By Jane Seaton

Sulu and McCoy lazed by the river, sipping cool drinks and enjoying the quiet while they waited for their captain to finish his business with the Quorot of Tol. A few yards away, watched with affectionate amusement by his friends, Ensign Chekov talked stiffly with the Quorot's beautiful daughter. McCoy trailed his hand idly in the dark water of one of the circular basins that dotted the garden.

"Do you think anything will come of it?" he speculated.

"No," Sulu responded firmly. "I give it about two more minutes then he'll put his foot in it somehow."

Mccoy pushed himself up to a sitting position and retopped his glass from the jug. "Now why is that? He's attractive, young, healthy, in an interesting occupation, with prospects. No trouble attracting older women, and gets on well with children. What's the problem with his own age group?"

"Oh, it's his own fault," Sulu judged, with all the expertise of four extra years. "I think he does it quite deliberately. The moment a relationship looks like getting somewhere, he wrecks it." He glanced surreptitiously at Chekov again. The Quorot's daughter had sat down on a stone bench, and Chekov remained standing, looking uneasy. "See what I mean? If that was me, or the captain, or any other man picked at random, he'd have his arm round her and be whispering sweet nothings." He paused thoughtfully. "I blame his mother."

"Over possessive, you mean, or no woman could ever live up to her?"

"No, he's terrified that some woman will live up to her. Have you ever met his mother?"

"No. Why?" Despite Sulu's reputation for unreliable gossip, McCoy was hooked by the helmsman's line.

"She's beautiful. Must have been spectacular when she was younger. And she has the sort of looks that improve in a quiet way. Gain depth, if you know what I mean. Chekov's eyes exactly. And a mind like a steel trap. His father, on the other hand, is very quiet, you could almost forget he's there. I like him, on his own, but he just fades out when his wife's around. Have you ever noticed how the girls Chekov actively pursues are not the prettiest? And a bit, well, fluffy? He doesn't want to end up like his father."

"Where on earth do you pick up all this rubbish, Lieutenant?"

"Last month's issue of New Relationships."

McCoy laughed and splashed a handful of water from the pool over the unrepentant Sulu. "Let me do the psycho-analyses, please." He dipped his hand back in the water. "Wouldn't it be nice if they did fall in love? He could stay here as assistant to the Federation attache, and..."

He stopped short, as Chekov sat down at last and kissed the girl. The dark and fair heads shone in the brilliant sunlight. Sulu turned and looked at the doctor.

Nilsa pulled away breathlessly from Chekov's embrace and shook her long hair out of her face. Their hands were still linked, and her eyes immediately found his again, as if she couldn't bear to look at anything else. Then she laughed. "We've been ' what if'd'."

"What?"

"Don't you know?" She looked pityingly at him. "Here, give me your hand." She dipped her hand and his together into the basin of water that the bench surrounded like a saucer rim. "Now, wish for something."

"What sort of..."

"Anything you want!" She leaned forward and kissed him again.

He laughed. "So, you can read minds."

"No, I can't. But that was a waste of a what if. I'd have kissed you anyway."

"Can I only have three wishes, then?"

"As many as you like. Why three?"

"On earth, in folk stories, you only ever get three wishes."

"That's no problem. You just wish for three more."

"I know, but by the time you work that out, you're old enough to realise that the story is about something else entirely. What did you mean, we've been what if'd?"

"I mean, someone wished we'd fall in love. I can always tell."

Chekov looked at her in amazement. It seemed a most novel excuse. "Why, does it happen much?"

"Quite often. Not falling in love, I mean. Actually, it's in rather poor taste to do that to someone. But I'm often just minding my own business, and find myself doing something I had no intention of doing, you know what I mean?"

"Not really. Is your father what-iffing Captain Kirk?"

"Oh, no. I'm sure he wouldn't. Not without asking. Not about something really important." Chekov wondered briefly whether he should alert the captain to this apparent mind control, or whether to believe the girl at all.

"Can I wish for anything?" he asked, casually.

"Some things work better than others. And if you don't like it, you just come back to the what if and get it reversed."

"What exactly is the what if?"

She pointed laughingly to the pool of water. "That is. But there are loads of them, everywhere."

He smiled at her. "Are you still in love with me, even though you know it's because of the what if?"

"Well, I could go and ask whoever it was to undo it, if I really wanted to." She smiled. She was obviously not in a hurry to do that.

"So, what do I have to do?" he asked, deciding to humour her.

"Just put your hand in the water, and say to yourself, " What If..."."

He shut his eyes for a moment, and dipped his hand into the cool liquid. Oddly, he felt that it was different, animate somehow. He put the effect down to the power of suggestion, and made a wish.

"Duck!"

There was a massive explosion, and a lump of masonry smashed from above, shattering the stone bench, and splattering the contents of the pool across the paving. Chekov threw himself on top of Nilsa as other bits of wreckage from the palace buildings, some ablaze, showered around them. Then there was silence, and he sat up cautiously.

"Captain!" he heard Sulu call out from somewhere in the pall of smoke and dust. "Captain Chekov, are you all right?"

