Star Trek - Imbalance Part 2

Again Zelmirtrozarn clacked his claws together in the Jaradan equivalent of laughter. "To ask that question suggests that you do not understand our naming rules, Riker-Commander. Does your translating computer not tell you how our names are constructed?"

Riker reached for his communicator, clipped inside his sleeve to keep it out of sight, but stopped when he realized the Jaradan unit strapped around his wrist had done no better. Last night Data had said nothing about Jaradan names, although he had supplied them with speculations on most of the information they had gleaned during the day's activities. On a hunch Riker decided that admitting imperfect knowledge might be a good strategic move. So far the Federation's best information suggested that the Jarada were about a century behind the technological mainstream of the Federation. That hundred years had produced dramatic changes for many Federation worlds, improving the quality and style of life almost immeasurably. To the Jarada, the Enterprise's technology must seem almost magical, a wondrous and infallible power that they could comprehend dimly and that they could hope to command only in the far distant future.

A little imperfection, Riker reasoned, might lessen the perceived disparity. "No, Councillor. Our computer hasn't given us any translations for your names. So far it's had enough trouble coping with the tonality of your language, without working on such finer points as naming rules. I'd appreciate an explanation, if you don't mind."

They approached a cross-corridor, the first Riker had seen since they reached the bottom of the ramp. From the left came loud noises-the clashing of metal on metal and a loud buzzing, like the sound of the antique chain saw his grandfather's best friend had used to carve totem poles for the Talkeetna Heritage Park. Wondering what was happening, Riker turned toward the noise. Zelmirtrozarn tapped his arm with a clawed true-hand and pointed in the opposite direction. "I had forgotten. The hive guardians are holding a vrrek'khat drill in this sector. We had best move quickly, or we shall get caught in their maneuvers."

"Vrrek'khat?" Riker stumbled over the word, puzzled. His translator gave him no clue about its meaning. From behind them Riker heard the clatter of a group of Jarada running in unison. When he paused to see what was happening, Zelmirtrozarn grabbed his wrist and jerked him into the side pa.s.sageway. A dozen large chestnut-colored Jarada charged past them and headed toward the noise without missing a stride. The odor of cinnamon washed over Riker, almost overpowering him with its intensity.

"Vrrek'khat are vicious predators native to our homeworld. They attack in swarms, often in the season when the larvae emerge from the eggs. If they breach the Hive's defenses, they will destroy both the queen and the larvae in their chambers. When the guardians are fighting vrrek'khat, they will attack anything that is notHive."

Something in Zelmirtrozarn's tone told Riker that the Jarada was lying. Why or about what he was not sure, but he decided to test the insectoid. "I would be very interested to watch the drill, Councillor Zelmirtrozarn. Would that be possible?"

The large central facets of the Jarada's eyes shimmeted from pale orange to greenish-yellow to lemon yellow. Watching the changing interference colors, Riker realized that Zelmirtrozarn was scanning the intersection, checking all four corridors without moving his head. The shifting colors meant the lenses in the central elements of his compound eyes could change their orientation, much like the focusing element in a platform scanner. Thinking that fact might be useful, Riker filed the observation along with everything else he'd learned about the Jarada.

The sounds from the opposite hallway grew louder, and Zelmirtrozarn started away from them, gesturing for Riker to hurry. "If you wish, we can arrange for you to watch a drill at a later time, Riker-Commander. However, these pa.s.sageways have no observation galleries and it is unsafe for you to remain unless you have been marked as a member of the Hive. I apologize for the oversight, but it was not brought to our attention that you would wish to observe this aspect of our society."

"Marked?" Riker shook his head, trying to clear it of the reek of cinnamon. How did the Jarada stand being bombarded by such overpowering smells? He could not remember when he had been a.s.saulted by so many concentrated odors.

"Of course, Riker-Commander. Each individual emits a characteristic marker scent determined by one's genetics and role in our society. That way, one always knows the status and relationships of each person one encounters. Under unusual circ.u.mstances one may wish to subdue one's scent, but this can create disorientation in the strangers one meets."

They reached a split in the corridor, and Zelmirtrozarn chose the downward fork. Riker suppressed a moment's uneasiness, envisioning a network of tunnels and dungeons beneath the Governance Complex which could swallow him without a trace. To take his mind off that thought, he asked, "How does this relate to what you started to tell me about naming rules?"

