Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the phaser rifle aimed at his chest. His two companions followed his example. The weapon was impressive: its polished metal surfaces were studded with jewel-like power settings which pulsed with a hypnotic rhythm. The face behind the gun was impassive.

"We come in peace," declared the starship captain calmly. He was shorter and stockier than the men who flanked him, yet he possessed an air of command that owed more to force of personality than to his gold tunic and braid. Kirk smiled his most winning smile and turned his hands palm up in a gesture of friendship, but the sturdy form which stood in their path showed no signs of giving way. The round face of the rifle-bearer twisted into a scowl and his hands gripped the stock more tightly. Passage through the narrow corridor remained blocked.

"Try 'Take us to your leader,' " suggested the first of Kirk's companions, an older man dressed in science blue.

"Hardly original, Bones."

"To old troopers like us, perhaps, but he may never have heard it before."

The second of Kirk's companions tried his own approach. "We require immediate access to the next area. Let us pass." The Vulcan's tone was decidedly more emphatic than that of his captain, but just as ineffectual. More so -- the whine of the phaser's power pack grew in volume.

McCoy snorted. "Well done, Spock. Your diplomatic powers are astounding. If you're not careful, you'll get us shot. And a loose phaser bolt could pierce the hull and destroy this entire section of the trading post." The broad wave of his arm included the corridor in which they stood and a generous amount of the metal structure to which it belonged. "I, for one, do not want to eat vacuum for breakfast."

The science officer stared coldly at the doctor. "The illogic of this situation is not fascinating -- it is tedious." He took a step forward.

"Steady, Mr. Spock," cautioned the captain, holding him back. "We mustn't alarm the native population." He continued smiling down the gun barrel. "In fact, I'm sure we'll all be friends before too long." This time Kirk took the step forward.

The phaser burst into fire and bright bolts of red light rained over the bodies of the three officers.

"Die, Klingon pigs!" yelled their assailant. Loosing another salvo from his gun, he turned and ran down the corridor.

"Am I expected to fall to the floor, wounded and dying?" asked Spock archly as the young boy disappeared around a corner.

"You're no fun at all," complained McCoy. The three men continued their walk away from the outer docking ring of the station and headed for its center hub. "See if I ever ask you to play cops and robbers." The Vulcan could think of no reply to this reference to traditions of Human childhood. The doctor took advantage of Spock's silence to turn his attention to Kirk. "Better not let Star Fleet hear of this fiasco, Jim. It could ruin an otherwise sterling military career."

"You win some; you lose some," said Kirk philosophically, smiling at the memory of the freckled face which reminded him of his own nephew, Peter, at that age.

When their corridor reached an intersection with the station's third ring, Kirk looked to the left and right along the curving walls, searching for another glimpse of the boy, but the small form had disappeared amidst the adult crowds. Purple-suited station personnel -- mostly Human and Andorian -- strode briskly about their duties; merchants and traders of various species moved with more leisure, passing in and out of the small shops that lined the ring. A group of Tellarites waddled across the path of the two Humans and their Vulcan friend; a single Crysallid sprinted jerkily ahead of them.

"That young child," said Spock, recovering the conversational initiative, "is a prime example of the difficulties inherent in implementing a truce with the Klingons on a sustained basis."

"You mean to say that you found him hostile to the initiatives of peace?" asked McCoy solemnly, lifting a rounded eyebrow to match the cant of Spock's slanted one. Kirk noted that the doctor's impersonation of the Vulcan was improving.

" 'Die, Klingon pigs,' does lack a spirit of reconciliation," said Spock with equal solemnity. If he was aware of McCoy's mimicry, he chose to ignore it. "That such attitudes are to be found in one so young presages obstacles to extending amicable relations with the Klingon Empire through the next generation."

"The truce didn't maintain that we had to like Klingons, Spock," countered McCoy. "It just said we had to stop killing them. And, more to the point, that they had to stop killing us."

From long experience, Kirk sensed that his two officers were laying the groundwork for an extended argument, although the actual terms of their conflict had not been settled yet. He launched a tactical diversion.

"I've always wanted one of those." Spock and McCoy followed the line of their captain's outstretched arm and its pointing finger to the window of a small tradegoods shop which specialized in used equipment for asteroid-miners. The display held a familiar array of battered environment suit accessories, solar cookpots, and out-of-date entertainment tapes.

From amidst the clutter, McCoy's eyes picked out the one small item that had drawn Kirk's attention. "The knife."

"A Tyrellian blade, Bones. Fifth Dynasty."

Spock contemplated the long thin blade and its squat handle. "More likely Fourth."

"Whoa, Jim." McCoy grabbed Kirk's arm and pulled him back. "If that trader gets one look at your face, he's going to double the price." He waited until the eagerness in Kirk's eyes was properly subdued. "Okay, now we can give it a try."

As they crossed the threshold of the store, the doctor looked back over his shoulder at Spock. "And you, don't say a word."

