by James Blish
"What sort of boundary layer?"
"I don't know, Captain."
"Boundary between what and what?"
"Between where we were and where we are." At Kirk's stare, he went on. "I still have no specifics, sir. But we seem to have entered an area of energy that is not compatible with life or mechanical processes. As we move on, the source of it will grow stronger—and we will grow weaker."
"Recommendations?"
McCoy spoke. "I recommend survival, Jim. Let's get out of here." He turned and walked to the elevator, the nurse behind him.
Kirk faced around to the questioning faces. And Starbase had demanded a "progress" report. Progress to what? The fate of the Intrepid—the billions of lives that had once breathed on Gamma Seven A? Bureaucracy . . . evasion by comfortable chairs.
He walked slowly back to his uncomfortable chair. The intercom button—yes. "This is the Captain speaking," he said. "We have entered an area that is unfamiliar to us. All hands were tired to begin with and we've all sustained something of a shock. But we've had stimulants. Our deflectors are holding. We've got a good ship. And we know what our mission is. Let's get on with the job. Kirk out."
His own intercom button beeped. "Sickbay to Captain."
"Kirk. Go ahead, Bones."
Before he went ahead, McCoy glanced at the semiconscious Yeoman lying on his diagnostic couch. "Jim, one after another . . . life energy levels . . . my indicators . . ."
Kirk spoke quietly. "Say it, Bones."
"We are dying," McCoy said. "My life monitors show that we are all, each one of us, dying."
The sweat of his own weakness broke from Kirk's pores. He could feel it run cold down his chest.
But the ordeal of the Enterprise had just begun. Kirk, down in Engineering, was flung against a mounded dynamo at a sudden lurch of the ship. "And that? What was that, Mr. Scott?"
"An accident, sir. We went into reverse."
"Reverse? That was a forward lurch! How could that occur in reverse thrust?"
"I don't know, sir. All I know is that our power levels are draining steadily. They're down to twelve percent. I've never experienced anything like it before."
Spock came in on the intercom. "Captain, we are accelerating. The zone of darkness is pulling us toward it."
"Pulling us? How, Mr. Spock?"
"I don't know. However, I suggest that Mr. Scott give us reverse power."
"Mr. Spock, he just gave us reverse power!"
"Then I reverse my suggestion, sir. Ask him to apply a forward thrust."
"Mr. Scott, you heard that. Let's try the forward thrust."
The Engineering Chief shook his head. "I don't know, sir. It contradicts all the rules of logic."
"Logic is Mr. Spock's specialty."
"Yes, sir, but—"
"Nudge it slowly into forward thrust, Mr. Scott."
Scott carefully advanced three controls. Eyeing his instruments anxiously, he relaxed. "That did it, Captain. We're slowing now. But the forward movement hasn't stopped. We're still being pulled ahead."
"Keep applying the forward thrust against the pull. Have one of your men monitor these instruments."
Instruments in Sickbay were being monitored, too. Nurse Chapel, watching her life function indicators, called, "Doctor, they're showing another sharp fall." McCoy, whirling to look, muttered, "Stimulants. How long can we keep them up?" He was checking the panel when Kirk's voice came from the intercom. "This is the Captain speaking. All department heads will report to the Briefing Room in ten minutes. They will come with whatever information gathered on this zone of darkness we are in."
McCoy took his gloom with him to the Briefing Room. Slamming some tape cartridges down on the table, he said, "My sole contribution is the fact that the further we move into this zone of darkness, the weaker our life functions get. I have no idea why." Reaching for a chair, he staggered slightly.
"Bones . . ."
He waved the solicitude aside. "I'm all right. All those stimulants—they catch up with you."
Scott spoke. "As far as the power levels are concerned, everything's acting backwards. But the drain is continuing. And we're still being dragged forward."
"Mr. Spock?" Kirk said.
"I am assuming that something within the zone absorbs both biological and mechanical energy. It would appear to be the same thing that sucked energy from an entire solar system—and the Starship Intrepid."
"Some thing, Mr. Spock? Not the zone itself?"
