"Have you made any determinations, Ensign?"

"Well..." The young Russian delayed his answer, shrugging. "It is very important to weigh all the facts."

"It is indeed," agreed Spock, placing his hands behind his back. "But when the weighing is complete, any further delay is no more than what the good doctor would call 'dawdling'."

Chekov cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. I have made an estimated guess on our altered route after the shuttle was. . ."

What had happened? Had they been attacked, as Mr. Scott had first suggested? Or had they encountered a power surge so alien their sensors couldn't track it, or identify its source?

He looked up at Spock, who watched him quizzically. ". . .when we lost power. Here's where we were," he said, pointing at a spot on the map where the shuttle had left the starcruiser Mason en route to Galesia, the eighth planet in the system. Moving his finger along an imaginary line, he traced a semi-elliptical trail which moved deeper into the system, then stopped. "Here is where we made our last course check before we encountered the energy field. If we plot along this, taking into account power loss and lateral trajectory, we can narrow our landing to one of these two planets." He tapped each of the two suspects, then straightened, waiting for Spock's more astute deductions.

"Logical." came the reply. "I concur."

The navigator swallowed a smile and bent once again over the map. "How do we determine which planet we are on? We can't ask the residents here. They probably don't even know worlds exist outside their own."

"That will perhaps be difficult, though not impossible."

"I don't understand. The Prime Directive. . ."

"True," agreed the Vulcan as he rolled up the flimsies and stored them away. "However, Galesi studies show both planets to be sparsely populated. There are no. . ."

"But, sir!" At Spock's raised eyebrow Chekov hurried on with his interruption. "Mr. Scott had no such information about populated planets. He. . ."

"Occasionally, Ensign, you will find that senior officers are privy to information that is, for whatever reason, not disclosed to subordinates. Does that explain the situation?"

Subdued, Chekov mumbled a 'yes, sir' and sank into a nearby chair.

"As I was saying, there are no large cities, and one of the planets is peopled by nomads. It should be relatively simple to determine whether this is the nomad planet or the agrarian one. If agrarian, the few villages and towns upon it should be located great distances from one another, with lightly populated farmland between them. The population is small; preliminary studies have shown little traveling between the distant towns."

Chekov's eyes lit up. "So if someone visited from another town, no one would question the way they dressed or talked."

"No. Nor would it necessarily surprise a nomad clan, who would be used to seeing strangers from time to time. Their curiosity would lie rather in the area of gossip - news of the outside. No doubt the sharing of stories and songs would bring the same enjoyment in this pre-electronic era as it did on Earth six centuries ago."

"But our uniforms." Chekov looked at his begrimed clothes and pointed to Spock's torn tunic. "We can't be sure they won't react to the strangeness of them, the difference of the material, not to mention their current condition."

"Which is why we will wear the diplomatic robes given to us by the Galesi government for the wedding ceremony. We will at least have some variety in our dress, and the material is woven, not synthesized. I suggest we change, Mr. Chekov." Spock reached into a small alcove and drew out a below-the-knee robe of emerald sateen and dark trousers, motioning for the Russian to do the same.

Not for the first time, Chekov wished he had not been selected by Kirk to accompany the entourage to the royal wedding on Galesia. The ceremony, both long and laborious, required that representatives from all associated governments be present – he had wondered if they would take offense that Starfleet personnel had been selected rather than Federation people. That possibility, along with the five-page dialogue he had been required to memorize (to be repeated verbatim during the ceremony) had given him just cause to object to the whole thing.

He looked at the costume held in his hands, his lip curling. It wouldn't have been so bad if he had been given subdued colours like the first officer, but this! The over-tunic was dandelion-yellow, with scarlet trousers; they bloused over his soft matching boots when he put them on. It seemed that Galesi youth favored the brighter colors - indeed, were expected to wear them. When he saw his reflection in a polished door his uncontrolled thoughts were of Muscovite circuses, dancing bears, and clowns. . .

They had finished dressing and begun assessing damage to the shuttle when Spock moved quickly to the door, listening. "Do you hear that, Ensign?"

