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STAR TREK: THE CROUTON GENERATION
SEASON THREE
Episode #35 - Part A
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Date: Fri, 15 Mar 91 11:40:26 -0500
From: bryant@husc9.harvard.edu (Katherine 'Kabeta' Bryant)
Subject: Episode from Heisenberg! (Part 1) (***LONG***)
Note: This episode has been sent out in two parts, due to practical
considerations. It is not a two-part episode, so it is best that
you read this half-episode and the half-episode sent right after
it in rapid succession. Enjoy. --Kevin
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Metag: Artificial Gravity Repair Technician's Log. Stardate
102065.2. Since nobody ever actually reviews the AG Repair
Technician's Log, I am continuing to use it as a dumping
ground for random thoughts . . . .
Yesterday, due to an irresponsible experiment involving the
juxtaposition of a Holocorridor device with an unspecified
number of Silmarils, reality-as-we-know-it was seriously
compromised throughout the ship. While I did enjoy the
experience of being fed white chocolate by . . . never mind
. . . anyway, I am now faced with the task of making sure
that none of the AG machinery was damaged by
psycholosilmarilic field fluctuations. It is, at least,
something to do.
[Stands up, walks over to a metal box, about 1 meter cube,
with three flashing green lights. It is, of course, easily
recognizable as a standard Z-29 Gravy-Tater (tm).]
Computer, commencing AG testing sequence 1-alpha.
Pandora: Sequence 1-alpha.
Metag: Sequence Protocol A. [Presses red button on box. The lights
continue flashing.] Function Status.
Pandora: Function Status Normal.
Metag: Sequence Protocol B. [Removes sledgehammer from utility
belt, and whacks box exactly seven times. It is undamaged,
and the lights continue flashing.] Function Status.
Pandora: Function Status Normal.
Metag: Sequence Protocol C. [Fires a phaser, set on maximum
vaporize, at the box. It is undamaged, and the lights
continue flashing.] Function Status.
Pandora [with voder hit by slight phaser ricochet]: Fungjun
Shtatus Norm. Ul.
Metag: Computer, AG testing sequence 1-alpha complete. [Returns
to his chair. Addresses his log again.] Everything working
perfectly, same as always. Phasers may explode, psychic
fields may collapse, but with gravity, you always know where
you stand. [Grows dangerously thoughtful.] Of course, if
the silmarils had affected my machinery, would my machinery
necessarily tell me? Computer, check all onboard gravity
sensors.
Pandora: All omvoard ghraviddy shenshurrzh reporth wunn pointh
zhero geeee, exshept in personal roomzh as requestedh by
the followingh crewmemverzh : yazh-pish--
Metag: Shush. Now, how can I be sure the grav-sensors are telling
me the truth? I can't. [Thinks. A twisted grin appears on
his face.] But I *can* at least do a sanity check.
Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha . . .
The Doh is Violent
Written and Produced by: Kevin Wald
Directed by: Members of the Department
Mucus by: Gastropods, Ltd.
Guest Starring:
Edwin A. Abbott as Doh
Gerard Depardieu as Jones the Merchant
And with a special appearance by:
Ensign Metag as himself
[On the Bridge]
Kabeta: Captain's Log, Stardate 102065.3. We are currently
exploring a very small, previously unknown satellite
galaxy, which we have yclept the Wee Magellianic Cloud.
[Pauses.] Yclept?
yaz-pistachio: What seems to be the problem?
Kabeta: I don't think I've ever used that word before, certainly
not in a ship's log. It's archaic, practically obsolete.
yaz: It may be a residual effect of our recent experiment with
psycho-environmental arcana. The archaeolinguistic loci
of the-- [We hear a sound from overhead. It sounds like
THUD-"check!" The "check!" part sounds quite gleeful. Before
anyone has time to react, however, their attention is
irretrievably drawn away by another sound, much, much louder,
and not from overhead. It sounds like VYAAAGHTHAGGGTAPSH!!!]
What was that?
Booming Voice, coming from everywhere, and yet from nowhere:
I am the great and powerful Doh, master of dimension!
Turn on your viewscreen, and . . . no, over here, to starboard.
That's it . . . Look upon my mickleness, and despair. [Pauses.]