"I would say not, Captain. Analysis of the zone suggests it is a negative energy field, however illogical that may sound. But it is not the source of the power drains."
"A shield, then," Kirk said. "An outer layer of protection for something else."
"But what?" Scott said.
"It's pulling the life out of us, whatever it is," McCoy grunted.
"We'll find out what it is," Kirk said. "But first we have to get out of here ourselves." He leaned across the table. "Mr. Scott, forward thrust slowed down our advance before. If you channel all warp and impulse power into one massive forward thrust, it might snap us out of the zone."
Scott's face lightened. "Aye, Captain. I'll reserve enough for the shields in case we don't get out."
Spock's voice was as expressionless as his face. "I submit, Mr. Scott, that if we do not get out, the shields would merely prolong our wait for death."
Kirk regarded him somberly. "Yes. You will apply all power as needed to get us out of here, Mr. Scott. Report to your stations, everybody, and continue your research. Dismissed."
As they left, he remained seated, head bowed on his hand. At the door Spock stopped, and came back to stand, waiting, at the table. Kirk looked up at him. "The Intrepid's crew would have done all these things, Captain," Spock said. "They were destroyed." Kirk drummed his fingers on the table. "They may not have done all these things. You've just told us what an illogical situation this is."
"True, sir. It is also true that they never discovered what killed them."
"How can you know that?"
"Vulcan has not been conquered within its collective memory. It is a memory that goes so far back no Vulcan can any longer conceive of a conqueror. I know the ship was defeated because I sensed its death."
"What was it exactly you felt, Mr. Spock?" "Astonishment. Profound astonishment."
"My Vulcan friend," Kirk said. He got up. "Let's get back to the bridge."
Engineering was calling him as they came out of the elevator. Hurrying to his chair, Kirk pushed the intercom stud. "Kirk here, Scotty."
"We've completed arrangements, sir. I'm ready to try it when you are."
"We've got the power to pull it off?"
The voice was glum. "I hope so, Captain."
"Stand by, Scotty." He pushed another button. "All hands, this is the Captain speaking. An unknown force is pulling us deeper into the zone of darkness. We will apply all available power in one giant forward thrust in the hope it will yank us out of the zone. Prepare yourselves for a big jolt." He buzzed Engineering. "Ready, Mr. Scott. Let's get on with it. Now!"
They were prepared for the jolt. And it was big. But what they weren't prepared for was the violently accelerating lunge that followed the jolt. Scott and a crewman crashed against a rear wall. McCoy and Christine Chapel were sent reeling back through two sections of Sickbay. In the bridge an African plant nurtured by Uhura flew through the air to smash against the elevator door. People were hurled bodily over the backs of their chairs. There was another fierce lurch of acceleration. The ship tossed like a rearing horse. Metal screamed. Lights faded. Finally, the Enterprise steadied.
From the floor where he'd been tumbled, Kirk looked at the screen.
Failure. The starless black still possessed it.
Weary, bruised, Kirk hauled himself back into his chair. The question had to be asked. He asked it. "Mr. Scott, are we still losing power?"
"Aye, sir. All we did was to pull away a bit. The best we can do now is maintain
thrust against the pull to hold our distance."
"How long do we have?"
"At this rate of drain plus the draw on all systems—two hours, Captain."
As Kirk got to his feet, another wave of weakness swept over him. It passed—and he moved over to the computer station. "We're trying to hold our distance, Mr. Spock. Have you yet ascertained what we are holding the distance from?"
Spock, his eyes on his own screen, said, "I have not found out what that thing is, Captain. But it seems to have found us."
Kirk wheeled to the bridge viewer. In the center of its blackness a bright object had become visible—bright, pulsating, elongated.
Staring at it, Kirk said, "Mr. Chekov, prepare to launch a probe."
Bent to his hooded computer, Spock said, "Very confused readings, Captain—but that object is definitely the source of the energy drains."
"Mr. Chekov, launch probe," Kirk said.
"Probe launched, sir. Impact in seven point three seconds."
Without order Sulu began the countdown. "Six, five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . now!"
The ship trembled. Lights bunked. But that was all.
"Mr. Chekov, do we still have contact with the probe?"