Sulu had, of course, called, "Captain! Chekov!" There was no mystery about that. Chekov stood up. "Are you injured, Nilsa? I need to find Captain Kirk, and your father, in the palace. Do you think you can get me there?"

"Yes, but General Drom and his staff will be with them. What about your friends here?" She climbed awkwardly to her feet, wincing at various bruises, and set off towards Sulu and McCoy. Chekov followed her, unsure of his sense of direction in the smoke.

"Captain!" he heard Sulu yell again, practically in his ear, and then he collided with the helmsman. "Thank God you're all right, sir. Doctor McCoy's unconscious. I can't raise Kirk on my communicator, but I've got the ship. Mister Scott is standing by to beam us up."

Chekov turned to Nilsa, putting Sulu's strange uses of title down to the confusion of the moment.

"Have you any idea what's happening?"

"Yes, someone's trying to kill my father. And quite possibly to disrupt negotiations with the Federation too. Her name's Kaydon. She's my older sister, and she disagrees with my father's plans for Tol. But you won't find her here. She'll have had some sympathiser on the palace staff plant a bomb. I'm sorry Ensign Kirk had to be involved."

She looked close to tears. Sulu didn't seem much happier, but more worryingly he was looking expectantly at Chekov as if awaiting orders. "What should we do, Lieutenant?" Chekov prompted. The look of expectancy was replaced by one of confusion.

"Uh, you want recommendations, Captain?"

"What? Oh, no." Chekov thought hard. That something strange had happened was obvious, but the immediate problem was that Captain Kirk was somewhere in the wreckage, and action was needed promptly. "Ask Mister Scott to beam the doctor up, and send down a security team, with three extra phasers, and a medical team. Nilsa, can you guide us into the palace?" She nodded. "Good. If you change your mind and think there might be any threat of further terrorist action, tell me."

Sulu got on to following his orders immediately. Chekov forced himself to ignore his former superior and pulled Nilsa to him so they could talk confidentially. "Is this another of your what if's?"

"What do you mean, Captain?"

"You said you could reverse them? How?"

"You go back to the same what if, and..."

"I think it got totalled. What about another one?"

"No, that won't work. You get geometric distortion. I could explain it, but we don't have time now. What exactly did you wish for?"

Chekov realised that Sulu had finished carrying out his instructions and was looking bewildered by the apparently meaningless conversation. Just then, six security guards and two medics materialised and snapped to attention. So much for any hopes he had that the what if effect operated only on the planet. Tomson handed Chekov and Sulu phasers and looked inquiringly at Nilsa. Chekov nodded that she was to have one too, and wondered what Tomson's reaction would be if he retired gracefully and left her to carry on as she saw fit. Was he the James Kirk sort of captain, who rushed in where angels etc., or did he command from behind the lines?

Tomson appeared to come to the conclusion that Captain Chekov was probably suffering from shock, and needed a little prompting. "Do we know where Ensign Kirk is, sir?"

He decided to take the bit between his teeth. After all, the objective was simple enough: retrieve Kirk, do what they could to help the Quorot and any injured natives, and then return command to Kirk, or get in touch with Starfleet Command if the situation proved intractable.

"Yes, I believe Nilsa here can guide us to, uh, Ensign Kirk. Nilsa?"

"This way, Captain." Nilsa turned away from the river and led the party through an archway into the palace. "If the bomb was located in the state chambers, we should be able to get there through the service corridors." Screams became audible. "And I think we should hurry."

The main state hall was a sorry shambles, the great windowed wall onto the gardens shattered into shards, the hangings smoking acrid fumes, and beams and lumps of masonry fallen among tables and chairs that had collapsed like matchwood. A score of servants had dragged a timber that must have weighed half a ton off the recumbent Quorot, and were now lifting broken stone slabs away from a figure in Starfleet uniform. A local doctor was attending to his ruler.

One of the Enterprise medics knelt beside Kirk. "He's going to be OK, sir, but I need to beam him up to sick bay."

"Go ahead, dePalma. Tomson, why don't you look around for evidence of a bomb? How is your father, Nilsa?"

The girl looked up, her face wrung with pain. Chekov's heart clenched in sympathy. "He's dead, Captain Chekov. And you know what this means. My sister is Quorot now."

The various servants stopped their work and came to stand around their old ruler. One or two began to wail, in a quiet controlled undertone. Another put a comforting arm around Nilsa. She was crying, shaking with each sob, and plainly unable to speak further. The servant stepped in. "On behalf of my mistress, Captain Chekov, I thank you for your assistance. But I think you should leave now. The Quorot will not approve your presence." Chekov looked down at the dead man, puzzled. The king is dead, long live the king, sprang to mind. But he wasn't about to worry what a patricide wanted. "Nilsa, I'm sorry, but I thought you said General Drom would be here?"

"He will be doing his duty, Captain. Which is to be with my sister. She is the Quorot now."

Chekov persisted. "Do you, or any of your people need medical help, or wish to be evacuated, for the time being?"

She shook her head numbly. "We can cope."

