If there was one thing Captain James T. Kirk hated it was bureaucrats. He especially hated pompous bureaucrats and he even more especially hated pompous minor bureaucrats. And Thaddeus Stevens, currently hovering like a gnat around Kirk’s left ear, was as pompous and as minor as they came.
“Captain, I don’t think you understand the importance of my time schedule.” Stevens was assigned to facilitate commercial negotiations with a small star system that had recently, due to galactic drift, emerged on the Federation side of the Romulan neutral zone. Like so many of his colleagues, he seemed to be under the impression that Starfleet was a very expensive taxi service. “This delay is entirely unacceptable.”
“This delay, Mr. Stevens, is absolutely necessary.”
“Why?” he demanded.
Kirk gritted his teeth. “It is necessary because I’m the captain of this ship and I said so.”
“But it’s only one life form, and you don’t even know if it’s human,” Stevens persisted.
At the science station Kirk’s Vulcan first officer looked up. “Do you object to rescuing non-human beings?” he asked mildly.
Stevens blanched. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that it might not be worth our time.”
“I see,” Spock persisted. “And what races, might I ask, do you consider worthy?”
Kirk cut across their conversation. As enjoyable as it would be to watch Stevens pit his tiny intellect against Spock, there wasn’t time.
“This debate is pointless,” the captain said. “Mr. Stevens, we have come across a badly damaged ship and our sensors detect a life form aboard. Interstellar law demands that we offer assistance and that is exactly what I intend to do. And I don’t care if that’s a gerbil over there, I intend to rescue it.”
Stevens, saved from Spock, retreated towards the turbolift. “I hope you know, Captain, that I intend to file a protest with the highest authorities regarding your indifference to my mission.”
Kirk muttered something under his breath and the bureaucrat spun to face him. “What was that?”
The captain smiled thinly. “I said ‘have a nice day’.”
With a final scowl Stevens stepped into the turbolift and the doors closed behind him. Spock looked up from his station again.
“Actually, Captain, you said – “
“I know what I said, Spock,” Kirk cut him off quickly. He nodded to the main viewscreen. “How does it look over there?”
The Vulcan returned his attention to his viewer. “The vessel in question is a class C ore freighter registered to Arco Metalworks, an Earth-based manufacturing corporation. It has suffered a complete core meltdown, probably as a result of long-term poor maintenance.”
“And there’s only one survivor,” Kirk said sadly.
“That is odd,” Spock said, one eyebrow quirked upwards. “This type of vessel is designed to carry radioactive materials. Consequently, the crew areas are highly shielded. There should have been few if any casualties.”
“Hmm . . . What do you make of it?”
Spock shrugged. “Speculation would be pointless. We do not possess sufficient data.”
“Right.” Kirk punched a button on the arm of his chair and his chief engineer’s rich Scottish brogue came back to him.
“Transporter room. Scott here.”
“Mr. Scott, has the landing party arrived yet?”
“Aye,” Scott answered, “Chekov and his wee laddies have been here nigh on ten minutes and the doctor is just now coming through the door.”
In the background, now, Kirk heard other voices.
“Help Dr. McCoy with his, er, luggage.” That was Chekov’s heavy Russian accent.
“It ain’t luggage!” McCoy’s southern drawl. “It’s delicate medical equipment – no! Don’t tip that!”
“Is all this really necessary, Doctor?” Scotty again. “We can bring them back to sickbay, you know. You needn’t be takin’ sickbay to them.”
“Dang it all, it wouldn’t be necessary if that pointy-eared menace could give me some idea what we’re a’goin’ to find over there!”
“Transport as soon as you’re ready,” Kirk said. “Bridge out.”
“Aye, Sir. Scott out.”
* * * * *
The transporter beam released them in a shabby-looking rec room. Chekov had his communicator out seconds after the momentary paralysis of beaming left him.
“Landing party safely arrived.”
“Excellent.” There was an undertone of static to Kirk’s voice. “Mr. Scott tells me you’ll need to return to your beam-in site when you’re ready to come back. Otherwise radiation surrounding the ship will interfere with the transporter beam.”
“Aye, aye!” Chekov responded.
“Oh, joy!” McCoy remarked dryly.