Mickleness?
[On the viewscreen, traced out in the very fabric of the universe
itself, we see first the snowflake curve, and then the Mandelbrot
set, and then some even crinklier shapes, with Doh's extremely large
and ugly spacecraft in the center, quite clearly pulling the cosmic
strings. The show finishes with a parsec-wide Sierpinski triangle,
ringing in the vastness of space.]
Doh: And I have shown you only a fraction of my power. Now, how would
you like to die?
Kabeta: Much, much later. [To helmsbeing:] Take us out of here, Jolt
factor 7. [The ship moves about a meter, then snaps back, causing
coffee and tiyerlgrehot to be spilt at various points throughout
the ship.] Jolt factor 8? [An even quicker snap-back than before.]
Doh: Sorry, that's not an option. [As he says this, Ensign Redshirt
suddenly becomes two-dimensional, and has to be folded up and
taken to sickbay.]
Kabeta: Apparently, we're dealing with an *evil* dimension-controlling
force.
Doh: Indeed. Power corrupts, and I have absolute power.
Kabeta: So you're corrupt.
Doh: Absolutely. [Ensign Crimsontunic becomes one-dimensional, and is
coiled up and stowed.]
Kabeta: All right, that's it. (*Sigh*) Fire Crouton Torpedoes.
[They have no effect. None.]
Doh: Your puny weapons are useless. I am Doh, the Great. Doh, the
Magnificent. Doh, the Hierarchitectitiptitoploftical.
[Pauses.] Hierarchitectitiptitoploftical?
Kabeta [Struck by inspiration]: Of course. Lieutenant Kleber, broadcast
the standard message of surrender in all minor languages.
Kleber: Okey-doke. [Does so.]
yaz: Wait a minute--all *minor* languages?
Doh: Doh, the like totally awe--aack! Provencal! Manx! Oscan! Kshitrahi!
Frisian! Tygrahic! Australoklingonese! Modern Elvish! Tidric!
Tocharian A! Toch--.
Kabeta: Get us out of here, Jolt Factor 9.9.
[The ship slowly but surely pulls out of whatever grip Doh was holding them
in. As it gets further and futher away from Doh's ship, it is able to pick
up speed, and soon is actually traveling at Jolt Factor 9.9, with the result
that the Wee Magellianic Cloud is very soon left far behind. The bridge crew
now breathes a little easier, except that they now begin to notice again the
occasional THUD-"check!" noises penetrating into the room.]
* * * * * * * * * * *
This is not your father's Oldsmobile. Very likely, your father doesn't even
drive an Oldsmobile. No, this is the Oldsmobile of the daughter of an
unemployed actor. Aren't you impressed?
* * * * * * * * * * *
Kabeta [voice-over]: Captain's Log supplemental. Our linguistic maneuver
has apparently worked, and we are now docked at Starbase 6502,
at the edge of the Milky Way nearest the WMC. We are repairing
the damage incurred during our straining to escape Doh's grasp,
and the crew is taking some badly needed R and R. I know that
they are contemplating the same questions I am. For how long will
Doh remain out of commission due to linguistic overload? When he
does recover, will he come after us? And if he does, how long can
we stand up to such an entity?
[Scene: A shopping arcade at Starbase 6502.]
Commander Scibonia: How much is that doggie in the window?
Shopowner: Fifty credits.
Scribonia: Fifty?
Shopowner: Look, it's not easy getting a dog that size imbedded in a pane
of glass. Would you like to see something cheaper. I've snuff and
tobaccy, decarcinogenized of course, and excellent jacky, without
nitrates. I've got rhythm, I've got music, in both regular and
economy sizes. I've got monolith paperweights, and--
Scribonia: How much for a paperweight?
Shopowner: Fifteen credits.
Scribonia: Fifteen credits for a paperweight?
Shopowner: Not just a paperweight--a *monolith* paperweight. At fifteen
credits [he pulls out a small obelisk] it's a stele. A genuine
ancient artifact--just look at that writing. Cryptic, isn't it.
Scribonia: For fifteen credits, I'll need the story behind it.
