"Do you remember," said Leonard McCoy, "when I stole your cadaver?"

The tall gray-haired man lying in the other lounger laughed. "Disaster," he said, "alas! Murder most foul, alarums and excursions, theft, buggery, barratry, incomplete perfusion!"

McCoy suspected that Dieter was trying to say that, at the time, he had gone into shock. It was always a matter of guesswork, figuring out what he meant. Dieter Clissman's grasp of English had never been less than perfect, but sometimes he seemed to want to make you wonder about that a little.

McCoy leaned forward a little to signal to one of the waiters looking out toward the hotel terrace. "Here, never mind," he said, "you've gone right through that. You and your milk drinks. Let me get you another."

The waiter glanced at McCoy, nodded, and went off. McCoy leaned back in his lounger and looked out through the railings of the terrace at the landscape. The old hotel sat on the highest shoulder of the little plateau that held the town of Wengen against the Jungfrau, "the Maiden," queen-mountain of all the Bernese Alps. The sky was that perfect light clear blue of late Alpine summer, the color of the very end of July, just before the fall first begins to assert itself. Down below, among the dark green scattered pines, under the brown peaked roofs, lights were beginning to show in windows, as the day drew on toward sunset and the houses farthest west in town fell under the upward-leaping shadow of Schilthorn across the valley. A pair of lights down toward the Lauterbrunnen valley spoke of a train coming up the old cog railway, loaded with tourists and the day's commuters from Interlaken, Thun, and Bern. Nothing else moved down there in the streets of the town but people walking, and electric or horse-drawn carts; bigger ground vehicles and fliers came no farther up the mountain than Lauterbrunnen, a restriction that McCoy found hard to fault when the result was such perfect quiet, broken only by the bells on the horses' harness, and on the tuned bells of goats and cows on the green alp higher up the mountainside. High above everything, the razory peak of the Maiden was half-hidden in veils of wispy cloud, but that was the best possible news to McCoy. Cloud at the end of the day in Wengen meant incredible sunsets. They were one reason why McCoy was here. The other reason was to see Dieter.

It had been a long time since they were at medical school together. After graduation, they had gone their separate ways. Now Dieter ran the Xeno department at the University of Bern and was practically a legend among the xenomedics of the Federation; and McCoy... Heaven only knows what I am, he thought.

"When does it start?" he said to Dieter.

"In about an hour, I should think," Dieter said, looking down toward the valley. After a long, long drink, he added, "And whatever did make you steal my cadaver?"

McCoy laughed softly at that, and took another drink of his mint julep. "If I hadn't, someone else would have," he said. "I thought it would be better if a friend did it."

"Mmmmm," Dieter said. "We did have a few rogues among us, did we not."

McCoy nodded. There had been people studying xenomedicine in the same class as the two of them who turned out not to have been particularly well fitted for it. Well, he thought, better they should find out in training, rather than in practicing on a patient. But some of them had been less than kind to the hard-working, hard-studying man who got better grades than any of them, and made them look less than competent in the labs and on the wards. A lot of them had tried to make Dieter's life less pleasant than it might have been. That had annoyed McCoy. It annoyed him now, even though it was all a long time ago. But some memories would not lie down and be still.

"Rogues, yes," he said. "Well, they're all in other jobs, I hope and trust."

"What I don't understand is what made you put the cadaver in the Dean's office," Dieter said, leaning back to gaze at where the clouds around Schilthorn and Morgenburghorn and Niesen to the west were already beginning to crimson.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," McCoy said, looking around him as the terrace slowly began to fill up with tourists, people with stillshooters and cameras. Most of them had sweaters on -- a good idea; it was cooling down, and McCoy wished he had brought his own jacket. "It also seemed to me," he said, "that the Dean would be forced by such a gesture to take a more personal interest in what was going on in our classes. That seemed like a good thing."

"But you were flunking anatomy," Dieter said.

McCoy blushed. That was one memory he had never quite been able to come to terms with. "Such only brought more attention to bear on you," Dieter said, ignoring the blushes. "Not a good thing."