Zelmirtrozarn clacked his jaws together sharply. "You are very perceptive, Riker-Commander. You have almost the intelligence of a hive-brother. With proper training, perhaps your people may be worthy to be adopted into our hive."

How am I supposed to answer that? Riker wondered. He thought the Jarada intended his remark as a compliment, but his wording was such that Riker could not guess an appropriate response. Fortunately for him, Zelmirtrozarn continued talking as though he did not notice Riker's dilemma.

"Our language constructs personal names so that the listener will know the place of each individual in our society. Doesn't your Federation do the same for its citizens?"

With an effort Riker focused his attention on the immediate subject. "There is no one set of rules in use throughout the Federation. Each world has its own customs and traditions."

Zelmirtrozarn bobbed his head to the side. "That is odd. It must be very difficult not to know an individual's position in his hive. I cannot conceive of how your people could function with such uncertainty."

The corridor bent to the left and turned sharply downward. Moisture beaded on the walls and pooled in the low spots on the uneven floor. Riker shifted his trombone case to his other hand so he could wipe the cold sweat from his palm. He told himself that he had no cause for alarm, but the signs of disuse were so obvious that it was difficult to convince himself.

He wondered if anyone knew where he and Zelmirtrozarn were, and he had to struggle to keep from calling Data on the Enterprise just to hear a familiar voice. That thought brought him back to the Jarada's question. "When you deal with beings from other worlds and other cultures, you generally must ask what their t.i.tles and functions are. We've concentrated on developing rules for dealing with the uncertainties, because there is no way to avoid them when you step outside your own culture."

"This is a concept with an intensely exotic aroma. It will require much contemplation before I can encompa.s.s it." The Jarada was silent while the tunnel twisted deeper underground. Finally they pa.s.sed through a ma.s.sive undecorated door and into a cylindrical shaft that disappeared into darkness both above and below them. Dim greenish glowstrips dotted the walls at apparently random intervals. Zelmirtrozarn started to climb upward.

"When you decompose the elements of a Jaradan name, the words will tell you the individual's place in our society. The first syllable is always the name of the Hive, for without the a.s.sociation and support of our hive-mates, we are nothing. Everyone on this planet belongs to Hive Zel, because this is a recent settlement. When our population becomes too large, so that the fabric of hive life is severely distorted, the Hive will divide and new units will coalesce from the segments of the old."

"How often does this happen?" For the hives to subdivide when they became too big was a simple thing, and logical, too, but none of their information on the Jarada had suggested such an event might occur.

"It is a variable thing depending on the resources available to the hive and on the quality of offspring produced. In a new world where we have abundant resources, we can expect the fission to occur in perhaps twenty of your years. On the older worlds the queens produce fewer eggs and the hives grow more slowly. However, you asked about our naming rules, and I should not allow myself to become distracted."

Riker shrugged, then realized the Jarada might not understand what the gesture meant. "I'm interested in learning everything I can about your hive. Please continue, Councillor."

"You are most gracious, Riker-Commander. My caste-mates often claim that my calling is for an instructional function rather than an administrative one. At times I fear my explanations do follow as convoluted a path as this diversion we were forced to take."

They had reached a level s.p.a.ce on the ramp and Zelmirtrozarn paused, running his claws over the outer wall. Riker noticed the faint outline of a door. A small click sounded, loud in the enclosed shaft, and a moment later a control panel lit beside the door. Zelmirtrozarn fitted his claws into the proper indentations and tapped out a coded pattern. With a grinding protest the panel retreated into the wall. They stepped through, onto the landing of a well-lit shaft similar to the one they were leaving. After closing the door, Zelmirtrozarn started upward again. "We rarely use the old pa.s.sages anymore, because they collect too much moisture in the damp season. She who designed them for us was from a different hive, and one has to suspect the motives of those who sent her to work for us."

Riker started to ask if interhive rivalries were common, but remembered the battle scenes carved into the Audience Chamber door. Instead, he returned to the earlier topic. "You were explaining about Jaradan naming rules."