Shopowner: All . . . right. [Thinks a bit.] My home planet, Bherjraq,
is not now considered very important in the larger scheme of
things, but it has a long and distinguished history. [His nose
has lengthened a wee bit.] For centuries, we had dreamed of
journeying into space. Various methods had been tried. Enormous
clockwork machines had been constructed. People had made garments
covered with little vials of dew, so that they would rise when the
dew did. They covered their bodies with bone marrow. They built
powerful rockets. Finally, over three thousand years ago, the first
successful space journey was completed by my namesake, Jones the
Voyager. When he touched ground again after his first flight, before
he had even wiped the marrow from his body, the people of Bherjraq,
speaking as one, declared him king. And his first proclamation as
king was that the tale of his exploits should be inscribed upon
100 pillars of stone, and distributed to the 100 provinces of
Bherjraq. Most of them have been lost over the millennia, or are
carefully locked away as priceless treasures. This is one of the
Jonesian pillars, and the only one you are liable to see in your
lifetime. Certainly the only one you will be able to buy for
fifteen credits. [His nose has been steadily growing throughout
this narrative, and is now nearly half a meter long.]
Scribonia: Ah . . . Your nose . . . hem! . . . Your nose is . . .
rather large!
Shopowner: Is that all? You are too simple. Why, you might have said--
oh, a great many things! [Pulls out a old volume.] Right here,
pages forty and forty-one: nineteen things to say about somebody
else's nose.
Scribonia: I only meant that when someone is telling a tale and his
nose starts growing . . . [Stops, realizing she is being
impolitic.]
Shopowner [Grabbing one of a pair of crossed swords on the wall, and
tossing the other to Scribonia]: You shall die exquisitely, at
the hands of Jones the Poet!
Scribonia: Poet?
Shopowner: Why yes, you fancy me a story-teller; why not a poet as
well? So while we fence, I'll make you a Limerique Extempore.
Scribonia: A Limerique?
Shopowner: Yes. You know what that is?
Scribonia: I--
Shopowner: The Limerique, ma'am, is formed of three stanzas of
six lines each, and a clerihew of four. I'll compose one
while I fight with you; and at the end of the last line--thrust
home! [Declaims] "Limerique of the duel at Starbase 6502
between Jones and a Pseudoterran." [Closes his eyes for an
instant.] Stop . . . Let me choose my rhymes . . . Now!
Here we go-- [He attacks her with his sword, and she is forced
to respond; the swordfight is underway. It continues, with
amazing intensity and bewildering speed, throughout all of the
following:]
A certain Commander Scribonia
Has heard lies told in North Patagonia,
And read many a brom-
Ide from many a tome,
But she tells me my tale is much phonier.
(As I end the last line, I thrust home.)
Quite sweet is Commander Scribonia
With the honey of strict *parsimonia*;
Her thrift would bee-comb
A Zurichian Gnome--
It amounts to a *magna felonia*.
(As I end the last line, I thrust home.)
Both the tongue of Commander Scribonia
And my sword are as sharp as ammonia.
May the star-studded dome
And the sand-studded loam
See me cream her--nay, more, zabaglione her.
(As I end the last line, I thrust home.)
[Scribonia is good, but Jones--well, if he isn't a Wizard he's
darn close. By this point, he quite clearly has the upper hand,
and is just waiting for the last line to finish her off.]
Commander Scribonia
Plays Marca Antonia
By asp's tooth she's felled, she'll ne'er more see Rome
As I end the last line, I--
Kleber [appearing suddenly from nowhere]: Stop saying that!
[As the shopowner is about to lunge for the kill, he is stunned
by a shot from Kleber's phaser.]
Scribonia: Nice work.
Kleber: Thanks. [Notices how he's holding the phaser.] And I'm not
even left-handed. [Returns it to his holster]. You going to
get the stele?
Scribonia [nods]: The story was no great shakes, but the poem alone
was worth fifteen credits.
Kleber: Leave twenty. He's going to have a doozy of headache when he
wakes up. [As Scribonia runs her credits card through the
machine, Kleber examines the stele.] Hmm, interesting. Four
different languages, one on each face. They're probably all
translations of the same text, like on the Rosetta stone.
Scribonia: Can you read any of them?
Kleber: Well . . . with this one I don't even recognize the alphabet.
