If Jane Austen wrote Star Trek, Part II:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Vulcan in possession of green blood must be in want of a medical check-up.
“My dear Mr. Spock,” said Leonard “Bones” McCoy one day, “didn’t you hear me tell you a hundred times that you are overdue for your physical?”
Mr. Spock replied that he had not — that the doctor had merely told him 27.3 times.
“Mr. Spock, how can take my words so literally? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.”
“You mistake me, Doctor McCoy. I have all the compassion your nerves merit. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration throughout our five-year mission.”
“Oh! You have no idea how you drive me crazy.”
“But I hope you will get over it, and continue to administer your folk-wisdom to the flawed humans on this ship who, for some unaccountable reason, actually seem to enjoy it.”
“Come, Spock,” said McCoy, “I must have your physical. I hate to see you standing about on the bridge when you’re off-duty in this stupid manner. You had much better come to sick bay.”
“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my nurse. On such a starship as this, it would be insupportable. Nurse Chapel is engaged, and there is not another nurse on the ship, whom it would not be a punishment to me to give blood to.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried McCoy, “for all the gold-pressed latinum in the universe! Upon my honour, I never saw so many competent nurses in all my life, as I have in sick-bay; and there are several of them who are uncommonly capable.”
“Nurse Chapel is the only passable nurse on the ship,” said Mr. Spock.
“Oh! she is the most brilliant nurse I ever beheld! But I have another nurse sitting down in sick bay right now, doing nothing, who is very well-educated, and I dare say, very discreet. Do let me have her draw your blood.”
“Which do you mean?” and, arriving at sick bay, he looked for a moment at the nurse McCoy indicated, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She may be tolerable, but not experienced enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to nurses who are slighted by other patients. You had better let me return to the bridge, where I will enjoy staring into my viewfinder, for you are wasting your time with me.”
Cara
Cara King — award-winning author of
My Lady Gamester — these are the voyages of the card-player Atalanta
Turkey.
