Star Trek - Log 8 by Alan Dean Foster

necessary remedy. The communicator . . . it is the only thing that will save the captain. The only thing . . . he'll die horribly without it, remember. That's all you can think about, the captain dying . . . unless . . . he gets . . . the communicator . . ."
    Several minutes of truly inspired gesticulating on Kirk's part coupled with his companions' shunning of the proffered medical supplies, prompted the Lactran to reach farther into the field cage to nudge the containers closer to the pitiful, suffering specimen.
    When this further offering was also ignored, the slug turned back to the exhibits. This time it picked up one of the communicators, the compact device looking even tinier in the grip of that massive gray limb.
    But the ruse was only partly successful. Either the Lactran suspected the depth of their need for this particular instrument, or else it was unsure of itself, but, whatever the reason, it decided to keep a close eye on its utilization. So instead of handing over the communicator, it entered the enclosure with it.
    Like an elastic crane the tail swooped around and down, to offer the instrument to Kirk. Apparently the Lactrans held to the "heal thyself" principle. Well, Kirk was more than willing to abide by it. He raised a quivering, feeble hand and grasped it, bringing the instrument down toward his mouth. As soon as he had it opened and activated, he underwent a remarkable transition. In fact, his symptoms of advanced disease vanished as though they had never existed.
    " Enterprise , Enterprise , this is the captain. Beam us aboard immediately, all of—"
    The communicator was torn from his grip before he could finish. Had he not let go, the Lactran would have taken his arm along with the instrument.
    Whether it was the physical or mental commotion, or both, something finally caused the two large Lactrans standing nearest the exhibit table to cease their inaudible conversation and whirl. They started toward the force field.
    A familiar flickering in the air had commenced behind the force wall, a colorful shimmering that Kirk gaped at in horror. The transporter effect was not engulfing himself, Spock, or any of the other anxious captives.
    The smaller Lactran brightened once and was gone.
    Scott fought the transporter controls, having reacted instantly to Kirk's shipwide call. He had focused on the area surrounding the exact position of the communicator, as pinpointed by the Enterprise 's communications computer.
    Readouts indicated he had locked onto a substantial mass—presumably the captain and the rest of the landing party, including any survivors from the Ariel .
    He stared expectantly at the alcove, where something was beginning to take shape.
    "Captain," he began, "for a minute we thought sure . . ." He stared, swallowed. "What in cosmos . . .?"
    Instead of the captain, Mr. Spock, or anyone else, a two-and-a-half-meter-long monstrosity was coalescing in the chamber. It looked like a cross between a cucumber and a squid, combining the least desirable features of both.
    Its front end—or was it the back?—moped around rapidly, until it was pointed at Scott. The engineer's hackles rose as he felt as if something unclean were picking at his mind. At the same time the long tail whipped around, secondary limbs contracting.
    Scott ducked down behind the console. The tentacle probed. As it did so the Enterprise 's chief engineer made like a foot soldier and scuttled fast for the door.
    A first palm thrust sent the metal partition sliding shut behind him. A second activated the wall intercom.
    "Scott here . . . Security, full team to the Main Transporter Room, on the double! We've—" Metal groaned behind him.
    The door had begun to buckle inward. It was still bending when three security guards skidded around the corridor corner, phasers held at the ready.
    "I beamed up something out of a bad hangover," Scott yelled at them. "The captain sent an emergency message, and instead of him we got—"
    The door