Sulu kept putting one foot in front of the other. He knew that he had to think, had to plan. The only way to survive these meetings with the Director was to stay two steps ahead of her. She'd certainly already be informed of Chekov's death… Sulu's brain stubbornly refused to get past those last two words.

'C'mon,' he pleaded with himself silently. 'I'm going to have plenty of time to think about that later… I'm going to have the rest of my life to think about that.'

"Profoundest sympathy," an approaching kiani greeted him.

"Thank you," he replied politely without stopping to talk. Apparently the whole station already knew. Sulu was glad there were so few Kibrians out and about then. They were all probably somewhere doing whatever unspeakable things they did to while away this holiday.

The lieutenant suddenly caught a glimpse of robe decorated with a pattern he thought he recognised.

"Hey, excuse me," he called as its wearer rounded the corner ahead of him. "Excuse me, uh… Driant?"

"Yes?" The kiani stopped and turned. This time he was accompanied by a tall, low caste man instead of a slave caste girl, but it was definitely the same Kibree from the marketplace.

"Driant." Sulu smiled. "That is your name, isn't it?"

"I don't think we've been introduced," the Kibrian replied coolly. "You're one of the Federation officers, of course, but…"

"Lieutenant Sulu. The other day in the kideok, I was the one who wasn't for sale."

"Oh, yes." The Kibree didn't seem particularly embarrassed by the remembrance.

"You're an acquaintance of Kahsheel's, aren't you?"

"Yes…" The kiani's eyes slid up and down the corridor probably to see if anyone was present to witness this display of bad manners by one of the alien visitors. "We had mutual friends. I'm devastated by the news of her death. In fact, I'm in this part of the building to inquire what plans are being made for a ceremony for her. Of course, it won't be a traditional service because of the holiday and the circumstances surrounding her death…"

"As I understand it, the two of you were more than friends," Sulu said, deciding to push hard. "It might be more accurate to say you were allies."

"Allies?" The Kibree's small eyes darted up and down the hallway again. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I'm sure you do." Sulu crossed his arms. "I guess no one's told you that before Mister Chekov died, he got his memory back."

"Chekov?" the Kibrian replied blankly, but the lieutenant caught the look of panic that settled on the kiani's face for a split second. "I don't believe I know anyone by that name."

"You might not have known his name, but he knew…" Without warning, the whole world burst into stars as something very hard made contact with the back of Sulu's head. Everything went black as he slumped into the waiting arms of the kiani.

"Oh, Miro!" Driant heaved a deep sigh of relief as his minion quickly helped him to drag the lieutenant into a nearby darkened alcove. "What would I ever do without you?"

The low caste pocketed his blackjack, wrapped Sulu's unconscious form in his own voluminous robe and hefted him over his shoulder. "How do you wish me to dispose of him, sir?"

"Dispose? No, no, no," Driant replied, checking both ways to see if they'd attracted any unwanted onlookers. "He, like all our gifts from the Federation, must be most carefully utilised."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson tried to regain his footing in reality, but the ground was still too slippery. He had to retain a grip on Chekov's shoulders as he exclaimed, "But you were dead!"

"No, I was just sleeping," Chekov said, shaking him off irritably. A frown crossed his face as he looked around. "I'm not in the Security cell. How did you get me out?"

"I was able to get you out because you were dead," Johnson said, stating the now unbelievable truth.

Chekov gave him a patronising smile. "Luckily, like Mister Gebain, I wasn't very dead."

"No, no… This guy did something…"

"What guy?"

When Johnson turned, they were alone in the room. No trace of the Kibrian remained in the open doorway. "That Kibree…"

"Perhaps you should lie down for a moment, Mister Johnson," Chekov suggested.

"I can't believe this," Johnson ran the medical scanner over him. "Still traces of the stimulants… Some strain to vital organs, but no permanent damage… No trace of the toxin… No trace of peeva."

Chekov shrugged, still not buying it. "Apparently, death agreed with me."

"I don't understand it." Johnson looked from the ensign sitting up on the bed to the empty doorway and back again. "You were dead."

"Obviously not, Mister Johnson. The Kibrians simply allowed you to believe I was."

"But they believed you were too. How do you feel?"

Chekov massaged the back of his neck with one hand. "Like I've drunk three gallons of black coffee."

"It's the stimulants."

Chekov's eyes suddenly lit up. "If I'm alive, then Kahsheel…"

"Kahsheel is dead. They did an autopsy on her and have sent her body off to do whatever they do to dead Kibrians…"

Johnson stopped when he finally registered the effect this was having on Chekov. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be so blunt…"

"Do you have anything to drink?" the ensign asked, partly because he felt dehydrated and partly on the hopes of getting the meteorologist out of his lap.

"Water."

"Water would be fine." While the other ensign hurried to the basin in the other room, Chekov winced as he stretched and swung his legs down onto the floor. He might not have been dead, but he certainly did feel very stiff in the joints. "What is the situation, Mister Johnson?"

"We're on the verge of abandoning the station — without informing the Kibrians," Johnson answered from the other room, running water into a cup. "Lieutenant Sulu is in a meeting with the Station Director. Davies and I are under orders to think of some way to contact Mras who is hiding in what the servants we spoke to called the catacombs…"

"A difficult assignment." Chekov nodded as he accepted the cup. The meteorologist hovered over him until Chekov motioned for him to sit down in the chair near the bed. "Johnson, if the Kibrians believe that I am dead, I think it would be to our advantage if we continued to allow them to do so."