"It's all relative," McCoy muttered. "And it all turned out all right in the end." Indeed it had, though it had meant the Dean of Medicine tutoring him within an inch of his life for the next three months. He had passed anatomy with a more than respectable grade, and the Dean had shook him by the hand and told him that she never wanted to see him again. "Getting a little thick up here, isn't it?" McCoy said, looking around him at all the tourists, who were beginning to gather expectantly at the railings.

"I decline to be distracted," Dieter said. "You went to great trouble for my sake. I have never forgotten it."

"Yes, well. What about that time--" McCoy stopped himself, then. What's wrong with just letting a thank-you in? he thought. "Never mind," he said after a second or so. "I was glad to help."

"I was glad to be helped. Which is one reason I wanted to see you before you went off again. Your last couple of letters -- there was a lot of complaining about Starfleet bureaucracy."

McCoy chuckled. "You recruiting, Dieter?"

"Don't joke. You haven't my budget cuts to deal with. I just wanted to know that you are all right."

McCoy sighed, looked out at the darkening valley. "Well, good usually manages to triumph over bureaucracy, at least lately. But good has to be very, very careful. It can tire you out."

Dieter said nothing to that, just took another drink. "This mission that means you can't stay to dinner," he said, "will it take you away for long this time? I'd like you to come lecture, if you can spare the energy when you have some more leave. Your last few articles left the other department heads hot for your blood. That Gastroenteriditis denebiis one in particular. Old Kreuznauer threatened to feed you that article without a GI tube."

McCoy chuckled. "I don't know," he said, gazing out at the sunset. It was becoming magnificent; the late afternoon had become almost a recipe for splendor -- high clouds in an otherwise clear sky, the reflected crimson light of a sun already gone down now lingering on the highest snow-covered peaks so that they blazed pink-orange against the deepening blue, as if lit from within by fire. "It's officially a post-survey survey. The First Contact people have been down to the planet in question and counted the species. Apparently they already have some knowledge of space travel. The survey has done the initial language analyses and so forth. Now we have to go in and do the fine calibrations for the Universal Translator... and evaluate them to see if they're Federation material. And if they want to be." He shrugged. "It's work we've done before. I'll be busy... there's a lot of xenopsych involved, as you might expect. Other than that -- biological survey of flora and fauna, especially the germs -- anatomical and medical analysis of the species involved--"

"Wait a moment. Species plural?" Dieter said, sounding surprised. "More than one?"

McCoy nodded. "It's unusual," he said. "They're not planted, either -- not put there by some other spacefaring species earlier on in history. Three species on the one planet, all true convergent evolution. Starfleet is hot to find out what's going on... seeing that no such planet has ever been found before. Enterprise was headed somewhere else first, but this mission has pushed that other one farther down the list. So -- off we go tonight, and not next week as I thought. Otherwise, I would come lecture for you, happily. There's no telling how many years it'll be this time. You know how it is."

Dieter made a little sound like a sigh. "Here we are in the prime of our careers," it said, "and we have no more time to ourselves than we did as first-year students. Something's gone wrong somewhere."

McCoy studied his drink. "At least we're not bored."

"We weren't then, either," Dieter said. He paused, and added, "You know, I think they may be starting early. Let's look."

McCoy got up and followed his friend to the end of the railing, where there was still a little room left. They looked out, down past the town, down the valley. There were sparks of light showing: not electric lights, this time, but fires, burning on the nearby heights and hills. One after another, they started to blaze up. Down in the valley, near Lauterbrunnen and Murren and right down to Interlaken and Spiez by the lake: on the heights on the far side of Lake Thun and Lake Brienz, on the Brienzer and Sigriswiler Rothorns, and eastward to the Schrattenflue they shone, so that the fires doubled themselves in the still waters of the lakes; and right down into the lowlands, atop the hill-heights of Rammisgummen and Napf. And one tiniest light, farthest away, due north by Lake Luzern: not a bonfire, but a laserbeam starting upward straight as a spear from the peak of Mount Pilatus, and vanishing into the night.