Chekov shook his head, following Spock to the door to look outside. He could detect no unusual sound. But he did notice the birds had stopped their various cries and songs, and the air hung broodingly still over the area. It was then he saw a green "something" coming through the woods to his right, extending up into the sky as far as he could see. Natural light was all but eliminated as the shaft of greenness moved toward them, like a holographic tornado without wind.

About the same time he began to discern a faint humming, Chekov's legs suddenly gave way under him, sending him crashing to the floor. There was acute pain in his ankle and his teeth vibrated as if bombarded with sonics. Chekov grabbed the throbbing ankle with one hand and threw the other arm over his eyes.

Spock ran out of the shuttle, his ears ringing with the strident wail which accompanied the shaft of eerie light. The sound modulated in the higher decibels, well out of the range of human detection, and threatened damage to his ear drums. Pressing his hands over his ears, Spock watched to see if the beam was doing anything other than play over the countryside. There was no movement among the shrubbery, no alteration of the landscape of any kind. But he did notice an increasing discomfort as the beam drew nearer. He felt his pulse lengthen and blood pressure drop, followed rapidly by dizziness and disorientation. He backed up to the shuttle opening and sat in the doorway, powerless to do anything but watch the beam continue its approach for a few more seconds before withdrawing into the sky above him.

Light returned, birds began calling to one another - life resumed order. But Spock remained where he was, drained of all energy, too listless to speak to Chekov, who was obviously in distress. Finally, drawing on strength of will alone, he crawled into the shuttle, located a mediscanner, and played it over the Russian's ankle. As he concentrated on the young man, he felt some small measure of strength return.

"Mr. Chekov, is this an old injury?" His face registered puzzlement as he reviewed the findings of the field instrument.

Pavel drew his breath in sharply as Spock carefully examined the ankle. "Yes, but completely healed, Mr. Spock. It was on my 16th birthday; we were playing soccer and I. . ." It was Chekov's turn to look puzzled. "I did nothing to re-injure it, Mr. Spock. I was standing there, not moving, when I felt it give way. It just - snapped!"

Spock made a small adjustment on the scanner and played it over the ankle again.

"Was there major repair work done, Ensign?"

Chekov bit his lip and closed his eyes tightly, not wanting to exhibit a lack of control in the presence of Spock, and forced himself to answer. "Yes. The ankle was shattered; I lost some of the bone. Regen wasn't in common use in my small community, so they used tri-titanium to rebuild the ankle. Nothing short of an anti-matter explosion could destroy it." He reached up to wipe cold sweat from his face. "You could grind me to powder, but the ankle would still be there."

Most curious, thought the Vulcan as he administered an analgesic hypo. A metal alloy which should have lasted millennia was not gone - totally dissolved away. Chekov was left with an incomplete ankle. The bones were sealed over; there would be no regeneration, not naturally or otherwise. Illogically, Spock felt a pang of regret and empathy for the young man. He would be a cripple until they could get off this planet. For the moment, it was questionable whether he would be of any help in that regard. Spock found his thoughts muddled, his strength still depleted. Kirk was missing, Scotty roaming the countryside looking for him. They were all acting like children. And now, just when he needed his mental acuity most, it had deserted him as surely as had Chekov's indestructible ankle.

ooOOoo

The Chief Engineer of the U.S.S. Enterprise floated in space, rocking gently, his senses dulled. There was a soft murmuring sound around him, increasing his languorous sense of sailing. He lay in a small drifter on the seas of Meredes, waiting for Spock and Kirk to finish their diplomatic mission below. Amply supplied with technical journals and a make-shift sail rigged more for shade than propulsion, he should have been more than content to wait.

But his journals lay unread beside him. Instead he found himself wondering why he was still in Starfleet after all these years. But then again, he always got maudlin after one of his crew were killed or seriously injured. It was no different this time, he told himself. Lt. Pierson had been a fine officer, well on her way to engineering a ship of her own some day. Then there was the accident and, well, there it was. A life ended, a career over, and nothing to show for it but a letter home, a brief service and back to business, lads and lasses. He couldn't help but compare Kirk's coolness to his own despair at the memorial service. Yes, he knew Kirk cared, but he saw how the captain put the caring aside. Part of him envied Kirk that ability; part of him deplored it.

