by James Blish
"Let that pass for the moment. We also need to find out what killed the tribbles. Was the grain poisoned—and if so, who poisoned it?"
He looked fixedly at Koloth, but the Klingon only smiled. "I had no access to it, obviously," he said. "Your guards were watching me every instant. However, Captain, before we go on—would you mind very much having that thing taken out of here?"
He pointed at the tribble in Cyrano's lap. Kirk hesitated a moment, but he could in fact sympathize; he had himself seen enough tribbles to last him a lifetime. He gestured to a guard, who lifted the creature gingerly and moved toward the door.
At the same moment, the door opened and Darvin entered belatedly. The tribble fluffed itself up and spat.
Kirk stared at it a moment in disbelief. Then, taking it from the crewman, he crossed over to Korax and held it out; it spat again. It spat at the third Klingon, too, and at Koloth. However it purred for everyone else, even including Baris—oh well, Kirk thought, there's no accounting for some people's tastes—and it went into a positive ecstasy over Spock, to the First Officer's rigidly controlled distaste. Then back to Darvin. Hisssss!
"Bones!" Kirk barked. "Check this man!"
McCoy was already at Darvin's side, tricorder out. He ran it over the man twice.
"It figures, Jim," he said. "Heartbeat all wrong, body temperature—well, never mind the details. He's a Klingon, all right."
The security men closed on Damn. "Well, well," Kirk said. "What do you think Starfleet Command will have to say about this, Mr. Baris? Bones, what did you find out about the grain?"
"Oh. It wasn't poisoned. It was infected."
"Infected," Baris repeated in a dull voice. He seemed past reacting to any further shock.
"Yes. It had been sprayed with a virus which practices metabolic mimicry. You see, the molecules of the nutriments the body takes in fit into the molecules of the body itself like a key into a lock. This virus mimics the key—but it isn't a nutriment itself. It blocks the lock so the proper nutriments can't get in. A highly oversimplified explanation, but good enough for the purpose."
"Do I mean you to imply," Kirk said, "that the tribbles starved to death? A whole warehouse full of grain, and they starved in the midst of it?"
"That's essentially it," McCoy agreed. "And would this have happened to any men who ate the grain?"
"It would happen to any warm-blooded creature. The virus is very catholic in its tastes—like rabies."
"I observe another possible consequence," Spock said. "Dr. McCoy, could the virus be killed without harming the grain?"
"I think so."
"In that case," Spock said, "Mr. Darvin's attempt at mass murder has done us all a favor, and so have Mr. Jones' tribbles."
"I don't follow you, Mr. Spock," Kirk said. "A simple logical chain, Captain. The virus without doubt prevented the tribbles from completely gutting the warehouse; fully half the grain must be left. On the other hand, the tribbles enabled us to find that the grain was infected without the loss of a single human life."
"I don't think the Federation courts will count that much in Mr. Darvin's favor, Mr. Spock, but it's a gain for us, I agree. Guards, take him out. Now, Captain Koloth, about that apology—you have six hours to get your ship out of Federation territory."
Koloth left, stiffly and silently. The tribble hissed after him.
"I hate to say this," Kirk said, "but you almost have to love tribbles just for the enemies they make. Now, Mr. Jones. Do you know what the penalty is for transporting an animal that is proven dangerous to human life? It is twenty years."
"Ah, now, Captain Kirk," Cyrano said, almost in tears. "Surely we can come to some form of mutual understanding? After all, as Mr. Spock points out, my little tribbles did tip you off to the infection in the grain—and they proved a most useful Geiger counter for detecting the Klingon agent."
"Granted," Kirk said gravely. "So if there's one task you'll undertake, I won't press charges, and when you're through with it, Commander Lurry will return your scout ship to you. If you'll remove every tribble from this space station . . ."
Cyrano gasped. "Remove every tribble? Captain, that'll take years!"
"Seventeen point nine years," Spock said, "to be exact."
"Think of it as job security," Kirk suggested.
"It's either this—or charges? Ah, Captain, you're a hard man—but I'll do it."
There was not a single tribble about the Enterprise when the party returned. It proved rather difficult to find out how this miracle had been brought about, but Scotty finally admitted to it.
"But how did you do it?"
"Oh, I just had the cleanup detail pile them all into the transporter."
"But—Scotty, you didn't just transport them out into space, did you?"
The engineer looked offended. "Sir, I'm a kindhearted man. I gave them a good home, sir."
"Where? Spit it out, man!"
"I gave them to the Klingons, sir. Just before they went into warp, I transported the whole kit and kaboodle into their engine room. And I trust, sir, that all their tribbles will be big ones."
THE LAST GUNFIGHT
(Lee Cronin)
* * *
As the Enterprise approached the Melkotian system, her sensors picked up an orbiting buoy which Captain Kirk thought it best to investigate. He had orders to contact the Melkotians "at all costs"—no explanation, just "at all costs"—but he was a peaceable man, and it was his experience that peoples who posted buoys around their planetary domains had a tendency to shoot if such markers were passed without protocol.
The buoy's comments were not encouraging. It said: "Aliens. You have encroached on the space of the Melkot. You will turn back immediately. This is the only warning you will receive."
