You know you're in a grim area when you have to walk around The Heavy Link Chains Of Ill Portent hanging down from the ceiling. The Trash-Can Fires Of Dodginess also help add to that menacing atmosphere. Trip gazes about him as a bug with clacking wings lands on his shoulder. He momentarily forgets T'Pol's warning not to draw attention to himself as he jumps around, smacking at his Quilted Metallic Jacket Of The Away Mission. T'Pol chastises him with A Look and allows her chin to lead them onward. This is where UPN lives down to its reputation and I lose both video and sound for about fourteen seconds. Next thing I see is Trip leaning in to look at something; T'Pol grabs his shoulder, saying, "None of that concerns us." Shades of the cantina on Mos Eisley. Techno music plays, and two latex-covered aliens in pink and blue (definitely female, by human standards at least) gyrate for a transfixed (and mostly male) crowd around some glowing flowers. The same kind of bug that attacked Trip flutters by one of these sinewy aliens, but her ten-foot-long tongue shoots out and snags it. Down below, Reed doesn't know whether to feel repulsed or turned on. I'd say that places him firmly in the "ambiguous" category, wouldn't you? Mayweather seems more in touch with his emotions as he gazes transfixed at the insect-slurping chicks. Some alien, standing between Reed and Mayweather and gauging their reactions, asks them if they'd like to meet the sexual insectivores. "Is this where you saw Klaang?" Mayweather asks, remembering his mission. "I'll show you where," the Alien Pimp says, "but first you should enjoy yourselves. Which one do you prefer?" turning to Reed. "We should get going," Mayweather urges. "Are those real butterflies or are they holograms?" Reed asks. Because that's what he should be paying attention to in the face of overt latex sex -- the butterflies. "Sir," Mayweather urges him. "Oh, yes, absolutely. Right," Reed says. Well, with tongues like that, they'll never have to worry about working during a recession. Car washes, drain snaking, oil drilling -- the possibilities are endless.
Elsewhere, Trip sits next to an alien whose wicker basket starts to convulse and make noise. The alien places a hand on the lid to prevent it from coming off, so Trip decides it's time to stretch his legs. He notices a boy and his mother in the corner. The boy has what looks like an oxygen mask over his face, which his mother periodically removes from his face, leaving her son in asthmatic throes. Trip watches T'Pol talk to some natives. The boy starts gasping desperately again, and Trip starts to make his way over, still keeping one eye on T'Pol, who leaves her informant. "Hey!" Trip shouts at the mother, until she puts the mask back on her son's face again. T'Pol flips open her communicator and tells Cpt. Quantum that they've found no data on Klaang. "But they've told me about an enclave on level nineteen where Klingons have been known to go -- something about 'live food.'" Cool -- just like in the Mall of America. Cpt. Quantum asks where exactly on level nineteen, and T'Pol tells him, "The easternmost subsection by the geothermal shafts." Cpt. Quantum says he'll meet her there, and Trip is again distracted by the mother and the gasping kid. "What are you doing? Leave the kid alone!" he shouts. T'Pol pulls at his arm and says, "Don't get involved." "Don't you see what she's doing? He's going to suffocate!" Trip yells. "They're Lorillians. Before the age of four they can only breathe methyl oxide. The mother is simply weaning her son," T'Pol explains calmly. "You could've fooled me," Trip says, giving the Lorillian mother the stink-eye. Uh, I think they just did, Trip, honey. "Humans can't refrain from drawing conclusions. You should learn to objectify other cultures so you know when to interfere and when not to." Yes, well, you've been objectified nicely. Trip, pissed off, walks in the opposite direction from T'Pol and passes by a cloaked Suliban. So much for being on the lookout.