“What do we do when we get there?” Sara asked. “Swim to the other side? Somehow I doubt that the ferry is still running.”
Kirk grinned at the officer. “We’re Beshwa, remember? We go where we want, even when there aren’t any convenient bridges around.” He stood up, rolling the map. “You’ll see,” he added cryptically.
There was a road. But it was so overgrown with vegetation that they almost missed it. As they jolted down the old trail, they had to stop at intervals and hack a path wide enough for the caravan to pass through the thickets which had grown up since the road was last used. Nearly an hour later, the Beshwa vehicle emerged from a narrow ravine onto a bank that sloped gently down to the edge of a placid lake. Sara ran to the shore, knelt, cupped her hands, and splashed cold, clear water on her sweaty, dust-grimed face. “Umm,” she called, “that’s lovely. Is there time for a quick swim, Captain?”
“Go ahead,” Kirk said. “Since you don’t have a Beshwa dop, you won’t be much help rigging the caravan.”
Sara stripped off her clothes without a hint of self-consciousness, ran out onto a long flat rock which jutted over the lake’s edge, and then, like a golden naiad, arced into the cool water.
“You know, Jim,” McCoy chuckled and said, “no matter how this crazy expedition ends up, I don’t think Sara will ever go back to being her old, prim self.”
“If this expedition is ever going to go anyplace.”
Kirk said, “we’d better get to work. Scotty, you and Chekov unhitch the neelots. Bones and I will disconnect the van and wagon.”
Not long after, the job was done. The long wagon tongue, hinged where it was connected to the front of the wagon, now stood erect, a sturdy mast. A timber had been attached about a third of the way up the tongue to serve as a boom, and the canvas-like covering that protected the trade goods in the wagon was ready to be rigged as a sail.
“Sara,” Kirk called to the woman, who was happily cavorting in the water a hundred meters out, “we’re ready to launch. Come in and keep an eye on the neelots, while we take the van and the cargo across.”
As she came flashing toward them, like a graceful mermaid, the four men put their shoulders to the back of the van and rolled it down the slope into the water. Then, as it bobbed gently like a great floating box, they went back and rolled down the wagon.
“Can I help?” called Sara, as she pulled herself onto a sun-warmed rock, as unconcerned about her nudity as a child.
“Now you can,” Kirk replied. He removed his neelot-hide boots and waded out to where the van and the wagon floated a few meters apart. “You can give me a hand getting these two hooked together.” She dove back into the water and surfaced at his side. He reached under the front of the van and took hold of the protruding end of the telescoping pole. He pulled it out a few meters and-then slid the tip into a socket at the rear of the floating wagon, locking it into place with a metal pin.
“Push the wagon on out until this thing’s fully extended,” he said. “I’ll set the locking pins at each of the joints.”
Sara dug her feet into the sand of the gently shelving bottom, and pushed the van out into the lake until the rod was fully extended.
“That’s it,” Kirk said as he moved toward her, reaching under water at each junction of the sections to lock it in place. “We’re ready to go.”
“I guess it’s a boat now,” Sara said. “But why break it into two parts?”
“The van’s so high,” Kirk answered, “it would cut off most of the wind. It’s a stubby mast. Why don’t you untether the neelots and water them? They’re probably as thirsty as we.”
The girl nodded, swam back to the rock, and slipped into her clothes. McCoy and the rest waded out and climbed up on the wagon. Scott broke into an off-key rendition of “Anchors Aweigh,” as Kirk hoisted the sail and let the boom swing out until it was almost at right angles to the wagon. Slowly, as the wind bellied out the one-piece canvas-like covering, the strange craft began to gather momentum. The van rode decorously behind, kept in position by the long, flexible connecting pole.
“Ready on the brake, Bones,” Kirk said as the front wheels made contact with the shelving bottom of the opposite shore, and the wagon began to roll up out of the water. When it was far enough inland so the van also was beached, McCoy brought the vehicle to a halt
Chekov jumped down and released the connecting rod from its socket, telescoping each section until all of it had slid back into its protective tunnel under the van. In the meantime, Kirk and the other two dropped the tailgate of the wagon and were busily unloading bundles of trade goods.
When the wagon was finally empty, McCoy released the brake and it went sailing down the beach, entering the water at an angle as Kirk tacked into the northerly wind. Once across the small lake, they loaded the neelots into the now empty wagon and again set sail for the opposite shore.
It took an hour of arduous brush-hacking before they finally got back onto the main road. Before it had seemed like only a rutted cart trail, but compared to what they had been over on their detour, it was more like a broad highway.
When they were almost at the top of a long slope, Kirk turned the reins over to McCoy and unrolled the map.
“We should reach the Androsian mining settlement in a couple of hours,” he said. “Once over the crest, the road doglegs into a narrow canyon. The mines and the workers’ huts are located where it widens out The smelter is up a side canyon near a stream that supplies water for its operation.” He raised his eyes from the map and rolled it closed. “Beshwa have been here before, so this will be the first test of how well we’ll be able to pass.”
“That will be no problem, Captain,” said a confident voice from the rear. Kirk turned. Chekov had made a comfortable nest with carefully arranged bundles and a soft fur blanket. He sprawled indolently. “As long as we have our dops to cue us, nobody will be able to tell us from the real thing”
“Except for Sara,” Scott said. “She isnae linked to a Beshwa.”
Chekov chortled. “Sara doesn’t need a Beshwa dop. As long as there are males around, our little belly dancer will be able to handle the situation. Right, little vabushka?” he said, reaching over as if to pat her firmly rounded rump.
“Ensign George to you, if you please,” she said. “And keep your hands to yourself. My dop doesn’t engage in erotic play with children.”
Chekov’s retort was cut off by a sudden roll of thunder. Dark storm clouds were piling up over the mountains to the west and rapidly moving toward them.
“Looks like another soaker coming up,” Kirk said. “That radiation front is really screwing up Kyros’s weather. Better get in the van; no point in all of us getting wet.”
For the next hour the caravan crawled through the beating rain, climbing steadily up the road that snaked along the bottom of the winding canyon that led through the hills to the mining settlement. Finally the rain tapered off; and when Kirk stopped to rest the neelots, the others came out of the van and climbed back into the wagon.
“Dismal territory,” Kirk remarked.
The surrounding foothills were even more tumbled, rough, and rock-and-bush-strewn than they had appeared in the photos taken by the automatic survey cameras aboard the Enterprise. The sky was sullen gray, pregnant with dark, swollen thunderheads. Shivering, Kirk slapped the reins and urged the neelots into motion.
When another hour had passed, they seemed to have almost reached the crest of the range of hills. The cloud cover had lightened considerably, parting occasionally to let a watery sun appear.