Although the subspace radiation wasn’t strong enough to pose an immediate danger, it was playing havoc with their equipment. Unable to use tricorders to locate their quarry, Chekov sent his ensigns out to execute a standard search pattern. He, himself, remained with Dr. McCoy, acting as a bodyguard, to the doctor’s mingled amusement and annoyance.
“Be careful,” the young lieutenant instructed his security detail, “and be thorough. Look under everything and inside every compartment. Remember that whoever we’re looking for may be injured.”
They split up and McCoy followed Chekov down a long, narrow corridor covered with worn industrial carpet. The Russian made certain he did all the searching himself.
“You know,” McCoy pointed out irritably, “this would go a lot faster if I looked too.” He had been persuaded to leave most of his equipment at the beam-in site and he was nervous about the prospect of desperately needing something and not having it to hand.
“There’s something strange about this,” Chekov replied. “Whoever’s here may be dangerous or deranged.”
“I have experience dealing with deranged people,” the doctor said meaningfully.
Chekov stopped suddenly and held up a hand for silence. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” They were moving into a darker part of the ship now. Many of the corridor lights were out and shadows danced in the corners as they passed.
“A padding noise. It goes when we go and stops when we stop.”
“I don’t hear anything,” McCoy said.
Chekov, several feet ahead, came to a turbolift and stopped to signal it open. Suddenly things were happening too fast to follow. There was a rush of padding feet and a heavy body flew out of the shadows and hit the lieutenant, knocking him to the floor. At the same time the turbolift doors snapped open with a percussive explosion and a rush of wind filled the corridor.
As quickly as it had come the wind died away. Chekov’s attacker climbed to his feet, padded calmly to the center of the hall and sat down. McCoy hurried forward.
“You okay, Son?”
Chekov nodded dumbly. There was a second rush of feet and in a matter of seconds they were surrounded by security guards.
“Chief! What happened?”
Chekov gestured towards the open turbolift. His face was pale but his hands were steady and his voice was composed. “The turbolift had gone to vacuum. When I opened the door the air rushed in to fill the void, like thunder. And I found our life form.”
“Are you sure?” McCoy asked dryly, studying the large Walker hound that sat in the middle of the corridor. “It looked to me like he found you.”
“Same thing,” Chekov said, climbing to his feet.
“Uh huh. I hope you’re counting your lucky stars. Where you were standing that wind would have pulled you into the lift and slammed you against the back wall, before it dropped you to the bottom of the shaft. Fido has good timing.”
“Clyde,” Chekov corrected him.
“What?”
The Russian pointed to a bone-shaped tag on the hound dog’s collar. “His name is Clyde.”
“Whatever his name is, he saved your bacon.”
The guards had all come running at the sound of the explosion and now they all headed for the beam-out site in a group.
“I heard Stevens was raising a fuss because we stopped,” McCoy remarked. “He’s gonna love it when he finds out we rescued a dog.”
Chekov snorted. “Stevens in a nuisance. We keep having to chase him out of restricted areas. This morning I caught him ‘inspecting’ engineering.”
“Did you tell Scotty?”
“Please, Doctor,” the young Russian protested, “it’s my job to prevent bloodshed!”
* * * * *
Lieutenant Pavel Chekov, Chief of Security aboard the starship Enterprise, was, by any standards, a brave man. He had stood his post through a firefight with Klingons after being blinded by an exploding console. He had gone EV in a faulty suit to rescue a fellow crewman. He had played cat-and-mouse with a Romulan assassin on an abandoned moon outpost and once he had been persuaded to enter a drinking contest with Montgomery Scott.
He was sitting, now, in the well-guarded security of his own office, and he was thoroughly unnerved.
Clyde, the big Walker hound, was sitting at alert on the floor in front of Chekov’s desk. For thirty-seven minutes Clyde had been expectantly watching the door and Chekov had been expectantly watching Clyde. When the door slid open to admit Hikaru Sulu, Chekov jumped three feet. Clyde thumped his tail once, a sort of absent-minded greeting, and continued his vigil.
“Hey! What bit you?” Sulu asked in surprise.
“Nothing.” Chekov shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to try to explain to his best friend, who was prone to tease him.
“Oh,” the helmsman grinned. “Doing your jumping jacks sitting down now?”
The Russian scowled at him and Sulu gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look in return.
“Cone on, give! What’s up?”
