He sat there a minute as if trying to get his bearings. Slowly, he rose to his feet. He craned his head back, and ruefully surveyed the befouled seat of his baggy shorts. Wrinkling his pudgy nose in distaste, he reached back with one hand as if to wipe off the malodorous mud, then seemed to think better of it. Apparently unable to cope with the situation, he just stood there helplessly, a woebegone expression on his chubby face.
“Say,” Ensign George said slowly. “I know I’ve seen that face before.” She thought for a moment. “He’s dressed differently; I think he was wearing some kind of robes before—but I could almost swear I snapped his profile the morning I came down. I’d have to check the magcards to be sure.”
“Let’s see if we can’t help him with his immediate problem,” McCoy said and went into Chag Gara’s hovel.
A moment later, he came out with the frayed hill robe and, making a mopping gesture, handed it to the little man. He took it gratefully and, after vigorous scrubbing on the seat of his pants and the backs of his fat legs, handed it back to McCoy with a courtly bow and a spatter of guttural Kyrosian.
At Kirk’s inquiry, Sara translated. “He says we’ve earned the gratitude of Ker Kaseme, first among healers.”
“Ah,” said Kirk, “that explains McCoy’s concern. A colleague was in distress.”
“Simply a matter of professional courtesy, Jim,” McCoy said, tossing the soiled robe through the open door of Chag Gara’s hovel.
“Sara,” he added, “I must admit to a certain curiosity as to why the ‘first among healers’ was bounced from a slum bar at ten o’clock in the morning. Ask him—diplomatically, of course.”
She shot the little man a quick question. His reply was a rather lengthy one, punctuated by many gesticulations.
“There’s an ‘ex’ in front of his title,” Sara said. “It seems that jealous colleagues had him expelled as head of the Healer’s Guild on trumped-up charges involving alleged misconduct with certain of his younger female patients. As a result, he is now destitute and forced to have his morning cup…”
The little man swayed slightly and hiccupped.
“Better make that ‘cups,’ ” she amended, “… at an establishment that is somewhat more modest than it has been his custom to frequent. This morning there was an unfortunate incident, a misunderstanding over a several-day-old bar bill.”
Kirk looked at McCoy. “Say, Bones,” he said, “We may have something here. As a rule, a barfly doesn’t wander far from his home. Sara, ask him if he’s noticed anything unusual going on over here.” Kirk gestured to Chag Gara’s house.
Ker Kaseme started to reply to Sara’s question. Suddenly, his voice hoarsened. He croaked out a few more words and then, smiling apologetically, brought an imaginary wine bowl to his lips and made sipping sounds.
“He says that he’s had an attack of an old throat condition that makes speech impossible, but that perhaps some wine might relieve the spasm.” Sara smiled and shrugged her shoulders as she translated. “Seems our day to get taken,” she added.
The little man croaked a few more words and pointed up the street in the direction of the harbor.
“He says he did observe something unusual last night. When his voice recovers, he’d be glad to tell us about it. In the meantime, he recommends a wine shop near here which is patronized by jakim weavers. After what was just done to him, he refuses to honor the local establishment with his presence any longer.”
“It seems he’s got us over a barrel,” Kirk said. “Let’s go. We’ve got to find out about Chag Gara!”
The little healer in the lead, they set off through a maze of winding streets and alleys, until at last he halted at the entrance to a wine shop that seemed no more prepossessing than the one across from Chag Gara’s. He bowed and waved for the other three to enter.
It was dark inside, and the ceiling was so low that Kirk had to duck to keep from bumping his head on a low-hanging beam. The odor of hot, highly spiced wine filled the place, and animal fat lamps along the walls cast deep shadows across the scattered tables. A sprinkling of customers, already well into their drinking day in spite of the earliness of the hour, sat hunched, staring intently into their wine bowls as if waiting for some important message or revelation.
The rotund man tossed his gray locks and led Kirk and the rest to a long, high table at the back, which served as a bar, and pounded his fist on its top in thirsty impatience.
A hulking Kyrosian behind the table was ladling wine from a steaming cauldron into a bowl held in the shaking hands of an obviously bung-over customer. He turned his head in Kaseme’s direction.
As soon as he saw who was there, he laid the ladle down carefully. Then, moving swiftly and smiling malevolently, he advanced on Kaseme, growling in Kyrosian. Kaseme let out a squeak of terror and scuttled behind Kirk’s broad back for protection.
The tavern owner’s little red pig eyes fastened on Kirk.
“What now, Sara?” Kirk demanded, staring back at the wine shop operator.
After a rapid exchange, Sara reported. “Kaseme has a bar bill problem here, too. The bartender says he’ll take it out of Kaseme’s hide, if he isn’t paid now.”
Kirk tossed the money pouch to Sara. “Find out what it is and pay it,” he said impatiently. “We haven’t got all day.”
At a quick word from Sara, the bartender’s scowl vanished. He turned to a shelf stacked high with smooth, black slates, rummaged through them, finally producing one almost completely covered with hatch marks. It took nearly all of Kirk’s remaining money to wipe it clean.
Kaseme, no longer feeling endangered, snapped an order in a haughty voice and led the party to a table. He went through his first jug of wine in no time at all, and was waving for a refill when Kirk caught his wrist, calling a halt.
“Tell him that’s all the medicine he gets until I get some answers,” he ordered.
Kaseme looked woebegone at Sara’s words, croaking and rubbing his throat. Kirk glared at him. Kaseme shot a wistful glance at his jug, then began to talk. When he was finished, Sara snapped a few more questions. He responded to each with a shrug and a raising of his palms indicating he didn’t know the answers. Finally, in response to a question from Kaseme, Sara nodded her head. The little man took his wine jug and trotted happily to the bar.
“Well?” Kirk said.
“Problems,” she said unhappily. “Less than an hour ago, a tall hillman wearing a black and red clan mask went into Chag Gara’s house. When he came out, he was carrying a figure wrapped in a blanket over one shoulder. Ker said a couple of the neighbors tried to interfere, but the hooded man paralyzed them with just a touch. So they let him carry Chag Gara away.”
“The nerve pinch!” McCoy burst out.
“Yes,” Kirk said nodding somberly. “It has to be Spock. Only a Vulcan can do that, and now he’s got Gara.”
“It looks as if Spock is invulnerable now,” McCoy muttered.
“We’ll find a way to stop him,” Kirk replied, his voice ringing with more confidence than perhaps he actually felt. Kaseme returned from the bar and plopped down happily, sipped from his wine bowl, and watched the other three talk.
“There’s nothing we can do down here now,” Kirk said. “We’d better get up to the ship and figure out our next move.” He began to stand, but McCoy, gazing at the smiling, curious face of Ker Kaseme, held up a hand.
“Just a second, Jim. We may be missing a bet here.”
“Specify.”
“Our friend here.” McCoy tipped his head toward the healer. “Dops are fine as far as they go, but we’re still strangers in town.”