Date: 3 Nov 1998 10:34:42 -0500

From: Laura Jacquez Valentine 

Subject: NEW: Recommendation (1/1, TOS, PG)



Author: Laura Jacquez Valentine (laurav@stones.com)

Title: Recommendation

Series: TOS

Rating: PG (for boozin')

Codes: S, Mc, Sc

Summary: Spock, McCoy, and Scotty attempt to solve a hairy problem.

Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom owns Star Trek, lock stock and barrel.

	    Don't we know it.



(GW: I'm sending this to you even though it ain't smut, because it

features your friend and mine, Mr. Spock)



-----------



Doctor McCoy and I beamed back from the space station and headed for

sickbay.  He was concerned that tribbles might have gotten into some of

his equipment, and I agreed to help him scan for them.  They were

pleasant creatures, really, but their prolific tendencies were quite

alarming.



"Have you determined what keeps them alive, Doctor?  You stated that

they do not need to be fed."



He smiled.  "No, I haven't.  Wish I could keep just one around to see if 

I can figure it out."



"I doubt that the captain would appreciate it.  Though I must confess to 

a certain scientific curiousity about the subject."



"You would," McCoy replied, cheerfully.  He seemed to be in a more

amiable mood than was usual in my presence, perhaps because tribbles

have such peculiar effects on humans.  I wondered idly if they might be

used to good effect as therapeutic animals, but dismissed the idea as

the tranquilizing effects could be harmful in some cases.  Then again,

if they could mellow McCoy's mood so effectively--



With an effort, I controlled the laughter that threatened.  McCoy was

not so mellowed as to let a seemingly unprovoked laugh go by without

haranguing me.  For some reason, this amused me even more, which--of

course--McCoy noticed.



"What's so funny, Spock?"



"I am merely considering what we are going to do with all these

tribbles, Doctor."



"And that's funny?"



"No, Doctor, it is not."  But it could be, of course.  If I could only

think of a way--Control, Spock.  Control.



Sickbay was mercifully tribble-free, except for McCoy's experimental

group.  We collected those and headed to Mr. Scott's cabin to discuss

appropriate tribble disposal.



Mr. Scott was still confined to quarters, but he was coordinating

tribble collection efforts from there with his customary efficiency.  I

may tease these humans sometimes about their emotional and inefficient

ways, but in reality they are quite competant.  If there were not, they

would scarcely been as prominent as they are in the galaxy.  Curious

that my mother never informed me of this aspect of humanity.  Curious

that it doesn't occur to more of my people--but then, the idea that

Vulcans have emotions fails to occur to most humans.  We all have our

stereotypes, after all.



I was forced to suppress yet another laugh.  Humanity as a vastly

illogical, passion-ruled caricature of itself was a most entertaining

vision.  McCoy looked at me strangely, and I reached across him to press 

the door-buzzer.



Scott answered, and we stepped inside.  The room was even more Spartan

than mine, which I found interesting, and decorated in a similar style,

which I found more interesting.



"Gentleman!" Scott exclaimed.  "We've collected all the tribbles we

could find and contained them in the secondary cargo bay.  Where do we

go from here?"



"We get drunk," suggested McCoy.  "Do you have any brandy?"



Scott looked at me.  I raised an eyebrow.  "Unless you have any

immediate suggestions, Mr. Scott, I have no objections to the use of

alcohol to lubricate the thought process."  There.  That out to keep

them occupied, trying to figure out if I was quite all right.  In fact,

I had thought of a plan, but I doubted they would accept it until they

were slightly inebriated.



Scott turned back to McCoy.  "Nae, lad, only Scotch."



"That'll do."



We seated ourselves around Mr. Scott's desk, and he poured three

drinks.  I had only the barest taste of mine, as I wished to stay

sober.  They, on the other hand, tossed theirs back quickly and Scott

poured some more.  Scott is generous with his private stock, and it had

undeniably been a difficult day for all of us.



Three drinks in, McCoy said, "We could make sandwiches out of 'em."



"T'wee beasties?  You canna be serious!"



McCoy giggled.  "No, I suppose not.  We could...give them back to Cyrano 

Jones!"



"I doubt the K-7 personnel would appreciate that, Doctor," I said.



"Aye!" said Scott.



McCoy broke down in another fit of giggles.  I suspect he hadn't eaten

for quite some time, and so the alcohol was hitting him hard.



In a dreamy voice, Scott said "We could sell them as marital aids."



My surprise must have shown, because he blinked at me and said, lamely,

"Well, they vibrate, don't they?"  He blushed and looked away.



I leaned back in my chair and steepled my fingers.  "I have a

suggestion."



They smiled eagerly.



"We can use the transporter."



"We canna transport the beasties into space!  Mr. Spock!"  Scott was

quite agitated.



"I am not suggesting that we do."



"Where, then?"



I looked up at the ceiling.  "The Klingons are quite aggressive, and

could benefit from the tranquilizing effects of the tribbles, don't you

think?"



Scott began to smile.



"Spock, tribbles hate Klingons!" said McCoy, ignoring the fiercely

grinning engineer.



"I believe that, over time, with perserverance, such hatreds can be

overcome.  Don't you agree?"



And he began to laugh.



After they had both sobered up a bit, we all went down to the

cargo transporter and Scott ceremoniously scanned the ship to ensure that 

all the tribbles were indeed in the cargo bay, while I queried K-7 for

the Klingon ship's departure time.



Just before they went into warp, Scott, cheered on by McCoy, transported 

every tribble on the ship over to the Klingon vessel.  I left the cargo

bay and found a secluded corridor, and let myself laugh.



---

The End.