He felt he was battling against a dead weight. "Nilsa, I love you. Let me help." His voice was just a whisper now. He went to take her hand, but she moved it away. He felt desperation rise. "If you don't want my help, I need yours..."

"Captain Chekov, please go. It is not right for you to be here any longer." And she turned her back and walked away, both from him and her dead father.

Chekov straightened and called the remains of the Enterprise personnel around him. He pulled out his communicator. "Nine to beam up, Mister Scott."

As he materialised, Tomson was already talking to him. "We could have done more, sir. There were injured in the corridor outside, and there was forensic evidence that might have been vital." He resisted the ingrained habit of instantly answering a senior officer. As the landing parties dispersed, he caught sight of Spock and heaved a sigh of relief. There was no way Spock could be affected by this madness, surely, and even if he was, he would see how illogical the situation was. Tomson was still making her case, misinterpreting Chekov's silence as attentiveness.

"Captain, we have a communication from Starfleet Command."

"Addressed to me?" Chekov broke in to demand.

"Of course, Captain. Should it not be?" Spock looked slightly surprised.

"By name? Was it addressed to me by name?"

Spock glanced rapidly at Tomson. "No, Captain, to Commander, Enterprise, as usual." Chekov didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. On balance he decided to leave it for now. "What does it say?"

"It merely emphasises the need for a hasty conclusion to your negotiations here." The unspoken question hung in the air.

"The negotiations were, so far as I know, incomplete when the Quorot was killed by terrorist action. It seems that his death leaves the terrorists in control. And we are informed that the terrorists are not sympathetic to the Federation."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "You were not present at the negotiations, Captain?"

"No. Captain...Ensign Kirk was speaking to the Quorot at the time of the explosion."

Spock and Tomson exchanged glances, and Tomson tactfully left. "Captain, you seem a little distracted. I suggest you go to sickbay. You may have received some injury you are unaware of."

"Mister Spock..." Chekov wondered fleetingly if his best course of action might not be to declare himself unfit, and let Spock take command. But he'd asked for this, he ought to deal with the consequences. "I will go to sick bay. Do you know how Doctor McCoy and Ensign Kirk are?" It became easier to use the different rank, but as Spock accompanied him along the corridor Chekov's mind was churning with all the things he needed to do to get back to being an Ensign himself at the earliest moment.

"Doctor McCoy is stable," Chapel reported crisply, "but he still hasn't recovered consciousness. Ensign Kirk has multiple fractures, and bruising, but you can speak to him, if you wish."

Kirk lay pale and still on the biobed, a medtech busy splinting his right leg. He looked up at his visitors and smiled bravely. "Sir, is the Quorot..."

Chekov's heart sank. Kirk wasn't going to let him off the hook by angrily reclaiming his authority. "The Quorot is dead, uh..." Jim? Mister Kirk? In the end he opted for nothing. "And the new Quorot apparently doesn't want to talk to us. Although of course we will stay around until we are told that officially." And you and I get a chance to change places.

Kirk's face registered disbelief. "But, sir, the only opposition on Tol is the Quorot's own daughter. Are we going to stand by and let her seize power by killing her father?" For someone immobilized in a biobed he projected a very active disapproval of the course events seemed to be taking.

"We have no choice. That is the prime directive."

"That stinks, if you don't mind me saying so..."

"Mister Kirk!"

Kirk and Chekov stared each other out, both looking astounded by their own temerity. After a few seconds, Kirk backed down. "I'm sorry, sir." The apology was stiff, forced. Chekov knew exactly how much it cost him. He turned back to Spock. "There's nothing requiring my immediate attention, is there?"

"No, Captain. I can report the current situation to Starfleet."

"Yes. Please. I'll be in my quarters." He left sick bay as quickly as seemed reasonable, and turned left towards his cabin. Then stopped, swore, and headed back the other way, towards the captain's accommodation.

When Spock decided an hour later that the captain had been absent from the bridge, during what was undoubtedly a diplomatic crisis, for quite long enough, he opted to go and investigate in person. While the surreptitious scan carried out by Christine Chapel in sick bay had shown no injuries, Captain Chekov had appeared unusually hesitant on his return from the planet. Spock knocked and entered in response to Chekov's quiet summons.

The captain was sitting at his desk, in the chair normally used by visitors, and the viewscreen appeared to be covered with obscure sub-paragraphs of Starfleet regulations relating to the proper constitution of command. It immediately occurred to Spock that Chekov was less resigned to the situation than he had appeared, and was considering his options in the light of the Prime Directive. The fact that he had been speaking privately with someone on the planet during the past half hour reinforced this view. Chekov looked up and hastily closed the file. "Aah, Mister Spock."

"I thought you would wish to know that Starfleet have been informed of the situation here, and that Doctor McCoy has recovered consciousness."

"Good." While the captain sounded sincere enough, he seemed to be distracted.

"Is there something bothering you, Captain?"

"Yes." Chekov took a deep breath. "This may sound crazy, but I'm not the captain."

Spock raised one eyebrow eloquently.