Johnson reluctantly took a position several feet away from his patient. "It's going to be hard to get you out of the station…"

"I don't intend to leave the station yet," Chekov informed him. "I think I know where I could get a change of clothing. I could disguise myself as a servant…"

Johnson shook his head. "You don't look Kibrian. You're not tall enough and even if you were, I'm pretty short of theatrical makeup."

"Yes, but you do have that." Chekov pointed at the medikit, still lying open on the table by the door.

"I can't make you taller."

"Then that can't be helped. I will be a small Kibrian. You can change my appearance, though. Use your imagination, Mister Johnson."

Johnson bit his lip. Chekov did have a point. As himself, the Russian would only end up back in the holding cell. As a Kibrian low caste, he would be free to move about the station in areas that were inaccessible to the rest of the Enterprise party — areas where Mras was probably hiding and making plans for destruction.

"Okay…" Johnson dumped the depleted contents of the medikit out onto the low table beside him and began to rummage through them. "I could change the colour of your skin with this. That would take about half an hour… This would give you a short beard in around the same amount of time - that would tend to hide the shape of your face. I can't do anything to give you Kibrian eyes, but this would cause temporary epidermal swelling that would distort your features…"

"Yes, you can. You can use synthetic skin to put folds into the skin round my eyes. And you can cover up this at the same time…" Chekov held out his right hand and grinned. "You're left handed too, aren't you?"

Johnson watched him take off his tunic and turn it inside out to hide Sulu's insignia. "Yes, why?"

"There's a little Kibrian folklore I intend to spread back on the Enterprise. Apparently, left handed men are better lovers. But you and I knew that anyway." The navigator disappeared inside the reversed tunic, sparing Johnson the necessity of reacting to this bit of locker room banter.

"Chekov, with as many chemicals as your body has been exposed to…"

"A few more won't hurt." The ensign smiled cheerfully as he offered the meteorologist his arm. "Don't worry, Johnson. I have already survived death once today."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Davies was surprised when she answered a knock at the door to be met by Station Manager Datvin instead of Sulu or Johnson.

"May I speak with the lieutenant, please?" the Kibree asked with the sort of politeness that made Davies feel as though she'd been caught in the midst of doing something wrong.

"He's in conference with the Station Director." Davies was beginning to feel like the team's secretary, stuck guarding Sulu's room and answering his door. She and Johnson had agreed that one of them should remain in the lieutenant's apartment in case their servant contacts or the mysterious stranger decided to return. The meteorologist was long overdue on his promise to return and help make plans after retrieving a few items from his quarters, but Datvin's air of nervous impatience decided her against going to find him before setting off.

"I can assure you that he is not." Datvin's sharp eyes travelled the room, catching each piece of scattered or half-packed equipment. "I have come about the matter of the corpse that I understand is being stored in one of the chambers assigned to your party. Doing so is strictly against station policy. The Director asked me to convey her deepest sympathies and her strong desire to speak to the lieutenant at his earliest convenience."

Davies crossed her arms and sniffed contemptuously at the thought of the Director's deepest sympathies. "Lieutenant Sulu's with her now. He's been gone nearly twenty minutes."

"No, he isn't. I have come directly from her office." The Kibrian's gaze settled suspiciously over the ensign's shoulder on the open equipment case laid out on Sulu's bed. "Perhaps it would be best if you were to come speak with the Director yourself, Ensign Davies… That is, unless you were planning to go elsewhere?"

"No, of course not." Davies forced herself to smile as she gestured for Datvin to precede her out then closed the door securely behind them both. "I'd be more than happy to come."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Sulu raised his head groggily and then — like anyone else who has been slugged with a cosh — wished he hadn't. The place where he was — wherever he was — was dark and damp. He groaned before he could stop himself. However if there was anyone with him in the blackness, they didn't react to this sign of regained consciousness.

He rolled over onto his back, then pulled himself slowly into a sitting position. His eyes slowly began to pick up the very faint outline of an ill-fitting door and the equally dim shape of a ventilation grille in the ceiling above him.

He wondered how long he'd been out. If he was still inside the station, he hoped he'd been unconscious considerably less than five hours. Wherever he was, Sulu knew he had to get out of here fast. He had to talk to the Director.

The more the lieutenant thought about it, the less wrong Chekov seemed in his assertion that the principle of non-interference was inherently compromised by their simple presence on Kibria. "Even if we rescue ourselves, we're interfering," the ensign had said. Sulu reflected that if he'd put his foot down at the start over Chekov, he wouldn't have been interfering any more than he was going to be anyway. All Chekov's suffering, all that humiliation… The last three days seemed even more bitter in retrospect than they had at the time.

'So,' Sulu summarised to himself briskly, refusing to give in to despair and recriminations, 'if someone actually is planning to use the team's presence in the station when it was destroyed either to blame it on us or simply to up the political stakes by involving the Federation… then we're freed to act in our own defence. The only probable exception is if Mras is planning to wreck the station whether we're in it or not. He could be completely oblivious to the wider implications of his plan.'

Sulu shook his head at the closed door in front of him. He had to get out of here and do something that would keep the Director from trying to put the screws on in some other way… at least until the immediate danger was over. He had to get to Mras…

"Damn," he cursed softly as he found himself automatically making plans for contacting the dwarf that involved Chekov. Neither Johnson nor Davies had the navigator's knowledge of servant culture. Neither of them even spoke Kibrian. Despite the fact that both of them were capable officers, they could probably do little more than sit and wait for him to show up. Being good officers, Sulu reflected sourly, it wasn't likely that they were doing more than that.

'I'll never tell Chekov that he's too impulsive again,' Sulu thought before remembering that he'd never tell Chekov anything again. 'Damn.'

