1. Before you read Salman Rushdie’s story, please make sure you’ve read through all of the resources for Weeks 12 and 13 and watched all of the videos.
2. Then read through the story at least once and choose one of the postcolonial issues or themes you think the story best responds to or that you found most interestingly represented in the story.
3. Then choose at least three different passages in the story that you think most directly address the postcolonial theme/issue you chose.
4. For each of your highlighted passages, explain what you think this passage is saying about/within your chosen theme–for example, the hybridity of postcolonial culture and its effects on postcolonial identities.
5. Then, after you’ve fully explained what you think is going on in this particular passage and what it’s saying/showing about your chosen postcolonial theme, explain how it connects to what you think the story’s overall point is about this theme or the overall view that the story represents of your theme.
6. Once you’ve completed the above analysis of three different passages, choose at least one of your classmate’s passages, and respond in depth to their chosen postcolonial them and their analysis of their chosen passage, what it says about this theme and what the overall point of the story is about this theme.
CHEKOV AND ZULU
I On 4th November, 1984, Zulu disappeared in Birmingham, and India House sent his old
schoolfriend Chekov to Wembley to see the wife.
‘Adaabarz, Mrs Zulu. Permission to enter?’
‘Of course come in, Dipty sahib, why such formality?’
‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, Mrs Zulu, but Zulu-tho hasn’t been in touch this
‘With me? Since when he contacts me on official trip? Why to hit a telephone call when
he is probably enjoying?’
‘Whoops, sore point, excuse me. Always been the foot-in-it blunderbuss type.’
‘At least sit, take tea-shee.’
‘Fixed the place up damn fine, Mrs Zulu, wah-wah. Tasteful decor, in spades, I must say.
So much cut-glass! That bounder Zulu must be getting too much pay, more than yours
truly, clever dog.’
‘No, how is it possible? Acting Dipty’s tankha must be far in excess of Security Chief.’
‘No suspicion intended, ji. Only to say what a bargain-hunter you must be.’
‘Some problem but there is, na?’
‘Arré, Jaisingh! Where have you been sleeping? Acting Dipty Sahib is thirsting for his
tea. And biscuits and jalebis, can you not keep two things in your head? Jump, now,
guest is waiting.’
‘Truly, Mrs Zulu, please go to no trouble.’
‘No trouble is there, Diptyji, only this chap has become lazy since coming from home.
Days off, TV in room, even pay in pounds sterling, he expects all. So far we brought him
but no gratitude, what to tell you, noth-thing.’
‘Ah, Jaisingh; why not? Excellent jalebi, Mrs Z. Thanking you.’
Assembled on top of the television and on shelf units around it was the missing man’s
collection of Star Trek memorabilia: Captain Kirk and Spock dolls, spaceship models –
a Klingon Bird of Prey, a Romulan vessel, a space station, and of course the Starship
Enterprise. In pride of place were large figurines of two of the series’s supporting cast.
‘These old Doon School nicknames,’ Chekov exclaimed heartily. ‘They stay put like stuck
records. Dumpy, Stumpy, Grumpy, Humpy. They take over from our names. As in our
case our intrepid cosmonaut aliases.’
‘I don’t like. This “Mrs Zulu” I am landed with! It sounds like a blackie.’
‘Wear the name with pride, begum sahib. We’re old comrades-in-arms, your husband
and I; since boyhood days, perhaps he was good enough to mention? Intrepid
diplonauts. Our umpteen-year mission to explore new worlds and new civilisations. See
there, our alter egos standing on your TV, the Asiatic-looking Russky and the Chink. Not
the leaders, as you’ll appreciate, but the ultimate professional servants. “Course laid in!”
“Hailing frequencies open!” “Warp factor three!” What would that strutting Captain
have been without his top-level staffers? Likewise with the good ship Hindustan. We are
servants also, you see, just like your fierce Jaisingh here. Never more important than in
a moment like the present sad crisis, when an even keel must be maintained, jalebis
must be served and tea poured, no matter what. We do not lead, but we enable. Without
us, no course can be laid, no hailing frequency opened. No factors can be warped.’
‘Is he in difficulties, then, your Zulu? As if it wasn’t bad enough, this terrible time.’
On the wall behind the TV was a framed photograph of Indira Gandhi, with a garland
hung around it. She had been dead since Wednesday. Pictures of her cremation had
been on the TV for hours. The flower-petals, the garish, unbearable flames.