Chekov sighed, glanced at Clyde and then beckoned Sulu off to one side. He felt like an idiot, but he didn’t want the dog to overhear.
Sulu followed him with a look of amazement. His eyes were dancing and Chekov knew he was going to catch hell about this. Oh, well . . .
“Sulu,” he whispered when they were as far across the small room as they could get, “there’s something very strange about that dog.”
“You mean besides the fact that he’s taken up with you?” The helmsman spoke in a normal tone of voice and Chekov waved one hand, trying to shush him.
“No, really! Sulu, look at his eyes. They almost look human.”
“So what? So do yours.” As he spoke Sulu glanced at Clyde. The dog was sitting with his back to them, but he obligingly turned and looked at Sulu. Sulu suppressed a sudden shudder. The animal’s eyes did look almost human, and the young commander thought he caught a glimpse there of a blazing intelligence.
Not that he was going to admit any such thing to Chekov, of course.
“That’s what’s making you jumpy?” he asked, “the dog’s eyes?”
“No. Sulu, it’s more than that. He’s been sitting there watching the door now for almost forty-five minutes. It’s like he’s expecting someone.”
“I’m someone.”
“But he’s still watching the door. He’s expecting someone else. And, Sulu, there’s more. This morning I had a team running drills where they had to crawl under low-level phaser fire and avoid being hit. Clyde was watching and when Ensign Gardiner came up he got in front of her and wouldn’t let her in the room. I finally gave up and told her she could run the course later.
“This afternoon she went in for a physical and found out she’s pregnant. It’s like he knew!”
“Ensign Gardiner’s pregnant? Who’s . . . “
“The father? Apparently someone she met on her last leave.” The straight-laced Russian shook his head in bemusement. “She doesn’t really seem to know. Or care. But listen! She came in to request a transfer and she was waiting to hear what the baby is. Every time she said ‘girl’ Clyde barked. Chris Chapel finally called with the test results – she’s having a girl.”
“Remarkable,” Sulu said, deadpan.
“Clyde knows things,” Chekov insisted. “Try it. Ask him questions.”
“And he’ll answer me? In what language?” Sulu was beginning to be seriously concerned about his friend.
“You have to ask ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions. One bark will be ‘yes’ and two will mean ‘no’.”
“What if the answer’s ‘maybe’?” Sulu joked.
“That can be three barks,” Chekov said seriously.
Sulu shook his head. “Hey, Clyde!”
The dog looked to him and thumped his tail encouragingly.
“Will I grow up to be president?”
Clyde barked once agreeably. Sulu grinned at Chekov, who scowled back.
“How about Chekov? Will he make admiral?”
The dog chuffed once. Sulu’s grin widened and Chekov’s scowl deepened. Sulu leaned towards the animal conspiratorially. “Have I got a chance with Jenny Alvarez?”
Clyde barked twice, very definitely.
Sulu laughed. “Darn. I was doing so well.”
“Will you be serious?” Chekov growled, half angry.
“About what? A psychic dog?”
Chekov glanced over at Clyde nervously and lowered his voice. “What if he isn’t really a dog?”
Sulu stared at him in astonishment. “What?”
Chekov leaned forward. The lieutenant’s face was serious. “What if he isn’t really a dog? Since I entered Starfleet I’ve seen so many things. Is it really impossible that this could be an alien being disguised as a dog? Or maybe a super-intelligent entity that’s somehow entered the body of a dog? Think Sulu! Is it really that outlandish?”
The helmsman laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. His face now was serious. “I think you’ve been working much too hard.”
Chekov scowled but before he could reply Clyde turned his attention sharply back to the door. He whined happily and his windmilling tail thumped rapidly against Chekov’s desk. The two men stared, transfixed, at the door.
The panel slid aside to admit Lieutenant Commander Nyota Uhura. The lovely, dark-skinned communications officer was informally dressed and carried a large tray. She greeted Clyde effusively and glanced at Sulu and Chekov. She took in Chekov’s look of dismay and misinterpreted it.
“Oh, don’t worry! This isn’t for you. I’ve given up trying to get you to eat interesting things. This is for Clyde.”
“Uhura,” Chekov said in a strangled voice, “when did you decide to bring him food?”
She was busy fussing over the dog as he ate. “What?” she asked. “Why do you want to know that?”