Zelmirtrozarn clacked his claws in amus.e.m.e.nt. "Yes, I do seem to have trouble staying on the subject. As I was saying, the first syllable of a name indicates our hive affiliation. The second syllable is the name of the caste to which the individual belongs. One's caste is very important, since it is determined by one's genetic inheritance and in turn governs how one serves one's hive. My caste, the Mir, are the keepers of our hive's traditions, rituals, and values. The Nyen raise and train the young, and the Free are the administrators and rulers."

They reached another level stretch of the ramp and the Jarada faced toward the wall, sliding his claws across the surface until they activated the control panel. The invisible controls were a formidable security precaution, and Riker shivered at the thought of what could force a society to so thoroughly hide the locks to their doors. With an effort he shoved the thought away and searched for a less martial topic. "You said that everyone's caste was genetically determined. Do you mean-you're born into your position and can't change it?"

"Of course." As the door opened for them, Zelmirtrozarn clacked his claws together in amus.e.m.e.nt. "You would have to get a Brek-a scientist-to explain the mechanisms to you, but I infer that our genetics have a much greater influence on our abilities than among your people. Of course"-he curled his feeding-arms and true-arms upward to his shoulders, which Riker now recognized as the Jaradan equivalent of a shrug-"we have a larger genome to work with. Our genetic inheritance is a tremendous advantage in building a stable and efficient society."

"I see." They pa.s.sed through a second door and into a wide corridor. Sunlight poured through a row of skylights overhead. The walls were a pale golden color and the abstract mosaic on the floor was done in various earth tones. Riker blinked, trying to adjust to the brilliance after the subdued artificial light in the tunnels. A short distance away, from behind a closed door, he heard what sounded like someone torturing a small cougar.

"You do not believe me, I think." Zelmirtrozarn clacked softly. "Later we will show you that we are right. Now, however, I must finish one lecture before I begin the next. The third syllable in a name indicates one's function-leader, worker, teacher. As you may guess, individuals may wear distinct functions at different times in their lives, and their naming will change to reflect this. Finally, the last syllable is an individual name, which can be used by itself when one is not fulfilling a formal role. It is such a logical system that I cannot believe your society can operate without it."

Riker drew a deep breath, wondering why he had wanted any part of this diplomatic mission. Is it too late to convince the captain to leave me in charge of the Enterprise? There were a staggering number of wrong responses to Zelmirtrozarn's last statement. If the Jarada had been deliberately setting him up to commit a diplomatic faux pas, if he had been trying to create the justification for an interstellar incident, he could scarcely have laid a better trap. Riker shook himself, trying to dismiss that thought. After a moment he answered in what he hoped was a neutral tone. "Our system isn't quite so formalized, but it functions in a similar manner." The sounds of the dying cat rose to a crescendo and then were lost in the hollow pounding of an army of what sounded like bongo drums. Riker shivered with the awful premonition that the sounds were being produced by the val'khorret, the musicians he was supposed to be visiting.

They stopped outside the room where the noises were being made, and Zelmirtrozarn reached for another of the hidden control pads. "I hope you will explain your naming rules to me after the val'khorret makes their presentation for you. I would be fascinated to learn more about your people," Zelmirtrozarn said. He entered the combination into the panel and the door slid aside.

The room was bright and airy, with wide, unbarred windows filling the outer wall. They were on the upper story of the tallest building in the city, and Riker was immediately drawn to the view. He crossed to the window, trying to orient himself. A broad river meandered across the foreground, and the misshapen wheel of the Governance Complex sprawled across the opposite bank. Beyond, partly obscured by the thick foliage of various trees, lay the bulbous earth-toned structures that housed the city's population. In the far distance the serrated edge of a mountain range shadowed the horizon.

Behind him Riker heard the subdued clacking of a dozen sets of claws. "We thought you would be impressed with the sight of our city," Zelmirtrozarn said. "We're gratified that our judgment was correct."

"Very impressive." Riker turned away from the window. The city's major structures were on his side of the river, he remembered, and he decided to ask to see the corresponding view after the musical session was over. "But forgive me for ignoring you."

"Not at all." Zelmirtrozarn dismissed Riker's concern with a wave of his true-hand. That gesture, at least, was common to both humans and Jarada. "Anyone who does not respond to the first time they meet this view has no music inside his cephalon. Consider it an initiation, and welcome to the inner ranks of the val'khorret."

