Back above Earth's atmosphere, the Enterprise is docked in a strange contraption that looks very much like one of my hairclips. A space pod zooms up to the hairclip. Inside the ship, various blue-jumpsuited crewmembers are loading and carrying equipment. The interior is very shadowy, spare, and grey. Very much akin to the submarine interior the set designers studied. Travis Mayweather and Malcolm Reed (the Brit with the chiseled cheeks) walk up to a hollowed-out octagonal chamber lined with bars of lights. "I heard this platform's been approved for bio-transport," Mayweather tells Reed. Reed fixes him with a British fish-eye: "I presume you mean fruits and vegetables," he says. "I mean armory officers and helmsmen," Mayweather tells him (note: Reed is the armory officer, and Mayweather is the helmsman), and walks over to investigate the transporter platform. Reed pauses and says, partially to himself, "I don't think I'm quite ready to have my molecules compressed into a data stream." Mayweather tells him, "They claim it's safe." "Do they indeed? Well, I certainly hope the Captain doesn't plan on making us use it." Mayweather tells him not to worry, because from what he's told, "he wouldn't even put his dog through this thing." Reed and Mayweather watch a box of equipment materialize in a "data stream" of silver sparkles and dots. Reed pops the case open and sighs with annoyance, "This is ridiculous, I ask for plasma coils and they send me a case of valve sealant." I hate it when that happens. "There's no way I can have these weapons online in three days," Reed tells Mayweather. "Well, we're just taking a sick man back to his homeworld, why do we need weapons?" Mayweather asks. Oh, you poor deluded human. Reed asks him if he's read the profile on the Klingons: "Evidently they sharpen their teeth before they go into battle," Reed says. Mayweather laughs nervously, expecting Reed to tell him he's kidding, but Reed just looks at him, and Mayweather's smile fades.