It was getting harder each time to pull himself back from that yawning chasm of grief. Not knowing how much longer he could continue to do so, Sulu swiped at his eyes and checked for his communicator. Whoever had put him there — presumably Driant — had taken the device.

He stood up and walked to the door. There was no handle on his side of it. It didn't yield to steady pressure. The lieutenant resisted the urge to see what its reaction would be to a savage kick. He didn't want anyone to come in until he'd tried all the other possible ways out.

The grille wasn't in the ceiling, but it was still out of his reach at the top of the wall. His investigation failed to turn up anything that would provide the extra height he needed. Squaring his shoulders, Sulu went back to the door and did his best to put his boot through it.

"Stand back," someone on the other side ordered.

The lieutenant took a small step away from the door as he heard the lock click. As the door opened and his eyes adjusted to the light, Sulu realised his captors were taking no chances. Driant's low caste companion was covering him with a gun very like the one Uyal had been using earlier. The kiani was standing at a safe distance.

"Lieutenant Sulu, I'm glad to see you're with us again." Driant smiled as he snapped his fingers. Two additional servants entered at his summons. One activated the lighting panels as the other dragged in a chair.

Sulu could now see that his prison was a small, unornamented room — perhaps a storage room or a very large closet.

The kiani gestured for him to be seated. Calculating that he had no chance of getting through the room's single exit before he was shot for his pains, Sulu obeyed. Immediately, the two servants began to secure his wrists to the arms of the chair with leather straps.

"I hope that's not too uncomfortable, Lieutenant," Driant apologised as they worked. "I really don't want us to regard each other as enemies."

"It's a little too late to worry about that," Sulu replied, as the servants tied his ankles to the chair's legs.

Driant regarded him thoughtfully. "I regret what happened to your servant. Kahsheel always was… given to melodrama."

Sulu's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you gave Chekov's safety any consideration at any time."

"No," the kiani admitted, dismissing his servants with a careless gesture. "It wasn't a very high priority. After all, he was only a…"

"You were the one who set it up so he'd become a slave in the first place," Sulu interrupted harshly. "Why?"

"Mister Sulu," Driant protested. "Nature ordained that role for him, not me. I could argue that by giving him responsibilities he was ill-equipped to sustain, you were exploiting him. However, I know enough about you to realise this argument is not going to persuade either one of us to change our minds. I would prefer to use this necessarily brief interview more productively."

Sulu opened his bound hands eloquently. "I don't seem to be in a position to dictate terms."

"I'm glad you see that," the kiani replied civilly. "You know what we want. You also have some idea of the lengths we are prepared to go to to get it. You can give me the information I want, or I can kill you, making it look as if the reactionary faction who favour isolation are responsible. Your death, under those circumstances, will strengthen the hand of the radical party in the government, giving them an excuse to crack down on our enemies. In addition, such an incident may encourage the Federation to relax its restrictions on the release of technology to Kibria, since we will argue that greater stability will be helped by modernising our society and improving overall living conditions. Such stability is important to the Federation if they are to develop the transit facilities on Eenos. So, which is it to be?"

Sulu took a very deep breath. "What information do you want?"

The kiani smiled. "Funny, I can't help but be disappointed in you, Lieutenant. After all the trouble your Chekov gave us, I thought you'd try a little harder to stick to your principles. Obviously we chose the wrong man right from the beginning. Well, now, since the computers are still down for another four hours or so…"

Sulu fought not to react to the welcome news that he was still in the station with a good margin until Mras' deadline.

"…I'll have to ask you to do this the old-fashioned way. I could wait, but I really want to be able to release you before your absence raises too many questions." Driant produced pen and paper from under his robe. "And Lieutenant, I am a scientist. Don't think you can fool me."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Hmm." Chekov turned his face slowly from side to side as he sat on the bed examining his reflection in a small hand mirror. "I'm beginning to look like Fyodor Petrovich Suvorov."

"Who's that?" Johnson asked.

"The ugliest man in Moscow." Chekov put down the mirror. "My hair is still recognisable though. Could we change the colour?"

"I'm not a hairdresser," Johnson complained. "And if I'd wanted to do this sort of thing, I wouldn't have spent the last four years studying weather systems."

Making a dissatisfied noise through his nose, Chekov picked the mirror back up and began to chew contemplatively on the end of his thumb as he studied his reflection. Johnson looked at the swarthy, stubbled, puffy-eyed man in front of him and pondered philosophically whether reacting so much to someone's appearance rather than their inner being wasn't a sign of an essential shallowness.

"We can cut it," Chekov decided. "Most servants have shorter hair. It usually isn't very well cut either. Do you have scissors?"

Johnson extracted a pair from his medikit and handed them to Chekov.

The Russian looked at them and offered them back. "It is quicker for you to do it."

"No, I'd…" The meteorologist pulled away, seeming unaccountably flustered. "I'd rather not."

Chekov's face tried to contract in to a puzzled scowl, but it was no longer capable of its normal flexibility. "Mister Johnson, you have been acting as my personal physician. You have pumped me full of drugs, taken my pulse every few seconds, resuscitated me, even carried around what you thought was my corpse… and now you don't think you can bring yourself to cut my hair?"

"Well… well…" Johnson stammered for a moment then, blushing, snatched the scissors out of Chekov's hand and began hacking with the all the clumsiness of a novice barber.

"Chekov…" he began, after working in silence for a couple of minutes, "…there's something I should tell…"

"Shouldn't Mister Sulu be back by now?" Chekov interrupted.