"They just can't wait till midnight anymore," Dieter said. "The impatience of the young. But anyway, you understand why I wanted you to see this. This year in particular."

McCoy nodded. All around them, on every mountaintop, new fires were being kindled. One was lit down in the main square in Wengen; in response to it, another laserbeam lanced out upward from the meteorological research facility on the peak of the Jungfrau, pure white, casting a light like bright moonlight on everything around. The sound of singing began to drift up -- at first a few voices together, then more and more of them, thin but clear, singing a simple tune in a major key, something that might have been mistaken for a music-box tune. But the translator handled the words without hesitation, even though they were in the oldest Swiss language, Rumansch, and made it plain that this was not a song for music-boxes. "Freedom or death, that is our will; no foreign rule, for good or ill; Free folk are we, in a free land--"

"Almost a thousand years since they spoke those words first," Dieter said, "in the middle of the night, in the Rütli meadow up north by Luzern. Thirteen stubborn people, annoyed with the local representative of a foreign empire."

McCoy nodded again. That pact, the Perpetual Alliance, had been the seed of the formation of Switzerland: the declaration that the Swiss belonged to themselves, and each other, not to whatever empire felt like conquering them. And the Swiss Articles of Confederation had been one of several useful models for the Articles of Federation of the United Federation of Planets -- a loose association of fiercely independent parties bound to help one another in distress, to protect the group against threat or interference from outside, and otherwise to leave each other pretty much alone. It was all history, and well enough known. But a little thread of suspicion woke up in McCoy and wouldn't go away. "How much of it really happened?" he said. "All the William Tell stuff?"

Dieter chuckled. "Willem Tell certainly lived," he said, "but he didn't kill the tyrant with his bare hands, or shoot any apples off his son's head. He was a stubborn man with a talent for withholding his taxes in protest, and getting his neighbors to do the same. Among many other things. And as for the Rütli meadow, it's there, all right, but who knows what happened nearly a thousand years ago, in the dark? All we have is the signed Pact in the Bundesbriefarchiv in Schwyz. And its results."

Some of the people up on the terrace were singing, now, in German or French or Italian; the words all came out the same in McCoy's translator, though it often had trouble with the Rumansch, and kept trying to treat it as if it were a sort of worn-down Italian with pig-German mixed in. "Our homes, our lives, no one's but ours: our earth, our blood, no foreign power's--"

The song chorused up to its end. Applause and cheering broke out as more fires flared up on the heights. Glasses were raised, drained, but not smashed -- this was Switzerland, after all; smashed glasses were untidy -- and people went in search of refills. In McCoy's back pocket, the communicator cheeped.

He sighed, yanked down suddenly from the odd elation that had been building in him. "At least I got to see this," he said to Dieter, and pulled the communicator out. "McCoy," he said to it.

"Doctor," Spock's voice said to him, "The Captain has asked me to say to you, 'All aboard that's coming aboard.' "

"Tell him I appreciate the extra time, Spock," McCoy said. "Tell Uhura I'm ready."

"Noted." There was a brief pause. "It is a most notable sight, Doctor. And a bit of a curiosity."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"I had not thought of you as much of a historian."

McCoy chuckled a bit. "It's personal history, more than anything else. And besides," he said, "those who ignore the mistakes of the past usually wind up treating the resultant bullet holes in the future. Just consider this as prophylaxis. McCoy out."

He could hear Spock's puzzlement as he closed the frequency down, and he approved of it. "A longer stay next time, old friend," he said to Dieter.

Dieter raised his glass. "Grüsse Gott," he said.

"Mud in your eye too," said McCoy. He drained his julep, putting it down just before the transporter effect started to take him. "And ciao."

James T. Kirk leaned back in the helm and appeared to take no particular notice of the predeparture checks going on around him. That appearance was one he had cultivated for a long, long time. It didn't do for a Captain, in terms of the everyday running of a ship, to let his crew think he was watching them too closely. Such scrutiny only made them nervous, or gave them ideas about their Captain's opinion of their competence. No, it was better to lean back, enjoy the view, and let them get their jobs done.

