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“Of course not. As I told you before, I made sure Subteer Usaak got a good look at you right after you sustained your injuries. Our best chance of persuading him to accept our help is to show him how far you’ve come in just two days.”
    McCoy made an “after you” gesture. “Lead on, then. While we still have time.”

Five
    Doctor Wieland paused before the broad, elaborately woven awning that shielded the tent’s expansive entry pavilion against Capella’s pitiless twin yellow suns.
    â€œThis,” he said, “is the tent of Subteer Usaak.”
    Wieland led the way into the tent, flanked by security officers Aylesworth and Shellenbarger. McCoy followed, hoping to overcome the obvious diffidence of science specialists Plait and Girard, who were cautiously bringing up the rear.
    Flames leapt from the large bronze brazier at the tent’s center, imparting an illusory, undulating motion to the intricate patterns embroidered into the tent’s canvas walls. When the group came to a halt before the raised dais set against one of those walls, McCoy found himself standing directly behind Aylesworth and Shellenbarger.
    It was only then that he realized that neither security man was carrying his laser.
    And just where the hell is my laser? McCoy wondered. It occurred to him then that he’d somehow lost track of all the gear he’d brought down from the Yegorov other than his medikits. He wondered if some tribal superstition or taboo had made the Capellans leery of handling those kits because of some magical property they believed they possessed.
    The landing party members now stood before two hulking humanoid males, both of whom regarded them coolly from the dais. The man who was clearly in charge was lean and middle-aged, his great height apparent despite his seated posture on the elegantly carved, thronelike wooden chair that supported him. An ocher-colored cowl—whose open top showcased a long, braided topknot of white-blond hair—framed his dour face. The rest of his raiment consisted of a simple brown tunic and trousers, fur leggings, and a gold-fringed black cloak.
    The second man, who stood beside the chair, was outfitted similarly, differing only in the two-toned orange color scheme of his cowl and clothing. A pale, waist-long braid hung from the top of his head covering, and he kept his thickly muscled arms folded before him; he stood like a statue beside his superior, maintaining a pose of watchful silence.
    McCoy’s eyes were drawn to the glint of iron lit by the firelight; both men sported wickedly sharp-looking three-bladed weapons. They appeared to pay the blades no more attention than a Starfleet officer might his uniform insignia. But the quiet confidence that both men radiated warned McCoy that they probably could put those weapons to lethal effect within the blink of an eye.
    Subteer Usaak nodded in acknowledgment to Doctor Wieland, then focused his attention on McCoy. Speaking in a cavernously deep tone, he said, “I am Usaak, chief of the Canyonfolk Tribe and subteer to the Council of the Ten Tribes. I speak for the people of this encampment. At my right hand stands my loyal subchief, Keer.”
    Keer looked askance at McCoy. “I see that another has joined your group,” he said.
    â€œPlease allow me to present Leonard McCoy of Earth,” Wieland said. “He is recovered from his ordeal in the canyon.”
    McCoy bowed slightly toward the dais. For an absurd moment he wondered if he’d violated protocol by failing to curtsy.
    Usaak scrutinized him, his incredulity clearly evident. “Surely this cannot be the same man who came among us two sunrises past.”
    â€œThis is indeed the same man, Subteer,” Wieland said.
    The subteer and his aide paused long enough to exchange silent looks of astonishment—commingled, McCoy surmised, with no small amount of superstitious fear—before turning back to face their