"There is some - effect - some sort of mental suggestion in use on the planet. As a result of it, everyone seems to think that I'm the captain of this ship."

"I see. And if you are not the captain, who are you? And more to the point, who should be the captain?"

"I'm just an Ensign, Mister Spock. I've got no right to be in command of the Enterprise. And Captain Kirk, only everyone is calling him Ensign Kirk..."

Spock leaned over the desk and tapped something into the computer. He looked thoughtfully at his commander, and chose his words carefully. "The computer confirms that you, Captain Pavel Andreievich Chekov, are the properly appointed commander of this vessel. No one, apart from yourself, appears to question that fact. Other than your own belief that you are not the captain, I see no evidence that you are unfit to carry out the duties of a captain. In the circumstances, refusal to perform those duties might well qualify as desertion."

Chekov nodded glumly. He had come to exactly the same conclusion himself.

"However," Spock continued, "it might be advisable for you to consult a qualified medical officer, once Doctor McCoy is sufficiently recovered..."

"When will that be?" Chekov demanded.

"I am not sure, and in the meantime," Spock continued smoothly, "I will communicate discretely with Starfleet Command, and ask them to confirm the identity of the captain of the Enterprise."

"That will take at least four hours!" Chekov protested.

"Four point two seven, Captain. And until we receive an answer, you really have no choice but to continue in command."

Chekov took a deep breath. "Very well, I will remain here in the... my quarters. You have the bridge, Mister Spock."

Spock nodded gravely. "Unless, of course, your presence is required due to some unforeseen turn of events."

"But that's exactly what I can't deal with! I'm quite happy to come up and pretend to be the captain if nothing happens."

Spock's visage turned icy. "Indeed, Captain, everyone on board would be happy to be in command in those circumstances. Whether you like it or not, you are the person to whom they will look if there is trouble."

Chekov stared at him blankly for a moment, and then got to his feet. "Okay, Mister Spock. I'll be the captain, if that's what you want." He followed his first officer out into the corridor, trying to ignore the little voice that said, no, that's what you thought you wanted!

Chekov asked Uhura for a summary of communications from the planet, and discovered that Kaydon had swiftly established herself in power, with no reference to the tragic death of her father. No one on the planet appeared to find this surprising, at least not to the extent of broadcasting any protest. The new Quorot had also issued a statement declaring that negotiations with the Federation were suspended. It was now Chekov's job to decide how to respond. He shifted uncomfortably in the centre chair, considering his options. The situation appeared straightforward enough, despite the importance Starfleet accorded to the new agreement they had been attempting to secure. The Prime Directive applied, and he had no mandate to interfere with how the Tol chose to run their affairs. The fact that two of his crew... He stopped. Had he really thought that? His crew?

"Lieutenant Uhura, open a channel to the Quorot, please."

"Yes, sir."

Spock turned from his station and looked searchingly at the captain. Chekov appeared outwardly calm and in control, despite their strange conversation earlier. Warily Spock relaxed his mental shields and attempted to identify his captain's emotions among the background noise on the bridge. He almost flinched at the depths of self-doubt that he found. Given that level of insecurity, it was amazing that someone could function at all.

"I have the Quorot, Captain."

"Thank you, Uhura. On screen."

Kaydon was even more beautiful than her sister, also older and more dignified. "Captain Chekov, what can I do for you?" She allowed a smile to soften her lovely face.

"Uh, Quorot," he swallowed. "May I extend my condolences on your sudden loss."

He intended the conventional phrase as a red rag, and it worked up to a point. Her eyes narrowed, but she kept her voice level. "Thank you, Captain."

"If you require any assistance in dealing with this outrage, we are at your service."

"All necessary steps have been taken. The situation is under control." A small muscle at the corner of her mouth began to twitch.

"I am delighted to hear that. Then, while I do not wish to intrude on your grief, may I ask when we can expect to resume negotiations?"

The smile disappeared. "There will be no resumption. Our present trade agreements are adequate, and we will abide by them."

"But, begging the Quorot's pardon, the Tol have already abrogated those agreements by reducing the quota of energy imports. If new agreements are not reached, I will have no choice but to unilaterally declare all existing contracts null and void."

Kaydon paled. Her planet exported complex organic compounds in return for energy and medium level technology. The prices which had formerly applied were highly favourable to her people. If they were forced to renegotiate on the open market their economy would be devastated. It was, in fact, a step that the Federation wouldn't take, but Chekov sincerely hoped that Kaydon didn't know that.

"Captain Chekov, while there is no hurry to resume our official talks, perhaps you and I could have some useful discussions?"

"That sounds like a very good idea," Chekov replied, mentally awarding himself round one.

"Perhaps you would like to join me for dinner tonight?" Suddenly she was all female charm.

He agreed, and Uhura cut the link. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed for the first time since coming to the bridge. He had a clear strategy now, one that would hopefully solve his own problems and those of the Tol. "Mister Spock?"

His first officer came promptly to his side, still radiating a slight air of protective concern. "Yes, Captain?"