"Ah, well… I suppose that depends on what he manages to negotiate with the Director," Johnson replied, falling back into his usual character. "It might be best if you wait here until he comes back. After all, he thinks you're dead. He'll want to know that you aren't…"

"You can tell him that," Chekov said, eyeing his new hairstyle in the small mirror. "Although I'm not sure he will have much confidence in your medical judgement. Presumably he knows that Gebain is still alive?"

"You told him yourself."

"Did I? Then my recovery shouldn't come as too much of a surprise." Chekov smiled crookedly at his reflection. "Well, Mister Johnson, I hope you're not expecting a gratuity. This is certainly the worst haircut I've ever had in my life."

"I guess I'll stay with meteorology," Johnson agreed as he stood, being careful to shake the hair that had fallen onto him as he worked onto the bed. He stepped back and examined his handiwork. "You really don't look like yourself any more. This might not work if anyone was looking for you, but I think you'll get away with it since everyone thinks you're dead."

"Good." Chekov stood up and placed the mirror on top of a nearby cabinet. "Then I shall go look for Mras. Alone, necessarily."

Chekov turned suddenly and bumped into Johnson. To his surprise the man didn't apologise, or move out of his way. Instead, the meteorologist brushed a few stray hairs off Chekov's neck and took a deep breath. "You will be careful, won't you?"

"Of course." Chekov edged past him, shaking loose hair out of his clothing. "I am always very careful."

"You've already been dead once today," Johnson reminded him. "I don't think Lieutenant Sulu will be very pleased if anything else happens to you."

"Johnson…" Chekov paused in the midst of running his hand through what was left of his hair as a thought hit him. "What did Ensign Davies say when you told her I was dead?"

The meteorologist shook his head. "I don't remember."

"I hope she was moved to retract a few libellous statements she made about me earlier?"

"No. Not that I recall."

"Oh, really?" A devilish smile overcame the stiffness around Chekov's mouth. "In that case, it might be amusing to haunt her a little…"

Johnson suddenly started blinking back tears.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" Chekov stuttered to a halt. After all, Johnson had obviously worked pretty hard to keep him alive. It wasn't polite to respond by insulting the woman his saviour plainly had feelings of some sort for. "Of course, I wouldn't actually do anything to upset Ensign Davies…"

"Oh, to hell with Davies," Johnson said, his tears breaking into laughter. "It's just that I… I… I'm just glad you're alive, Chekov."

"I'm very pleased about it myself," Chekov replied, puzzled by the vehemence of Johnson's reactions. Chalking the meteorologist's emotionalism up to fatigue, he continued after a moment, "I should be going. We could stop to inform Ensign Davies that I'm feeling much better, if you think I should."

"Sure." Still smiling, Johnson went to the door. "The corridor's clear, but I'd better go in to be certain that there's no one in there with her."

As the meteorologist closed the door behind him, butterflies suddenly began to stir around inside Chekov's stomach. With the uncertain hour for Mras' revenge drawing near, the station seemed a dangerous place in which to simply wait around. The ensign paced off the minutes restlessly. He started violently when Johnson finally reopened the door.

"Davies isn't in Sulu's room or her own," Johnson announced unhappily. "She didn't leave a note or anything." The air of mounting panic was obviously catching. "There's no sign that Sulu's been back either. I couldn't even find those blue pills he was giving you."

Chekov frowned. He forgotten all about his problems with the peeva. He felt fine now, but… "If the pills are with him, wherever he is, I can't go look for him. I do not have time to wait either. I will simply have to manage without."

"You haven't managed to do without very well up until now," Johnson pointed out.

Chekov sighed impatiently. "What do you suggest I do?"

The meteorologist glanced at the jumble of drugs littered over the bed. "You've had so much already… I'm out of my depth, Chekov. I wish you'd just wait until the lieutenant gets back."

"Tell Sulu where I am and what I am attempting to do," Chekov instructed, moving towards the door.

Johnson beat him to it in one long stride, standing as if he were going to open it for him, but actually holding it shut. "You will be in the tunnels under the station looking for Mras in order to find out what he's up to and who he's working for," Johnson recited. "You'll make sure you get back here by an hour before moonset at the very latest, since that's when Selrideen implied that Mras would do… whatever he's going to do."

Chekov nodded.

Johnson cast about for a reason to detain him just a moment longer. "Are you sure you won't take my phaser? Or at least a communicator?"

"No. It is more dangerous for me to have anything in my possession that might fall into Kibrian hands or identify me as a Federation officer." Chekov tapped a lump on his right forearm. "You'll be able to find me easily enough with this."

Not having a proper subcutaneous device, the two of them had improvised one by planting a small capsule of derinium under his skin. The unique presence of this non-native substance would make him easily traceable with a tricorder from a wide range.

"What will you say if anyone asks where my body is?" Chekov asked.

"I'll say that someone from the Station Manager's office took it away."

The navigator nodded approvingly as he absent mindedly rubbed at the synthetic skin covering his branded hand. "Is there anything else we need to discuss?"

"I don't think so."

"Then…" Chekov nodded to the door which Johnson was still holding shut. "…if you don't mind, Mister Johnson."

"What? Oh…" Johnson reluctantly moved aside to let Chekov past to the door. "Remember not to talk too much."

"Do I ever?" Chekov asked before disappearing quietly down the corridor.

The door shut with a neat click. Johnson forced himself not to go and open it again in order to check that he hadn't imagined the events of the last forty minutes. But no, the dark chestnut-coloured hair littering the white bed cover and the blue and white floor tiles was evidence enough of that.

