Текст книги "Killing Time "

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Secondly, Tazol had heard the usual rumors of the Praetor's personal slaves—lovely female trinkets to adorn the public arm of his throne and the private company of his bed. But during the entire time the Praetor had been on the Ravon, Tazol had observed only malescientific advisers and scribe-slaves—all of whom were young and unacceptably handsome.

And third, as far as anyone in the Empire knew, the current Praetor had produced no offspring to whom the title would be bequeathed upon his death. And if there were no male offspring, tradition was explicit: The new Praetor would be the one Warrior who could defeat all others in battle.

The Commander's lips curled into a devious smile as he began to see his own path a little more clearly.

But his reverie was interrupted as one of the advisers cleared his throat noisily, exuding an air of importance which Tazol found repulsive to acknowledge.

"The Praetor will grant personal audience to your science officer," the lithely muscled man stated without preamble. But his tone left no doubt as to the Praetor's displeasure with the information contained in the transcripts. "You will escort him here immediately, Commander Tazol."

Tazol felt a combination of anger, dread and embarrassment rise in the back of his tight throat. He tasted bile. Not only was hebeing used as a fetch-slave himself, but it now seemed that Sarela would be granted the one honor which had been denied to him since the Praetor came aboard. He opened his mouth to protest, then quickly clamped his lips together, remembering that argument would prove futile … or worse.

He inclined his head in the customary acknowledgment. "My scientific adviser is also my second in command … and my wife," he stated.

"Your personal affairs are of no concern to me or to our Praetor," the man returned without hesitation. "She will report here at once!"

As the shame of defeat rose to color Tazol's rugged face, he forced himself to respond with the correct salute. "It shall be done, Lord," he replied through painfully clenched teeth, then slid into the nearest lift chute before permitting his anger to reach maturity. Already, he could see the smug look on Sarela's face once she learned of her orders.

In a now-familiar moment of despair, he touched the sword at his side … and wondered what the almighty Praetor might think if the Ravon's captain were found dead by his own hand.

But he dismissed the thought before becoming romantically enchanted with it, punching the button which would bring the lift back to the bridge. There was only one pleasant thought left alive in his mind: If heads were going to roll in memoriam to the Praetor's deceased plans of galactic dominion, perhaps that head would belong to the lovely Sarela … and not himself.

Chapter Nine

CAPTAIN SPOCK WAS alone in his quarters when the door buzzer demanded attention. He sighed to himself, unaccountably irritated at the interrupton into his private meditation regardless of the fact that he was technically on duty for another twenty minutes.

"Come," he acknowledged, then glanced up to see the ship's surgeon standing in the doorway. Rising, the Vulcan indicated a chair as the doctor entered.

"Well, Spock," McCoy began without preamble, "I'm aware that these findings should probably be referred directly to the science officer for immediate collation, but considering the circumstances, I thought I'd might as well come straight to the throne." He smiled wearily, sliding into the plush, black visitor's chair.

"Your tendency to exaggerate the powers of command can be most annoying, Doctor," the Vulcan replied, accepting the computer tape which McCoy proffered in his direction. "I presume you have completed the vid-scans of all the volunteers?"

McCoy nodded. "They're all on the tape, Spock," he explained, brows narrowing as the Vulcan inserted the raw information disk into the terminal on the desk. "So far, it's all hypothesis, but …" his voice trailed off.

"You have a theory?" the Vulcan wondered.

McCoy shrugged. "I dunno," he said at last. "Maybe I'm going a little crazy, too, but I'd swear the evidence I've compiled so far is pointing toward … well …" He threw up his hands, tasting hesitation. "I dunno," he repeated.

Spock's brows narrowed as he returned to the chair behind the desk. "Please come to the point if there is one, Doctor," he urged, voice harsher than usual. "Time is of the utmost importance."

McCoy swallowed hard. No point delaying making a fool of himself. "Well, it's starting to look as if there's no realscientific or medical cure for what's happening." He put one knuckle to his lip thoughtfully, then met the Vulcan's expectant gaze. "Dammit, Spock, if I didn't know better, I'd swear this whole thing is being caused by … by space itself!" But he waved his own statement aside with a quick, negative gesture. "Now I'll be the first to admit how crazy this sounds, but we've dealt with things of a similar nature before—the Tholians, for instance. Similar," he stressed, "but not quite the same. And with the Halkans," he added hopefully. "That parallel universe."