Now - the service and the letter home to parents who would never see their daughter again - all that was behind him. But Scotty couldn't forget. He had the unfortunate habit of getting to know everyone in his department. No problem there, but he couldn't stop at that. It was his nature to form ties with his people that could be called, unprofessionally, friendship. Probably why I'd never make a good captain, he thought. It was also probably why he was bothered by the fact that he wasn't in the inner circle of Kirk's limited friendships. Why it bothered him, he wasn't sure. He tried not to think of it anymore and lay back in the drifter, letting the waves soothe him, take him away...but the murmurings continued, growing louder. . .

As he slowly came to consciousness, he perceived the rocking to be caused by the make-shift sling he was riding in, the murmurs to be the voices of those who carried him. It was twilight, as far as he could tell. The sides of the sling blocked his peripheral vision, but he could just discern two other individuals also bearing a burden in another sling like his own. He hoped it was Kirk they carried; he would not like to be separated again.

With the return of consciousness came the realization of pain. His whole body complained of the abrasions and bruises it had sustained in the earth slide. Carefully flexing his arms and legs, he was simultaneously conscious of the fact that, though he was not seriously injured, he was going to be mighty sore for awhile.

The trip seemed endless. He began to feel foolish letting himself be transported this way when a good walk might do his stiff muscles some good; yet again, he didn't know what these people thought of him and his captain and wasn't ready to let them know he was awake just yet.

And what of Kirk? Was he lying in that other sling, thinking the same thoughts, or was he unconscious, his previous injuries aggravated by the accident? Scott frowned. Accident, indeed! Why would the hillside give way just as they walked by? It was as if a booby trap had been set, a snare for some unwary prey, triggered by the vibrations of the passersby. By all appearances it should have remained as they saw it for hundreds of years, any changes infinitesimally small and gradual. Nevertheless, it had crumbled, as if the very substance had been removed from it. He was reminded uncomfortably that it was the second 'trap' they had encountered that day, the first being the unexplained energy field that waylaid their craft.

Well, no matter now. There was no way he could figure it out, and God alone knew how far he was being taken from the site. He wondered how Spock and Chekov were faring. Had they, too, seen the strange beam of light?

Scott's carriers began to talk; he was glad the translators had been sub-cranially implanted in the entourage before they began their journey to attend the wedding of the Galesi prince. Galesan was a difficult language to master - even Uhura, who was a natural at languages and their subtleties, had admitted she had had trouble learning it - thus the translators. There was some initial confusion as the device interpreted the language, then his comprehension cleared.

It never failed to fascinate the Scotsman how sub-cranial translators not only interpreted the language being spoken to the subject, but translated the subject's own thoughts into that language. Given a few minutes to listen, any person with such a translator could speak the native language fluently. Too bad they hadn't figured out how to make the knowledge permanent - a cranial translator, due to the nature of the biochemical elements from which it was made, could not remain in a subject more than eighteen months before it deteriorated, taking the knowledge of the language with it.

Oh well, he didn't plan to be here eighteen months, not by any means. If only he could get up!

There was a groan from the other sling. The carriers stopped, lowering Scotty and their other burden to the ground. The sides of the sling now flat beside him, Scotty could see that it was indeed the captain they were carrying. Kirk moved restlessly and didn't appear to be fully conscious, his breaths coming in short, tight gasps. One of the carriers was bending over him; there was a sudden flash as the newly risen moons reflected their light off a small, sharp blade. The engineer watched in disbelief as it was plunged into Kirk's chest.

"Here, now, none of this!" he cried, fumbling out of the confines of the sling and reaching for the knife. Arms grabbed him first, however, and held him back; voices urged him to be calm and wait - they were trying to help his friend.

"Help him? You idiots, you'll kill him! What does he think he's..." Scotty's mind registered somewhere amid his panic that the man had pierced the chest wall and was using a hollow tube, cut from a nearby stand of cane, to suck air from Kirk's chest cavity. It was routine first aid in Starfleet, but here...

Kirk's breathing became easier. The man who had used the knife applied a makeshift dressing, motioned Kirk's carriers on, then turned to Scotty. "I will have to stitch the wound when we get home, or the lung may collapse." He reached out his hand to the Scotsman, who found that his restrainers had let him go. Scotty grabbed the man's hand and was pulled up. "It is not too far. Are you able to walk, or would you rather be carried?"