‘Hard to believe it. Indiraji! Words fail one. She was our mother. Hai, hai! Cut down in
‘And on radio-TV, such-such stories are coming about Delhi goings-on. So many
killings, Dipty Sahib. So many of our decent Sikh people done to death, as if all were
guilty for the crimes of one-two badmash guards.’
‘The Sikh community has always been thought loyal to the nation,’ Chekov reflected.
‘Backbone of the Army, to say nothing of the Delhi taxi service. Super-citizens, one
might say, seemingly wedded to the national idea. But such ideas are being questioned
now, you must admit; there are those who would point to the comb, bangle, dagger et
cetera as signs of the enemy within.’
‘Who would dare say such a thing about us? Such an evil thing.’
‘I know. I know. But you take Zulu. The ticklish thing is, he’s not on any official business
that we know of. He’s dropped off the map, begum sahib. AWOL ever since the
assassination. No contact for two days plus.’
‘There is a view forming back at HQ that he may have been associated with the gang.
Who have in all probability long-established links with the community over here.’
‘Naturally I am fighting strenuously against the proponents of this view. But his absence
is damning, you must see. We have no fear of these tinpot Khalistan wallahs. But they
have a ruthless streak. And with Zulu’s inside knowledge and security background …
They have threatened further attacks, as you know. As you must know. As some would
say you must know all too well.’
‘It is possible’, Chekov said, eating his jalebi, ‘that Zulu has boldly gone where no Indian
diplonaut has gone before.’
The wife wept. ‘Even the stupid name you could never get right. It was with S. “Sulu.”
So-so many episodes I have been made to see, you think I don’t know? Kirk Spock
McCoy Scott Uhura Chekov Sulu.’
‘But Zulu is a better name for what some might allege to be a wild man,’ Chekov said.
‘For a suspected savage. For a putative traitor. Thank you for excellent tea.’
2 In August, Zulu, a shy, burly giant, had met Chekov off the plane from Delhi. Chekov at
thirty-three was a small, slim, dapper man in grey flannels, stiff-collared shirt and a
double-breasted navy blue blazer with brass buttons. He had bat’s-wing eyebrows and a
prominent and pugnacious jaw, so that his cultivated tones and habitual
soft-spokenness came as something of a surprise, disarming those who had been led by
the eyebrows and chin to expect an altogether more aggressive personality. He was a
high flyer, with one small embassy already notched up. The Acting Number Two job in
London, while strictly temporary, was his latest plum.
‘What-ho, Zools! Years, yaar, years,’ Chekov said, thumping his palm into the other
man’s chest. ‘So,’ he added, ‘I see you’ve become a hairy fairy.’ The young Zulu had been
a modern Sikh in the matter of hair – sporting a fine moustache at eighteen, but
beardless, with a haircut instead of long tresses wound tightly under a turban. Now,
however, he had reverted to tradition.
‘Hullo, ji,’ Zulu greeted him cautiously. ‘So then is it OK to utilise the old modes of
‘Utilise away! Wouldn’t hear of anything else,’ Chekov said, handing Zulu his bags and
baggage tags. ‘Spirit of the Enterprise and all that jazz.’
In his public life the most urbane of men, Chekov when letting his hair down in private
enjoyed getting inter-culturally hot under the collar. Soon after his taking up his new
post he sat with Zulu one lunchtime on a bench in Embankment Gardens and jerked his
head in the direction of various passers-by.
‘Crooks,’ he said, sotto voce.
‘Where?’ shouted Zulu, leaping athletically to his feet. ‘Should I pursue?’
Heads turned. Chekov grabbed the hem of Zulu’s jacket and pulled him back on to the
bench. ‘Don’t be such a hero,’ he admonished fondly. ‘I meant all of them, generally;
thieves, every last one. God, I love London! Theatre, ballet, opera, restaurants! The
Pavilion at Lord’s on the Saturday of the Test Match! The royal ducks on the royal pond
in royal St James’s Park! Decent tailors, a decent mixed grill when you want it, decent
magazines to read! I see the remnants of greatness and I don’t mind telling you I am
impressed. The Athenaeum, Buck House, the lions in Trafalgar Square. Damn
impressive. I went to a meeting with the junior Minister at the F. & C.O. and realised I
was in the old India Office. All that John Company black teak, those tuskers rampant on
the old bookcases. Gave me quite a turn. I applaud them for their success: hurrah! But
then I look at my own home, and I see that it has been plundered by burglars. I can’t
deny there is a residue of distress.’
‘I am sorry to hear of your loss,’ Zulu said, knitting his brows. ‘But surely the culpables
are not in the vicinity.’