"Are you suggesting that we are slipping into an alternate dimensional plane, Doctor?" Spock interrupted, switching the tape scanner to the hold position.

McCoy glanced up sharply. "That's part of it," he confessed. "But I'm not sure even thatwould explain it this time, Captain. It's as if wedon't belong in thisuniverse—or as if this whole universe itself is somehow … alien to the mind." He managed a nervous laugh. "At least with the Tholians, the ShiKahrwas slipping into a different universe—a pre-existing universe with physical results and measurable phenomena. And with the Halkan Mission: you, me, Uhura and Scotty just … changed placeswith our counterparts in the parallel universe. But now …" He fell silent.

The Vulcan leaned back in the chair, resting his elbows on the arm and steepling his fingers neatly in front of his chest. "But now," he ventured, completing the doctor's sentence, "those counterparts no longer exist. The lifeforms appear to be pre-existing, yet this universe has been formed in some type of microcosm?"

McCoy glanced at the Vulcan. "Yes!" he exclaimed, surprised that the Vulcan could follow his reasoning when he wasn't sure he was following it himself. "That's exactly it, Spock! But the critical thing is—judging from the information we've monitored in those vid-scans, those counterparts of ourselves … of that universe itself … didexist at one time." But with that thought came another. "It's wewho are the ghosts, Spock," he said, a shudder accompanying the peculiar consideration. "And based on what we've seen so far, I'd chance a guess that this insanity is eventually going to spread throughout the entire galaxy."

Spock considered that. "I agree," he said at last. "Yet attempting to recreate an entire universe—even assuming that the theory itself is plausible—is not something easily accomplished." He paused. "Nor will it be readily acceptable—particularly to the human mind."

"What are you getting at, Spock?" McCoy asked pointedly.

"The mind is only capable of accepting that which it can comprehend, Doctor," the Vulcan explained. "And though the parallel universe theory is now a commonly accepted fact, it is difficult for the mind to grasp the concept that no lifeform is utterly unique. As we discovered on the Halkan Mission, there are duplications—doppelgängers, if you will, with subtle or major differences. If we should attempt to persuade FleetCom that it is thisuniverse which is unstable, I hardly believe the High Council would accept that information as fact. In any man's mind, Doctor, he is right; the right to life belongs to him alone. It is the law of individual survival—of a need to be unique."

"But if we don'tdo something," McCoy protested, "I'd be willing to bet a year's pay that the problem will eventually … take care of itself. And that, Spock, is the law of nature! Just look at those orders from S't'kal! And even if we're successful in evading thoseorders, that's just the beginning. And it's no longer as simple as if we were just a danger to ourselves. Hell, Captain, with current technology, this entire galaxycould be lifeless within a year's time! Just on this ship alone, there have already been several cases of assault, personal threats … and Reichert's charade epitomizes it all!"

"Granted," the Vulcan agreed. "Yet I must ask you—as an individual lifeform theoretically unique unto yourself—would you be willing to essentially die to preserve a conceptof universal stability?"

McCoy swallowed hard, but the answer was one he'd already had to consider. "I'll admit it's not a pleasant thought, Spock," he said quietly, "but it's even lesspleasant to think of what happens if we're right and we don't do something." He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. "For the rest of our lives—however short that might be—we'd be living in a galactic asylum, complete with all the things humankind has finally started to rise above: war, disease, hunger, prejudice. . . ." He shook his head emphatically. "No, Spock, I'm not suicidal; but I'd also like to think that I'm not selfishenough to consider my own life more valuable than the lives—and the sanity—of an entire universe."

A very faint smile seemed to tug at the corners of the thin Vulcan lips. "I might have underestimated you, Doctor," the captain replied. But any amusement he may have felt quickly faded. "There is only one additional question I must put to you before proceeding further."

McCoy waited.

"Do you have a theory as to why only certain individuals appear to be affected by the madness?" the Vulcan asked presently.

"As a matter of fact," McCoy said with a grin, "I do. If—and I repeat ifthis dual universe theory is correct—then it stands to reason that a few things are always going to be the same." He shrugged. "Like with the Halkans, for instance: same people in both universes, same basic life-roles; just a different dimensional plane.