"I need to talk to... Ensign Kirk. I'll be in sick bay. You have the con." Chekov walked thoughtfully off the bridge.

Kirk looked puzzled at Chekov's question, obviously surprised that the captain's knowledge of the background to the Tol negotiations was so superficial. "The Klingons, of course, sir. A few other local systems might benefit marginally if the Tol economy collapsed, but they'd be more likely to be dragged down as well. And the loss of links with the Federation would be generally disastrous for the sector. No, the Klingons are the main winners if these negotiations fail. In fact I'm surprised that they don't appear to be taking any interest."

"And did the Quorot, the old Quorot, give you any idea why his daughter might be interested in breaking off the negotiations?"

"He didn't say much about her at all. I was led to believe that the entire population was solidly behind improved links with us. He implied that her opposition was just bad judgement."

"Good. That's what I thought. Thank you, Mister Kirk."

As he turned to leave, Chekov found himself face to face with a bandaged McCoy. "Spock said you wanted a word with me, Captain?"

"Yes." Chekov stood there for a moment, wondering what he could have possibly wanted to say to the doctor. Then it occurred to him that if nothing else, he should show a proper concern for the health of his chief medical officer. "Are you sufficiently recovered to be out of bed, Doctor?"

McCoy looked at him suspiciously. Spock had said that the captain appeared a little disorientated on his return from the planet, but it appeared to McCoy that Pavel Chekov was acting as if they had never met before. "I'm okay, or at least there's no one to say I'm not. You're a little pale, Captain. Christine said you checked out fine when you came into sickbay earlier, but perhaps I'd better..."

"I'm quite well, Doctor McCoy. But I am very busy..."

McCoy put a hand on the captain's arm and led him firmly into his office. "If you're busy, Pavel, all the more reason to make sure you're in good shape." The doctor turned away as Chekov reluctantly sat down, and came back with a glass. "Have some of your favourite Stolichnaya."

Chekov looked at the vodka that McCoy was offering him. It was brandy, of the sort that Captain Kirk favoured, and Chekov found too heavy for a palate accustomed to purer alcohols. Nevertheless, he drank it. He parked the glass carefully on McCoy's desk and squeezed his eyes shut to contain the tears. Tossing vodka down by the glassful was a skill he'd been practicing for years. Brandy was a different beast all together.

McCoy watched him with concern. It looked as though the captain was suffering a monster headache. "You're having difficulty with the Tol?"

"Yes, that's true."

"Shame that Nilsa isn't the Quorot. You seemed to be getting on well enough with her."

Chekov smiled ironically. "You would make an excellent match maker, Doctor."

"Me? I didn't say anything to anyone. Well, I might have said to Sulu that you made an attractive couple."

Chekov's face was serious again. "What exactly did you say to Sulu?" he asked urgently.

"Well, I don't remember. I know I made some flippant remark. He didn't take it seriously..."

"This is important, Doctor. What did you say?"

McCoy shrugged defensively. "I don't remember."

Chekov stood up and stalked out of the room, leaving McCoy staring after him.

As Chekov changed ready for his appointment with the Quorot, Spock arrived bearing a tape of Starfleet's reply to his earlier query. The first officer had considered carefully whether to inform the captain of its arrival. Chekov had said nothing further about his strange suspicions, McCoy had reported that his behaviour was not significantly out of character, and it occurred to Spock that the whole episode might have been simply a reaction to stress. To refer to it again might do more harm than good. He had decided eventually to make some excuse to speak to the captain before he left the ship, and assess Chekov's current state of mind before deciding. When he entered the captain's cabin, however, he found that his deliberations were for nothing.

"What did Starfleet say?"

"That you are indeed the captain."

Chekov held out his hand for the cassette and slid it into the player. "Well, I still say that I'm not, but I suspect..."

The message that came up on the screen was addressed to Captain James T Kirk. Spock regarded it dispassionately, obviously seeing something quite different. Chekov experienced a mixture of relief and exasperation. Starfleet was unaffected, so there was an end to this charade, probably once the ship was far enough away from the planet. But in the meantime, he was stuck. It suddenly occurred to him that he was actually quite pleased. This was his challenge, and he was going to get to see it through. "Very well, Mister Spock. Please forget I ever mentioned it." He pulled his tunic straight. "I must not keep the Quorot waiting."

"Captain, you mentioned some form of mental suggestion..."

Chekov pointed at the viewscreen. "Starfleet says I am the captain. What's the problem?"

"Just because you cannot produce any evidence at this moment, that does not mean that I cannot take your suspicions seriously."

Chekov looked at the Vulcan, and wondered whether this was dutiful support of his captain, or a more personal reflection of his opinion of Chekov's judgement. "I know there is such an effect in operation," he stated baldly.

"Then may I ask how you intend to prevent it being used against you? Or do you believe yourself to be immune?"

"Mister Spock, I don't even know if it has been used against me already. And you appear to be unaware of the effect I know it has had on you. If there is an organised intent behind this, I don't think I can do anything about it."