"Yes, sir. Data being relayed to Mr. Spock."
"Mr. Spock?"
The Vulcan's head was hidden under the computer's mound. "Readings coming in now, Captain. Length, approximately eleven thousand miles. Varying in width from two thousand to three thousand miles. Outer layer strewn with space debris and other wastes. Interior consists of protoplasm varying from a firmer gelatinous layer to a semi-fluid central mass."
He withdrew his head from the computer. "Condition . . . living."
The faces around Kirk were stunned. He looked away from them and back at Spock. "Living," he said. Then, his voice very quiet, he said, "Magnification four, Mr. Sulu. On the main screen."
He had expected a horror—and he received it. The screen held what might be a nightmare of some child who had played with a lab microscope—a monstrous, amoebalike protozoan. The gigantic nucleus throbbed, its chromosome bodies vaguely shadowed under its gelatinous, spotted skin. In open loathing, Kirk shut his eyes. But he could not dispel his searing memory of what continued to show on the screen.
In Sickbay's lab, McCoy was parading a pictured series of one-celled creatures. On the small view-screen a paramecium, its cilia wriggling, came and went. Then McCoy said, "This is an amoeba."
If life was movement, ingestion, the thing was alive, a microscopic inhabitant of stagnant pools. As Kirk watched, a pseudopod extended itself, groping but intent on a fragment of food. There was a blind greed in the creature that sickened Kirk.
"I've seen them before," he said. "Like that, enlarged by microscope. But this thing out there is eleven thousand miles long! Are you saying that anything so huge is a single-celled animal?"
"For lack of a better term, Jim. Huge as it is, it is a very simple form of life. And it can perform all the functions necessary to qualify it as a living organism. It can reproduce, receive sense impressions, act on them, and eat, though what its diet is I wouldn't know."
"Energy," Spock said. "Energy drained from us. I would speculate that this unknown life form is invading the galaxy like an infection."
"Mr. Spock, the Intrepid died of this particular infection. Why have we survived so long?'
"The Intrepid must have come upon it when it was hungry, low in energy. We are not safe, Captain. We merely have a little more time than the Intrepid had."
"Bones, this zone of darkness. Does the thing generate it itself as some form of protection?"
"That's one of the things we have to find out, Jim. We need a closer look at it."
"The closer to it we get, the faster it eats our energy. We're barely staying alive at this distance from it."
McCoy shut off his screen. "We could risk the shuttlecraft. With special shielding, it might—"
"I'm not sending anybody anywhere near that thing! Unmanned probes will give us the information we need to destroy it."
"I must differ with you, Captain," Spock said. "We have sent probes into it. They have told us some facts but not those we need to know. We're in no position to expend the power to take blind shots at it. We need a target."
McCoy said, "One man could go in . . . pinpoint its vulnerable spots."
"And the odds against his coming back?" Kirk cried. "How can I order anyone to take such a chance?"
"Who mentioned orders?" McCoy demanded. "You've got yourself a volunteer, Jim, my boy. I've already done the preliminary work."
"Bones, it's a suicide mission!"
"Doctor, this thing has reflexes. The unmanned probe stung it when it entered. The lurch we felt was the turbulence of its reaction."
"All right, Spock," McCoy said. "Then I'll have the sense to go slow when I penetrate it."
Spock studied him. "There is a latent martyr in you, Doctor. It is an affliction that disqualifies you to undertake the mission."
"Martyr?" McCoy yelled. "You think I intend to bypass the chance to get into the greatest living laboratory ever?"
"The Intrepid carried physicians and psychologists, Doctor. They died."
"Just because Vulcans failed doesn't mean a human will."
Kirk hit the table with his fist. "Will you both kindly shut up? I've told you! I'm not taking volunteers!"
"You don't think you're going, do you?" McCoy shouted.
"I am a command pilot!" Kirk said. "And as such, I am the qualified person. So let's have an end of this!"
"You have just disqualified yourself, Captain," Spock said. "As the command pilot you are indispensable. Nor are you the scientific specialist which I am."