Scotty glanced at the sling, then back at the man. "I'll walk." The man nodded and started off behind Kirk's sling, now some distance ahead. Scotty had some difficulty keeping up with him, but made no outward protest.

They walked for what seemed like an eternity to the weary engineer; the twin moons, one of them outdistancing the other, made their way across half the sky before the silhouettes of several buildings loomed on the hill before them.

Scotty was dimly aware of being led into a house and to a small pallet on the floor. He tried to think about where he was, who these people were, and what they were doing with the captain, but his mind was spiraling down into exhaustion; he fell onto the pallet and sleep took him.

ooOOoo

"Mr. Chekov, our progress would be a great deal faster if you allow me to carry you." Spock had turned on the path and waited, once again, for the lagging navigator. After spending the night in the shuttle, the two men had slowly made their way toward the small populated area showing on Spock's tricorder. They had made very little progress, though Spock doubted that, in his present condition, he would have been able to carry the ensign very far.

"That will not be necessary," answered Chekov, through clenched teeth. He knew he was making them lose time, but some deep pride would not yet let him succumb to being lifted and carried like a child. He still felt uneasy about leaving Scott and Kirk behind; frankly, he questioned Spock's judgement, though he hadn't yet voiced his concerns to the science officer, and was loath to put much distance between them and the shuttlecraft.

He shifted his weight on the crutch, hastily contrived from a tree branch, and tried to speed up his half-limp, half-hop gait. His good leg didn't appreciate the extra effort, and he was certain to have bruises and blisters under his arm by nightfall.

He drew up next to Spock and, without looking at him, continued on past. The Vulcan looked at his receding back for a moment, breathed out between pursed lips, and followed, finding the human capacity for stubbornness remarkable.

They would have to stop soon. Chekov, it was evident, was exhausted and in considerable pain. There were no bone fragments rubbing together as in a common fracture, but the muscles and tendons, bereft of bone mass and their usual points of attachment, had corded into massive knots of agony, pulling the phalanges and metatarsals of the foot into a grotesque configuration.

Days were shorter on this small planet and twilight was drawing in; Spock began to look around for a suitable place to spend the night. As he searched the horizon his eyes rested on a figure just topping a rise some quarter-kilometer distant, coming toward them. In the pre-moon gloaming Spock could make out that the person was alone, heavily robed, and carrying a staff of some kind. Chekov, by now, had spotted him, too, and waited a few strides ahead of Spock. It was a short matter of time before the man approached them.

He slowed, then stopped, speaking quietly to Chekov. The ensign replied, turning toward Spock, and motioned to him. The first officer approached the stranger, taking in the features and demeanor of a man in his prime. The stranger, turning from Chekov, bowed and greeted Spock.

The cranial translator sputtered for a second or two as Spock repeated the still un-translated phrase, bowing in like manner, one hand over his breast. Chekov said some halting words to the stranger and brief conversation ensued, during which time Spock's translator began to kick in.

Chekov was doing an admirable job of explaining their 'journey', seeking trade or vocation possibilities. Spock was quite willing to let him; a wash of weakness fell on him like water and he had to concentrate hard to remain on his feet. As the Russian spoke, his speech became increasingly fluent, as did Spock's understanding of the language.

It appeared that the stranger was a leader in a nearby village, and had been expecting them. Strange statement. No doubt the translator was not yet properly deciphering the colloquialisms of the language, or perhaps his own weakened condition had caused him to misunderstand.

The stranger was not too inquisitive, nor was he overly impressed with himself, as was too often the case with people in positions of authority, whether local or interplanetary. The man however did think of himself as an authority of some kind, having taken it upon himself to greet them and conduct them to a place of rest. Spock again wondered how the man knew they were coming, but for now was content to let him guide them to a small farmhouse where the stranger, who introduced himself as Jaresh, was apparently well-known and respected. There they were put up for the night.

Chekov, after receiving another hypo, slept the sleep of the innocent, free for awhile of pain. Spock, though he had many questions and concerns, found himself bone-weary and needing rest immediately. Dutifully, he fell asleep, rolled up comfortably between two children next to the dying embers of a kitchen fire.

Concerns and responsibilities could wait until tomorrow. Oblivion could indeed be mercifully sweet.