At the same time, Kirk knew every move of the predeparture ritual, for every station of the Bridge. He paid scrupulous (though low-key) attention to it, for the same reason that old-time parachutists used to pack their own chutes, having first signed the silk. With the back half of his attention he listened to the checks on the warp and impulse engines, and the OKs from the various departments around the ship, and assured himself that everything was proceeding correctly. But in the meantime, the front half of his attention was busy with a philosophical problem.

Am I lonely? he wondered.

He had had a birthday not too long ago, and some of his congratulatory mail had just caught up with him. One card that had come from an old friend on Earth had made some mildly humorous remark about wondering when he was going to settle down with someone. Kirk's first reaction, after chuckling at the question, had been to think that he already was settled down with someone: with the Enterprise. But a moment later, some annoyed part of his brain had very clearly said to him. How long are you going to keep feeding yourself that answer? You made it up a long time ago. Is it still valid? Was it ever valid? And how come it's been so long since you even gave it any thought?

Because it was true then, and it still is, he had answered the mouthy part of his brain. But the derisive silence that was the only reply had brought him up short. Slowly, over years, Kirk had learned to pay attention to the things his brain said to him without warning; accurate or not, they tended to be worth considering. So he was considering the question, regardless of the fact that it made his brain hurt.

This is all McCoy's fault somehow, he thought, a bit sourly. I never used to be this introspective. He's been contaminating me.

"Sickbay," he heard Lieutenant Uhura say behind him, as she went down the checklist.

"Sickbay ready," he heard Lia Burke say: she was acting as McCoy's head nurse while Christine Chapel was out doing her doctorate practicals. "Doctor McCoy's on his way in from the Transporter room."

"Ask him to come up to the Bridge when he has a moment," Kirk said suddenly, deciding in momentary wickedness that if he had to be philosophically uncomfortable, he was going to spread some of the discomfort back to the source.

"Certainly, Captain. Anything in particular?"

"I'll discuss it with him when he gets here," he said. Let him sweat, he thought with mild amusement. "Ah, Mr. Chekov. Thank you."

He reached down and took the datapadd Chekov was offering him; he looked it over, saw nothing on the day's schedule that he hadn't been expecting, signed the padd, and gave it back to Chekov. "Your briefing today, I see," he said.

"At 1900 hours," Chekov said, "yes, sir."

"Done all your homework?"

"I should think so, Keptin," Chekov said mildly. "It is a Russian inwention. Like many other things."

Kirk smiled. "Carry on, Ensign," he said. "Sir," said Chekov, and went back to his post.

Spock stepped down beside the helm from where he had been going through his own checklists. "We are ready to leave, Captain," he said. "All personnel are accounted for, and all departments report ready."

"Fine," Kirk said. "The usual notifications to orbital departure control, then. Mr. Sulu," he said, glancing at the helm console, "take us out at your discretion."

"Yes, sir," Sulu said, and started the departure procedures.

Kirk stretched a bit in the helm. "A quiet time out this time, I hope," he said to Spock. "A little pure science will do us all good."

Spock looked speculative. "It would be dangerous to attempt to predict events in advance without sufficient data," he said, "but one may certainly wish for ample time in which to do one's research."

Kirk looked sidewise at Spock. "Is there something you know that you're not telling me?" he said. "Some reason to suspect that things won't be quiet?"

"Indeed not," Spock said, with a slightly scandalized expression. "I would inform you immediately of any such. Preliminary data about this mission are all negative as regards any significant problems."

"A Hunch, then?" Kirk said. His teasing mood was refusing to confine itself to McCoy. "Really, sir," Spock said, "it is most undesirable technique to hypothesize without data--"

"Of course," Kirk said. "Never mind."

The Bridge doors hissed. "Can't leave for a moment," McCoy said. "Place goes to pot the minute I turn my back on it. Evening, Spock."