Riker studied his surroundings more closely, noticing that the room was large enough to hold a small orchestra. Even spread out, the dozen Jarada facing him seemed lost in the s.p.a.ce. Before he could pursue that thought, Zelmirtrozarn began introducing the musicians and letting each demonstrate his instrument for Riker.

All the musicians had mottled carapaces and moved with the stiffness of extreme age. Also in contrast to most of the Jarada he had met, their scents were subdued, faint enough that he was not overwhelmed by a surfeit of aromas. From their names Riker was able to identify individuals from at least eight separate castes and he noticed wide differences in size and color. Genetics again? he wondered, making himself a note to ask later.

"And please, call us by our personal names," said the leader of the group, Riis. She was a diminutive female with a primrose-splotched carapace. "When the music starts, we are all equals."

"That is an excellent idea." Zelmirtrozarn extended his arms in apology. "I will take a lesson from my esteemed colleague Riker-Commander. From now on you must call me Zarn."

The instruments were a surprise, although if he had thought about it, Riker would have realized that their rigid mandibles prevented the Jarada from playing wind instruments. Instead, they had a variety of string and percussion instruments-a plucked string instrument similar to a harpsichord, various sizes of drums, bells, xylophone-and glockenspiellike arrays of tuned wooden or metal bars, a harp that required six hands to play, a tabletop instrument that resembled a cross between a guitar and a violin. A large organlike instrument that needed two Jarada to operate it occupied the back wall of the room.

Riis demonstrated the organ briefly but explained that her usual partner had been called away suddenly. She pulled the cover over the keyboard and sat at the harpsichord. "Now, Riker-Commander, would you honor us with a performance of your instrument?"

"Of course." He lifted the trombone case onto a table. "But if we are all equals, you must call me by my personal name, Will."

"It will be our privilege," Riis answered with great dignity. She inclined her head in an abbreviated bow, and Riker noticed again how stiff her movements were, reinforcing his conclusion that the Jarada in the val'khorret were quite old.

The trombone was a novelty, its basic principles unknown to the Jarada. He had to demonstrate how the instrument worked-how he formed a tone by blowing air from his lungs through his lips into the mouthpiece of the instrument, how he could vary the tone by modifying the way the air flowed through the mouthpiece, how moving the slide changed the length of the resonating column of air.

Finally Riker played them a brief solo, choosing a piece by the pre-Reformation Vulcan composer, Karbresh. He had never mastered the micro-tone scales of modern Vulcan music, which the Jaradan music strongly resembled, but the quarter-tone scales of the Karbresh piece were at least within his reach-as long as no one counted his errors. Fortunately, the Jarada had nothing against which to compare his performance.

"That was most intriguing," Riis said when he finished playing. "But it was so simple, so like a child just finding the first register of its voice."

Simple? Riker struggled to hold back a groan of dismay until he realized what Riis meant. Most of the Jaradan instruments were designed to play chords, echoing the mult.i.tonality of Jaradan speech. Therefore, no matter how complex the melody line, to the Jarada it would always sound simple. "Sometimes human music tries to emphasize the simplicity of a single melodic line, such as the piece I just played. More often, though, groups of musicians work together to create complex patterns such as your instruments play. For example, several trombones playing together can produce the same chords as your-" He pointed toward the harplike instrument, unable to remember its name.

"Zheelsray," Riis said.

Riker nodded. "And the zheelsray could produce music the way we humans do, if you plucked one string at a time."

The mottled brown Jarada sitting at the zheelsray rubbed the base of his antennae in puzzlement. "But that would be inefficient, requiring several players and instruments to do what I already do."

"True. I was using that only as an example, because many of our instruments produce only single notes. Even on instruments that can play chords we often emphasize the melody by playing it louder than the chords."

"This is an interesting concept." Riis ran her claws along her keyboard, calling forth a series of chords. "Would you be willing to play with us and demonstrate what you mean?"

For a moment Riker considered refusing. So far these musicians had shown none of the cultural inflexibility the Enterprise crew had expected, based on their previous dealings with the Jarada, but he wondered how far he dared push them. Musical traditions were among the most conservative in any society, depending as they did on a strict consensus of acceptable tonality, rhythm, and harmony. On the other hand, the invitation was courteously offered and could not be politely declined.

