Disclaimer: Don't own Star Trek, yada yada yada. Oh, and if you're concerned with this sort of thing, no yellow-shirts or blue-shirts were harmed in the making of this.
trekker-t and amberlin: Congrats, you got it. I'm impressed. One question: John Lithgow? Far as I know only Shatner saw the gremlin. Detailed explanation for everybody else at the end.
Stargazer: Exploding would probably be a bad idea…
EmpressLeia: If I get an idea, I'll be sure to let you know. Glad you enjoyed the last chapter. ^_^
Keridwen: Planes are evil. Good luck with your computer.
Meredith: Glad you liked. No suggestions? Oh well, there's a long list of past ones still. Including this chapter's. Thanks for suggesting they flood the Mess Hall with orange juice!
Part Sixteen:
Orange Juice
Having completed their mission on Borelia II, the Enterprise is en route to their next assignment:
Ensign Jones was finally feeling normal again. It had taken an hour to solve the problem of the over-medication, and a day and a half for him to get over his 'nervous breakdown.' Now that he was feeling well again, he had decided to stop in at the Mess Hall for a drink. It was coming on towards ship's night, and the Mess Hall was deserted as Ensign Jones walked over to the replicators to order his drink.
"Orange juice, please."
"Specify quantity," the computer said crisply.
Jones shrugged. "Oh, lots of orange juice, lots and lots."
Orange juice began gushing out of the replicators at an alarming rate. And kept gushing. And gushing and gushing and gushing. Jones began to feel alarmed, as the orange juice spread rapidly across the floor.
"Stop, stop, that's enough!"
"You specified 'lots of orange juice, lots and lots.' You do not yet have lots."
The computer had an interesting definition of lots, as by now the orange juice had spread across most of the Mess Hall floor.
"I said stop!" Jones shouted, vainly trying to stem the flow of orange juice with his hands, and getting soaked for his trouble. "That's enough! STOP!"
The replicators didn't listen. If anything the flow of orange juice increased, until the replicators were hidden by a deluge of frothing juice.
* * *
Spock was walking down the corridor towards the Mess Hall. The Mess Hall doors opened, and Spock stepped aside just in time to avoid a foaming torrent of orange juice. Fortunately for him, the corridor slanted somewhat, and he had the foresight to step to higher, rather than lower, ground. Inside the Mess Hall, the level of orange juice had risen to chest high, with ever more pouring out. Suddenly having an outlet via the door, a great wave swept down the corridor, carrying the shrieking and struggling Ensign Jones with it.
"Heeeeelp!" shrieked Jones as the wave of juice carried him out of sight around a bend in the hallway.
Spock watched for as moment as the juice continued to pour out of the Mess Hall with no signs of letting up. Then, still as calm as he had been before he opened the Mess Hall doors, he stepped over to the comm unit, and called the bridge.
"Kirk here," came the reply.
"Captain, I believe we may have a slight problem. The Mess Hall seems to be flooded with orange juice." Only a Vulcan could have kept such a completely straight face.
* * *
It did prove to be a rather substantial problem. They had to locate Scotty and send him slogging through the orange juice to the replicators so he could fix whatever the problem was. He concluded that the auditory sensors had misconstrued the connotation of Jones' vocal declaration. In other words, they didn't know what he meant and got confused. Scotty did manage to turn off the orange juice, but predicted it could be a week before he could solve the problem.
To tell the truth, that was only one problem. On the bridge, Kirk and McCoy were discussing the other trouble.
"So how bad's the damage?" McCoy asked.
Kirk shrugged. "Could be worse I guess. Of course, it could be better too. We've got puddles of orange juice spread across most of the deck."
McCoy chuckled. "Could definitely be trouble. Can't have the crew slipping in orange juice."
"Yeah. I'm thinking it could have a plus side though."
"How?"
"What if we got the whole crew out to clean it up?"
McCoy looked doubtful. "I'm still waiting for the plus side, Jim."
"That is the plus side. Might be good for unity."
"Cleaning up spilled orange juice? I have some reservations."
"We could at least put that spin on it. And positive or not, that's most likely what's going to happen."
"Haven't we got some mechanical thing to do that?"
"Automatic evaporizors."
"Fine. So get those to clean it up.
"They broke. Scotty claims it'll be three weeks to get them fixed."
"Huh. So you're gonna drag the whole crew out with mops, and have them mop it all up."
"Pretty much," Kirk admitted.
McCoy shook his head. "Well count me out. I'm a doctor, not a custodian.