"Morning, actually," Spock said. "It is point three six--"

"Spare me the decimal places," McCoy said, leaning up against the center seat. He was carrying a datapadd, and looking cross. "Jim, have you seen these?"

Kirk took the padd and scanned it. It was a list of crewmen who had been seen in Sickbay over the past week, while the Enterprise had been on layover. "Yes. So?"

"These numbers are twice what they should be. Maybe three times. Look at this. There were five people down with colds--"

"It's not their fault that you haven't found out how to cure the common cold yet," Kirk said.

McCoy scowled at him. "You know perfectly well that diet and exercise and a generally healthy immune system are the only things that're going to stop minor upper respiratory infections. These people go on shore leave, and all their health training goes out the window."

"Oh, come on, Bones," Kirk said. "One of the reasons for shore leave is to cut loose a little."

"Indeed," Spock said, "just last week you were lecturing us on the beneficial effects of shore leave in minimizing the effects of long-term stress." He paused for a beat, then added, "In those species that experience stress, of course."

McCoy merely snorted at Spock in genial disgust, and said to Kirk, "The numbers are much higher than they ought to be."

Kirk sighed and stretched a bit in the helm. "Yes, well. We can't have everybody on the ship in perfect health, can we?"

"Yes, we can!" McCoy said, with surprising force. "That's what I'm aiming for. Nothing less."

"But if that happened, you'd be out of work."

"Jim, every doctor and nurse from here to the Rim lives in hope that one day we'll wake up and find that everybody in the Universe is perfectly healthy and in possession of a signed certificate from God saying that they're going to die peacefully in their sleep. Then we can all retire and go fishing."

"You don't like fishing. You said it was barbaric the last time I took you. You made me throw back a ten-pound trout."

McCoy scowled at Kirk. "Now you know what I mean, dammit. We all want some other job. Any other job. In any case, it's not likely to happen this week."

"Not any other job, surely," Kirk said, feeling the teasing mood get stronger.

"Not his, anyway," McCoy said, glancing at Spock. "Give me an ulcer for sure."

"Not mine, then?!"

"Don't tempt me," McCoy said. "Your chair's a lot more comfortable than the one in my office. I think it was designed by Torquemada. Anyway, look, Jim," McCoy said, "these figures need to be handled at the next department heads' meeting. They're too high right across the board; they were too high for the last two missions. Heads need to take a little more responsibility for helping their people follow their regimens, especially as regards shift scheduling and making sure people don't run themselves into the ground out of sheer enthusiasm. I can't be everywhere."

"No?" Spock said, lifting one eyebrow.

"No," McCoy said. "Doctors couldn't be everywhere, so the Lord invented Vulcans. I thought you knew."

Kirk smiled a bit. "Anyway," McCoy said, "we'll go into this in more detail at the heads' meeting. Jim, I need your backing on this."

"You've got it, of course. Anything else?"

McCoy looked meaningfully at Kirk's middle. "I'll be wanting to see you sometime tomorrow," he said.

"Just me? Not Spock?"

"Spock is logical," McCoy said with entirely too much relish, "and takes good care of himself. Besides, he's not due for his hundred-thousand-kilometer oil change yet. 0800 tomorrow, Jim. Be there."

McCoy headed for the Bridge doors. "Good to see you too, Bones," Kirk called after him. "I had a nice leave, thank you for asking!"

"Mnnnhhhhnnn," McCoy said, and the Bridge doors shut on him.

Kirk and Spock looked at one another. "He's in a prime mood," Kirk said. "I guess he wasn't done with his leave yet."

"It is frequently difficult to tell what is occupying the Doctor," Spock said, "or perhaps 'preoccupying him' would be a more accurate assessment. I suspect the medical model of behavior is at fault; it seems to require its adherents to keep their true concerns to themselves. But I daresay the Doctor will let us know in good time."

Kirk nodded, watching Earth slip hurriedly away behind them as Sulu took them up out of the plane of the ecliptic and out of the system. "You're probably right," he said. "Now what about those mass conversion ratios you wanted to discuss with me?..."

