Margeret Bonanno - Probe

"A summons, kerDajan, from the capital. All scientific missions are herewith recalled."

"For what purpose?" Dajan's glass-green eyes snapped with fury. He had barely begun! He stood, abandoning his perusal of the petroglyph, though he did not yet put away his magnifier. Oh, how he longed to flash it upward into the sublieutenant's eyes, claiming later that it was an accident! But he was not yet that far rehabilitated. And he had to be careful for his sister's sake, for her position was even more vulnerable than his. She was still in the capital, where intrigue and backstabbing and petty revenge constituted a way of life. A whisper was all it would take to send he: tumbling back down the slippery slope to unorthodoxy.

"I was not told," the sub lieutenant answered with a touch of smugness, "therefore I cannot tell you. But your ship departs within the hour. Be on it, or be marooned here.", In his departure, the sub lieutenant managed to loosen enough screen from the top of the retaining wall to all but bury the petroglyph.

From the bridge of the Enterprise-A, Dr. Leonard H. McCoy watched the blue-and-white confection that was his home planet glide peacefully by on the viewscreen. Very peaceful, considering what had happened there only a short while ago. There were the isolated food and medical-supply shortages to keep off-planet transports working overtime, and people in certain areas were still advised to boil or irradiate their drinking water until groundwater could be certified pure, but on the whole, things on planet Earth were pretty much back to normal.

As were things aboard the Enterprise.

"Available twentieth-century selections coming up on-screen now, Doctor." The thickly accented voice belonged to Commander Pavel Chekov, who sat at the science station before McCoy, punching buttons. "A very important period in the history of Western music. Significant composers include"-he paused the scrolling display for McCoy to read some of the names listed there- "Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Miaskovsky, Strauss. ." He frowned at the display a moment, then continued reading. "Khachaturian, Volkonsky. ."

McCoy leaned over the display and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Do I detect a slight bias here, Mr. Chekov?"

"Bias, sir?" Chekov turned back to McCoy, the look of puzzlement so pronounced that the doctor couldn't help but wonder if it, like the occasional thickening of the Russian's accent, was 100 percent genuine and not at least partly the continuation of a "game" that had started in his days as an ensign on the old Enterprise. But then, McCoy thought ruefully, there were those who had voiced similar suspicions about himself and his exchanges with Spock. There were even times, after all the years and adventures, when he himself would be hard put to give an unequivocal answer.

"Almost every one of the composers you've mentioned is Russian, Mr. Chekov," McCoy pointed out.

Chekov shrugged. "It is a well-known fact, Doctor. Russian contribution toward twentieth-century Western music is substantial. Concepts of atonality, dissonant harmony, computer-generated composition. ."

McCoy leaned back against the guardrail circling the bridge's command deck and tuned out the musicalhistory lesson. Half an hour ago, he'd come to the bridge, planning to take advantage of Starbase One's extensive facilities to update the ship's on-board musical library. Chekov had been on duty and immediately volunteered to aid the doctor in his task. So far, much to McCoy's consternation, their review of Starbase One's selection had produced little that was not tinged with a distinctly Slavic flavor.

"Shall I instruct the computer to initiate transfer?" Chekov asked. "I would suggest a sampling of some of the recent interpretations of Shostakovich's works in particular."

"No, no," McCoy said. "Let's skip ahead, Chekov. I'm interested in more recent compositions."

"As you wish, Doctor." Chekov swiveled back to the science station. "Twenty-third-century works now coming up on-screen."

"Ah," McCoy said. Now that was more like it. He smiled, recognizing most of the names now scrolling by. "Now this is music. Salet of Vulcan, Evanston, Penalt-" He frowned. "Vigelshevsky?"

"Anton Wigelshevsky, Doctor," Chekov said. "Why, he is this century's most famous composer of electronic music. His wariations on a theme by Prokofiev-1 cannot believe you have not heard of him."

Before McCoy could give his opinion of "all that electronic hooting and braying," he was rescued by the sound of the bosun's whistle.

"Probably Dr. Chapel," he said, stepping quickly to the captain's chair and toggling on a switch. "I promised her the five-dollar tour of the new sickbay before we shipped out."

But it wasn't Chapel.

Instead, the viewscreen before them filled with the image of a dark-haired Starfleet ensign.

"Starfleet Operations. Admiral Cartwright for Captain Kirk."

Chekov and McCoy frowned at each other. McCoy spoke first. "The captain isn't here. But I understood he already had an appointment to meet with the admiral later this afternoon."

"Thank you," the aide said brusquely. "One moment."

The screen darkened for a few seconds, then the aide reappeared. "If the captain checks in, please have him contact the admiral immediately. Starfleet out."

The screen went dark again and stayed that way. McCoy frowned. "Now what do you suppose that was all about?"

"Captain!" Sulu called, bounding out of the shadow of the Sciences building where a maintenance robot was polishing the structure's transparent aluminum facing.

Kirk smiled as the helmsman caught up and fell into step beside him. The two strolled across the broad, sunny plaza of Starfleet Command HQ Central. "Mr. Sulu, where've you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you all day."

"Out enjoying the city." Sulu grinned, all enthusiasm. "It wasn't much fun when the rain was coming down, but it's sure had some beautiful side effects. So, ready for the grand tour of Chinatown?"

"Er. . that's what I've been trying to get in touch with you about. I'm afraid our little outing will have to be delayed for a while. Cartwright's schedule cleared, and I managed to get in to see him early."

"No problem, Captain." Sulu's expression remained doggedly cheerful. "I don't mind waiting out here in the sunshine."

"Why don't you come along?" Kirk paused at the entrance to Headquarters and motioned the helmsman inside. "It certainly won't hurt to have someone else there to support my case."

Sulu paused in the doorway, dark eyes wide. "If you're sure the admiral won't mind. ."

"He won't mind," Kirk said easily. He felt certain Cartwright had already chosen the Enterprise to lead the exploration; it would simply be a matter of the admiral's announcing the fact, and Kirk's thanking him. Cartwright certainly wouldn't have managed to clear time so quickly in order to argue against it. "I asked for the meeting, after all."

They walked briskly to the central turbolift; within one minute, no more, they stood at the outer office leading to Cartwright's. The admiral's door was shut, but an aide rose at the sight of Kirk and Sulu.

"Captain Kirk to see Admiral Cartwright," Kirk announced confidently, smiling pleasantly at the aide.

But the aide-a young human female with dark hair and features severe enough to be Vulcan-did not smile; in fact, she looked decidedly worried. "Captain Kirk, sir. The admiral's been trying to reach you." She pressed a

toggle on her desk console. "Admiral, Captain Kirk is here."

The admiral's door slid open.

Cartwright's mellow baritone filtered through the intercom. "Tell him to come in."

Kirk raised his eyebrows in surprise and nodded at Sulu, who glanced uncertainly at the aide, then followed the captain into Cartwright's inner sanctum. The aide's protests were cut off as the door snapped shut behind Kirk and Sulu.