In fact, Johnson realised, it was the sort of clue that the most short sighted investigator could hardly fail to notice. The meteorologist brushed himself down, shook the cover thoroughly and then meticulously gathered the trimmings on the floor into a tidy pile. It was possible that they would have to keep Chekov's recovery a secret for several days yet. If questions were asked about the whereabouts of the corpse, they didn't want the Kibree to find anything hinting at a resurrection. Since Johnson didn't know what happened at the far end of the disposal chutes, he folded a sheet of printout into an improvised envelope. He carefully swept the hair into it, then tucked it inside his shirt. "And if I get shot, or knifed or something," he told himself, "and they find it next to my heart, Chekov can make what he likes of it."

He glanced at the timepiece on his workstation. Apart from digital readouts, no two clocks on the station appeared to be alike. This one worked by rotating interlinked cogs which, when they turned to significant positions, allowed markers to slide down the outside of the entire complicated arrangement. The whole thing was powered by gravity and relied on someone resetting the device once every three days. It also chinked periodically like gravel being thrown at a window, but fortunately Johnson was a sound sleeper. It took a good deal to perturb his emotional equilibrium in other respects also. He found the fact that he now couldn't make up his mind as to what to do next deeply worrying.

Sulu should have been back long since, but he could hardly go chasing after the lieutenant. No, all he could do was make sure he was ready to leave at a moment's notice. He turned to review the state of his packing. His eye fell on the medikit. It looked like a kindergarten class had been playing doctor with it.

Johnson stared at the evidence of his disturbed state of mind and, as if physically ordering the equipment would somehow put his thoughts into the same state, sat down to put everything away in its proper place. When he'd finished, the slot where the Hamilton scalpel normally sat was all the more conspicuous.

Johnson replayed the relevant conversations: 'The Station Manager and the Medical Officer are anxious to obtain certain medical technology','I do know that his particular need is a personal matter involving his son', 'The Medical Officer borrowed it…','…for one of my patients…' Well, he'd just have to go and get it back. Johnson packed everything, clipped the medical kit and his phaser onto his belt, put the rest of his belongings by the door where they could be grabbed in a hurry and went the few yards down the corridor to the lieutenant's quarters. He let himself in.

He checked the obvious places again for a note of any sort. This seemed to be another symptom of the stress he was under. He never usually felt any need to repeat something he'd already done with perfect thoroughness. Eventually he gave up and decided instead to leave a note himself.

Johnson paused with the nib of the writing utensil he found laying on Sulu's desk hovering over a blank sheet. "Chekov alive" seemed a little blunt. Such an unambiguous announcement might also give the game away to the wrong person. It was difficult to come up with a way to convey this vital information clearly and yet discretely. "Navigation no longer a problem…" he considered. "Reports of Pavel's death in tradition of Twain obituary…"

After a moment, Johnson discarded the idea of communicating in twentieth century telegraphese and decided he'd prefer to break the good news in person… or, better yet, watch Chekov tell Sulu himself.

"I have good news," he wrote tamely in the end, "but the Medical Officer has borrowed the Hamilton Scalpel. I am about to attempt to recover it. I should return shortly."

Johnson finished the note with his signature and a notation of the time, now four and a half hours before moonset.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

'I'm not going to volunteer anything,' Davies coached herself silently as she followed the Station Manager down the corridor to the Director's office. 'I'm not going to agree to anything… Where the hell is Sulu?'

The distance between the ensign and the Kibree lengthened as Datvin forgot to allow for her shorter stride. Davies purposefully did not hurry to catch up. 'He can wait for me,' she told herself. 'I can't afford to give way in anything right now.'

Datvin got to the end of the corridor and realised he was alone. "This way, Miss Davies," he urged her politely.

"You seem to be in a hurry," Davies observed in a tone she hoped was equally cool, as she deliberately slowed her pace.

A flicker of something that might have been concern crossed the Kibree's face.

"I do have other duties to attend to," he replied, quickly recovering his characteristic air of superiority.

Davies stopped dead several paces short of the junction. "Pressing ones, it would seem."

The Kibrian was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. "A personal matter," he answered shortly. "Of no concern to you. Now if you would…"

Davies adopted a stance, arms folded, that strongly projected no intention whatsoever of moving any time soon. "Do you really have no idea where Lieutenant Sulu is?"

Datvin looked disapprovingly down his nose at this tactic. "Young woman, the lieutenant has never shown any inclination to keep me appraised of his whereabouts in the past. Why should you assume that he has begun to do so now?"

"Hmm." Davies had to admit he had a point. She didn't think Datvin was hiding any information, but she was reluctant to give up what felt like the first bit of leverage she'd ever had over the Kibrian by moving. "Datvin, about the… About Mister Chekov… About the body… I don't know what the normal arrangements are on Kibria…"

"Prompt cremation," the Station Manager informed her briskly and as impersonally as if they were discussing the weather. "Usually on the same day. For reasons of sanitation and public health. We do not have facilities for storage. As today is a holiday, Engineer Kahsheel will be cremated this evening, after sundown. Her remains are lying in the memorial hall, for the convenience of visitors, until then."

Davies hoped the kiani's cremation wouldn't be occurring sooner and more spectacularly than the Manager expected. "Then why can't Chekov's remains stay where they are?"

The Kibrian tilted his head suspiciously. "What exactly do you intend to do with them?"

"His…" Davies stopped. Presumably since Chekov belonged to Sulu, it was the lieutenant's wishes rather than those of the ensign's family which Kibrian custom would respect. "Mister Sulu will want the body returned to Earth. That means we're only talking about keeping it somewhere until our ship returns. Between three and six days, if nothing unexpected happens."