Diplomacy! d.a.m.ned if you do and d.a.m.ned if you don't, Riker thought in disgust. However, if he ever left Starfleet, he could put this on his resume as one of the greatest of all improvisational sessions. Reaching for a smile, Riker nodded his agreement. "But, please, do me a favor-pick something simple so I can keep up."

Riis glanced at the other musicians, her antennae waggling. The harpist suggested a selection. One of the drummers countered with a different t.i.tle, and then other people offered their favorite pieces. A lively discussion followed as the val'khorret debated which piece of music would be most suitable. Finally they reached a consensus and Riis turned back to Riker. "We have chosen a karbrey, which we can repeat as many times as we wish. We will start and you may join us when you understand the essence of the music." She reached for a scriptboard resting on top of her instrument. "I a.s.sume that you read musical notation."

Riker glanced at the board and shook his head. "I read music, but I don't know your notation. I'll have to play it by ear."

A rasping sigh went through the room. Riis bobbed her head in approval and left the scriptboard in its place. "It is not often one finds a musician good enough to work with an exotic ensemble without copying their notation slavishly. We approve."

Riis struck a run of chords, signaling the tempo to the other musicians. She paused for the s.p.a.ce of two breaths, then nodded. The group began to play. The karbrey was a happy, lively piece that reminded Riker of an Alsrayven folk dance. At first he just listened, trying to sort out the different instruments and their roles. The glockenspiel seemed to dominate, its bright tones filling the place in the composition that Riker considered the property of the bra.s.s section. The drums carried the complex rhythm in an interwoven patter that echoed the dominant chords in the music, and the stringed instruments, tuned to a scale based on eighth tones, wove complex and shimmering patterns around the glockenspiel.

After the second chorus Riker felt he understood the karbrey well enough to try a simple counterpoint. At first he kept it uncomplicated, holding to the standard scale. His notes, sweet and legato, blended into the Jarada composition better than he had expected, and several of the musicians wagged their antennae in approval. On the next chorus Riker picked up his tempo and even attempted a few quarter tones.

He was beginning to relax and enjoy the improvisation when a commotion, much like the sounds that Zarn had told him were a vrrek'khat drill, erupted in the corridor outside the room. Immediately the Jarada quit playing and jumped to their feet. Their claws clattered against the floor as they scrambled toward a door on the far side of the room. "Hurry," Zarn said, tugging on Riker's sleeve. "We must get out of here before they breach the lock on the door!"

Chapter Five.

DR. BEVERLY CRUSHER fiddled with her medical tricorder as she watched Riker leave the Council Chamber with Zelmirtrozarn. The two made a strange pair-the tall human in his black-and-cranberry uniform and the deep brown Jarada who barely came up to Riker's chest. A smile flickered across the doctor's face, momentarily erasing the slight frown that wrinkled her forehead.

"It's all right, Beverly," Troi whispered. "These are routine diplomatic courtesies."

"I know." Crusher exhaled sharply. "We've done this dozens of times, but for some reason I feel edgy today. Are you sure everything's all right?"

"I sense nothing." Troi's face tensed with concentration as she tried to read the Jarada's emotions. After a moment, with no more success than before, she relaxed and shook her head. "I think you're suffering from stage fright because you aren't familiar with insectoid physiology and are afraid they will laugh at your ignorance."

Crusher chuckled softly. "I hope that's all it is." Her face went sober as Zelbrektrovish crossed the room and stopped in front of her. The tiny ochre Jarada projected such an aura of command that Crusher found herself starting to curtsy before she realized it. With an effort she turned the movement into the brief nod that they had been told was the appropriate greeting between equals.

"Crusher-Doctor," the Jarada said in a soft, high-pitched, mult.i.tonal voice. It returned Crusher's nod and then gestured toward the doorway. "Our research facilities are on the outskirts of the city. If you will accompany me, our transportation is waiting outside."