Kirk didn't like what he had to say. And he knew McCoy wouldn't like it. "Sorry, Bones. You're definitely counted in."
"I'm what?" he growled.
Kirk tried to explain the rationale behind it. "Well see, I don't think the crew's going to be too eager to do this."
"No, I doubt they will be," McCoy agreed sourly.
"So I'm thinking, the only way I'll get them to do it even half-way willingly is if the senior crew is mopping to. So that means both of us." An idea hit him, the one thing that might get McCoy to agree. "And it means Spock too."
McCoy considered. "Well…all right then."
* * *
Later that afternoon, more than half the crew turned out to clean up the juice. Including the most senior officers. Kirk, Spock, and McCoy were present, mops in hand, helping to clean up the mess. At least one third of that group was less than enthusiastic.
"This is ridiculous," McCoy griped.
"I have never understood human's sense of humor. In what way is cleaning the floor humorous?" Spock inquired.
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Not that kind of ridiculous."
"Don't start you two," Kirk warned. "We've got work to do."
"'Start,' Captain?" Spock said innocently. "I was merely requesting that Dr. McCoy clarify his less than clear statement regarding—"
"Don't explain. Just mop." Kirk was fast coming to the conclusion that it may not have been the best of ideas to work next to Spock and McCoy, under the circumstances. This early exchange was a pretty clear indicator that it was not wise for his personal safety. It was only his concern for the ship and the other crewmembers in this corridor that kept him from moving to the other end of the deck. Or better yet, leaving the ship completely.
It was not long before McCoy felt moved to comment again. "I did not join Starfleet to mop the floor, you know."
"That fact should be evident to everyone present," Spock said calmly.
"Really?"
"Yes. Starfleet does not have a Janitorial Corps. Therefore it is impossible for you to have joined Starfleet with the express desire to mop floors."
McCoy groaned. "Spock, you are one of a kind."
"All beings in the galaxy that we know of are one of a kind, with the exception of clones, which I am not. Therefore, stating that I am one of a kind is—"
"Spock, stop," McCoy said through gritted teeth.
"Stop what?"
"Just stop!"
"Doctor, if you will not explain yourself—"
"Spock. Stop," Kirk said.
"Should I take that to mean I should cease talking?"
McCoy moaned. "Now why does he understand you, and not…oh forget it!"
Spock applied himself studiously to his mopping, while McCoy went at it with a vengeance.
This was not going well, Kirk had to admit. At the rate he was going, McCoy ought to snap within the hour, and Spock seemed inclined to help him along.
They managed to work in silence for a time, Kirk hoping whole-heartedly that the silence would remain unbroken until they finished the job and left. It didn't. The next statement wasn't from McCoy, but Spock.
"Upon proper consideration, there are several positive attributes inherent in the act of mopping," Spock commented.
"Do enlighten us," McCoy said, dripping sarcasm in equal quantities to the orange juice currently dripping out of his mop.
"One positive is the excellent exercise in mopping."
"You don't say."
"Actually, I do and just did. Mopping is an excellent way to increase upper body strength. Besides working the various arm muscles, mopping can also increase strength in the deltoid and trapezius muscles of the upper back."
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Oh, how wonderful. I always wanted a strong trapezius. Haven't you always wanted a strong trapezius, Jim?"
"I suppose," Kirk said noncommittally.
"Pray tell, what other marvelous benefits are there in mopping?"
"Another fine quality of mopping is that it keeps one's hands and eyes busy at a useful task, while allowing one's mind to follow different lines," Spock said, completely straight-faced.
"You don't want to know what lines my thoughts are following," McCoy assured him, pleasant words not masking the general aggravation he was feeling.
Kirk had strong suspicions this was very true.
"And what fascinating lines is your mind following?" McCoy asked, too pleasantly for comfort. If he recalled that he'd asked this question in the turbolift, he didn't mention the fact.
The logical thing for Spock to do would have been to evade the question. We will not attempt to explain why he did not. "I was calculating mathematically the most efficient length of mop sweep so as to maximize cleaning while conserving energy. You are exerting more energy then is strictly necessary."
McCoy groaned. "Spock…why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you feel the need to say things like that?!"
Spock looked at him. "If you are not interested in the lines of my mental tract, I suggest you do not ask. It is not logical to ask for information you do not wish to receive."
"Oh, that's it!" McCoy advanced towards Spock, swinging his mop in the Vulcan's general direction. "You may have nerve-pinched me in the turbolift, but let's see you get within arm's length now!"
