by James Blish
The bridge speaker spoke. "Shuttlecraft to Enterprise."
"Report, Mr. Spock."
"The power drain is enormous and growing worse." Static crackled. "I am diverting all secondary power systems to the shields. I will continue communications as long as there is power to transmit."
Spock would be huddled now, Kirk knew, over the craft's control panel. He'd be busy shutting off power systems. Somehow Scott had suddenly materialized beside his command chair. "Captain! He won't have power enough to get back if he diverts it to his shields!"
"Spock," Kirk began.
"I heard, Captain. We recognized that probability earlier. But you will need information communicated."
"When do you estimate penetration?"
"In one point three minutes. Brace yourselves. The area of penetration will no doubt be sensitive."
What was Spock's screen showing? What was his closeup like? The details of the debris-mottled membrane, the enlarging granular structure of the protoplasm under it, two thousand miles thick?
"Contact in six seconds," Spock's voice said.
A tremor shook the Enterprise. That meant the massive shock of impact for the shuttlecraft. Its lights would dim, alone in the dimness inside the thing. Kirk seized the microphone.
"Report, Mr. Spock."
Silence reported. Had Spock already lost consciousness? The organism would try to dislodge the craft. It would convulse, its convulsions sending its painful intruder into a spinning vortex of repeated shocks.
"Spock . . ."
The voice came, weak now. "I am undamaged, Captain . . . relay to Mr. Scott . . . I had three percent power reserve . . . before the shields stabilized. I . . . will proceed with my tests . . . The voice faded . . . then it returned. "Dr. McCoy . . . you would not . . . have survived this . . ."
Kirk saw that McCoy's eyes were moist. "You wanna bet, Spock?" His voice broke on the name.
"I am . . . moving very slowly now—establishing course toward . . . the nucleus."
Chekov, . . . white-faced, called from the computer. "Sir, Mr. Spock has reduced his life support systems to bare minimum. I suppose to maintain communications."
Kirk's hand was wet on his microphone. "Spock, save your power for the shields."
Static sputtered from the microphone. Between its cracklings, words could be heard. "My . . . calculations indicate—shields . . . only forty-seven minutes." More obliterating static. It quieted. "Identified . . . Chromosome structure. Changes in it . . . reproduction process about to begin . . ."
Ashen, McCoy cried, "Then there'll be two of these things!"
"Spock . . ."
Kirk got an earful of static. He waited. 'I . . . am having . . . some difficulty . . . ship control."
Kirk looked away from the pain in McCoy's face. He waited again. As though it were warning of its waning usefulness, the mike spoke in jagged phrases. ". . . losing voice contact . . . transmitting . . . here are internal coordinates . . . chromosome bodies . . ."
Uhura turned from her console. "Contact lost, sir. But I got the coordinates."
"Captain!" It was Chekov. "The shuttlecraft shields are breaking! Fluctuations of energy inside the organism."
"Aye," Scott said. "It's time he got out of there." There was nobody to look at but himself, Kirk thought. He was the man who had sent his best friend to death. He had sent Spock out to suffocate in the foul entrails of a primordial freak. That was a truth to somehow be lived with for the rest of his life. His chair lurched under him. The ship gave a shudder. Numbly, Kirk righted himself. Then, suddenly, in a blast of realization, he knew. "Bones!" The word tore from him in a shout. "He's alive! He's still alive! He made the craft kick the thing to force it to squirm—and let us know!"
Uhura spoke. "Captain, I'm getting telemetry."
"Mr. Chekov—telemetry analysis as it comes in."
McCoy was still brooding on what reproduction of the organism meant. "According to Spock's telemetry analysis, there are forty chromosomes in that nucleus ready to divide." He paused. "If the energy of this thing merely doubles, everybody and everything within a light year of it will be dead." He paced the length of the bridge and came back "Soon there will be two of it, four, eight, and more—a promise of a combined anti-life force that could encompass the entire galaxy."
"That's what Spock knows, Bones. He knows. He knows we have no choice but to try and destroy it when he transmitted those coordinates of the chromosomes."
Scott said, "Look at your panel, Captain. The pull from the thing is increasing. The drain on our shields is getting critical."
"How much time, Scotty?"
"Not more than an hour now, sir."
"Shield power is an unconditional priority. Put all secondary systems on standby."
"Aye, sir."
"Bones, can we kill that thing without killing Spock? And ourselves, too?"
"I don't know. It's a living cell. If we had an antibiotic that—"
"How many billions of kiloliters would it take?"
"Okay, Jim. Okay."
Uhura, her face radiant, turned from her console. "I'm receiving a message from Mr. Spock, sir. Low energy channel, faint but readable."
"Give it to me, Lieutenant."
"Faint" wasn't the word. Weak was. Very weak now. Spock said, "I . . . am losing life support . . . and minimal shield energy. The organism's nervous energy is . . . only maximal within protective membrane . . . interior . . . relatively insensitive . . . sufficient charge of . . . could destroy . . . tell Dr. McCoy . . . he should have wished . . . me luck . . ."
