THE MAN WHO WAS KNOWN in the city of Demora as Mr. Molo, designated the Magistrate (and who was known to the creators of the city of Demora as Arnold Brinkman, and was designated on-site manager) let smoke curl lazily from the (fake) cigarette he held delicately between his large fingers. His suit was white, his fez was red, and his ceiling fan was broken.
He was staring across the spotless surface of his desk at the disheveled Asian gentleman seated directly across from him. He had an associate who was a bit younger and not remotely disheveled.
Staying consistent with the ambience of Demora as a whole, Mr. Molo was taking notes on a notepad with a scratchy pencil. "So let's see if I understand this," he said softly, looking over what he'd written. "You were chatting with a young woman, Lieutenant Commander Sulu … and suddenly people began shooting … you panicked, leaped into a nearby vehicle, and fled, eventually crashing the vehicle in the desert. You walked for a time with the young lady, found an oasis … the young lady disappeared during the night …" He turned his attention to Chekov. "And then you found him?"
"I vas concerned," said Chekov. "He vas out all night." He looked at Sulu with a deadpan. "You know how I vorry."
Sulu's face was inscrutable. With no comment, Mr. Molo continued, "You rented out a shuttle, began combing the desert, and stumbled over him? That was fairly lucky."
"Lucky?" Chekov looked indignant. "I'll have you know, Meester Molo, that I've piloted shuttlecrafts through ion storms searching for lost landing parties on a planet of active wolcanoes. Spotting Meester Sulu vas child's play."
Mr. Molo took a long drag on his cigarette, then turned his swivel chair in preparation to heft his bulk to a standing position. His back was momentarily to the Starfleet officers, and Sulu took the opportunity to turn to Chekov and mouth, Active volcanoes?
Chekov shrugged. Damn, but it had sounded impressive.
"But you were less successful finding the young woman."
"Ve continued the search in an expanding radius. We searched for several hours. There was no sign of her."
"Where do you think she went?"
Chekov gave him a slightly patronizing look. "If I had an idea of vere she vent, ve vould have gone there and gotten her. Yes?"
Apparently unfazed, Molo turned his attention back to Sulu. "What were you doing in the Thieves Quarter?"
"Being shot at. I told you."
"Were they shooting at you? Or at the young woman?"
"I didn't stop to ask them. They didn't seem the type to be generous with providing information."
"And you never saw the woman before that?"
"Never."
"And did the young woman tell you her name?"
Sulu seemed to hesitate a moment, and then said, "Yes."
His pencil poised over his notepad, Mr. Molo prompted, "And that name would be?"
"Moo."
Mr. Molo blinked. "Would that be a first name or last name?"
"First."
"Most unusual."
"I believe she said she grew up on a farm."
"All right," said Mr. Molo, and he carefully wrote the name, Moo. "Last name?"
"Shu pork."
Chekov cleared his throat loudly, giving him the opportunity to put his hand carefully over his mouth to cover his smile. Sulu remained expressionless.
Mr. Molo allowed the pencil point to hover over the notepad for a moment before he laid the pencil down gently. He steepled his fingers. "Do you think you're funny, Lieutenant Commander? Do you think that a complaint to Starfleet over your questionable conduct in our city would be as amusing as you?"
Slowly Sulu leaned forward, his eyes unblinking. "What I think, Mr. Molo, is that I'm hot. I'm tired. I'm parched. What I think"—and then his voice became low and hoarse, and there was an edge to it that could have carved diamond—"what I think is that you're dirty. Filthy, in fact. I think there are things that go on in this town that are illegal and immoral, and payoffs are made, all of which go into your pocket. I think this lovely little fantasy city has developed its own dark underbelly, just like the cities it was created to imitate. I think you provide information to whoever wants it for the right price. That you don't give a damn about anyone or anything except lining your own pocket. Or maybe it goes higher, to your employer's organization. And if you want to start investigations in Starfleet of me, then you'd better be ready to withstand some heavyduty investigating directed right back at you. Take your best shot, and I'll take mine, and we'll see who's left standing."
There was a long, deathly silence.
Then, very slowly, Mr. Molo slid open his desk drawer and placed his notepad into it. His pencil went into a pencil holder.
"I apologize for the inconveniences you've encountered, Lieutenant Commander," he said. "I've already sent word to your hotel that all charges are to be considered compliments of management."
Sulu made no motion. Not a nod, or even a blink of an eyebrow. He might as well have been carved from marble.
Chekov rose from his chair and said levelly, "Ve appreciate the gesture."
They started for the door, and as they approached it Mr. Molo said, "Oh, and gentlemen …"
They turned to him and waited.
"… your business is so joyous to have, that I think it would be criminal to keep it all to ourselves. I think you should consider bringing future business to as many other places as possible. Share the wealth, as it were."
"Other places besides here," said Chekov.