"The planet's name," Mr. Chekov said, "is 1212 Muscae IV: the fourth body out from 1212 Mus, an orange type-F8 star with no spectrographic or historical anomalies worth mentioning. The star was initially cataloged by the Skalnate Pleso stellar survey on Earth, the edition dated epoch 1950, and the Bayer number and classification then assigned have been retained under the new IAU survey. Galactic coordinates and the nearest Cepheid-wariable tag beacons are in the ephemerides listed to your screens."

Kirk leaned back in his seat at the head of the table in Main Briefing, noticing that the list of coordinates was about half again as long as it would have been if Spock had been doing the briefing; evidently Chekov was taking no chances, for Spock was down at the other end of the table, his cool regard resting on the screen with the calm interest of a teacher waiting to see how a star pupil performed.

"The planet," said Mr. Chekov, "was surveyed in the first Southern Galactic Boundary Survey. Initial readouts from the non-landing survey indicated a planet in the broad M-type classification, that is to say, metallic core, largely silicon-bearing crust with significant carbon deposits: the atmosphere middle-reducing, with oxygen at no more than 20 percent, nitrogen no more than 70 percent, and noble gases within Federation medical tolerances for carbon-based life."

He touched a control on the data panel in front of him. The image showing in the screens changed to show a green-blue planet of a very Earthlike kind, the picture taken from about three hundred thousand kilometers out. Soft white brushstrokes of cloud stroked across its surface; the continents were separated by wide seas, and were mostly islands not much bigger than, say, Australia, to judge by the scale of miles down in the corner of the image. The polar caps were tiny scraps of ice, hardly there at all.

"As you can see," Chekov said, "the planet is presently interglaciated; overall planetary average temperature is sixteen degrees Celsius. Weather patterns are generally unremarkable except for their mildness; no wind during the survey period of twenty-nine days exceeded force four, even in the polar areas."

"What's the mean daytime temperature in the temperate zones?" Scotty said from down the table. "Twenty-one C in the winter," Chekov said, "Twenty-three C in the summer."

"Ahh," Scotty said, "just like Aberdeen."

Several people around the table laughed.

"That's as it may be, Scotty," Kirk said. "Mr. Chekov, this planet sounds like a nice place for a holiday."

"It might be, sir, if people weren't living there. But more of that shortly. If you'll look at the next image--" and it changed in the screens, to a small-scale tactical layout showing the relative position of Federation space -- "you'll see that the system is in so-called 'debatable' space, to which neither Federation nor any other aligned group has laid any serious territorial or 'buffer' claim. Neither Klingon nor Romulan interests have ventured much in this direction, probably for economic reasons; this part of space is fairly star-poor, it being in a gap between the Sagittarius and Perseus arms of the Galaxy, and systems with sufficiently exploitable resources, like asteroid belts, are few and far between."

Kirk nodded. "A long way to come for just a holiday planet," he said.

Chekov nodded. "In any case, the warious indigenous species would complicate a holiday," he said. The image changed again, to show a diagram with three line-drawn figures, compared for size: one like a collapsed sack, one vaguely treelike, and one that was merely a squarish dotted outline somewhat taller than the human figure that stood nearby for comparison.

"There are three intelligent species native to the planet," Chekov said. Some glances were exchanged around the table, from those who had as yet heard nothing of this. "This is extremely unusual, as some of you have guessed. So far this is the only planet found by any Federation survey that has so many species living together that were not brought there by some other species, like the Preservers. The First Survey team confirms that they are genuine products of evolution on the planet; the DNA-analog samples taken early on give a better than six-sigma probability to the thesis. One of our mission objectives will be to get absolute confirmation of the evolutionary situation, which is certainly historic in space exploration so far, and which will certainly be actively questioned by the scientific community when we bring our data home."

"We have our honor to defend, hm?" McCoy said from down the table.

"The truth is worth defending, Doctor," Spock said calmly. "As long as it is the truth. It is our business to find out."