‘Zulu, Zulu, a figure of speech, my simpleton warrior prince. Their museums are full of
our treasures, I meant. Their fortunes and cities, built on the loot they took. So on, so
forth. One forgives, of course; that is our national nature. One need not forget.’
Zulu pointed at a tramp, sleeping on the next bench in a ragged hat and coat. ‘Did he
steal from us, too?’ he asked.
‘Never forget’, said Chekov, wagging a finger, ‘that the British working class collaborated
for its own gain in the colonial project. Manchester cotton workers, for instance,
supported the destruction of our cotton industry. As diplomats we must never draw
attention to such facts; but facts, nevertheless, they remain.’
‘But a beggarman is not in the working class,’ objected Zulu, reasonably. ‘Surely this
fellow at least is not our oppressor.’
‘Zulu,’ Chekov said in exasperation, ‘don’t be so bleddy difficult.’
Chekov and Zulu went boating on the Serpentine, and Chekov got back on his
hobby-horse. ‘They have stolen us,’ he said, reclining boatered and champagned on
striped cushions while mighty Zulu rowed. ‘And now we are stealing ourselves back. It is
an Elgin marbles situation.’
‘You should be more content,’ said Zulu, shipping oars and gulping cola. ‘You should be
less hungry, less cross. See how much you have! It is enough. Sit back and enjoy. I have
less, and it suffices for me. The sun is shining. The colonial period is a closed book.’
‘If you don’t want that sandwich, hand it over,’ said Chekov. ‘With my natural radicalism
I should not have been a diplomat. I should have been a terrorist.’
‘But then we would have been enemies, on opposite sides,’ protested Zulu, and suddenly
there were real tears in his eyes. ‘Do you care nothing for our friendship? For my
responsibilities in life?’
Chekov was abashed. ‘Quite right, Zools old boy. Too bleddy true. You can’t imagine how
delighted I was when I learned we would be able to join forces like this in London.
Nothing like the friendships of one’s boyhood, eh? Nothing in the world can take their
place. Now listen, you great lummox, no more of that long face. I won’t permit it. Great
big chap like you shouldn’t look like he’s about to blub. Blood brothers, old friend, what
do you say? All for one and one for all.’
‘Blood brothers,’ said Zulu, smiling a shy smile.
‘Onward, then,’ nodded Chekov, settling back on his cushions. ‘Impulse power only.’
The day Mrs Gandhi was murdered by her Sikh bodyguards, Zulu and Chekov played
squash in a private court in St John’s Wood. In the locker-room after showering,
prematurely-greying Chekov still panted heavily with a towel round his softening waist,
reluctant to expose his exhaustion-shrivelled purple penis to view; Zulu stood proudly
naked, thick-cocked, tossing his fine head of long black hair, caressing and combing it
with womanly sensuality, and at last twisting it swiftly into a knot.
‘Too good, Zulu yaar. Fataakh! Fataakh! What shots! Too bleddy good for me.’
‘You desk-pilots, ji. You lose your edge. Once you were ready for anything.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m over the hill. But you were only one year junior.’
‘I have led a purer life, ji – action, not words.’
‘You understand we will have to blacken your name,’ Chekov said softly.
Zulu turned slowly in Charles Atlas pose in front of a full-length mirror.
‘It has to look like a maverick stunt. If anything goes wrong, deniability is essential.
Even your wife must not suspect the truth.’
Spreading his arms and legs, Zulu made his body a giant X, stretching himself to the
limit. Then he came to attention. Chekov sounded a little frayed.
‘Zools? What do you say?’
‘Is the transporter ready?’
‘Come on, yaar, don’t arse around.’
‘Respectfully, Mister Chekov, sir, it’s my arse. Now then: is the transporter ready?’
‘Transporter ready. Aye.’
Chekov’s memorandum, classified top-secret, eyes-only, and addressed to ‘JTK’ (James
My strong recommendation is that Operation Startrek be aborted. To send a
Federation employee of Klingon origin unarmed into a Klingon cell to spy is the
crudest form of loyalty test. The operative in question has never shown ideological
deviation of any sort and deserves better, even in the present climate of mayhem,
hysteria and fear. If he fails to persuade the Klingons of his bona fides he can expect to
be treated with extreme prejudice. These are not hostage takers.