"But I'm starting to think that those people who aren'taffected are playing the same role in thisuniverse that they play in … in whatever universe they really belong to." He shook his head. "Hell, Spock, I'm a doctor, not a theoretical scientist, but I think you catch the general drift. Just using myself as an example, I'm probably not being affected because I'm a doctor in both places. Reichert, on the other hand …" He paused for a moment. "Reichert has the mental composition in thisuniverse which made him an engineer's mate. But in anotheruniverse—the ' real' universe, if you will—he could well be a businessman or a merchant, or even a pimp on Rigel! Who knows? But he's probably something completely different." He hesitated once again. "And yet," he continued at last, "the very molecules which determine how a mind operates are preset in the genetic code of the parents. And if that coderemains the same in two different universes—yet the environmentalters in the parallel universe, then it throws the brain out of kilter. The results: eventual insanity due to an inability to cope with change." He shrugged once more. "Or if you want to get downright psychiatric about it, it's the square peg and round hole theory: the mind rebels against anything which is essentially contrary to personal nature."

After a moment of silence, the Vulcan opened the top drawer of the desk, withdrawing a second computer tape. "In essence," he stated, "your theories confirm my own—and the theories of the ship's central research computers as well." He paused. "I have also taken the liberty of plotting a time curve—which, I believe, will tell us precisely how long we have before the condition worsens beyond the point of repair."

McCoy's eyes widened as the Vulcan's words sank in. He stared blankly at the tape. "Why didn't you tell me this an hour ago, Spock?" he demanded, wondering if the Vulcan had merely wanted to see him squirm.

The captain rose, pacing the width of the quarters. And when he spoke again, his voice was very quiet, almost strained. "Since I myself am being … affected … by this apparent alteration, I did not feel I could trust my own theories exclusive of all others. I … wished to see if you and I, operating under different conditions, would reach the same conclusion and form the same hypotheses independently of one another."

McCoy felt himself soften toward the captain. It wasn't often that Spock admitted to anydoubts, any weaknesses. "Then … I take it you've had … more problems?"

The Vulcan's eyes closed—almost painfully. "According to my calculations, Doctor," he replied, evading the direct question, "we have precisely fifteen Vulcan Standard Days before the insanity spreads beyond any chance of controlling or isolating its effects." He indicated the tape with a quick nod of his head. "During that time, we must endeavor to …"

"To what?" McCoy demanded, a moment of hopelessness creeping in to join with frustration. "Build a universe that none of us can even prove exists? And in fifteen days?" he laughed disbelievingly. "Hell, Spock, legend has it that the Earth was created in seven days! And now you're telling me that you and I—a Vulcan and a mere mortal—are going to construct an entire universe in two weeks!" Again came the sarcastic laugh. "No problem, Spock," he said reassuringly. "You handle the nebulaes and the quasars; I'll take care of the little things: like planets, suns, and weird personality quirks of trillions of lifeforms!"

The Vulcan lifted one admonishing brow. "If you can suggest some alternative, Doctor, I would be more than willing to entertain the idea."

McCoy rose from the chair, started to speak, then settled for bouncing up and down on his toes as his lips tightened.

"If not," the Vulcan continued, "then I suggest you review the prepared tape at once. You will find computer confirmation of your theories in the recording, Doctor."

McCoy bit his lower lip in frustration, hard-pressed to ignore the icy Vulcan tone. "Right," he said at last, forcing calm on himself. "And I suggest you do the same with the vid-scan tape, Spock." He turned to leave, then abruptly changed his mind. "Oh—you'll notice that 13 out of the 198 tapes we ran show a negative scan under coenthal."

An eyebrow rose. "Explanation?"

McCoy felt Death peer over his shoulder. "It's purely speculation, of course, but … my personal theory is that those thirteen people have … already lived out their lives in whatever other universe there may be." He paused, thinking about that. "Which raises the question of morality—do we have the right to … sentence those people to death—when they've essentially been given another chance at life?"

For a long time, the Vulcan was silent. "Perhaps a more appropriate question would be: Do we have the right notto, considering all that is at stake?"

McCoy took a deep breath. "Either way, Spock, it's bartering lives." But he waved the argument aside, forcing himself to understand the Vulcan's situation; he was just relieved to be in his own shoes and not the captain's. "I know there's no easy answer," he said softly, "so don't feel compelled to find one. It's just one more angle to be considered."