"Actually, I was thinking any place but here."
Sulu nodded slowly. "So was I." And they walked out.
Their bags sat on the bed, packed and waiting for the bellman to come upstairs. Sulu stood on the porch, watching the sun halfway up in the sky.
They had stayed one more night, made one more sweep of the desert. But there had been no sign of her. They had also gone exploring in the Thieves Quarter, this time quietly armed with phasers that Chekov had acquired through means that he didn't volunteer and Sulu didn't inquire about. Still no sign. The mention of her name drew blank stares.
Sulu found where her apartment had been. It was vacant. He found the warehouse where he'd been imprisoned. Empty.
"I swear to you, I didn't arrange it," Chekov had said to him. He didn't have to work hard to convince Sulu of that; Sulu was already a believer.
Now, on the veranda, Sulu let out a sigh. Chekov was doing one of his usual last-minute checks of drawers to make sure nothing had been overlooked. He paused and glanced over at his friend. "If you like, ve can stay longer. See if …"
Sulu shook his head. "No. She's gone because she wants to be gone. No trace of her footprints in the sand. No trace of her. Gone. All gone."
"As if none of it mattered."
"Oh," Sulu said, "it mattered. It mattered to me. Whatever happens with her now … it's out of my control. That's always a difficult thing for a helmsman to admit: that he's not steering the vessel."
"It's not like you to give up."
"Give up?" Sulu looked at him in surprise. "It has nothing to do with giving up, Chekov. It's simply the end, that's all."
"The end?"
"Of course. Someone once said … I don't remember who … that the entire trick to ending a story is to know where to end it. Saying 'They lived happily ever after' only works because you've ended the story at a high point. If you continue it beyond that point, eventually the hero and heroine grow old and die. Every story really has an unhappy ending. It's all in the timing. Ling Sui … she knew the timing called for her to mysteriously disappear. What else was she supposed to do? Stick with me, marry me, grow old and die with me? No no, Pav … that would be all wrong. All wrong. This story ends where it has to: on a note of mystery. Anything else would be … inappropriate."
There was a knock at the door. The bellman entered, picking up their bags and heading down to the lobby. Chekov walked over to Sulu, stood next to him for a moment, looking out at the sun, and then said, "Those things you vere just saying …"
"Yes?"
"You do realize, of course, that I have absolutely no idea vat you vere talking about."
"Of course."
"I mean, it makes no sense at all."
Sulu patted him on the arm and said, "It's just a dream, honey. It's not supposed to make sense." He walked out the door.
"'Honey'?" Chekov muttered. Then he shrugged. "Oh veil," he said, and headed out after Sulu.
He was staring across the spotless surface of his desk at the disheveled Asian gentleman seated directly across from him. He had an associate who was a bit younger and not remotely disheveled.
Staying consistent with the ambience of Demora as a whole, Mr. Molo was taking notes on a notepad with a scratchy pencil. "So let's see if I understand this," he said softly, looking over what he'd written. "You were chatting with a young woman, Lieutenant Commander Sulu … and suddenly people began shooting … you panicked, leaped into a nearby vehicle, and fled, eventually crashing the vehicle in the desert. You walked for a time with the young lady, found an oasis … the young lady disappeared during the night …" He turned his attention to Chekov. "And then you found him?"
"I vas concerned," said Chekov. "He vas out all night." He looked at Sulu with a deadpan. "You know how I vorry."
Sulu's face was inscrutable. With no comment, Mr. Molo continued, "You rented out a shuttle, began combing the desert, and stumbled over him? That was fairly lucky."
"Lucky?" Chekov looked indignant. "I'll have you know, Meester Molo, that I've piloted shuttlecrafts through ion storms searching for lost landing parties on a planet of active wolcanoes. Spotting Meester Sulu vas child's play."
Mr. Molo took a long drag on his cigarette, then turned his swivel chair in preparation to heft his bulk to a standing position. His back was momentarily to the Starfleet officers, and Sulu took the opportunity to turn to Chekov and mouth, Active volcanoes?
Chekov shrugged. Damn, but it had sounded impressive.
"But you were less successful finding the young woman."
"Ve continued the search in an expanding radius. We searched for several hours. There was no sign of her."
"Where do you think she went?"
Chekov gave him a slightly patronizing look. "If I had an idea of vere she vent, ve vould have gone there and gotten her. Yes?"
Apparently unfazed, Molo turned his attention back to Sulu. "What were you doing in the Thieves Quarter?"
"Being shot at. I told you."
"Were they shooting at you? Or at the young woman?"
"I didn't stop to ask them. They didn't seem the type to be generous with providing information."
"And you never saw the woman before that?"
"Never."
"And did the young woman tell you her name?"
Sulu seemed to hesitate a moment, and then said, "Yes."
His pencil poised over his notepad, Mr. Molo prompted, "And that name would be?"
"Moo."