"Of course." As she followed Zelbrektrovish from the room, Crusher wondered what would happen if she tried to disobey the tiny Jarada. She felt like a first-year medical student, awed by the wisdom and authority of her department chair. With that comparison, Crusher's perspective shifted and she relaxed. Undoubtedly, Zelbrektrovish dealt constantly with the Jaradan equivalent of starry-eyed freshmen and had perfected its command aura for them. Also, given the differences in their height, Crusher realized the Jarada was probably as intimidated as she was. Crusher had not felt so gangling and outsized when she was with another sentient being since Wesley had turned ten.

They left the building by the side entrance, and a small teardrop-shaped groundcar pulled up to the curb. Zelbrektrovish tapped a coded pattern against the window and the vehicle's door slid opened. Crusher climbed into the back and struggled to find a comfortable position on the Jarada-shaped seat. The contoured cushion left awkward gaps where her human anatomy needed support, and several odd-shaped pillows did not completely solve the problem.

Zelbrektrovish fastened its acceleration harness and entered their destination into the vehicle's computer, then swiveled around to face Crusher. "The harness fastens like this," it said, demonstrating the unfamiliar catches. "I always find it advisable to wear it, even when I have a priority lane with no cross traffic."

"Thank you." Crusher pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead. Ground travel had always made her nervous, even when she was younger and living on Earth. High-speed vehicles moving in close formation, and the injuries that occurred when something went wrong, had convinced her that transporters were by far the safest way to get where she wanted to go. She had been in s.p.a.ce too long to ever change her mind, but at least the harness gave her a minimum of rea.s.surance. "I'm never completely comfortable with groundcars."

The Jarada clacked its claws together in amus.e.m.e.nt, and its command aura slipped away, replaced by a focused warmth that was almost as frightening in its intensity. Crusher remembered one or two humans that could pull off the same trick, most notably the High Commissioner from Dalraydy, Sri Janda.

Just after she and Jack had been married, a group of Federation Commissioners had toured the medical research facility where she was working. Crusher had watched Janda work her special magic on the hospital's chief administrator, a man noted for his aversion to outsiders. Janda was a pet.i.te woman, barely taller than a half-grown child, but when she concentrated her charm on the administrator, he had been unable to deny her anything, particularly not the in-depth tour she requested.

Janda's twinkling, impish smile and deep, dark eyes were backed by an intellect that would keep a Vulcan on his toes, and most of the researchers she met during that inspection also surrendered to her spell. Finding the same magnetism in a Jarada made the insectoids seem both more and less alien.

"If we agree on the subject of groundcars, Crusher-Doctor, then I am certain we will find other things to share. You must call me Vish if you are to be my hive-partner."

"And I'm Beverly." Crusher wondered what the Jarada meant by "hive-partner," but decided to postpone the question. If the computer was having difficulties interpreting the Jaradan world view, it would help to give it more data before asking it to decipher that conceptual cl.u.s.ter again. They had hoped that having the Jaradan translating devices would give them better data on the insectoids' language and culture, but so far she could not see any improvement over the Enterprise's universal translator. Both societies needed more information about the other to obtain good translations.

"Bev-er-ly," Vish said, testing the unfamiliar name. "I hope you don't mind if we do not take the shortest route to the research center. It was thought that you might appreciate a tour of the city to see the landmarks that you would otherwise miss."

When in Rome, Crusher thought. She was not a good tourist, caring little for architectural styles or heroic statuary, but it didn't seem polite to say that to her host. The Jarada were recent settlers on BelMinor, and Crusher supposed they had every right to be proud of their accomplishments on their new world. Still, if allowed her choice, she would gladly give Picard her share of the city tours, since he appreciated the artistry that went into designing and constructing beautiful and functional urban zones. However, the G.o.ds were not listening to her wishes, so she accepted the invitation with a diplomatic pretense of enthusiasm. "If you're sure we have time, I'd love to see your city. It's not often I get the opportunity to go sight-seeing in the line of duty."

"I'am not sure that 'having the time' is the precise term I would use." Vish ducked its head apologetically. "This is our season for repairing the roads and, unfortunately, the bridge on the direct route is closed while its center span is being refurbished. I fear that you will find I am barely adequate as a tour guide in the city, since I spend most of my time in my laboratory."

"I'm sure I won't notice," Crusher said with a warm smile. "My son makes the same observation about me-all work and no play. Why don't you tell me about your research?"