McCoy glared at Spock. "Jim, that organism contains chemical processes we've never seen before and may never, let's hope, see again. We could learn more in one day than—"
"We don't have a day," Kirk said. "We have precisely one hour and thirty-five minutes. Then all our power is exhausted."
"Jim . . ."
"Captain . . ."
Kirk whirled on them both. "I will decide who can best serve the success of this mission! When I have made my command decision—command decision, gentlemen—you will be notified."
He turned on his heel and left them.
The solitude of his quarters felt good. He closed the door behind him, unhooked his belt and with his back turned to the clock's face deliberately stretched himself out on his bunk. Relax. Let the quiet move up, inch by inch, from his feet to his throbbing head. Let go. If you could just let go, answers sometimes welled up from an untapped wisdom that resisted pushing. "God, let me relax," Kirk prayed.
It was true. He was indispensable. There was no room in command authority for the heroics of phony modesty. As to Bones, he did have the medical-biological advantages he'd claimed. But Spock, the born athlete, the physical-fitness fanatic, the Vulcan logician and Science Officer, was both physically and emotionally better suited to withstand the stresses of such a mission. Yet who could know what invaluable discoveries Bones might make if he got his chance to make them? So it was up to him—Kirk. The choice was his. One of his friends had to be condemned to probable death. Which one?
He drew a long shuddering breath. Then he reached out to the intercom over his head and shoved its button. "This is the Captain speaking. Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock report to my quarters at once. Kirk out."
The beep came as he sat up. "Engineering to Captain Kirk."
"Go ahead, Scotty."
"You wanted to be kept informed of the power drain, sir. All levels have sunk to fifty percent. Still draining. We can maintain power for another hour and fifteen minutes."
"Right, Scotty." He drew a hand over the bunk's coverlet, stared at the hand, and said, "Prepare the shuttlecraft for launching."
"What's that, sir?"
"You heard me, Scotty, Dr. McCoy will tell you what special equipment to install. Kirk out."
Of cour
se. The knock on his door. He got up and opened it. They were both standing there, their mutual antagonism weaving back and forth between them. "Come in, gentlemen." There was no point, no time for suspense. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spock," Kirk said heavily.
McCoy flashed a look of triumph at Spock. "Well, done, Jim," he said. "I'll get the last few things I need and—"
Kirk stopped him in midstride. "Not you, Bones." He turned to Spock. "I'm sorry, Spock. I am sorry you are the best qualified to go."
Spock nodded briefly. He didn't speak as he passed the crushed McCoy.
The door to the hangar-deck elevator slid open. Spock moved aside to allow McCoy to precede him out of it. "Do not suffer so, Doctor. Professional credentials are very valuable. But superior resistance to strain has occasionally proved more valuable."
"Nothing has been proven yet!" McCoy controlled himself with an effort. "My DNA code analyzer will give you the fundamental structure of the organism. You'll need readings on three light wavelengths from the enzyme recorder,"
"I am familiar with the equipment, Doctor. Time is passing. The shuttlecraft is ready."
"You just won't let me share in this at all, will you, Spock?"
"This is not a competition, Doctor. Kindly grant me my own kind of dignity."
"Vulcan dignity? How can I grant you what I don't understand?"
"Then employ one of your human superstitions. Wish me luck, Dr. McCoy."
McCoy gave him a startled look. Without rejoinder, he shoved the button that opened the hangar-deck door. Beyond them the metallic skin of the chosen shuttlecraft gleamed dimly. Two technicians busied themselves with it, making some final arrangements. Spock, without looking back, walked through the hangar door. McCoy saw him climb into the craft. Then the door slid closed; McCoy, alone, muttered, "Good luck, Spock, damn you."
Kirk, on the bridge, waited. Then Sulu turned. "All systems clear for shuttlecraft launch, sir."
It was time to say the words. "Launch shuttlecraft."
The light winked on Sulu's console. Spock was on his way. Alone. In space, alone. Committed—given over to what he, his Captain, had given him over to. Kirk heard the elevator whoosh open. McCoy came out of it. Kirk didn't turn. He said, "Lieutenant Uhura, channel telemetry directly to Mr. Chekov at the computer station."