[Turns the stele ninty degrees.] This side looks like something
with very tough claws has been using this thing as a scratching
post. [Turns it again.] This alphabet I recognize, but I don't
know the language--it must be still living.
Scribonia: And if it were a dead language, you could read it?
Kleber: Of course. I am, after all, Speaker for the Dead--I couldn't
do that if I didn't know every dead language. [Turns the stele
once more] A-ha! Middle Hoqqachynic!
Scribonia: A dead language?
Kleber: Well, *mostly* dead.
Scribonia: Can you read it?
Kleber: Mostly. [He examines it more closely.] It's a short prose
piece, describing the voyages of a starship, the HMS Froje-
is-really-neat. Let's see:
In the days of Froje the Obscure, the same Froje who ruled
the entire planet of Karibu, from the plains of Antrahaihi to
the plains of Antrahaihi (going the long way around), the same
Froje whose praises have been sung by poets far and wide, who
was commemorated in Knastaheh's immortal poem "Froje, Froje,
what more can I say about Froje," and Pnicatra's equally
revered work "Froje is totally cool," the same Froje who--
Scribonia: Cut to the chase.
Kleber: Blup-and-blup, dum-da-dum . . . who fashioned the octuplet
mountains of Yan, Tyan, Tethera, Methera, Sithera, Dithera,
Othera, and Mothera, and the five seas of Fizh, Rizh, Oizh,
Jizh, and Eizh, yes, *that* Froje, anyway in his days we went
out in a spaceship, the HMS Froje-is-really-neat, and were set
upon by Doh.
Scribonia: That's it?
Kleber: Well, I said it was short.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The Energizer bunny. He just keeps going and going and going . . . .
His condition is treatable, but there is not yet any cure. Please
give to the National Diabetes Foundation.
* * * * * * * * * * *
[Scene: Ten-forward. Captain Kabeta, Lft. Cdr. Furd the Nurd, and a
small group of others are singing a madrigal, a cappella, when
Scribonia and Kleber come in.]
Singers [singing]: In yonder swamp there stands a creature
What he is I do not know
He is grimy, green and slimy
Will he wish me weal or woe?
A Vogon, Vogon, Vogon, oh . . .
"My father was a piece of flotsam
Dredged from sea some years ago
Quite an ugly green gruntbuggly,
Just your average Vogon Joe
A Vogon, Vogon, Vogon Joe.
Mother was about as putrid.
Since now both my folks you know,
And I have not yet been neut'red,
Madam, shall we have a go?"
"Oh, Vogon, Vogon, Vogon--no."
"Madam, you are very cruel
Cruelty doth excite me so
My head is whirling, dromes are turling
Madam, may I be your beau?"
"Oh, Vogon, Vogon, Vogon--no."
"Madam, you know not the passion
That within my soul is pent;
I impress you in the fashion
Of a traffic accident."
"Oh, Vogon, Vogon, Vogon,. . . oh . . .
Oh *hark*, I hear my spaceship landing
Vogon, . . . great to chat with you;
But 'au revoir' lacks *je ne sais quois*
So rather let us say 'adieu,'
O Vogon, Vogon, Vogon." "Oh."
Scribonia: Bravo! Brava! Bravi!
Kabeta: Thanks. Would you like to join us for "Adieu, sweet Drosophilis"?
Thokk refuses to sing soprano any more, so we're one short.
Scribonia: Uh, no thanks. How come you're down here instead of up on the
bridge, philosophizing into your log-box?
Kabeta: Actually, I came down to escape that mysterious THUD-"check!" noise.
It was driving me crazy. [We hear, from above, THUD-"check!"] Oh, no.
(*sigh*) So, what's up?
Scribonia: Well, while on Starbase 6502, Lt. Kleber and I . . . um . . .
acquired this stele [Kleber shows it to Kabeta and Furd], which
the Lieutenant says makes passing reference to this Doh being.
[Kabeta takes the stele, and turns it slowly in her hands, looking at every
face. She stops at the face whose alphabet Kleber didn't know.]
Kabeta: Ah, Old Vulcano-preservric! [THUD-"check!"]
Kleber: Old What?