Datvin made no reply other than a small fluttering of his fingers that clearly read as a gesture of impatience.

Davies felt strange, bartering for poor Chekov's body in this way. It was rather ghoulish, when one paused to think about it. Davies squared her shoulders and decided not to pause and think about it. After all, it had to be done… and it was the least she could do. "Surely you could arrange something for that long. If nothing else, you could pack it in ice where it is."

The Kibree sighed impatiently. "I will do what I can. Arranging this sort of thing is actually Gebain's province. While he's recovering…"

"How is Mister Gebain?" Davies interrupted figuring it wouldn't hurt to have information that might affect Mras' plans for the station.

"He was attacked by one of the servants, an unbalanced individual. He underestimated the seriousness of his injuries and later required surgery for internal bleeding. A most distressing incident. Quite out of the ordinary. We give the lower castes a holiday and this is what comes of it. They take advantage of the relaxation of discipline to display their depraved and violent nature. And I…" Datvin abruptly clamped his lips closed on his own tirade. After pausing for a moment to recompose himself by giving her a particularly cold stare, he finished, "And the Federation preaches emancipation. Truly, you do not appreciate the position here. Now, Miss Davies, if you would please…"

"I'm not in a hurry," she informed him. "Are you in a hurry?"

"Yes, Miss Davies," Datvin replied, exasperated. "I allowed ample time to accomplish this errand for the Director, but thanks to your dawdling I am now going to be late for my son's…" Again the Kibrian bit off his words mid-sentence. "If you would come this way."

"You'll arrange for Chekov to stay where he is?" Davies persisted.

Datvin sighed. "If you insist. Now, could we please…?"

"Of course." She smiled as she set off briskly in the direction of the Director's office. "I hate to keep someone waiting."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson paused at the door to the Medical Office and mentally checked over his facts. Inside, a low caste medical auxiliary was watering a potted plant. "Excuse me, I need to see the Medical Officer."

She automatically looked at a door to her right. "No, I'm afraid he's with a patient now. If it's something that just requires a dressing, I can… Oh, you can't go in…" The low caste stared after him. "…there. Oh."

Although Johnson had been in the Medical Officer's examining room several times, he was still struck by the frivolity of its design. Rather than the stark utilitarian lines one would expect to find in such a place, at every opportunity decorative details were added, giving the place a vaguely unsanitary look to the meteorologist's critical eye. The doctor was standing with his back to Johnson, tending to a small patient almost completely covered with a white sheet.

The doctor turned. "What are you doing here? I'm operating. Don't you have any notion of the risk to my patient your being here represents?"

"Nothing like the risk my reclaiming my property would represent," Johnson replied coldly.

The doctor put his hand over something on the table beside him. "Are you mad? I'm performing brain surgery on a child, a mere infant. Are you going to impose your arrogant prejudices at the cost of this child's life?"

"No. I'm going to let you finish what you're doing." Johnson paused significantly. "After you've written out a full statement of what you've done and the exact steps that you and the Station Manager took to get hold of this equipment."

The doctor blinked at him in disbelief. "Mister Johnson, I know that your party has been very badly treated and I know you are upset about the death of your friend…"

"…And if you don't hurry, we both might have another death to be upset about," Johnson finished for him.

"You're going to have to wait, Mister Johnson," the Kibree said, turning resolutely back to his patient. "I've completed the excision, but I have to monitor the internal bleeding."

"This won't take you a moment. I'll keep an eye on the patient while you do it." Johnson moved closer to the table and made a show of looking interested in the lavishly illustrated instruction booklet which accompanied the stolen scalpel.

Knowing himself to be caught, the doctor released a long breath.

"That won't be necessary," he said, making a quick review of his patient's vital signs. He then picked up a nearby pad and began to scribble out a few lines. "I would have returned it, you know. As tempting as it was to keep such a device, I would have returned it."

Johnson folded his arms. "I wish I knew that was true."

The Kibrian had no reply for this other than to continue work on his confession. Out of force of habit, the meteorologist checked the primitive array of devices that continued to report the tiny patient's vital signs. "What's the matter with him?"

"A tumour," the doctor replied, handing him the pad. "A benign tumour. It would have been absorbed in time, but it would have delayed his intellectual development… and caused behavioural problems…"

"Problems that might have put him in one of the lower castes?" Johnson guessed as he scanned the hand written document into his translator.

"Yes." The doctor reached past him and turned the page in the scalpel's instruction booklet as if double checking something.

"And what's the problem with that?" Johnson demanded icily.

The Kibrian frowned as he handed over the stolen instrument. "Your scalpel, Mister Johnson. Thank you for letting me use it. And I think you and I both know what the problem with that is. I believe I have also explained how little I can do about it. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Johnson tucked the device and its instructions back into its white case. As the Medical Officer cleared away his equipment, the little boy's face became visible for the first time, peacefully sleeping.

The meteorologist's uncaring facade cracked at the sight. "I hope he'll be okay…" he said, feeling queasily guilty that within a few hours this operation might have been rendered worthless.

"I'm sure he will." The Kibrian smiled at his small patient. "And I am grateful. I know you've stretched the rules for me… for him. And I… well, I did what I could for your friend. I'm sure you'll come to appreciate that later."

Johnson stared at the doctor for a moment, then, knowing that if he prolonged this conversation much further he was going to say something he shouldn't, he turned to go. As he did, his eyes fell on an open pharmacy cabinet. "You gave Lieutenant Sulu something… some tablets, I think… to help Chekov with his addiction to peeva?"

"Yes. I did."