The Vulcan stood silent as his Human companions were greeted by a short, plump man draped in the flowing robes of the local Trade Alliance Guild. They exchanged meaningless pleasantries and engaged in the ritual discussion of merchandise which was of no interest to either side. At the first mention of the knife, however, the trader quickly pulled the weapon out of the display window.

"A beautiful artifact, one that I am not often privileged to handle. Tyrellian blades are prized for..."

McCoy cut the speech short. "How much?"

The trader pressed the blade into Kirk's hands. "Feel the weight and balance of a knife made by a true craftsman. You won't find its like in the whole sector."

"How much?" insisted the doctor.

Kirk was too obviously entranced with the weapon. The trader paused for a quick assessment of his customer, then named a price. "Two hundred credits?" McCoy gave a soft hoot of derision. "Jim, this man heah thinks we're tourists."

"Gentlemen, please." The trader shook his head forlornly. "Two hundred credits is a bargain for this item. Planetside, this would cost close to three hundred. It's your good fortune that this station is a backwater and demand for antiques is low."

Spock reached out to inspect the blade but McCoy had already taken it from Kirk's hand.

The trader donned a well-practiced expression of sincerity. "Of course, I'm always willing to give Federation officers a special discount."

McCoy and Kirk smiled back as if they believed him.

"Just how much of a discount are these stripes worth?" Kirk flashed the cuff of his sleeve over the counter.

"For you, Captain, at least twenty-five credits."

Spock opened his mouth, then quickly closed it as McCoy shot him a warning glance. The doctor turned the knife around and around, peering critically at its surface. "The handle is cracked."

"It's very old," said the trader, jerking it out of McCoy's hands. "Age leaves its traces." He profferred it to Kirk again. "One hundred and fifty credits."

"And the blade's edge is dull," pointed out McCoy. A swift kick to Kirk's shin cued the captain to lose interest.

The man behind the counter studied the effect of McCoy's comments on his customer. "The edge is worn because the knife has been used, Captain. This was a working weapon, not a decorative toy." Kirk's interest appeared to revive somewhat, but his enthusiasm was not high. The trader's show of exasperation approached a genuine emotion. "One hundred and twenty-five credits, and that's my final offer."

This time the Vulcan first officer spoke aloud before McCoy could stop him. "If that price is acceptable, the item is either a forgery or illegally obtained."

At those words, the trader whisked the knife out of Kirk's grasp and under the counter. "I'm so sorry. This item is not for sale after all." He removed his smile as well.

"Jim, it wasn't a forgery," declared McCoy as the three of them left the shop and resumed their walk down the corridor.

"No, it wasn't."

Spock could not confirm their judgement since McCoy had not given him an opportunity to study the weapon. "Doctor, if it was indeed a genuine Tyrellian blade, then it was certainly smuggled out of the Tyrelli System."

"We're starship officers, not Interstellar Customs."

The Vulcan was unmoved. "There is little satisfaction to be gained in the possession of an artifact which has been removed from its planet of origin against the wishes of its native population."

"No, I suppose not," said Kirk in what he hoped was a convincing tone.

"It would have been one helluva bargain," muttered McCoy with regret.

Kirk saw that the lines of battle were now clearly established, but there was no time left for McCoy and Spock to indulge themselves in verbal sparring. The long corridor came to an end in an arched portal. Beyond the portal lay a large domed area, the center hub for the wheel-shaped Wagner Trading Post. The eyes of the starship officers were drawn to the spectacular view provided by the room's construction. Both the deck and the dome itself were formed of faceted clearsteel which allowed the rich inky-black texture of space to spread over, around, and beneath them.

Above the dome, gleaming softly like a small moon, the U.S.S. Enterprise hung motionless on the dark velvet backdrop of space. Walking across the transparent floor to the railing which marked the curving wall, Kirk feigned a casual interest in the sight of his ship, but deep within he felt the same knot of excitement he experienced each time he saw her from a distance. His eyes eagerly traced the familiar lines of the disk-shaped primary hull and the slim nacelles which powered it.

Spock, too, walked up to the dome's edge, but he looked out, not up, to inspect the four concentric circles of the space station structure. "Wagner Post was designed by T'rall of Vulcan, though admittedly in her youth, before the full scope of her engineering powers was developed."

Kirk beckoned to McCoy to join him, but the doctor stood rooted in the center of the circular deck, his eyes calculating the distance to the nearest exit. "I don't mind being in space so long as it keeps a low profile." He pointed an accusing finger at the invisible surface beneath his feet. "This is definitely letting it get out of hand."

Spock looked up from his inspection. "True, there is no functional necessity for this architectural feature. However, it shows evidence of the aesthetic influence of her Andorian training. Andorians are susceptible to claustrophobia."

The soft chiming of a chronometer rang through the air, bringing Kirk's attention back to duty. If he didn't hurry, he would be late for his meeting with the station manager, a lapse which might be viewed as a sign of military arrogance. Small space stations such as this one, so often ignored by a distant central government, were quick to take offense when they were noticed. He reluctantly turned his back on the Enterprise. Motioning to Spock, Kirk returned to the center of the room. "Why, doctor, you look as green as my first officer."