On his way to the transporter room, Chekov passed Lieutenant Uhura. She smiled appreciatively at the handsome figure cut by the young captain in his dress uniform. "I thought your date was for twenty hundred hours," she said, half jestingly.

"I intend to be early, Lieutenant." He made to walk on, and then stopped. "Uhura..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Wish me luck." He stepped into the turbolift, and she stared after him in surprise.

He materialised in the garden by the river, to find Nilsa waiting for him, as arranged. She stepped up to him, and took his hand. "Captain Chekov!" Her eyes were shining, and she looked relaxed and vivacious, not at all like a dutiful daughter whose father and sovereign had been brutally murdered only hours before. He took her arm and sat down with her by one of the omnipresent pools.

"Nilsa, we must talk. Have you done as I asked?"

"Yes, but I really don't understand. No member of the Tol would do the sort of things you suggest... and it would be of no use to them if they did. We aren't talking about a total mind control. It's more of a mutual game, a social diversion..."

"I don't think so, Nilsa. Did you discover whether there is any form of protection?"

"Yes, I have learnt that certain ascetics who prefer not to use the what if, or be drawn into it by others, use a herb known as Scala."

"And that works?"

"Only partly. It's a prevention, not a corrective. And it may not be that effective. Our social conventions are the only control we have ever needed, coupled with the fact that we know when the what if is used on us. Can we go in? I'm terribly cold all of a sudden."

"Wait for a moment. This herb, is it available here? Don't tell me it's the wrong season."

"There's some in the garden. One of the gardeners showed me a patch earlier. I'll show you. Ouch! Something stung me!" She leapt to her feet and brushed at her face.

Chekov stood as well and took her hands in his. "Nothing stung you, and you aren't cold. You can't tell when I what if you."

She was horrified. "Then you mustn't! It's most unfair, you could take advantage of me!"

"I won't, Nilsa, I promise. But someone else may have. Who am I?"

"You're Captain Chekov, of the USS Enterprise."

"No, I'm not the captain. When you told me to wish for something earlier, I didn't take you seriously, and I wished that I was in command of the ship. Do you remember what happened after that?"

"My father died, after a long illness. He had been in a coma..."

"No, Nilsa. I spoke to your father this morning. He was killed by an explosion in the palace. You told me that your sister was probably responsible."

"No!"

"I'm not blaming her. She may be just another victim of this."

Nilsa looked hard into his eyes. "You really believe all this?"

"Yes, I do. But I don't know that I'm not a victim of it myself. I don't know how far from reality we have moved."

Still holding his hand she led him through the garden to where a clump of tall, grassy plants exuded a harsh tarry aroma. She broke off a piece of the stem and stripped the leaves away. "Chew this." She broke another piece and followed her own advice. "I don't know how well this works. It's more folk lore than science."

He chewed solemnly until the bitter herb disintegrated to a wad of tasteless fibre in his mouth. Then he turned and spat the remnants into the flowerbed.

"Shall we see whether it has worked?"

He gestured willingness, and she walked deliberately up to one of the pools, dark and sinister in the fading light. Her hand dipped in and ruffled the surface. She looked at him half expectantly. "What's the name of your ship, Captain?"

"The Enterprise."

"Good. Your turn."

He touched the water, feeling more revulsion at each contact now. I wish it was morning, he projected at the what if.

Nilsa glanced up at the sky, looking puzzled for a moment. "I thought...what did you do?"

"What do you think?"

"For a moment there it was broad daylight. You can do it much more powerfully than me, or I'm more receptive. But it didn't really work. The Scala does stop it!"

"So it seems." He broke off a couple of pieces. "Can you find me a jug? Or anything that will hold water? Not too big."

She disappeared and came back after a moment with a jug like the one McCoy and Sulu had been using that morning. Chekov went to dip into the pool and hesitated. "Is it alive? Will it mind?"

"No. It's just a pool. The wind and sun dry it up, the rain fills it and the birds drink from it. It won't miss a jugful."

He scooped, then set the jug down on the path along with the broken pieces of stem. He pulled out his communicator. "Mr Scott, I have something for you to beam up. One metre magnetic north of me. Three small objects. Please ask Doctor McCoy to analyse the plant material and the contents of the jug."

"Aye, sir." The Engineer sounded unfazed by the odd request, and the samples twinkled out of sight. Chekov smiled at Nilsa reassuringly. "You said the effects were reversible?"

"Up to a point. The same person has to use the same what if."

"And it doesn't work if a different person simply wishes the opposite?"

"Not exactly. For example, if I wished that your hair was blond, and then you wanted it returned to the same colour, and used a different what if, the result would depend on how you remembered the shade of your hair. But if I reversed it, it would simply go back as it was. That's a trivial example, but..."

"No, I understand."

"Why, are you planning to unmurder my father?"

"No, I'm not sure I could do that, even if it were possible. The prime directive prohibits me from interfering with your affairs. If your sister has done something, then no matter how much I may disapprove, I can't change it."

"Then what is the point..."

"Think, Nilsa, would your sister really harm her own father?"

"I wouldn't have believed it until very recently..."