Kabeta: Vulcano-preservric. It hasn't been used for centuries now, but for
a long time it was the Lingua Franca of much of the Galaxy. [She
looks over the text in front of her, and starts humming to herself.
She stops when she notices everyone is staring at her.] You see,
it's a completely tone-based language: no distinctions of vowels
or consonants, just musical notes. This text here is a particularly
fine example of an acrostic poem.
Kleber: An acrostic poem? [THUD-"check!"]
Kabeta: Yes--a poem in which each line starts with a successive letter of
whatever alphabet the poem is written in. Thus, an English
acrostic would have twenty-six lines, from A to Z, a Greek
acrostic would run from alpha to omega, a Thilaquian acrostic
would run from ekki to ptang--
Furd: And on my planet, an acrostic would run from eh to zed.
Kleber: I know what an acrostic is, it's just that the version on the
side I read was in ordinary prose. [Considers.] Of course, it
could be that the poetry was lost in the translation . . .
which would mean that the Vulano-preservric version of the text
is probably closer to the original. How does it read?
[Jez, having wandered in for some inscutable cat reason, is now looking
intently at Kabeta.]
Kabeta [peering more closely at the stele]: Let's see . . .
Doh, a dimension-controlling force,
Ray, a blast of laser light
Me-rely bounces off his ship--
Far I fly in fleeing flight.
So, I've gotten lost again;
Lo-st, I don't know where to go.
T's will split my ship in twain--
Do I dare to dive at Doh?
Scribonia [to Kleber and Kabeta]: Either one of you has given me
the least accurate translation ever . . .
Kleber: Or the text on each face isn't the same--instead, each face
tells one quarter of a complete story, in a different language.
We've read the first and second parts.
[One more THUD-"check!" now occurs, but far more noticed by the crew
is the fact that Jez now leaps at Kabeta, grabs the stele out of her
hands, and races out of Ten-forward with it. Dragging it, actually,
since there are certain practical difficulties involved in a cat
holding a two-kilogram stone obelisk aloft with her teeth.]
* * * * * * * * * *
Do you long for the old days, when you could eat an entire pig, snout
to tail, and not worry about cholesterol?
Do you feel guilty for watching the Simpsons instead of Bill Cosby,
and want to make it up to him somehow?
Then buy: Jello Blood Pudding Pops!
The taste of real pigs blood, brought to you by a man who isn't an
obstetrician, but plays one on TV.
* * * * * * * * * *
[Scene: A corridor. Dr. Hertzman and Matt Ender are walking along,
conversing.]
Hertzman: . . . and then Ensigns Redshirt and Crimsontunic said they
wanted to thank you in person. Frankly, I don't blame them--
that coordinate-expander of your is a major medical achievement.
[From up ahead: THUD-"check!"]
Ender: Well . . . I don't know that it's all *that* major. First of
all, it's just a minor modification of the principle behind
the phase-blade--a projection plowshare, if you will. Secondly,
the actual medical applications will be rather limited--complete
dimensional collapse just isn't that common an ailment.
[THUD-"check!"--somewhat louder this time.]
Hertzman: Still . . . [THUD-"check!"] What is that noise?
[They round a corner, and see . . . Ensign Metag, carrying an apple
and a clipboard. He drops the apple--THUD--and gleefully says "check!"
as he makes a notation on his clipboard. He then picks up the apple,
and moves two meters up the corridor, thereby nearly running into
Hertzman and Ender.]
Metag: Sorry. [Drops apple--THUD.] Check! [Picks apple up again.]
Hertzman: No problem . . . um . . . is there any partcular reason
you're doing that?
Metag: Yes, ma'am. I'm Ensign Metag, ship's Artificial Gravity Repair
Technician. Persuant to my duties, I am conducting a manual
test of AG functioning. [Moves two meters on, drops apple
--THUD] Check!
Ender [sotto voce, to Hertzman]: I didn't even know we had an
Artificial Gravity Repair Technician.
Hertzman [also sotto voce]: I'm still not sure we do. Tell you
what: I'll take care of him, you go pay your call on the
ensigns--we don't want to disappoint them, do we
[Aloud, to Metag:] Would you care to talk about it?
Metag: Talk? [He likes the idea.] Sure. Did you know that the
poet Carnityoj wrote an entire epic about the workings
of a gravitic engine?