Mr. Molo blinked. "Would that be a first name or last name?"
"First."
"Most unusual."
"I believe she said she grew up on a farm."
"All right," said Mr. Molo, and he carefully wrote the name, Moo. "Last name?"
"Shu pork."
Chekov cleared his throat loudly, giving him the opportunity to put his hand carefully over his mouth to cover his smile. Sulu remained expressionless.
Mr. Molo allowed the pencil point to hover over the notepad for a moment before he laid the pencil down gently. He steepled his fingers. "Do you think you're funny, Lieutenant Commander? Do you think that a complaint to Starfleet over your questionable conduct in our city would be as amusing as you?"
Slowly Sulu leaned forward, his eyes unblinking. "What I think, Mr. Molo, is that I'm hot. I'm tired. I'm parched. What I think"—and then his voice became low and hoarse, and there was an edge to it that could have carved diamond—"what I think is that you're dirty. Filthy, in fact. I think there are things that go on in this town that are illegal and immoral, and payoffs are made, all of which go into your pocket. I think this lovely little fantasy city has developed its own dark underbelly, just like the cities it was created to imitate. I think you provide information to whoever wants it for the right price. That you don't give a damn about anyone or anything except lining your own pocket. Or maybe it goes higher, to your employer's organization. And if you want to start investigations in Starfleet of me, then you'd better be ready to withstand some heavyduty investigating directed right back at you. Take your best shot, and I'll take mine, and we'll see who's left standing."
There was a long, deathly silence.
Then, very slowly, Mr. Molo slid open his desk drawer and placed his notepad into it. His pencil went into a pencil holder.
"I apologize for the inconveniences you've encountered, Lieutenant Commander," he said. "I've already sent word to your hotel that all charges are to be considered compliments of management."
Sulu made no motion. Not a nod, or even a blink of an eyebrow. He might as well have been carved from marble.
Chekov rose from his chair and said levelly, "Ve appreciate the gesture."
They started for the door, and as they approached it Mr. Molo said, "Oh, and gentlemen …"
They turned to him and waited.
"… your business is so joyous to have, that I think it would be criminal to keep it all to ourselves. I think you should consider bringing future business to as many other places as possible. Share the wealth, as it were."
"Other places besides here," said Chekov.
"Actually, I was thinking any place but here."
Sulu nodded slowly. "So was I." And they walked out.
Their bags sat on the bed, packed and waiting for the bellman to come upstairs. Sulu stood on the porch, watching the sun halfway up in the sky.
They had stayed one more night, made one more sweep of the desert. But there had been no sign of her. They had also gone exploring in the Thieves Quarter, this time quietly armed with phasers that Chekov had acquired through means that he didn't volunteer and Sulu didn't inquire about. Still no sign. The mention of her name drew blank stares.
Sulu found where her apartment had been. It was vacant. He found the warehouse where he'd been imprisoned. Empty.
"I swear to you, I didn't arrange it," Chekov had said to him. He didn't have to work hard to convince Sulu of that; Sulu was already a believer.
Now, on the veranda, Sulu let out a sigh. Chekov was doing one of his usual last-minute checks of drawers to make sure nothing had been overlooked. He paused and glanced over at his friend. "If you like, ve can stay longer. See if …"
Sulu shook his head. "No. She's gone because she wants to be gone. No trace of her footprints in the sand. No trace of her. Gone. All gone."
"As if none of it mattered."
"Oh," Sulu said, "it mattered. It mattered to me. Whatever happens with her now … it's out of my control. That's always a difficult thing for a helmsman to admit: that he's not steering the vessel."
"It's not like you to give up."
"Give up?" Sulu looked at him in surprise. "It has nothing to do with giving up, Chekov. It's simply the end, that's all."
"The end?"
"Of course. Someone once said … I don't remember who … that the entire trick to ending a story is to know where to end it. Saying 'They lived happily ever after' only works because you've ended the story at a high point. If you continue it beyond that point, eventually the hero and heroine grow old and die. Every story really has an unhappy ending. It's all in the timing. Ling Sui … she knew the timing called for her to mysteriously disappear. What else was she supposed to do? Stick with me, marry me, grow old and die with me? No no, Pav … that would be all wrong. All wrong. This story ends where it has to: on a note of mystery. Anything else would be … inappropriate."
There was a knock at the door. The bellman entered, picking up their bags and heading down to the lobby. Chekov walked over to Sulu, stood next to him for a moment, looking out at the sun, and then said, "Those things you vere just saying …"
"Yes?"
"You do realize, of course, that I have absolutely no idea vat you vere talking about."
"Of course."
"I mean, it makes no sense at all."
Sulu patted him on the arm and said, "It's just a dream, honey. It's not supposed to make sense." He walked out the door.
"'Honey'?" Chekov muttered. Then he shrugged. "Oh veil," he said, and headed out after Sulu.