The Vulcan's head inclined in acknowledgment as he glanced nervously at the desk chronometer. "I see," he murmured, returning to the chair and sitting down. He looked up, meeting McCoy's eyes. "Was there anything else, Doctor?"

McCoy shook his head. "Oh, yes," he suddenly remembered. "There isone other thing." He sat down once again. "That new ensign—Kirk?"

The Vulcan glanced sharply at the doctor.

"Well," McCoy drawled, grateful for the change of subject, "I talked to his new roommate yesterday afternoon—Jerry Richardson—and he said that he hasn't seen hide nor hair of Kirk since you had the quartermaster move the two of them in together." McCoy shrugged. "Maybe nothing," he said before the Vulcan could respond. "But once you take a look at those vid-scans, I think you'll understand why I'm a little … concerned about Kirk."

"Please explain," the Vulcan entreated, leaning forward curiously.

"I can't be sure, of course," the doctor replied hesitantly, "but Kirk doesbear a remarkable resemblance to some of the images on that tape." He leaned back, biting his lip thoughtfully. "And I also found out that you ordered Kirk to report to Sickbay last night."

"He did not choose to do so," the Vulcan stated, not particularly surprised.

"Apparently not," McCoy confirmed. "But if you questioned him about it, he'd probably give you a lot of static about his ignoring an order being grounds for immediate discharge, and you wouldn't get much insight into the real problem." He paused. "But Kirk didcome staggering into my office early this morning. And let me tell you, Captain, he looked like early death and plomik soup warmed over. At first, he wouldn't tell me what was wrong, wouldn't let anyone touch him—but then he started demanding lidacin."

"Lidacin?" Spock repeated quietly. "Why should he …?" But then the answer came. Once under the influence of the powerful tranquilizer, the human would not dream; certain electrical impulses to the brain would be deadened; the slippage would not be as severe to the conscious mind. Far from a cure, but nonetheless an effective placebo. He looked at McCoy.

"In answer to your question," the doctor replied, "I didn't give it to him. But when I asked him to get on the table, he started backing up as if I'd just told him I was an ax murderer. It took me and four orderlies to get him down, and a double dose of coenthal to calm him down long enough to run a full exam." He paused. "When I got through with the tests, I found out that this kid's got some serious problems no one discovered before." He shook his head, slipping into a moment of thought. "I'd loveto see a vid-scan on him, though I suspect he'd rather walk on hot coals than submit to anything."

Spock felt himself tense. Again, McCoy's suspicions about Kirk confirmed his own. The ensign wassomehow important. "Precisely what type of … problems did you discover, Doctor?" he asked at last, struggling to keep his voice neutral.

McCoy's expression slowly transformed to a worried frown. "First of all, he's been addicted to lidacin for quite a while—and not the stuff we use on the ship, either. Don't ask me where he's been getting it, but he's been injecting himself with a ninety percent solution for at least six months. Hell, Spock, it's no wonder he's been acting like a zombie half the time."

Spock remained quiet for a moment. "I presume you will begin treatment of the addiction."

McCoy nodded. "Sure, but it'll take time," he reminded the Vulcan. "The main cure is abstinence—and that's not going to be easy on him, either. And while I don't personally approve of anybody'sdrug addiction, I approve of those Orion stitches-and-needles rehab colonies even less—which is where he'd end up if anyone other than you or me found out about this. But now …"

"I see," the Vulcan said softly, feeling a deep personal regret that the young ensign's life was such an apparent turmoil. The human wasdifferent, compelling … and somehow connected in a critical way to both universes. The Vulcan lifted an eyebrow in silent consideration. Perhaps Kirk was even the key to whatever answer existed. . . .

"The only course of action I can suggest," McCoy continued, calling the Vulcan back to reality, "is that we try to keep this under wraps—especially from men like Donner. If Kirk wants outof the Fleet as much as he claims, then he might go out of his way to make it known that he isa drug addict—just to get that discharge."

The Vulcan glanced up. "Apparently not," he countered, "or he certainly could have availed himself of that opportunity while still at the Academy waiting for active posting." He shook his head. "No … Ensign Kirk has chosen to be here; and I do not believe it is entirely by accident."

McCoy considered that. "In other words, you think he may be calling your bluff—trying to see how much he can get away with?"

"I am not certain," Spock replied, "for I have never understood the human capacity to say one thing when another thing entirely is desired."