Vish clacked its claws in laughter. "Gladly. Remind me to point out the main buildings to you, in case someone asks what we saw, but meanwhile we can discuss more interesting matters."

While they talked, the car traveled through a residential area. The earth-toned buildings were circular complexes made of bulbous units similar in style to the Governance Complex. Except for color, each unit was identical to its neighbors, down to the placement of the doors and the s.p.a.cing of the windows. On any world and in any style of architecture, low-budget housing was always identifiable by its mind-numbing uniformity. For a moment Crusher wondered if the interiors were as absolutely bland and uniform as the exteriors, but she pushed the thought aside. Vish's discussion of its favorite project, research into the link between Jaradan nutrition and genetics, was much more interesting.

"You mean nutrition alone determines whether an individual will be fertile?" Among Earth's insects, fertile female bees developed when the workers fed the larvae a substance called royal jelly. However, Crusher could not remember reading any studies on intelligent insectoid societies that used a similar process for determining which individuals would perpetuate the species.

"Not completely. The Jarada have a tetraploid genome, and only those individuals with a full, uninhibited complement of chromosomes have the possibility of being fertile. In some cases, even when both the genetic and the nutritional factors are present, the individual develops as sterile or as neuter. What my group is trying to determine is the specific nutritional factors that trigger one path of development over another."

"Fascinating. How far are you from producing definitive results?"

"Oh, we've just begun." Vish clacked its claws in amus.e.m.e.nt, as if Crusher's question had come from a very young child. It pointed out the window, where the housing units had given way to fields of low bushes. The plants were loaded with brightly colored flowers-reds, yellows, blues, and a deep purple that was nearly black. "Actually, this plantation is part of our project. The breveen plant is extremely sensitive to the nutritional content of the soil it grows in, which we can monitor by the color of the flowers. By controlling what we feed the plants, we know the composition of the nectar we are supplying to the newly hatched larvae. It's a very fragrant little project and I'm extremely grateful to the young student who designed it. That one will make a worthy successor to lead our studies when I am ready to retire."

Crusher looked at the bushes with more interest, marveling that the wide variety in colors was produced by adding different chemicals to the soil. Did the trace elements produce the colors, she wondered, or did they control the expression of the genes which made the pigments? In a similar vein, how did nutrition control the expression of the Jaradan genome? "If it's not too delicate a question, Vish, how many genders are there in a normal Jaradan population?"

"Is this a philosophical or a scientific question?" Vish's central eye-facets shifted from greenish to yellow, and Crusher had the feeling she was being examined like a specimen under a microscope. Before she could answer, however, the Jarada waved a claw to dismiss its own question. "For you, it would be the scientific question. You do not know enough of our society to realize that the other viewpoint exists."

"Then I'd be interested in both answers, so I can understand you better."

"Ah."

Vish fell silent, apparently in no hurry to answer. Rather than pressuring the Jarada, Crusher concentrated on the view outside the window. The road they were following through the breveen fields had turned back toward the city, and they were approaching it from a more southerly direction. To their right, in the middle distance and near where the buildings began again, Crusher saw the spidery structure of a bridge. To their left, a gray smudge hung over the sector of the city they had bypa.s.sed. Smoke? It seemed to be coming from a large area, probably several blocks in diameter. With a puzzled frown Crusher turned toward Vish.

Before the doctor could ask her question, the Jarada antic.i.p.ated it and brushed Crusher's concern off with a careless flick of a true-hand. "Some types of trees that came with us from the homeworld have become diseased in this climate. That district was scheduled for sterilization this morning."

Crusher looked back out the window, trying to guess how many trees it would take to produce so much smoke. She was no expert on such things, but a small forest would have to burn to create that dense blanket of smoke. She shivered involuntarily, wondering if Vish's explanation was truthful. For the first time she was conscious of how isolated she was, how cut off from the Enterprise and all her crewmates.

"You were asking about our gender divisions," Vish said in such a smooth tone that Crusher wondered if the switch back to the original topic was intended as a diversion. "It is a complicated question, because so much of our society is controlled by our caste system, which is directly linked to our genetics. Therefore, if you ask about gender in a philosophical sense, the pure traditionalist will tell you that each caste represents a distinct gender."