The catacombs are suspiciously cave-like. My, they're getting a lot of mileage out of that set. Trip obediently follows Vulcan the Younger, stopping at one point to look at three curious looking holes in the distance. They kind of look like two eyes and a mouth...seems sort of familiar...hmmm. Trip gets distracted by various other relics and cobwebs before running smack into an upright mummified Vulcan. He's a bit startled. It's just a bit too Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom for me. Not that it's scary. More that it sucks. "Master Haadock," Vulcan the Younger tells Trip, "one of the founders of P'Jem. The transmitter's this way." Trip follows, mumbling a jaunty "fellas" to the mummies. I wish one of them would lunge at him Boris-Karloff-style. Finally, in the deepest of dark and dusty corners, they find the transmitter. And it's a Mac Classic. Before turning his attention to the duty at hand, Trip decides to look at another curious structure -- two golden pieces of wood forming a pointed arch on the wall. "What's down there?" he asks. "The reliquary," Vulcan the Younger answers, "our most sacred artifacts are kept there [and the Vulcan McDonald's]. This is the transmitter." Trip hands Vulcan the Younger his torch and examines the dusty piece of equipment. He puts his foot up against it -- it helps him think better -- and rips the back off. "Looks like a krellide power cell," Trip says, blowing dust off of the motherboard.

Upstairs, it's Peacocks on Parade as they go to check on their hostages. It's suddenly night, and they sweep their flashlights around the room, counting Vulcans and Pink-skins. But where are Trip and Vulcan the Younger? Whew, there they are, playing possum by the hidden entrance to the catacombs. Sneaky devils. The Powder Blues leave. Trip scrabbles to his feet and starts playing with the krellide power cell. Vulcan the Elder offers him a blanket, saying, "There is one to spare." "Naw thanks, it'll just get in my way," Trip says, clicking and clacking away. Vulcan the Elder hands the blanket to Quantum, who in turn pushes it at T'Pol. She declines, telling him she'll be able to handle the cold better than he. Quantum drapes it over himself and asks T'Pol if the Talkin' Hava Negilah Blues have a transporter. T'Pol answers in the negative. "That gives us the element of surprise," Quantum says, fluffing up the floor and getting comfortable. "We could bring an assault team into the atrium." T'Pol points out that the sound of the transporter would alert the guards to start firing before the assault team is completely resequenced. Not to mention the telltale sparkly stuff that goes along with it. "What about this room?" Quantum asks. "By the time the Andorians detect the transport, we'd be armed and ready." "For what?" T'Pol asks pointedly. "A fire-fight in close quarters with a dozen monks at risk?" As usual when he's wrong, Quantum gets irritated and asks if she has any better ideas. T'Pol edges away, hugging herself for warmth. Quantum lifts the blanket. "There's room in here," he tells her. "I'm fine," T'Pol says. "You're freezing," Quantum tells her. "It's been twenty-four hours since I took my nasal numbing agent. The cold is preferable to the odor," T'Pol tells him. Wouldn't it be logical for her to share a blanket with a Vulcan monk? We all know there's no more chance of two Vulcans becoming amorous in this situation than there is of a Vulcan and a human. Less, even.