“I just do. Do you know when?”
Uhura shrugged. “Sure. It was just before I went off duty. Abut forty-five minutes ago. I had to shower and change first, though.”
* * * * *
The sickbay doors slid smoothly aside to admit Pavel Chekov and the big Walker hound that had become his shadow. McCoy, seeing them, felt a flush of alarm. The young Russian, though often injured, had never before come to sickbay under his own power.
The doctor rushed over. “Chekov? What’s wrong? Here, Son, sit down. Let me help you.”
Chekov brushed him aside with a puzzled frown. “No. I’m all right.”
“Then what are you doing in sickbay?” the doctor demanded.
“Well,” the Russian hesitated, “I was hoping you would look at Clyde.”
“Oh,” McCoy’s eyes traveled to the hound. “I see. Well, I’m a doctor, not a veterinarian, but I suppose I can take a look. I already scanned him for radiation, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Chekov seemed uncomfortable. “It isn’t that.”
“Ah. Is he sick?”
“No.”
“Has he gotten hurt?”
“Oh, no.”
“Then why did you bring him here? What do you want me to do?”
Chekov told him.
* * * * *
McCoy found the captain in a corner of the rec room. He was facing Spock over a tri-D chessboard while Clyde looked on, apparently deeply interested in the game. The doctor was relieved to see that the animal had deserted the security chief, but he was still apprehensive.
He glanced around the room and found it deserted except for Thaddeus Stevens, muttering to himself in the corner.
“Jim,” he began.
Kirk, in the middle of making his move, held up one hand to forestall him. McCoy fell silent as Kirk studied the multi-level chessboard. His fingers closed around a tall, slender bishop.
There was a low whine from the floor. The three men looked down to find Clyde cringing at their feet. His ears were laid back and his tail hung low. Kirk released the bishop without moving it and immediately the dog straightened up and wagged his tail hopefully.
His eye on the dog, Kirk let his hand travel over the chessboard, hovering slightly over each of the pieces. He came to one of his knights and Clyde perked up. There was only one move the captain could make with that piece. He made it and looked to Spock. The Vulcan said nothing but his expression was eloquent. Leaving him to study the board, Kirk turned his attention to McCoy.
“Yes, Doctor? You wanted something?”
“Huh?” McCoy was distracted by the dog’s behavior. He blinked a couple of times to clear his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about Chekov. You know, he’s been working awfully hard and he missed the last two shore leaves because he was in sickbay. I’m really beginning to worry about him.”
“Oh?” Kirk’s forehead creased in concern. “Is he ill?”
“No. No, not physically anyway. It’s just that I think the stress is getting to him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well,” the doctor glanced around, not wanting to be overheard. “The thing is, he came to see me today. Brought our canine friend here, actually. And do you know what he wanted?” McCoy paused dramatically.
“He wanted me to scan him and see if he’s really a dog!”
“And did you?” Spock asked calmly.
“Of course not!” McCoy exploded. “That’s crazy! You can tell by looking a him that he’s a dog!”
“Perhaps,” Spock admitted, “although appearances can be deceiving. If he is a dog, he’s a dog who just defeated me at chess.” The Vulcan looked at them, one eyebrow raised expressively as he reached out a long, slender hand and toppled his king.
“Hey,” Kirk protested, “you were playing me.”
“But Clyde was dictating your moves.”
McCoy scowled as he looked from one to the other. “It’s not just Chekov,” he muttered darkly. “All the officers on this ship are crazy!”
* * * * *
Hikaru Sulu shifted uncomfortably in the command chair and scowled at the viewscreen. “Check our position,” he ordered the navigator.
The young woman sighed in exasperation and read off a string of coordinates. “Still dead on course,” she concluded, “just like we were five minutes ago.”
Chekov, who had just taken over the bridge security station, looked up. “What’s going on?”
Sulu opened his mouth to reply but the navigator beat him to it. “The commander thinks we’re lost. The stars don’t look right.”
Chekov glanced to Sulu, his dark eyes troubled. He could understand the young woman’s skepticism. In theory it was impossible to locate oneself in warp by the ever-changing streaks of starlight. In theory. But before switching to security Chekov had himself navigated the Enterprise long enough to learn to respect her helmsman’s strange gift. “Have you run diagnostics?” he asked.