"Doctor, are you attacking me with a mop?" If Spock was feeling anything, it was only some amount of surprise.
"Yes, you pointy-eared computer! I am attacking you with a mop!"
"Doctor, while I appreciate it is difficult for you, try to control yourself."
McCoy seemed to have no inclinations to control himself.
"Doctor…Dr. McCoy…Doc—" Spock opted for a strategic retreat. In other words, he fled down the corridor, McCoy, brandishing a mop, in hot pursuit.
Kirk watched them dispassionately. Now that the confrontation he'd been dreading had finally been set off, he found himself strangely unconcerned about stopping it. He knew, as captain, he probably should. While he doubted it was spelled out in his job description, he strongly suspected Starfleet would expect him to prevent his senior officers from killing each other. But on the other hand, he doubted they'd really do much damage to each other, and it would be interesting to see what would happen if McCoy caught up to Spock. And besides, while he was willing to face down a Klingon if necessary, he wasn't particularly eager to get in the way of McCoy at the moment. But on the other other hand, there were over a dozen crewmembers of varying ranks present, and the sight of the chief medical officer chasing the first officer down the corridor with a mop wasn't one to inspire confidence in one's leaders. But on the other other other hand, it was a decidedly dull mission they were currently on, and a little excitement wouldn't hurt anyone. But on the—
The decision was abruptly taken out of Kirk's hands as the conflict resolved itself. Running down a corridor still slick in spots with orange juice is not the safest thing in the galaxy. Safer than fighting Klingons, but less safe then checking the status of tricorders in Sickbay. Also considerably safer than trying to steal a cloaking device, but not half as safe as…well, to get to the point: they soon came upon a puddle. Spock being Spock stepped over it without breaking stride. McCoy being McCoy did not.
Instead, McCoy hit the puddle, and slipped. Balance lost, he stayed upright for a moment or two, arms pin-wheeling frantically, before finally having his feet go out from under him. He went down into the middle of the puddle, making a rather impressive splash, considering the shallow depth.
Spock stopped a few feet away and regarded him. "I believe the logical course to take at this juncture would be for me to continue mopping. On the other end of the ship." He turned, and calmly walked down the corridor.
McCoy glared after the Vulcan's retreating back, his face an interesting shade of red. Kirk walked over to McCoy, and looked at him.
"You all right, Bones?"
"If you laugh, Jim…" McCoy threatened, somehow managing to be rather imposing despite the fact that he was flat on his back in a puddle of orange juice.
"Who's laughing?" Kirk asked. The answer being: several red-shirts who were trying, not very successfully, to suppress it, and, if not for very stern self-control, Kirk. "Need a hand?"
"No," McCoy snapped, then sighed. "Oh, I guess so," he said, and let Kirk help him up. "Why does he bother me so much? Why?"
Kirk shrugged. It wasn't a question with a simple answer. It was the sort of question that could be debated for quite some time. "He's just Spock, I guess."
"Well, that's true enough! You know, that's not a logical answer to the question though."
Further discussion was cut short, due to a sudden distraction. A faint hissing noise started, and suddenly all the orange juice still on the floor evaporated away.
"Oh. Scotty must have fixed the evaporizers," Kirk commented.
"I thought he needed three weeks," McCoy pointed out.
Kirk shrugged. "That's Scotty for you."
"Whatever. If I never mop again it'll be too soon."
Kirk rather felt he had to agree.
McCoy chasing Spock with a mop. You probably won't see it anywhere else. And if you do, let me know, I want to read that story.
As to the whole plane thing. It's from a Twilight Zone episode Shatner was on a few years before Star Trek. His character had had a nervous breakdown on a plane, and spent the last few months in a sanitarium. Now he's flying home, and somewhat nervous. He has (can you guess?) the window seat right over the wing. Things get bad when he starts seeing a gremlin on the wing of the plane. And to make it worse, the gremlin's messing with the engines. Shatner's the only one who sees it, so everyone else figures he's going nuts again. He does go a little wacko. He gets a gun somewhere (I think he steals it off a marshal), breaks the window, and winds up hanging out of the plane, trying to shoot the gremlin. They haul him back in and he's okay, but they ship him off to the sanitarium again. He does get over his fear of planes because he knows the gremlin really was there, but it's a pretty rough ride all the same. So Kirk has good reasons for feeling…apprehensive about the window seat.
Next chapter as soon as I figure out what it is and write it, which, I hope, will be soon. In the meantime, review!