drunk the holy water instead of pouring it over your shoes in self-purification, and Hoshi – oh, woe is me! – had sniffed the sacred flower?" Archer enquired, with a sarcastic half smile.

Trip gave a tense nod. "The same."

"Ha! Never was there a better use for a crate of salt," Archer stated firmly. He turned to Malcolm. "I'm sure you agree, Lieutenant."

There was a clearing of the throat. "Indeed, Sir. Except for the fact that… there wasn't salt in that crate."

Archer felt a flutter in his stomach; mirth with a bouquet of concern. "What do you mean it wasn't salt: what was it?" he asked. His mind was already reviewing the info they had about the species, trying to remember if they knew what Warp factor their ships could attain.

There was a moment of suspension. Gazes met and diverged.

"Coffee, Sir," Malcolm finally said, his British accent turning even that innocent word into something explosive.

Archer let out the breath he'd been holding with an audible groan of relief. "For a moment there I thought you'd say nitroglycerin," he commented. "How did we manage such a stupid mistake?" he snapped immediately after, frustration taking over.

T'Pol lifted graceful eyebrows. "It appears that the crate had the wrong label."

"Capt'n," Trip butted in. "The problem isn't that we sent down the wrong stuff; it's that, according to Chef, who was sayin' it to somebody of his staff this morning – that's when Rostov overheard him, so now the entire crew knows – it was our last crate of coffee. No more. Zippo."

Archer looked at him deadpan for a second; then let out a chuckle. "Come on, Trip, there must be a mistake – we left spacedock with tons of coffee. We had more coffee than dilithium, for heaven's sake. We simply can't have drunk it all."

He shifted his gaze from one officer to the other, but no sign of smile appeared on their faces – not even on the two capable of such a facial expression. A dreadful suspicion dawned in his mind.

"More crates with the wrong label?" he asked in a small voice

Hands going to his hips, Trip grimaced. "The people at Jupiter Station must have been drunk," he ranted. "I went to Chef, and he says he found quite a few little surprises when he checked all of our dry food supplies early this morning. And no more coffee. He's mixed whatever is left of it with barley, but even like that we're gonna be out of it by tomorrow morning."

Archer eyed his cup and its undrinkable potion. "Great," he muttered.

"I say we go and get that crate back," Trip suggested firmly.

"Oh, no." Archer was equally determined. He was certain he didn't want to do that. "With our luck the strong aroma of the stuff stunned his Majesty's pet… mosquito, a grave offence, and we'd be all put to a very painful death."

T'Pol's brow creased almost imperceptibly. "Insects that small have little sense of smell," she said. "And Zanthia has a very limited insect population. I was told that plants are pollinated by–"

"Thank you, T'Pol," Archer cut her off, none too kindly.

There was a beat of silence.

"Capt'n," Trip eventually whined. "We can't live without coffee."

"I like tea," Malcolm commented with an innocent shrug that earned him a glare of hatred.

Archer, who had resumed pacing, bit his lip. He had to admit that the idea of going without coffee wasn't very appealing, but there was no way he was going back to Zanthia. The Monarch might have no pet mosquito, but he was probably thoroughly pissed off that the crate they had transported down to them didn't contain what it was supposed to, and there was no way of knowing how he'd react. That grouch gave him the idea that he was the kind of person who shot first and asked questions later.

He turned to face his officers, squaring his shoulders. "To serve in Starfleet we all had to go through survival training, for heaven's sake," he said firmly. "Time to brush some of that up: we will have to survive without coffee."

Trip rolled his eyes. "For how long?" he complained. "Durin' Survival training I even ate snake meat, but it was only for two weeks…"

T'Pol filled her lungs with air and latched her hands behind her back. "Captain, a Vulcan ship could bring Enterprise a fresh supply in a reasonable time."

"Wonderful," Archer commented with a grimace. "Soval would just love to come to the rescue of Starfleet's flagship for something as trivial as that. Ha! I can just see his snotty face while he tells Admiral Forrest that if Humans aren't able to stand the lack of some beverage they are definitely not ready to face the hardships and risks of space travel." He waved a hand in an eloquent gesture. "Out of the question."

"Quite frankly, Sir, I don't see this as being such a big problem," Malcolm put in, straightening his already straight posture. "The crew will simply have to drink what is available. A bit of spartan life won't hurt them."

"Says the man who doesn't give a damn if coffee's off the menu anyway," Trip grunted.

"That's not entirely true, Commandah. I do enjoy a cup of coffee once in a while."

"Oh, yeah? And when was the last time you had a cuppa coffe, huh, Loo-tenant? Lemme think..."

"That's enough!"

Archer took a menacing step towards the bickering two. Hell, when they disagreed on something their accents got unbearably thick. Both snapped to attention, and he surveyed them with narrowed eyes.

"We'll live without coffee for as long as it's necessary," he said sternly, engaging the blue eyes of his Chief Engineer. "And while we do I expect my senior staff to set a good example, and not bother those of the crew who are having a hard time with it," he continued, shifting to the grey ones of his Armoury Officer. "And now, gentlemen, get something done. We're on a starship, and I'm sure you have duties to attend to."

Simultaneous "Yes, Sir" and "Aye, Sir" echoed in the small room. T'Pol just nodded her head, looking vaguely disgusted at her Human crewmates' behaviour.

"Dismissed," Archer barked. "Not you, T'Pol," he added, as they turned to leave.

"Any... suggestions?" he asked, openly hopeful, as soon as the door had closed behind Trip and Malcolm.

T'Pol's dark eyes looked blankly back. "Regarding what, precisely, Captain?"

"Regarding how we are going to face this emergency," Archer explained with a mirthless smile.

The full lips twitched. "I could ask Doctor Phlox if he can do something to prevent... withdrawal symptoms in the crew," she finally suggested.

Well, it was something. "Good idea." Archer nodded. "Let me know what he says," he ordered.

As soon as his SIC had left the ready room, Archer finally allowed himself to sink into his chair. A waft of Chef's new blend floated sickeningly by, and a groan of despair escaped his lips. Trip was right. This was going to be much worse than eating snake meat...

TBC

Now, what could be worse than to be left without coffee?! (I had warned you this was total silliness!)

Looking forward to your comments - real Italian espresso for those who will leave a review! :-)