The entire undertaking is misconceived. The locally settled Klingon population is not
the central problem. Even should we succeed, such intelligence as can be gleaned about
more important principals back home will no doubt be of dubious accuracy and
limited value. We should advise Star Fleet Headquarters to engage urgently with the
grievances and aspirations of the Klingon people. Unless these are dealt with fair and
square there cannot be a lasting peace.
The reply from JTK:
Your closeness to the relevant individual excuses what is otherwise an explosively
communalist document. It is not for you to define the national interest nor to
determine what undercover operations are to be undertaken. It is for you to enable
such operations to occur and to provide back-up as and when required to do so. As a
personal favour to you and in the name of my long friendship with your eminent
Papaji I have destroyed your last without keeping a copy and suggest you do the same.
Also destroy this.
Chekov asked Zulu to drive him up to Stratford for a performance of Coriolanus.
‘How many kiddiwinks by now? Three?’
‘Four,’ said Zulu. ‘All boys.’
‘By the grace of God. She must be a good woman.’
‘I have a full heart,’ said Zulu, with sudden feeling. ‘A full house, a full belly, a full bed.’
‘Lucky so and so,’ said Chekov. ‘Always were warmblooded. I, by contrast, am not.
Reptiles, certain species of dinosaur, and me. I am in the wife market, by the way, if you
know any suitable candidates. Bachelordom being, after a certain point, an obstacle on
the career path.’
Zulu was driving strangely. In the slow lane of the motorway, as they approached an exit
lane, he accelerated towards a hundred miles an hour. Once the exit was behind them,
he slowed. Chekov noticed that he varied his speed and lane constantly. ‘Doesn’t the old
rattletrap have cruise control?’ he asked. ‘Because, sport, this kind of performance
would not do on the bridge of the flagship of the United Federation of Planets.’
‘Anti-surveillance,’ said Zulu. ‘Dry-cleaning.’ Chekov, alarmed, looked out of the back
‘Have we been rumbled, then?’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ grinned Zulu. ‘Better safe than sorry is all. Always anticipate
the worst-case scenario.’
Chekov settled back in his seat. ‘You liked toys and games,’ he said. Zulu had been a
crack rifle shot, the school’s champion wrestler, and an expert fencer. ‘Every Speech
Day,’ Zulu said, ‘I would sit in the hall and clap, while you went up for all the work
prizes. English Prize, History Prize, Latin Prize, Form Prize. Clap, clap, clap, term after
term, year after year. But on Sports Day I got my cups. And now also I have my area of
‘Quite a reputation you’re building up, if what I hear is anything to go by.’
There was a silence. England passed by at speed.
‘Do you like Tolkien?’ Zulu asked.
‘I wouldn’t have put you down as a big reader,’ said Chekov, startled. ‘No offence.’
‘J.R.R. Tolkien,’ said Zulu. ‘The Lord of the Rings.’
‘Can’t say I’ve read the gentleman. Heard of him, of course. Elves and pixies. Not your
sort of thing at all, I’d have thought.’
‘It is about a war to the finish between Good and Evil,’ said Zulu intently. ‘And while this
great war is being fought there is one part of the world, the Shire, in which nobody even
knows it’s going on. The hobbits who live there work and squabble and make merry and
they have no fucking clue about the forces that threaten them, and those that save their
tiny skins.’ His face was red with vehemence.
‘Meaning me, I suppose,’ Chekov said.
‘I am a soldier in that war,’ said Zulu. ‘If you sit in an office you don’t have one small
idea of what the real world is like. The world of action, ji. The world of deeds, of things
that are done and maybe undone too. The world of life and death.’
‘Only in the worst case,’ Chekov demurred.
‘Do I tell you how to apply your smooth-tongued musca-polish to people’s behinds?’
stormed Zulu. ‘Then do not tell me how to ply my trade.’
Soldiers going into battle pump themselves up, Chekov knew. This chest-beating was to
be expected, it must not be misunderstood. ‘When will you vamoose?’ he quietly asked.
‘Chekov ji, you won’t see me go.’
Stratford approached. ‘Did you know, ji,’ Zulu offered, ‘that the map of Tolkien’s
Middle-earth fits quite well over central England and Wales? Maybe all fairylands are
right here, in our midst.’
‘You’re a deep one, old Zools,’ said Chekov. ‘Full of revelations today.’
Chekov had a few people over for dinner at his modern-style official residence in a
private road in Hampstead: a Very Big Businessman he was wooing, journalists he liked,
prominent India-lovers, noted Non-Resident Indians. The policy was business as usual.
The dreadful event must not be seen to have derailed the ship of State: whose new
captain, Chekov mused, was a former pilot himself. As if a Sulu, a Chekov had been
suddenly promoted to the skipper’s seat.