"And who benefits from the ending of negotiations with the Federation? Kaydon?"

"Well, no, not in any concrete way. It's just this idea she's hatched that we're better off without too much outside interference. She thinks that links with the Federation have gone far enough."

"Does anyone else of the Tol benefit?"

"No, not really. What are you suggesting?"

"I seem to be able to use this - whatever it is - more effectively than you can. What would happen if another person, another alien, is deliberately, or even unknowingly, using the effect against you? That person might have wished that someone in a position of power would be sympathetic, then, when that wasn't sufficient, that Kaydon would take power from your father. And finally, that her actions would be accepted by the Tol, so that there was no disruption to the government and the economy. You see?"

The young woman stared at him, her tongue between her teeth, as she calculated the implications of what he said. After a few seconds she nodded abruptly. "That is a very frightening scenario, Captain Chekov. But if I understand you correctly, you can't do anything unless you have proof of outside interference?"

"That's right. So I need to find some proof, and my first port of call is dinner with your sister."

Chekov's exhilaration at his success so far gave him a boost of confidence that lasted as far as the massive panelled doors to the Quorot's private dining room. Then he suddenly remembered that he was skirting around a violation of the Prime Directive, impersonating a Starship captain, and carrying the weight of the Federation's hopes for this sector of the galaxy on his shoulders. It was nearly enough to make him turn round and walk away again, but the doors opened and the Quorot appeared, clad from head to toe in cloth of gold, and graciously extending her hand. His knees turned to water as he took and kissed it, holding on just long enough to make sure he didn't fall over.

Once they were seated, the Quorot dismissed the servants, and they looked at each other over the hors d'oeuvres. "You said some rather strange things earlier, Captain Chekov." Fortunately her tone was business like and he followed her example.

"I'm sorry, Quorot, it was a misunderstanding. I was under the impression that you had murdered your father."

"What!" She was on her feet, white with rage, or fear, her glass of wine splashed across the front of her gown.

"Please, hear me out."

She sat down again. "I will."

"I believe that someone has used what you call a what if against you, and your people. Someone who does not follow the normal social conventions for its use. Someone who had an interest in diverting the course of your father's government away from closer links with the Federation."

"I am disappointed in you, Captain Chekov. Does it wound your pride so much that we do not wish to be drawn in to your bureaucratic web?" She dropped the mask of indignation and smiled tiredly. "Believe me, I would know if anyone used the what if on me."

"I realise that. But how much do you know about the use of the what if by people other than the Tol? For example, there are Klingon representatives and merchants on your world, are there not? Do they know about the what if?"

"It would be dangerous, if they could use it without our realising." A worried frown marred the perfection of her face. "Do you have any proof?"

"Not yet, but I have carried out one or two experiments which your sister Nilsa witnessed. I think it would be a good idea if you called the Klingon Consul here in the morning. By then I hope to have a better idea of what is happening."

"It is true that he has spoken to me very persuasively about the dangers of being in the Federation." She smiled once more. "Thank you for being so frank with me about this, Captain Chekov. Nilsa speaks very fondly of you. I am happy to find that I share her good opinion."

Chekov finished his dinner engagement and beamed back to his ship in a glow of contentment. So what if he was personally responsible for the peace of the galaxy in this quadrant? Nilsa was fond of him, and her sister, and sovereign, approved.

"It's water, Pavel. Rain water, I'd say, probably not overly fresh. There's some algal growth. Were you expecting something else? Poison perhaps?" McCoy's arch comments rubbed a raw nerve in his temporary captain, but Chekov wasn't sufficiently at home with his new status to do anything but bear it politely.

"What about the plant?" he asked.

"Normal carbon based photosynthetic vegetable. From a medical point of view, which I presume is what you wanted to know about, since you asked me to look at it, it's brimming over with nasty consciousness altering drugs, although you'd have to eat a heap of it to notice. You didn't try it, did you?" He peered anxiously at the captain. "Spock thinks you're behaving oddly as it is, although that's probably a reliable indicator of sanity."

"Can you set up an EEG, Doctor?"

"Why, how much of it did you..."

"Not on me, Doctor, on the water."

"You want me to scan the brain activity of a jug of water?" McCoy spoke slowly and clearly, as if anxious to clear up any misunderstanding.

"Yes, set up a base reading, and I'll come back and tell you what I want next."

"Blood glucose analysis of a cup of coffee? Respirational efficiency of some blueberry pie?" McCoy stood for moment, wondering whether to contact Spock. Finally, a streak of human solidarity made him give Chekov the benefit of the doubt. Five minutes later he was on the intercom to the bridge. "It's generating electrical signals over a broad range of frequencies, but the strongest signals coincide with typical human neurone output."

"Thank you, Doctor McCoy. I'll be right down."

When Chekov entered sick bay he was greeted with a barrage of information. "There's something like an enzyme in the water that's causing it to form and break molecular bonds in a systematic fashion. That's what's sending out the signals. If you look at this..."