McCoy grinned. "Like Brer Rabbit and the briar patch."

A look of confusion took shape on angular Vulcan features. "Brer Rabbit?"

But McCoy only laughed. "Never mind, Spock," he muttered. He sobered then, forcing himself back to more immediate problems. "The main thing right now is to get started on a treatment program."

"Begin immediately, Doctor," Spock instructed. In the back of his own mind, he realized he was taking a severe chance with his own career—and possibly the safety of the ShiKahr—based on a feeling alone. But transferring Kirk now would serve no useful purpose. I'd make one hell of a lousy ensign, Spock.The phantom words returned, spoken as clearly as if the man had been standing directly in front of him.

McCoy nodded almost to himself, noticing the distant stare in his captain's eyes. "I dunno," the doctor murmured. "Maybe I'm just looking for an answer under any rock—but there's something about him … something worth salvaging."

"Precisely what injuries did you find?" the captain asked presently.

McCoy scoffed. "He's been through a lot, Spock—most of it during the time he spent in prison on Earth. Several broken bones; all healed now. Scar tissue on the left lung from bronchial pneumonia—not terribly surprising, considering his weakened condition and prison living conditions. Lots of bruises," he added, "and a few lacerations." His tone darkened. "All fresh, I might add. But the physical injuries are just the tip of that proverbial iceberg."

"The Talos Device," Spock remarked, tone bordering on contempt.

"The Talos Device," McCoy confirmed. "That damned thing was used pretty extensively on him—so it's no mystery why he won't submit to a vid-scan." He shook his head once again. "And it's no wonder he was trying to pry lidacin out of me. He probably has nightmares left over from the Talos Device that would make a Klingon concentration camp look like a sixth-grade prayer retreat by comparison." He paused. "I've prescribed benzaprine orally for him—and that should curb the effects of the withdrawal within a few days." But his eyes darkened with concern. "The only problem is that he's going to have to come down to Sickbay every night to get the pills. I don't dare trust him with a bottle of the stuff; it'd be like candy next to the stuff he's been pumping into himself. He'd overdose in a day's time."

"Leave the medication with me," Spock suggested. At the very least, it would be an excuse to question the ensign further—and under a more gentle pretense. "Also, it would be too conspicuous if he were seen going to Sickbay every evening; even a man with Donner's limited intelligence would not have difficulty deducing the reason."

McCoy seemed dubious, but nodded. "I'll drop it off in a couple hours," he replied, rising from the chair. "Anything else, Spock?"

The Vulcan thought for a moment. "Negative, Doctor," he replied at last.

"Well," McCoy concluded, moving to the door. "Since I've still got a few hours of correlation to do on this data, I'd better get back to my beads and rattles. . . ." For a moment, the doctor jolted internally. It seemed so natural … like a memory of a dream … Spock calling him a witch doctor … while someone else stood in the background suppressing a smile. He shivered, and wondered if he, too, was beginning to slip. Someone else. The third side of the triangle. Golden-haired, golden-eyed human. But before he could ponder it further, Spock rose to see him out.

The Vulcan studied the doctor. "I had always suspected that your medical practices were something less than scientific," he murmured, though he also felt an odd sense of déjà vu connected with McCoy's peculiar statement. He wondered briefly if it was McCoy who had always been at his side—and though that image brought a certain truth, he recognized that it was not entirely accurate. The images whisper-walked through his mind. Blue and gold. Warmth and companionship. Stolen moments when the firm Vulcan mask did not have to fit so tightly.

Somewhere, he told himself, he would find that reality again … or create it.

No sooner had the door closed behind McCoy than the communication panel beeped insistently. The Vulcan moved toward it, tense for no discernible reason.

"Spock here," he said, activating the device.

"Captain," Uhura's voice responded, "we've just received a transmission from FleetCom." Her voice sounded tense, confused. "Admiral S't'kal has ordered the ShiKahrto divert immediately to the Canusian star system." There was a momentary pause, then: "According to the transmission, we're supposed to pick up the Canusian ambassador for on-board Alliance affiliation negotiations with Canus Four."

The Vulcan sat down, eyeing the panel cautiously. Routine treaty negotiations in the middle of an undeclared war which was scheduled to begin in less than a week. An eyebrow rose. "Precisely how far distant is the Canusian system, Lieutenant?" he asked at last.