Damned difficult doing all this without a lady wife to act as hostess, he grumbled
inwardly. The best golden plates with the many-headed lion at the centre, the finest
crystal, the menu, the wines. Personnel had been seconded from India House to help
him out, but it wasn’t the same. The secrets of good evenings, like God, were in the
details. Chekov meddled and fretted.
The evening went off well. Over brandy, Chekov even dared to introduce a blacker note.
‘England has always been a breeding ground for our revolutionists,’ he said. ‘What
would Pandit Nehru have been without Harrow? Or Gandhiji without his formative
experiences here? Even the Pakistan idea was dreamt up by young radicals at college in
what we then were asked to think of as the Mother Country. Now that England’s status
has declined, I suppose it is logical that the quality of the revolutionists she breeds has
likewise fallen. The Kashmiris! Not a hope in hell. And as for these Khalistan types, let
them not think that their evil deed has brought their dream a day closer. On the
contrary. On the contrary. We will root them out and smash them to – what’s the right
word? – to smithereens.’
To his surprise he had begun speaking loudly and had risen to his feet. He sat down
hard and laughed. The moment passed.
‘The funny thing about this blasted nickname of mine’, he said quickly to his
dinner-table neighbour, the septuagenarian Very Big Businessman’s improbably young
and attractive wife, ‘is that back then we never saw one episode of the TV series. No TV
to see it on, you see. The whole thing was just a legend wafting its way from the US and
UK to our lovely hill-station of Dehra Dun.
‘After a while we got a couple of cheap paperback novelisations and passed them round
as if they were naughty books like Lady C or some such. Lots of us tried the names on
for size but only two of them stuck; probably because they seemed to go together, and
the two of us got on pretty well, even though he was younger. A lovely boy. So just like
Laurel and Hardy we were Chekov and Zulu.’
‘Love and marriage,’ said the woman.
‘You know,’ she said. ‘Go together like is it milk and porridge. Or a car and garage, that’s
right. I love old songs. La-la-la-something-brother, you can’t have fun without I think
it’s your mother.’
‘Yes, now I do recall,’ said Chekov.
3 Three months later Zulu telephoned his wife.
‘O my God where have you vanished are you dead?’
‘Listen please my bivi. Listen carefully my wife, my only love.’
‘Yes. OK. I am calm. Line is bad, but.’
‘Call Chekov and say condition red.’
‘Arré! What is wrong with your condition?’
‘Please. Condition red.’
‘Yes. OK. Red.’
‘Say the Klingons may be smelling things.’
‘Clingers-on may be smelly things. Means what?’
‘My darling, I beg you.’
‘I have it all right here only. With this pencil I have written it, both.’
‘Tell him, get Scotty to lock on to my signal and beam me up at once.’
‘What rubbish! Even now you can’t leave off that stupid game.’
‘Bivi. It is urgent. Beam me up.’
Chekov dropped everything and drove. He went via the dry-cleaners as instructed; he
drove round roundabouts twice, jumped red lights, deliberately took a wrong turning,
stopped and turned round, made as many right turns as possible to see if anything
followed him across the stream of traffic, and, on the motorway, mimicked Zulu’s
techniques. When he was as certain as he could be that he was clean, he headed for the
rendezvous point. ‘Roll over Len Deighton,’ he thought, ‘and tell le Carré the news.’
He turned off the motorway and pulled into a lay-by. A man stepped out of the trees,
looking newly bathed and smartly dressed, with a sheepish smile on his face. It was
Chekov jumped out of the car and embraced his friend, kissing him on both cheeks.
Zulu’s bristly beard pricked his lips. ‘I expected you’d have an arm missing, or blood
pouring from a gunshot wound, or some black eyes at least,’ he said. ‘Instead here you
are dressed for the theatre, minus only an opera cloak and cane.’
‘Mission accomplished,’ said Zulu, patting his breast pocket. ‘All present and correct.’
‘Then what was that “condition red” bakvaas?’
‘The worst-case scenario’, said Zulu, ‘does not always materialise.’
In the car, Chekov scanned the names, places, dates in Zulu’s brown envelope. The
information was better than anyone had expected. From this anonymous Midlands
lay-by a light was shining on certain remote villages and urban back-alleys in Punjab.
There would be a round-up, and, for some big badmashes at least, there would no longer
be shadows in which to hide.
He gave a little, impressed whistle.