Kirk's unease at the content of this message was almost eclipsed by his surprise in receiving it in English. The uneasiness returned full force when he promptly discovered that Spock had heard it in Vulcan, Chekov in Russian, and Uhura in Swahili.
"True telepaths," Spock summed up succinctly, "can be most formidable."
This was inarguable, as was the fact that absolutely nothing was known about the Melkotians but the fact of their existence. The orders were also inarguable. Kirk broadcast a message of peaceful intent, and getting no answer—not that he had expected any—proceeded, wondering what in the Universe a race of true telepaths could be afraid of.
When the ship was in range, Kirk beamed down to the planet, accompanied by Spock, McCoy, Scott and Chekov. The spot on which they materialized was a sort of limbo—a place of twisting fog, unidentifiable shapes, feelings, colors. Spock's tricorder refused to yield any further information; it was as though they were in some sort of dead spot where no energy could flow, or at least none could enter. To Kirk it felt rather more like the eye of a hurricane.
Then the Melkotian materialized—or partially materialized, almost like an image projected against the fog. He was essentially humanoid: a tall, thin, robed figure, with cold pale features, a high forehead, and piercing eyes that seemed to be utterly without feeling.
"Our warning was plain," he said in his illusion of many languages. His lips did not move. "You have disregarded it. You, Captain Kirk, ordered this disobedience. Therefore from you we shall draw the pattern of your death."
"Death!" Kirk said. "For trespassing? Do you call yourselves civilized?"
"You are Outside," the figure said. "You are Disease. We do not argue with malignant organisms; we destroy them. It is done."
The figure winked out. "Talk about your drumhead court rnartials," Scott said.
No one heard him, for the limbo had winked out at the same time. Instead, the five men appeared to be standing in a desert, in bright, hot sunlight. As they stared, a wooden building popped into existence; then another, and another. None of them were more than two storeys high, generally with porches at the second storey. One of them bore a sign reading, "Saloon," another, "Tombstone Hotel." Within seconds they were surrounded by a town.
"Spock," Kirk said quietly. "Evaluation."
"American frontier, circa 1880," Spock said.
"And what's this?" Chekov said, holding out a gun. It was not a phaser. A quick check showed that none of them any longer had a phaser, or a communicator; only these pieces of ironware, slung low around their hips from belts loaded with what appeared to be ammunition. Their uniforms, however, had not changed.
"That," Kirk said, "is a Colt .45—perfect for the period. My ancestors came from a background like this."
"Perfect, but dangerous, Captain," Spock said. "I suggest we dispose of them."
"Certainly not, Mr. Spock. Whatever the Melkotians plan for us, it's not likely to be pleasant. And at close range, these things are as deadly as phasers. We may have to use them as such."
"Jim, that shack over there calls itself Tombstone Epitaph," McCoy said. "Sounds like a newspaper. And there's a bulletin board on it. Let's see if we can pick up a little more information."
The bulletin board carried a copy of the day's paper. It was dated Tombstone, Arizona, October 26, 1881.
"Back in time, Mr. Spock?" Kirk said.
"And an instantaneous space crossing as well, Captain?" Spock said. "I don't care to entertain the notion of so many physical laws being violated at the same time. The energy expenditure alone would be colossal—far beyond anything we've ever detected on Melkot. I suspect we are exactly where we were before."
"Then what's the purpose of this—this setup?"
"As I understand it, Captain," Spock said gently, "the purpose is an execution."
"We can always depend on you for a note of cheer," McCoy said.
There was something about the date that nagged at Kirk's mind. As he was trying to place it, however, an unshaven man came around a corner, saw the five men, and stared. Then he said:
"Well, I'll be jiggered! Ike! Frank, Billy, Tom!" He came closer. "I was afraid you weren't going to make it."
"I beg your pardon?" Kirk said.
"But I knew you wouldn't let 'em scare you away. They're a lot of hot air, if you ask me. But now they'll have to fight, after the way they've shot off their mouths."
"Look here," Kirk said. "Obviously you think you know us. But we don't know you. We've never seen you before."
The unshaven man winked solemnly. "I getcha. I ain't seen you today, neither. That's what I like about you, Ike, you always see the funny side. And nobody can say Johnny Behan doesn't have a sense of humor."
"I'm a barrel of laughs," Kirk said. "But look, Mr. Behan . . ."
"Just one thing," Behan said. "I wouldn't take them too lightly if I was you. They may shoot wild, but they're gonna have to shoot."
As if alarmed by what he himself had said, Behan shot a glance over his shoulder and scuttled off. At the same instant, Kirk grasped the memory he had been struggling for.
"The Earps!" he said. Spock looked baffled; so did the others.
"He called me Ike," Kirk said. "And he called you Frank, and Bones, Tom, and Chekov, Billy. That's Ike Clanton, Frank and Tom McClowery, Billy Claiborne and Billy Clanton."
"Captain," Spock said, "I know something about this segment of Earth history, but those names mean nothing to me."
"Me either," McCoy said.