"I'm not fond of heights," said McCoy irritably. "In the future I'll know to avoid Andorian architecture. Hortas have the right idea -- they dig tunnels through solid rock."

Spock pointedly ignored the doctor's grumbling criticism. "Captain, we are due to meet Post Manager Friel in eight point six minutes." He pointed confidently to one of the eight portals, all seemingly identical, that opened into the dome. "That way."

"Coming, doctor?" asked Kirk, his legs straining to match his first officer's long strides.

"No way," stated McCoy emphatically. He ducked his head as they passed under three Pegasi hovering gracefully in the air. "I'm off-duty, which means I can forgo official calls. This is a trading post, and I have every intention of promoting interstellar commerce to the limits of my credit line."

"Just stay out of trouble," called out Kirk as the doctor veered off in another direction.

Led by Spock's unerring sense of direction, the two officers actually arrived early. Unfortunately, they weren't early enough to suit Manager Friel. "It's about time you got here," stormed a large, imposing woman as they walked through the doors of her office.

Kirk suppressed a sigh of exasperation and prepared himself for an hour or two of tiresome diplomacy. He feigned a smile and cast it in the manager's direction. However, Friel made it immediately clear that her impatience was not an expression of temperament, despite the reddish glints in her hair and the fair Irish features of her face. "We're receiving a Priority One distress call from an incoming freighter. Captain claims they were attacked by a Klingon battleship."

Spock's eyebrows flew upwards. The corners of Kirk's mouth flew downwards. "In Federation space?"

"I don't have the details," said Friel, sweeping a mountain of tape cassettes and paper printouts from her desk onto the deck in order to reach her computer terminal. She flicked a combination of switches that brought forth the image of a slender cobalt-blue Andorian. "Timmo, have you re-established contact with the Saucy Lady?"

"No," he whispered in the reedy tones of his race. Friel snapped off the terminal with a moderately good rendition of an especially vile Orion expletive.

"I couldn't agree more," said Kirk. He ignored Spock's obvious curiosity concerning the translation. "What have you heard so far?"

"Static mostly. Timmo picked up the distress call fifteen minutes ago. The priority code was clear enough, but the explanations were too fragmented to get a full account of what happened. There was definitely an attack," she insisted angrily, seeing the skepticism lurking in Kirk's eyes. "Neil's an old spacedog. He's been on the Wagner run for seven years and he doesn't get hysterical over an occasional sighting of a Klingon battleship."

"An occasional sighting?" A slow burn worked its way up from Kirk's collar to his face. "Just how often have Klingons crossed over into this sector?"

Friel developed a rather unconvincing cough, but the delay was good for only a few seconds. "Oh, well, now and again."

"When was the last time?"

Her attention was suddenly riveted by the tapes and papers scattered across the floor. "Eight, maybe nine months ago."

"The truce negotiations were completed only last month," noted Spock.

The station manager addressed her reply to the impassive Vulcan rather than face Kirk's stony rage directly. "We're all a long way from home out here. Klingon, Human, Andorian. After a few years of routine patrol, a crew gets sick and tired of living on a ship. They need shore leave."

"And they're willing to pay top dollar for new provisions," said Kirk.

Friel shrugged. "I'm not a military post or a military target. I don't shoot them and they don't shoot me. So what's the harm..."

Her defense was cut short by the bleep of her intercom. The communications tech appeared back on the screen, his delicate antennae quivering with agitation. "Yes, Timmo?"

"Captain Neil on communication band 12," he announced. Simultaneously, the broadcast from the freighter echoed into the office.

"...they need help in a bad way. One ship blasted -- the other badly crippled and leaking its guts out all over the sector. Need medical assistance for heavy casualties and techies for engine repair. If it can be repaired."

"Who needs help?" shouted Friel into the intercom.

"Frenni merchant caravan. Except it's not a caravan anymore. The Verella was destroyed and the Selessan won't be going anywhere without help."

Kirk drew a sharp breath when he heard the ships named. He moved to the terminal. "Who attacked them?"

"Klingons." The man's bitterness cut through the crackling of static. "The caravan had established sub-space contact -- they were expecting trade negotiations for ship's stores -- but the battlecruiser attacked instead. No explanation, no warning." The captain whisked out his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise," he called in a low voice, still keeping one ear tuned to the report from the Saucy Lady.

"...and we picked up their distress call ten hours ago. I volunteered to change course and pick up survivors, but they advised me to leave the sector fast and send back armed rescue. So I got the hell outta there."

Kirk's communicator beeped in reply to his call. "Enterprise here, Captain."

"Cancel shoreleave, Lt. Uhura," he announced grimly. "Recall all personnel to the ship and inform Mr. Scott that we'll be warping out of orbit within the hour."