Sulu nodded. “Five times in the last hour,” he admitted. “I suppose I’m imagining things.”
“Think we could drop out of warp for a minute?”
Sulu shrugged and gave the order. The big ship dropped smoothly out of warp as the streaks in the viewscreen shortened and solidified into stars.
“Okay,” Chekov said, “I know an old Russian navigator’s trick.” His hands danced over the controls and a white dot appeared on the screen, super-imposed over the image of the brightest visible star. “I’m marking a star for reference,” he said, “and fixing the sensors to hold their position in relation to the ship. Now, come about starboard 90 degrees.”
Sulu nodded to the helmsman who was manning his station and the young man made the necessary adjustments to the helm. Chekov and Sulu came over together to watch as the navigation displays rolled around to the new heading.
On the viewscreen, the marked star never moved.
Chekov took off for the turbolift in a run. “I’ll start tracing the circuits.”
Sulu, who had made the command chair in two steps, barely nodded. He hit a button on the chair arm. “Bridge to Captain Kirk,” he said, “emergency priority one.”
* * * * *
The small box nestled snugly behind an out-of-the-way access hatch did not look especially complicated or terribly devious or thoroughly deadly. It was all three. Tied into the helm and navigation circuits, it was designed to hold the starship on a pre-set course, all the while sending phantom readings back to the bridge.
It was also designed to explode if it was removed.
“An infernal machine,” Chekov thought, fascinated. Now that he had discovered the device he was not especially worried. He knew that Scotty’s engineering skills were more than equal to the task of by-passing this sabotage and he was confident in his own ability to disarm the bomb. But he was interested – so interested, in fact, that he did something he very rarely did.
He allowed someone to take him by surprise.
“If you do not make any sudden moves, Lieutenant,” Steven’s voice said from behind him, “I will not find it necessary to scatter you all over the corridor.”
The muzzle of a Klingon disruptor was cool against the back of the Russian’s neck.
Chekov stood slowly, his hands in the air. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s so very tedious,” Stevens said ironically, “having to work for a living. And the Romulans will pay so well for a starship to study and a crew to interrogate. Especially this starship and this crew.”
The idealistic young Russian was so reviled he felt physically ill. “Filthy traitor!” he spat.
“Now, now,” the bureaucrat admonished. “Sticks and stones may break my bones but make me mad, I’ll shoot you.”
“Go ahead then,” Chekov said coldly.
“Alas, you make it so tempting. Unfortunately, now that you’ve found my little toy, I’m afraid I have need of a hostage. Be a good little space cadet, now, and come help me find a nice, strong place to hold off the cavalry for a couple more hours.”
Booted feet pounded down the corridor and Stevens spun to meet them, pulling Chekov around in front of him as a shield. Kirk, flanked by four security guards, rounded a curve in the passage and came to a sudden halt. For a timeless fraction of a second they stood at an impasse.
Knowing the mechanics of armed conflict was Chekov’s job and he was very good at it. He knew the guards’ phasers were set on stun and that they had a 99.735% chance of hitting both him and Stevens if they fired. He also knew there was a 68% chance the shock of the phaser fire would cause Stevens to reflexively fire the disruptor he held to Chekov’s head.
“Fire!” he commanded.
“No!” Kirk countermanded. He, too, knew the odds.
“Stay back,” Stevens ordered. It was clear from his voice that he was beginning to panic. “Don’t try to follow or the lieutenant dies!”
He backed away as he spoke, pulling Chekov with him. They came to a side corridor and Stevens disappeared down it with his hostage. Almost immediately there was the discordant whine of a disruptor mingled with a low whine and a series of thumps.
“Damn!” Cursing, Kirk flattened himself against the wall for perhaps half a second, then spun out into the side corridor, leading with his phaser. He froze for a moment, then lowered his weapon.
Stevens lay facedown on the floor. An ugly disruptor scar marred one gleaming bulkhead. The weapon itself was nested in Chekov’s hand. He was sitting on Steven’s back, waiting patiently for reinforcements.
Clyde, the big Walker hound, was draped casually over the traitor’s legs.
“Chekov,” Kirk said, “good work. Are you hurt?” If anything the Russian looked more shaken and less composed than he had with a weapon to his head.
“No, Sir. I’m fine. Sorry I let myself be taken, sir.”