Hertzman [Cautiously]: Uh, no.
Metag: Oh, yes--in fact, I can still quote bits from it. With the
exception of Plik, Carnityoj is, in my opinion, the greatest
of the Golden . . .
[Ender has departed, and it is he that we are following. He breathes
a sigh of relief that this alleged AG Repair Technician is not his
problem. As he is thinking this, he is nearly bowled over by a cat
dragging a small stone stele.]
Ender: What have you got there, Jez?
Jez [indicating, with a paw, the "scratching-post" inscriptions]:
Mew. Mrowp. ["This inscription is vitally important to the
future of this ship, and, possibly, the Galaxy itself."]
Ender [reading off the stele]:
Mhiu, pyrh, mraup
Myau, miyau, pyrrh
Mhiu, mrau, mrauu
Pyr, pyrh, pyrrh
Mew . . . ["I'm sorry, but I can't make head or tail of this"]
Jez: Meow, purr, mrurowp. ["Well, of course not--it's in Old
Liturgical Kittic. I'll read it off in Modern Feline,
and you can convey it to the others in Engl-whatever."]
[Reciting, in standard cat reciting pose:]
Mew, purr, mrowp
Meow, meeow, purrr
Mew, mrow, mroww
Mrurowwp, purr, purrr
Miu? ["Hast thou got it?"]
Ender: Mrou. ["Aye, milady."]
* * * * * * * * * *
Between Depression and Downturn there lies: Recession. From Calvin Hobbes.
* * * * * * * * * *
[Scene: Briefing Room. Captain Kabeta, Commander Scribonia, Lft. Cdr.
Furd the Nurd, Lt. Cdr. yaz-pistachio, Lt. JG maya, Lt. Cdr. McDonagh,
Lt. Aoki, and Lt. JG Kleber are all present.]
Kabeta: All right, I've convened this meeting to see where we stand with
respect to the Doh threat. Lieutenant Commander McDonagh, how have
repairs gone?
McDonagh: All nifty and accounted for, Cap'n. When we put out from
Starbase 6502, the whole ship was like new, except that it didn't
have that new ship smell.
Kabeta: Good. Lieutenant Commander yaz-pistachio, Lieutenant maya, what
news does the Ad Hoc Doh Analysis Committee have?
yaz: We've come up with a theory explaining how Doh's ship could be
immune to our Crouton torpedoes. Suppose it were constructed
entirely on pseudo-gravitic principles.
Kleber: Of course . . . nothing can affect a pseudo-grav device--they're
completely indestructible.
maya: What's more, this would explain Doh's power to affect the dimension
and geometric structure of space--the alteration of gravitational
fields is, after all, tantamount to the alteration of the geometry
of space-time. That's what makes gravitic mines so devastating. A
properly-sized gravitic engine could very well produce all the
effects we've been observing.
Kleber: That is *so* *cool*.
yaz: And dangerous. Remember, none of our weapons will have an effect on a
gravitic device. Crouton torps, phasers, psionics, magic, the power
of positive thinking--all would be useless against it. If you were
contemplating going after this Doh being, Captain, it is my
suggestion that you forget it.
Kabeta: Well argued. The problem is, we may not have a choice--what if
Doh comes after *us*?
Kleber: Would he?
Kabeta: Why not? Remember the second stele-text--the narrator ran away,
but then, while lost, he encountered Doh again. That sounds to
me like Doh went after him.
Furd: We can't just keep running; for one thing, it may not be
be possible, and for another, once inside our galaxy, Doh may
set its sights on other targets--starbases, inhabited planets . . .
maya: In the event that the Heisenberg has to confront Doh again, we've
concluded that the safest place to be would be inside Doh's ship
itself.
Kabeta: What?
yaz: Gravitational fields are tricky things. It seems unlikely that
even a creature like Doh would be willing to use a gravitic
weapon in the vicinity of his own ship's innards.
maya: According to observations made during our brief encounter,
there are several aperatures into the Doh-ship large enough
to accomodate the Heisenberg. If we should encounter Doh
again, I suggest we distract him long enough to dive into
one.