The bridge people sensed the burden of the message. Silence fell, speech faltering at the realization that Spock was lost. Only the lowered hum of power-drained machinery made itself heard.
Kirk lay unmoving on the couch in his quarters. Spock was dead. And to what point? If he'd been able to transmit his information on how to destroy the thing, he would have died for a purpose. But even that small joy had been denied to him. Spock was dead for no purpose at all, to no end that mattered to him.
Without knocking, McCoy came in and sat down on the couch beside the motionless Kirk.
"What's on your mind, Dr. McCoy?"
"Spock," McCoy said. "Call me sentimental. I've been called worse things. I believe he's still alive out there in that mess of protoplasm."
"He knew the odds when he went out. He knew so much. Now he's dead." Kirk lifted an arm into the air, contemplating the living hand at the end of it. "What is this thing? Not intelligent. At least, not yet."
"It is disease," McCoy said.
"This cell—this germ extending its filthy life for eleven thousand miles—one single cell of it. When it's grown to billions, we will be the germs. We shall be the disease invading its body."
"That's a morbid thought, Jim. Its whole horror lies in its size."
"Yes. And when our form of life was born, what micro-universe did we destroy? How does a body destroy an infection, Bones?"
"By forming anti-bodies."
"Then that's what we've got to be—an anti-body." He looked at McCoy. Then, repeating the word "antibody," he jumped to his feet and struck the intercom button. "Scotty, suppose you diverted all remaining power to the shields? Suppose you gave it all to them—and just kept impulse power in reserve?"
"Cut off the engine thrust?" Scott cried. "Why, we'd be sucked into that thing as helplessly as if it were a wind tunnel!"
"Exactly, Mr. Scott. Prepare to divert power on my signal. Kirk out."
He turned to find himself facing McCoy's diagnostic Feinberger. "Got something to say, Bones?"
"Technically, no. Medically, yes. Between the strain and the stimulants, your edges are worn smooth. You're to keep off your feet for a while."
"I don't have a while. None of us do. Let's go . . ."
He took time to compose his face before he stepped out of the bridge elevator. He took his place in his command chair before he spoke into the intercom. "All hands, this is the Captain
speaking. We are going to enter the body of this organism. Damage-control parties stand by—all decks secure for collision. Kirk out"
"It's now or never," he thought—and called Engineering.
"Ready, Mr. Scott?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now," Kirk said.
The ship took a violent forward plunge. Kirk, gripping his chair, glanced at the screen. The blackness grew denser as they sped toward it. "Impact—twenty-five seconds, sir," Sulu said intensely.
Then shock knocked Sulu from his chair. Something flared from the screen. Chekov, sprawled on the deck, looked up at his console as the ship steadied. "We're through, sir!" he shouted.
Uhura, recovering her position, called, "Damage parties report minimal hurt, Captain."
Kirk didn't acknowledge the information. The blackness on the screen had gone opaque. The Enterprise, lost in the vast interior of the organism, moved sluggishly through the lightlessness of gray jelly.
Engineering again. "Mr. Scott, we still have our impulse power?"
"I saved all I could, sir. I don't know if there's enough to get us out of this again. Or time enough to do it in."
"We have committed ourselves, Mr. Scott."
"Aye. But what are we committed to? We've got no power for the phasers."
McCoy made an impatient gesture. "We couldn't use them if we did. Their heat would rebound from this muck and roast us alive."
"The organism would love the phasers. It eats power—" Kirk broke off. A frantic Scott, rushing from the elevator, had caught his last word. "Power!" he cried. "That's the problem, Captain! If we can't use power to destroy this beast, what is it we can use?"
"Anti-power," Kirk said.
"What?" McCoy said.
Scott was staring at him. "This thing has a negative energy charge. Everything that has worked has worked in reverse. In its body, we're an anti-body, Scotty. So we'll use anti-power—anti-matter—to kill it."
Scott's tension relaxed like a pricked balloon. "Aye, sir! That it couldn't swallow! What good God gave you that idea, Captain?"
"Mr. Spock," Kirk said. "It's what he was trying to tell us before . . . we lost him. Mr. Chekov, prepare a probe. Scotty, well need a magnetic bottle for the charge. How soon?"
"It's on its way, laddie!"
"Mr. Chekov, timing detonator on the probe. We'll work out the setting. Mr. Sulu, what's our estimated arrival at the nucleus?"
"Seven minutes, sir."
"Jim, how close are you going to it?"
"Point-blank range. Implant it—and back away."
"But the probe has a range of—"
Kirk interrupted McCoy. "The eddies and currents in the protoplasm could drift the probe thousands of kilometers away from the nucleus. No, we must be directly on target. We won't get a second chance."
Kirk rubbed the stiffening muscles at the nape of his neck. "Time for another stimulant, Bones."
"You'll blow up. How long do you think you can go on taking that stuff?"
"Just hold me together for another seven minutes."