"I'm worried…" Johnson paused and carefully regrouped his thoughts. "We're almost certain someone gave Chekov the peeva deliberately. There's a chance those same people will try the same thing again on another one of us. So could I have a few more of those pills?"

"I gave Mister Sulu more than enough…"

"Unfortunately, I've lost track of the lieutenant," Johnson admitted, trying not to make it sound as if this was a major problem.

The blue pills rattled noisily into the little round tin. Pushing the top firmly back onto the jar, the doctor looked warily at Johnson.

"Thanks." Johnson turned to go, but found he couldn't leave the room without turning and saying, "You're not helpless, you know. Under a strict interpretation, it might be breaking the Non Interference Directive for me to even say this, but you're not helpless. You're a powerful man. You can get things done if you want to. Just look what you've managed for this little boy today. If you really want change for your planet, you can be a driving force for that change. You are not helpless."

The Kibrian was silent for long enough to make Johnson begin to feel like an absolute fool for having spoken. A week ago, it would never have occurred to him to have said such a thing. He decided Mister Chekov's impulsiveness must be of the contagious variety.

"I have things to finish up here," the Medical Officer said, stepping back to his patient.

Feeling defeated, Johnson turned again to go.

"Afterwards…" The sound of the doctor's voice stopped him. "…I think I may make a few enquiries about your Lieutenant Sulu." The Kibrian met the Federation officer's eyes steadily. "Perhaps, Mister Johnson, we agree rather more than you realise."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The Director made a poor show of being otherwise occupied when Datvin ushered Ensign Davies into her office. She laid down her pen and turned over the sheet of elaborately embellished doodles. "Miss Davies."

'I will not apologise, I will not volunteer anything, I will not agree to anything,' Davies ordered herself silently before calmly responding, "Madame Director."

"Let's not waste time, Ensign." The Director folded her arms sternly. "Where is Lieutenant Sulu?"

Davies noted she had not been invited to sit down. She took a moment to choose a chair, pull it into place opposite the Director and seat herself comfortably in it. "As far as I know, he should be in this room."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I last saw him just three quarters of an hour ago. He said he was going to see you. Either he did so, in which case you probably have more idea than I where he intended to go next, or he was detained on the way here. If that is so, I would appreciate your taking steps to locate him."

The Director blinked at Davies for a moment, seemingly surprised both by the ensign's announcement and unexpected aggression. She then rested her forehead against her fist. It looked as though this news was the straw that threatened to break the Kibrian equivalent of a dromedary's back.

"Director," Datvin broke into the silence, "if you have no further need of me…"

"I may need you, Datvin," the Director said, recovering. "If the lieutenant is truly missing, the Security Office will have the responsibility of locating him. The matter will fall under your jurisdiction."

"Of course," the Station Manager acknowledged. "If you determine that is the case, I will initiate the proper steps. However, at the moment, I have a pressing personal matter than requires my attention."

"A personal matter?" the Director repeated, in a this-had-better-be-a-good-one tone of voice.

"My son is scheduled to undergo surgery at this time. I am quite anxious about the result."

Two and two suddenly collided in Davies' head and made four. "Brain surgery?" she speculated.

The Station Manager seemed to pale a little but made no reply.

The Director glanced quickly between him and Davies. "You unnecessarily and perhaps unknowingly wound our Station Manager's feelings as a parent, Ensign. The procedure you seem to be suggesting isn't possible."

"Using stolen Federation technology, it would be," Davies asserted, keeping her fingers tightly crossed. She wasn't sure what she hoped to achieve here, but putting the Director on the defensive seemed like a good start.

"Datvin?" the Kibrian asked, generously sharing her place on the hot seat.

"I don't know what she's talking about, Director. The Medical Officer informed me yesterday that he had become aware of a new technique. I don't know the details…"

"But you threatened Chekov in order to get hold of some advanced medical technology," Davies broke in accusingly, "just in case it would come in useful?"

"The Lieutenant's servant was aggrieved because I discovered he was breaking station rules and saw to it that he was disciplined for having done so," Datvin bluffed with accomplished aplomb. "If he made up these spiteful accusations it is only what one expects of someone of his obviously base nature who was quite rightly consigned to the lowest caste."

"Well, this is easily settled, isn't it?" Davies said, a tight smile covering her rising ire. "Let's just go along to wherever this surgery is taking place and see what your Medical Officer is using… although it will be rather awkward and unfortunate for all concerned if I have to reclaim one of his instruments before he's finished."

The Director was beginning to look ill. "Your advanced technology is a powerful temptation to my people," she said in a tone whose evenness was forced. "You have been cautioned to take care…"

"But the Kibree are such law-abiding, disciplined people," Davies replied ironically, the heat of her anger warming her face. "We were led to believe that our property would be quite safe. Instead, it has been stolen. And in Chekov's case, murdered. When it's established that Kahsheel killed him rather than the other way around — by the advanced forensic facilities we will have access to when the Enterprise arrives — I've no doubt that Mister Sulu will be taking the strongest possible legal action against all those who can be held accountable."

A deathly silence descended on the room.

"Please, calm yourself, Miss Davies," the Director said quietly. "I am willing to discuss this matter, but rationally and without undue emotion."

"Undue..?"

"Madame Director," Datvin broke in unexpectedly. "In view of the discussion we were having earlier, I think you should know that from the state of Lieutenant Sulu's quarters, it looks as if our guests from the Federation are intending to leave the station."

Davies turned in the direction of this new attack, feeling the initiative slip suddenly from her grasp.

"Perhaps," the Station Manager suggested coolly, "under the circumstances, it would be wise to detain Ensign Davies until you can check on the lieutenant's whereabouts and intentions."