Kabeta: Of course! "Do I dare to dive at Doh?"--that must have been what
the narrator was contemplating. [Thinks.] When the time comes, there
will be no time to lose. Thanks to our [looks around] apparently
absent alien-at-large, we can now cure dimensional collapse in
people, but I hate to think what would happen if, say, our
antimatter control valve suddenly turned into a null-dimensional
point.
yaz: We've already programmed the computer to execute the dive maneuver,
when it hears the code-word "Cartesian." [Everyone else starts
panicking.] No, I mean when *Captain Kabeta* says it, and Doh
is actually *here*.
Kabeta: Good work. Only one thing--are you actually sure of any of this?
maya: It's our best estimate of the situation. Neither one of us is an
expert in pseudo-gravitics--I wish we had one on board--but we're
pretty confident. The only sure test, of course, will occur when
and if Doh shows up. [At this point, we hear an extremely loud
noise, which sounds something like VYAAAGHTHAGGGTAPSH!!!]
Doh: Hi, guys, did you miss me?
Kabeta: Doh--I've got a great limerick for you. Listen:
Though you warped space's gridwork Cartesian
And in space-time caused discord Erisian
Our ship did survive
With a Jolt-factor drive
And a wee bit of Old Micronesian.
[By the time she reaches the last line, the Heisenberg is already
inside Doh's ship.]
Doh: I didn't quite catch that last line--could you repeat it?
Kabeta: "And a wee bit of Old Micronesian."
Doh: I said, could you repeat it? . . . Come on, I'd really like to
know what that third rhyme is . . .
Kabeta: "AND A WEE BIT OF OLD MICRONESIAN!"
Doh: Unless you used "Keynesian"--nah, the poem had nothing to do with
economics . . . Cummon, if you tell me, I might not kill you all
immediately . . . [Angry] All right, where are you and why can't
I hear you?
Kabeta: We know where we are, but why *can't* he hear us?
Kleber: The fields inside Doh's ship may be interfering with etheric
communications. We can hear him, because he's communicating by
gravitic methods--that's how he can project his voice onto
our ship, without us using any of our receiving equipment
--but to pick us up he would need to use ordinary communications
frequencies.
Kabeta: Got it. All right, now that we're inside, what do we do?
Ender [bursting in]: Sorry I'm late, I was translating some epic
poetry. Captain, Jez has told me what the third face of the
stele says. [Hands her about twenty pages, densely covered
with tiny typescript.]
Kabeta: All this was on the stele?
Ender: One face of the stele. Old Liturgical Kittic, like Feline itself,
is a very concise language. [To everyone:] It's an epic poem,
describing the battle between the HMS Froje-is-really-neat
and Doh. The chief weapon used by the HMS FIRN is some sort
of bouncing ball. That mean anything to anybody?
yaz: Let me see that. [Takes pages, and scans them quickly.] Of course!
It's almost hidden in this dactylically hexametric mess [looks
pointedly at Ender], but the text describes a possible method
of fighting Doh from the inside. [Hands pages to maya.]
Kabeta: A bouncing ball?
maya [who by now has scanned the epic]: Not quite. Look, what is the only
thing that's as indestructible as a piece of pseudo-gravitivic
machinery?
Scribonia: Another piece of pseudo-gravitic machinery?
yaz: Exactly. So suppose we take one of our own pseudo-gravs--say, our
Artificial Gravity generator--and use tractors and deflectors
to bounce it around the Doh-ship's guts. It ought to be able to
chip off pieces, and eventually Doh would be . . . unpleased.
Kabeta: I see . . . can you do it?
maya: We ought to be able to, but I sure wish there were a pseudo-gravitician
on board to help.
Ender: But there is . . . possibly.
Kabeta: What? I don't remember there being one. [There is general
agreement on this point.] Pandora, do we have an Artificial
Gravity Repair Technician?
Pandora: Affirmative--Ensign Metag. By the way, there's this voder down in--
Kabeta: Shush, Pandora.
Ender: I didn't know we had one either, until today Doctor Hertzman and
I discovered a rather strange person who claimed to be Ensign Metag,
our Artificial Gravity Repair Technician. She stopped to talk with
him, so she can probably tell us if he is who he says he is.