Kirk dismissed this with a wave of his hand. There was still something going on here he didn’t understand. “Mr. Chekov, what happened?”
The Russian swallowed hard. “Well,” he said, in a strangled voice, “it was really Clyde, you see.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When we came around the corner Steven’s tried to turn around so he could run. Clyde was standing behind him. He tripped over the dog, Sir.”
* * * * *
The little world of Elesam was off the beaten path, but pleasant none the less. It was here that Uhura, after they had turned Stevens over to fleet authorities, traced the survivors of the freighter where they had found Clyde. The freighter captain, a meek, balding, middle-aged man, almost cried when he learned the dog was alive and well. He was anxiously waiting to meet them now, in a public park down on the surface.
Kirk walked beside Chekov to the transporter room, Clyde ambling along agreeably in their wake. A few paces back Sulu leaned over and whispered to Uhura.
“Don’t tell Pavel I said this,” he said, “but there really is something odd about that dog.”
“Oh, really?” Uhura sounded skeptical.
“Really. For one thing, he always answers the same question the same way, even if you ask it differently.” As they took their places on the transporter pad the helmsman addressed the dog. “Hey, Clyde, are you sure I haven’t got a chance with Jenny Alvarez?”
His tail thumping the platform, Clyde barked once.
The transporter released them in a small clearing. Captain Jarvis was waiting and he and Clyde greeted one another like long-lost brothers. After a minute Jarvis rose and shook hands with Kirk.
“I can’t tell you what this means to me. I didn’t want to leave without him, but the ship that picked us up wouldn’t wait and I had an obligation to the crew and passengers. And, honestly, when I couldn’t find him I though he must be dead.”
“Glad we could help,” Kirk replied. “Actually, he earned his passage . . .”
As the two men spoke Chekov elbowed Sulu sharply in the ribs. “Sulu! Ask him!” he hissed.
“I’m not gonna ask him,” Sulu hissed back. “You want someone to ask him, ask him yourself.”
Chekov cast a pleading look at Uhura.
“Leave me out of this,” she said firmly.
Jarvis was saying his good-byes now. He turned and began to walk away, Clyde ranging along with him, investigating the shrubbery.
“Captain!” Chekov begged.
Kirk waved one hand behind him reassuringly and the Russian subsided, happy to let his commanding officer take the lead.
“Oh, Captain Jarvis,” Kirk called. Jarvis turned expectantly and Kirk gave his junior officers an evil grin. “Mr. Chekov has something he’d like to ask you.”
The Russian gave his captain a hurt, betrayed look. Behind him he could hear Sulu snickering and Uhura’s giggles. Jarvis was watching him and waiting and he tried to think of something else to ask, something that sounded intelligent, anything. His mind was a blank. And he did want to know . . .
“Sir,” his voice came out an octave too high and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Sir, about Clyde. Are you . . .” he swallowed hard, “are you sure he’s really a dog?”
Jarvis’ stare went on for a long time while Chekov turned darker and darker red and Kirk, Sulu and Uhura shook with suppressed laughter.
“Well,” the freighter captain said at last, “I’ve always assumed so. Why don’t we ask him? Hey, Clyde!”
The dog froze in his rambling and looked up at his master.
“Lieutenant Chekov wants to know if you’re really a dog.”
Clyde stared at Jarvis for a moment, his head tilted comically, and then he turned his too-intelligent gaze on Chekov. He looked him right in the eye and barked.
Three times.
THE
END
(Author’s note: In the early part of the twentieth century there was a famous bird dog called Jim the Wonder Dog. He could locate cars on the street not only by color but by license plate, correctly identify different types of trees, predict the sex of unborn babies and accurately predict the outcome of political elections, horse races and sporting events. Unlike most “wonder animals”, who are trained to respond to subtle signals from their masters, Jim could perform just as well whether his owner was present or not. Also, the nature of some of his feats, like the unborn baby thing, seemed to preclude the possibility of trickery. Jim was never exploited to make money and remained simply a very talented family pet until he finally died of old age. No explanation for his powers has ever been offered. I was reading about Jim one day and it occurred to me to wonder what the crew of the Enterprise would think if they found a dog like Jim in space. That’s where this story came from. I just thought you might find it interesting to know. Thanks for reading my story! Loretta)
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