"Mister Chekov informs that Canus Four is only twelve light-years distant from our present position, Captain," Uhura responded.

For what felt like hours but was no more than fifteen seconds, the Vulcan considered his position. Obviously, he thought, the Canusian Mission was nothing more than another symptom of S't'kal's madness. And yet … the Vulcan realized that it couldwell serve to purchase time—provided he used the new orders to his advantage. If the ShiKahrwere to be detained, perhaps S't'kal would at least postpone the trespass into Romulan territory. But … perhaps not.

"Very well, Lieutenant," the Vulcan replied at last. "Instruct the navigator to lay in a course for the Canusian system at maximum warp. Inform me once the ShiKahrhas achieved planetary orbit."

For a moment, there was strained silence. Finally, Uhura's voice came over the panel on a sealed privacy channel. "Sir?" she asked in a hushed tone. "What about … the otherorders?"

"Apparently, Uhura," the Vulcan replied, easily detecting the woman's concern, "Admiral S't'kal has decided that negotiating for peace with one world is of greater importance than beginning a war with an entire Empire. And … in this particular case, I believe he is correct."

Over the panel, Uhura laughed very gently. "Logical, Captain," she said quietly.

"Spock out." He turned off the communication device, leaned back in the chair, and took a deep breath. Hardly logical, he realized. But not unexpected. S't'kal was indeed quite mad … and soon, the Vulcan thought, he would not be alone in his madness.

It was late in the evening when the door buzzer sounded again, and though the Vulcan had long since abandoned the prospect of sleep, the grating tone was nonetheless annoying. He rose from the bed, only then realizing that he'd slipped into a state of light meditation while planning the details for the scheduled meeting with the Canusian ambassador. He glanced at the chronometer: two A.M. The buzzer sounded again, more insistent … and more annoying.

"Come!" he said sharply, surprised at the harsh tone of his voice.

The door opened to reveal Ensign Kirk standing in the hall, bright hazel eyes flitting nervously back and forth from the corridor to the interior of the dimly lit room. He did not speak as he stepped inside, doors closing with a whoosh behind him.

The Vulcan studied him for a moment, quickly detecting the embarrassment hiding behind an outward expression of defiance. For the briefest of moments, the Vulcan wondered what in all possible worlds had brought the human to his doorstep at this hour of the night; but slowly memory returned, and he remembered the pills McCoy had left with him a few hours earlier. Without preamble, he reached into the second drawer of the desk, retrieved the bottle of benzaprine, and dumped two capsules into the palm of his hand, feeling unaccountably nervous in the human's presence. He proffered the pills in Kirk's direction, but still the ensign did not look up.

"Guess McCoy told you about my little … problem," the human muttered as if to himself. "But since when are the captain's quarters considered a dispensary?" He was angry at having the knowledge discovered by anyone—and especially embarrassed that the Vulcan commander had obviously been informed. But he felt his hard resolve start to weaken. He glanced up, meeting the Vulcan's eyes.

"The doctor informed me of your addiction to lidacin," the Vulcan confirmed presently. Kirk was such an enigma. He could never predict when the human would react with anger, when he would be embarrassed, when he would board himself up inside that stubborn wall and be completely unreadable. And the fact that he'd only met the ensign recently didn't aid the uncanny sensation of helplessness. "And in response to your second question," he continued, "I thought it would be better for all concerned if you came here rather than Sickbay." He paused, then took another risk. "You … obviously do not wish it publicly known that you are … experiencing difficulties, and I do not believe you sincerely wish to be transferred off this vessel." So, he thought to himself, this was poker.

Kirk looked up, started to deny it, then abandoned the pose with a deep sigh as he flopped, uninvited, into a convenient chair. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked after the fact.

A Vulcan eyebrow climbed high as the captain sank into his own chair. Bluff called. He waited mutely.

"Why do you care?" Kirk asked at last.

Spock glanced away. But the stakes were too high to permit intimidation to interfere with logic. "I have … discussed your case with Doctor McCoy," he began, wondering where the statement would eventually lead, "and have come to the conclusion that you are somehow … a critical factor in the survival of this … universe."

But Kirk laughed, startling him back to reality. "Now that'sa heavy guilt trip, Captain," he said boldly. "I know the ShiKahr's received some strange orders, but telling me that I'ma critical factor is taking psychiatry a bit far, isn't it?"