He took one of the minutes to address his Captain's log. "Should we fail in this mission, I wish to record here that the following personnel receive special citations: Lieutenant Commander Leonard McCoy, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott,—and my highest recommendation to Commander Spock, Science Officer, who has given his life in performance of his duty."
As he punched off the recorder, Scott, hurrying back to the command chair, paused to listen to Sulu say, "Target coordinates programmed, sir. Probe ready to launch."
"Mr. Sulu, program the fuse for a slight delay." He swung to Chekov. "All non-essential systems on standby. Communications, prepare for scanning. Conserve every bit of power. We've got to make it out of this membrane before the explosion. Make it work, Scotty. Pray it works."
"Aye, sir."
"Mr. Chekov, launch probe at zero acceleration. Forward thrust, one tenth second."
"Probe launched," Chekov said.
The moment finally passed. Then the ship bucked to the sound of straining metal. In the dimness made by the fading lights of the bridge, the air became sultry, suddenly heavy, oppressive. Kirk could feel the racing of his body's pulses. Then the air was breathable again; Chekov, turning, said, "Confirmed, sir. The probe is lodged in the nucleus . . . close to the chromosome bodies."
Kirk nodded. "Mr. Sulu, back out of here the way we came in. Let's not waste time. That was a nice straight line, Mr. Chekov."
Chekov flushed with pleasure. "Estimate we'll be out in six point thirty-nine minutes, sir." He glanced back at his panel, frowning. "Captain! Metallic substance outside the ship!"
"Spock?" McCoy said.
Chekov flicked on the screen. "Yes, sir. It's the shuttlecraft, lying there dead on its side."
In one bound Kirk was beside Uhura. "Lieutenant, give me Mr. Spock's voice channel! High gain!"
The microphone shook in his hand as he waited for her to test the wave length. "Ready, sir," she said.
He waited again to try and steady his voice. "Mr. Spock, do you read me? Spock, come in!" He whirled to Scott. "Mr. Scott, tractor beam!"
"Captain . . . we don't have the time to do it! We've got only a fifty-three percent escape margin!"
"Will you kindly take an order, Lieutenant Commander? Two tractor beams on that craft!"
Scott reddened. "Tractor beams on, sir."
"Glad to hear it!" Kirk said—and incredibly the mike in his hand was speaking. "I . . . recommend you . . . abandon this attempt, Captain. Do . . . not risk the ship further . . . on my account."
Wordless, Kirk handed the mike to McCoy. McCoy looked at him and he nodded. "Shut up, Spock!" McCoy yelled. You're being rescued!" He returned the mike to Kirk.
Spock said, "Thank you, Captain McCoy."
Weak as he was, Kirk thought, he'd find the strength to cock one sardonic eyebrow.
Weak—but alive. A knowledge better than McCoy's stimulants. "Time till explosion, Mr. Chekov?"
"Fifty-seven seconds, sir."
"You're maintaining tractor beam on the shuttle-craft, Mr. Scott?"
"Aye, sir." But the Scottish gloom of Kirk's favorite engineer was still unsubdued. "However, I can't guarantee it will hold when that warhead explodes." He glanced at his board. Despite the dourness of his expectations, he gave a startled jump. "The power levels show dead, sir."
Then the power levels and everything else ceased to matter. The ship whirled. A white-hot glare flashed through the bridge. McCoy was smashed to the deck. In the glare Kirk saw Chekov snatched from his chair to fall unconscious at the elevator door. Uhura's body, on the floor beside her console, rolled to the ship's rolling. Disinterestedly, Kirk realized that blood was pouring from a gash in his forehead. A handkerchief appeared in his hand—and Sulu crawled away from him back in the direction of his chair. He sat up and tied the handkerchief around his head. It's what you did in a tough tennis game to keep the sweat out of your eyes . . . a long time since he played tennis . . .
"Mr. Sulu," he said, "can you activate the view-screen?"
Stars. They had come back. The stars had come back.
A good crew. Chekov had limped back to his station. Not that he needed to say it. But it was good to hear, anyway. "The organism is destroyed, Captain. The explosion must have ruptured the membrane. It's thrown us clear."
The stars were back. So was the power.
Kirk laid his hand on Scott's shoulder. "And the shuttlecraft, Scotty?"
Spock's voice spoke from the bridge speaker. "Shuttlecraft to Enterprise. Request permission to come aboard."
Somebody put the mike in his hand. "You survived that volcano, Mr. Spock?"
"Obviously, Captain. And I have some very interesting data on the organism that I was unable to . . ."
McCoy, rubbing his bruised side, shouted, "Don't be so smart, Spock! You botched that acetylcholine test, don't forget!"
"Old Home Week," Kirk said. "Bring the shuttlecraft aboard, Mr. Scott. Mr.
Chekov, lay in a course for Starbase Six. Warp factor five."
He untied the bloody handkerchief. "Thanks, Mr. Sulu. I'll personally see it to the laundry. Now I'm off to the hangar deck. Then Mr. Spock and I will be breaking out our mountaineering gear."