"I don't need to know how it does it, Doctor. I only need to know if eating the plant would disturb the frequency of someone's brain activity, so that it no longer coincided with the signal from the liquid, and whether there's any overlap between the frequencies you've observed and Klingon or Tol brain frequencies."

"Klingon alpha and beta frequencies are almost identical to ours. I don't know about the Tol. And as for the plant, even a small dose, about a tenth of what you could extract from the sample you gave me, would speed up neurone activity enough to prevent it overlapping."

"Otlichna! Spasiba vam bolshoi, Doctor." The young Russian spun and ran out of sickbay with most uncaptainlike haste.

The Klingon Consul, General Mark, looked shifty and defensive. It was such an unusual expression on a Klingon that Chekov's first impression was that the man was fighting down the urge to throw up.

Chekov had taken the precaution of having McCoy check his brain activity that morning, and was confident that it was back to normal. He had also asked Nilsa and Kaydon, and the deeply confused General Drom, to supplement their breakfast with Scala. The Quorot had required the gardeners to move one of the stone basins into her Chamber of Audience, restored rapidly to its former splendour. It seemed that no one was going to refer to the previous day's bomb blast, and certainly, all evidence of it appeared to have been tidied up. Mark looked around nervously as he and the Starfleet officers were admitted to the impressive hall.

The Quorot seated herself on her State Chair, and graciously indicated that Captain Chekov should speak.

"General Mark, I am not going to accuse you of subverting the government of the Tol, and plotting the violent overthrow of the rightful Quorot, but none the less, I hold you responsible."

"Why did I know nothing of this?" Drom demanded, and turning to his Sovereign he adopted an expression of wounded pride. "How can I protect you, my lady, if I am kept in the dark..."

"Be quiet, Drom. I didn't tell you, because you were here when it happened. You just don't remember."

"I don't know what you mean," Mark said sullenly. Chekov walked over to the stone basin and dipped his hand into the water. Mark's eyes followed him, suspicious, but uncomprehending. Then the Klingon yelped and threw his arms over his chest and belly.

Spock looked from the Consul to his captain inquiringly. "Is this a case of the Emperor's new clothes, Captain?"

Kaydon said, wonderingly, "But I still see his clothes." She turned to one of her officials. "What about you, Coran?"

"The Consul appears to be, uh, naked, my lady. And yet, I did not feel as if the what if was used. How was this done?"

"Mark, you are embarrassing the ladies present. I suggest that you get dressed." Chekov fought hard to keep a straight face. The sight of a Klingon warrior trying to cover his illusory nakedness was quite absurd.

"In what?" the Klingon demanded through clenched teeth.

"Whatever you want." He took Mark by the arm and led him firmly over to the stone basin. "Just put your hand in, and wish for some clothes."

Mark shook his arm free of the Federation captain's grasp, plunged his hand in to the water as instructed and closed his eyes.

"There, you see what nonsense..." He paused and looked down at his uniform. "This is some trick with a transporter."

"But General Mark, I saw no change in your appearance, while you did. Transporters are not so selective, leaving aside the fact that this room is shielded." The Quorot paused, considering. "While the events of the last few days have been tragic for my family and my people, I cannot punish you for dreaming. I do not believe that you knew what you were doing. I do, however, wish you to leave Tol on the next available ship, and to remain under the supervision of my Palace Guard until then." The Klingon was marched away, too shaken by his abrupt reversal of fortune to protest.

"Quorot, you still have a problem," Chekov pointed out.

"Indeed," she agreed, "as, if I understand correctly, do you. It seems we have a choice between a planet wide spring cleaning, to eliminate all the affected bodies of water, and losing a harmless and traditional pastime, or requiring all visitors to the planet to accept an implant that will release the active agent in the Scala into their systems while they are on Tol."

Chekov nodded. "Both solutions have their disadvantages."

"We will do whatever is necessary. I can devote my full attention to it, since the signing of the new trade treaty can now go ahead. As for your problem, I see no solution. Each what if is unique, operating on a slightly different frequency, if I understood Doctor McCoy's report, so we cannot reverse what General Mark did, nor, it seems, simply cure your difficulty, Captain. And any actual events are now fixed. We are only dealing with people's perceptions."

"What difficulty?" McCoy demanded of Spock in a whisper.

"If we were to use another what if the reversal might be imperfect, and you might find that your crew's behaviour was unpredictable."

"It seems to be the best we can do." And Chekov stepped over to the basin in his turn. "Will everyone remember what happened?"

"There's still one thing I don't understand," Nilsa interrupted. "The whole problem was that no one knew when they were what if'd by a Human or a Klingon, yet I thought I noticed when..." she stopped, feeling the eyes of the whole assembly on her, and blushed a delicate shade of rose.

"That's quite easily explained, I think," her sister reassured her. "You weren't what if'd at all. You've just never fallen in love before."

Chekov grinned and decided that if Nilsa was really in love with him, he didn't care whether people remembered the events of the past day or not. And if the crew of the Enterprise occasionally thought that he was their captain, well, he had always intended that that should be true one day. He dipped his hand under the water, and wished, fervently, to be an ensign again.