Zulu in the passenger seat inclined his head. ‘Better move off now,’ he said. ‘Don’t tempt
They drove south through Middle-earth.
Not long after they came off the motorway, Zulu said, ‘By the way, I quit.’
Chekov stopped the car. The two towers of Wembley Stadium were visible through a gap
in the houses to the left.
‘What’s this? Did those extremists manage to turn your head or what?’
‘Chekov, ji, don’t be a fool. Who needs extremists when there are the killings in Delhi?
Hundreds, maybe thousands. Sikh men scalped and burned alive in front of their
families. Boy-children, too.’
‘We know this.’
‘Then, ji, we also know who was behind it.’
‘There is not a shred of evidence,’ Chekov repeated the policy line.
‘There are eyewitnesses and photographs,’ said Zulu. ‘We know this.’
‘There are those who think’, said Chekov slowly, ‘that after Indiraji the Sikhs deserved
what they got.’
‘You know me better than that, I hope,’ said Chekov. ‘Zulu, for God’s sake, come on. All
our bleddy lives.’
‘No Congress workers have been indicted,’ said Zulu. ‘In spite of all the evidence of
complicity. Therefore, I resign. You should quit, too.’
‘If you have gone so damn radical,’ cried Chekov, ‘why hand over these lists at all? Why
go only half the bleddy hog?’
‘I am a security wallah,’ said Zulu, opening the car door. ‘Terrorists of all sorts are my
foes. But not, apparently, in certain circumstances, yours.’
‘Zulu, get in, damn it,’ Chekov shouted. ‘Don’t you care for your career? A wife and four
kiddiwinks to support. What about your old chums? Are you going to turn your back on
But Zulu was already too far away.
Chekov and Zulu never met again. Zulu settled in Bombay and as the demand for
private-sector protection increased in that cash-rich boom-town, so his Zulu Shield and
Zulu Spear companies prospered and grew. He had three more children, all of them
boys, and remains happily married to this day.
As for Chekov, he never did take a wife. In spite of this supposed handicap, however, he
did well in his chosen profession. His rapid rise continued. But one day in May 1991 he
was, by chance, a member of the entourage accompanying Mr Rajiv Gandhi to the South
Indian village of Sriperumbudur, where Rajiv was to address an election rally. Security
was lax, intentionally so. In the previous election, Rajivji felt, the demands of security
had placed an alienating barrier between himself and the electorate. On this occasion,
he decreed, the voters must be allowed to feel close.
After the speeches, the Rajiv group descended from the podium. Chekov, who was just a
few feet behind Rajiv, saw a small Tamil woman come forward, smiling. She shook
Rajiv’s hand and did not let go. Chekov understood what she was smiling about, and the
knowledge was so powerful that it stopped time itself.
Because time had stopped, Chekov was able to make a number of private observations.
‘These Tamil revolutionists are not England-returned,’ he noted. ‘So, finally, we have
learned to produce the goods at home, and no longer need to import. Bang goes that old
dinner-party standby; so to speak.’ And, less dryly: ‘The tragedy is not how one dies,’ he
thought. ‘It is how one has lived.’
The scene around him vanished, dissolving in a pool of light, and was replaced by the
bridge of the Starship Enterprise. All the leading figures were in their appointed places.
Zulu sat beside Chekov at the front.
‘Shields no longer operative,’ Zulu was saying. On the main screen, they could see the
Klingon Bird of Prey uncloaking, preparing to strike.
‘One direct hit and we’re done for,’ cried Dr McCoy. ‘For God’s sake, Jim, get us out of
‘Illogical,’ said First Officer Spock. ‘The degradation of our dilithium crystal drive means
that warp speed is unavailable. At impulse power only, we would make a poor attempt
indeed to flee the Bird of Prey. Our only logical course is unconditional surrender.’
‘Surrender to a Klingon!’ shouted McCoy. ‘Damn it, you cold-blooded, pointy-eared
adding-machine, don’t you know how they treat their prisoners?’
‘Phaser banks completely depleted,’ said Zulu. ‘Offensive capability nil.’
‘Should I attempt to contact the Klingon captain, sir?’ Chekov inquired. ‘They could fire
at any moment.’
‘Thank you, Mr Chekov,’ said Captain Kirk. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be necessary. On this
occasion, the worst-case scenario is the one we are obliged to play out. Hold your
position. Steady as she goes.’
‘The Bird of Prey has fired, sir,’ said Zulu.
Chekov took Zulu’s hand and held it firmly, victoriously, as the speeding balls of deadly