"Now, wait just a…" Davies protested.

"Yes, of course." The colour returned comfortably to the Director's face. "Purely as a precaution. We're not putting you under arrest, of course, Miss Davies, but I feel it wise to keep you under observation. And Ensign Johnson as well, especially in view of the threats he made earlier… in front of several witnesses." The Kibree smiled a grim, uncompromising smile. "I will look into your allegations that Federation equipment has been stolen as soon as possible, Ensign. Certainly as soon as possible. But my first responsibility is to the security of this Station. I regret to have to inform you that rumours have been reported to me. Rumours that the Federation may not be as well-disposed towards the success of this project as we had understood."

"That's ridiculous," Davies objected, knowing exactly who had started those rumours and wishing she'd killed Uyal while she had the chance.

"Datvin, perhaps you could find someone to supervise Miss Davies," the Director ordered with infuriating Kibrian civility. "Arrange for your Security staff to find Mister Johnson and bring him to join her. In the office across the corridor, perhaps. I believe no one is using it at present."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Oh, God!" Chekov groaned, pulling the itchy fabric of the oversized tunic he was wearing as far away as possible from his nose. Kibrians, having a different chemical makeup and diet from humans, also had a body odour that was quite… distinctive.

Other than the increasingly nauseating smell of his newly acquired clothing, Chekov had been fortunate in his quest thus far. He'd met no one in the corridors to the kitchen. Once there, he'd headed through the deserted chamber to the still room. The din of the party had still been audible in the distance. A rack of assorted elderly garments hung inside the storage room as he had remembered from what seemed like a lifetime ago. He'd swapped his tunic for the smallest shirt he could find, burying the incriminating cast off under several others. He'd then pulled off his boots and hidden them at the back of a shelf full of flour bags. The floor beneath the rack was littered with old sandals. He found one that fitted almost immediately but locating its partner had taken what seemed like an eternity.

He'd also tucked a couple of bread rolls that he'd found on his way to the stairs down to the tunnels inside his shirt. He hadn't eaten since Bolse had force fed him his 'breakfast'. The thought of food made him a little queasy at present, but he decided that he couldn't afford to lose concentration for want of sustenance later on.

The ensign now stood at the bottom of the stairs holding a lantern he'd appropriated from above, rubbing his swollen cheeks - which were beginning to protest the atrocities perpetrated on them - and wondering which way to go. The entire station, at a rough guess, covered an area of about forty thousand square metres. He was going to need a great deal of luck to find anyone down here, particularly anyone who didn't want to be found. He decided to head north down one of the passages that he remembered Mras identifying as 'places where slags bed down'.

Sound played tricks in the vaulted passages. Chekov's footsteps echoed so strangely that several times he whirled around thinking himself followed, only to find nothing but closing gloom in his wake. Occasionally he heard voices that might have been coming from above, beside, or ahead of him.

At any branching of the passageway, he consistently chose to take the path furthermost to his left in order to simplify retracing his steps. As a professional navigator, he knew he'd die of humiliation before any other factor if he were to become hopelessly lost.

Chekov dimmed his lantern as the glow of another light became visible in the distance. His footsteps sounded extraordinarily loud in the darkness as he tried to creep forward noiselessly.

"Lost, brother?" Simultaneous with this question, a sharp, cold object pierced the ensign's borrowed shirt and broke the skin of his back. Before Chekov recovered from the unavoidable sharp intake of breath inspired by these unexpected actions, someone snatched his lantern. Turning it up to full, they held it blindingly close to his eyes.

"What interest take you here?" the same voice demanded as unseen hands patted him down - presumably searching for weapons. The knife remained pressed to his back.

"I…" Chekov paused and cleared his throat, remembering to lower his voice to an unfamiliar register. "I look for Mras. I… have need to… make speech with him."

"I take no knowledge of Mras," the voice — now becoming embodied as a tall, shadowy form beyond the lantern's glow — responded harshly. "Nor of you."

"But he takes knowledge of me," Chekov replied with equal aggression, deciding to bluff his way through this one. "You'd better see I get to him."

The voice behind the hand holding the knife laughed. "Gives he orders like a kirrie."

"But comes dressed as slag."

Chekov's right hand was seized and summarily examined. The synthetic skin withstood the scrutiny.

"No slag."

This was apparently not welcome news to his little group of inquisitors. At the signal of a grunt from the one holding the lantern in his face, unseen others pinned both Chekov's hands behind him. There was a ripping noise as someone prepared makeshift bonds for him.

"I don't mean you any harm," the ensign protested as he ineffectually struggled against them. "I just want to speak with Mras."

The knife point was reapplied just below his right shoulder blade. "The kirrie's a fool who comes to the tunnels without friend to guard his back."

Chekov had little choice other than to stand obediently still as his hands were secured behind him.

"Mayhap he takes following the dream peddler," another voice speculated as a second strip of cloth was torn and tied double over his eyes. Even through the coarse material, Chekov could see the faint glow of the lantern reflected off the tunnel walls, but he seriously doubted that would be enough to enable him to find his way out of the maze again. "Eh, kirrie? Selrideen take property of you?"

"What?" Chekov heard the sound of yet another piece of cloth being torn. "What are you talking about? Please listen to me, many lives may depend on my speaking to…"

The ensign's plea was unceremoniously cut off by the third piece of cloth being placed over his mouth as a gag.

"Come on, kirrie," a voice said, as they pushed him forward. "We'll take you to Mras. Pray he takes a liking to your looks."

That, Chekov decided as he stumbled blindly down the passageway, was now something of a long shot.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-