Kabeta: Pandora, establish contact with Doctor Hertzman.
Pandora: Direct communication impossible--communicator link attempt
failed.
Kleber: Of course--since etheric communications are no longer operational,
our communicators don't work. We'll have to use the hardwired
intercom links--
Kabeta: (*sigh*) Pandora, locate Doctor Hertzman.
Pandora: Location impossible--communicator link attempt failed.
Kleber: --and since the computer location system also uses the communicators,
we can't use that either.
Kabeta: (*SIGH*) Pandora, intercom to sickbay.
Intercom: Hullo, Captain, Ensign Redshirt here. What's up?
Kabeta: Is Doctor Hertzman there?
Intercom: Nope, just me and Ensign Crimsontunic. Do you want to talk
to him? We're both pretty bored here--Ender was supposed to
drop by, but he never showed.
Kabeta: No, thank you. Pandora, close link to sickbay. Intercom to
Doctor's Quarters.
Intercom [groggy]: Hello, Captain. Hertzman here.
Ender: That Ensign Metag we met up with earlier--what's the story?
Intercom: Oh, him. Well, so far as I can tell he's really Ensign Metag,
Artificial Gravity Repair Technician. What's more, he's not
crazy--just really, *really* bored. Unfortunately, his condition
is contagious, so by the time I let him go, I really needed a
bit of a lie-down.
Kabeta: Do you know where he is now?
Intercom: Nope. Can I go back to bed now?
Kabeta: Affirmative. Pandora, close link to Doctor's Quarters.
Kleber: Of course, now you need to find Metag himself.
Kabeta: I'm not going through *that* again. Pandora, open Public Address
System. [In announcement-type voice:] Ensign Metag, please report
to Lieutenant Commander yaz-pistachio and Lieutenant maya at . . .
[to yaz and maya:] Where do you want to meet him?
yaz [to P.A.]: The Artificial Gravity Maintenance Room. Immediately.
[To Kabeta:] We're on our way.
[yaz and maya exit, just as Thokk is entering.]
Thokk: Sorry I'm late, Captain. Did I miss much?
Kabeta: Not really. [To group:] It just occurred to me that it might be
very helpful to find out what the text on the fourth side of the
stele says. [Ender produces it, and places it on the conference
table. Kabeta indicates the one side that remains undeciphered.]
Can anyone read this? [Nobody can.]
Kleber: Maybe we can reason this out . . . Probably, none of the languages
we have so far read is the native language of the people who made
the stele.
Scribonia: Why?
Kleber: Well, the first part is in prose, unlike the other two parts we
have, so it's probably a translation. The second part is in a
lingua franca, which isn't going to be anyone's native language.
Finally, the third part is in a language native only to cats, and
no cat would bother to write in any language but its own. Thus,
whoever made the stele spoke the language of the last part. Now,
our main clue to the people who made the stele is a name that
occurs prominantly and repeatedly both in the first and--judging
from what I know of the alphabet--in the last part; to wit: Froje.
Thokk: Yaaaargh!! [Stabs table.]
Kleber: Pardon?
Thokk: Sorry. [Retrieves knife.] It's just that two months ago, the guy
whose room was next to mine never shut up about his home planet,
and how Froje was the first emperor of the Golden Age, and Froje
this, and Froje that, and . . . well, every time I hear the
name now, I react violently.
Kabeta: Do you remember this crewman's name?
Thokk: Hmm . . . Meathook, or Maggot, or something stupid like that.
Kleber: That's not going to be much help in tracking him down.
Kabeta: Pandora, access residence records of two months ago
Pandora: Archival record inaccessible--etheric communication link
attempt failed.
Aoki: Of course--archival records aren't hard-wire connected.
Without etheric communications, they can't be accessed.
Thokk: *I'll* find him, Captain. I'll track him down and bring him
to you, dead or alive. [Exits, clearly in hunting mode.]
Kabeta [calling after Thokk]: Alive! Bring him to the *bridge*, *alive*!
He won't do us any good dead! [To herself:] I hope he was just
being dramatic.
* * * * * * * * * *
So bring your bastard sword, and bring your Visa card. Because while
they do take American Express, they also cook it and eat it.
* * * * * * * * * *
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