"All right. Try Wyatt Earp. Morgan Earp. Virgil Earp. Doc Holliday." There was no reaction. "It goes like this. In the late nineteenth century, in Arizona, two factions fought it out for control of the town of Tombstone. The Earps were the town marshals. The Clantons were lined up with Billy Behan, the County Sheriff. And on October 26, they had it out."
"And?" Chekov said.
"The Clantons lost, Mr. Chekov."
There was silence. At last Spock said, "This is certainly a most fanciful method of execution. But what did they mean by . . ."
A woman's scream cut through the still, hot air. From the direction of the saloon came a roar of men's voices and the unmistakable sounds of a brawl. Then a man stumbled backwards out of the swinging doors and fell down the steps into the street. Another man came after him like a flash.
As the first man picked himself up out of the dust, he reached quickly for his holster. He was way too late. His pursuer's gun went off with an astonishingly loud noise, like a thunderclap, and his twisted body was hurled back almost to Kirk's feet. The second man turned and went back through the swinging doors without another glance.
McCoy knelt beside the body and took its pulse. "Cold-blooded murder," he said angrily.
"I believe the phrase," Spock said, "is 'frontier justice.' "
"I can't believe it's real," Chekov said. "It's all just some sort of Melkotian illusion."
"Is the man dead, Bones?"
"Very dead, Jim."
"Well," Kirk said grimly, "that seems to be at least one thing that's real here."
From the saloon came a burst of music—a piano, recognizable in any era—and a shout of laughter. The five from the Enterprise looked down at the lonely dead man, and then, in almost a nightmare of compulsion, at the saloon.
"I think," Kirk said, "we'd better find out what's happening."
"Go in there?" Chekov said.
"Has anybody a better idea?"
There was a bartender, a pretty and very young waitress, and about a dozen customers; most of the latter were clustered around the killer of a moment before, who sat at a table. He rose slowly as the five came through the doors.
"Ike, Tom," the bartender said. He seemed both pleased and scared to see them. Here, at least, the Clantons had some sort of friend. "Hiya, boys. Didn't think we'd see you again."
The waitress turned. "Billy!" she cried with delight, and flinging herself on the astonished and delighted Chekov, kissed him thoroughly. "Billy baby, I knew they couldn't keep you out of town."
"I didn't have much choice," Chekov said.
The girl led them toward a table a good distance away from that of the killer. "But maybe you shouldn't have," she said.
"And passed up the chance to see you? Don't be silly."
"But it's takin' crazy chances, with Morgan right in the same room."
Kirk, who had sat down, rose slowly again to get a closer look at the first of the men at whose hands they had been condemned to die. "Of course," he said. "The gentleman who kills on sight. Morgan Earp."
Earp did not move, but he watched Kirk with stony intentness.
"Captain," Spock said, sotto voce, "since we have seen that death is the one reality in this situation, I seriously advise that you reseat yourself without moving a muscle of either hand. Otherwise you will find yourself involved in something called 'the fast draw,' if I remember correctly. The results would be unfortunate."
Kirk sat down. As he did so, the bartender called, "You boys want your usual?"
"Absolutely," Scotty said enthusiastically. "Half a liter of Scotch."
"You know we ain't got nothin' but bourbon. 'Less you want gin."
"I don't think we've got the time for a party," Kirk said. He looked at Chekov, in whose lap the girl was now sitting. "Of any kind."
"What can I do, Captain? You know we're always supposed to maintain good relations with the natives."
"That's all right," the girl said, getting up. "I know you boys have got some palaverin' to do. Billy Claiborne, you be careful." She hurried away.
"Mr. Spock," Kirk said, "except for these handguns we're wearing, we haven't changed. Not even our clothing. Yet these people see us as the Clantons."
"I don't find that such a bad thing, Captain," Chekov said, his eyes still following the waitress.
"The day is still young, Ensign," Spock said.
"Now then, what have we got? We're in Tombstone on the day of the fight at the OK Corral, and we're the Clanton gang. Morgan Earp there will tell his brothers we're here."
"And history will follow its course," Spock said.
"It will not," Kirk said angrily. "I have no intention of letting a bunch of half-savage primitives kill us."
"May I ask, Capta
in, how you plan to prevent it?"
Without replying directly, Kirk got up and went over to the bar. "You, Mr. Bartender. You claim to know us."
"Ain't makin' no big claims about it to nobody," the bartender said. "Jest so happens."
"Well, you're wrong. You think I'm Ike Clanton. I'm not. I'm James T. Kirk, Captain of the Starship Enterprise. And these men are some of my officers. We're not really here at all; in fact, we haven't been born yet."
There was a roar of laughter from the onlookers, and somebody said, "Don't you jest bet he wishes he hadn't been."
Kirk whirled to the nearest man. "Here, you. Feel the material of my shirt." The man snickered, but complied. "Doesn't it feel any different from yours?"
"Reckon it does," the cowboy said. "A mite cleaner, I'd jedge."
"Have you ever seen men wearing clothes like these before?"
The cowboy thought a moment. Then he said earnestly, "Sure. On the Clantons."
There was another outburst of laughter and thigh-slapping.
"Looka here, now," the cowboy said. "You was always a great one for jokin', Ike. But I know you. Ed here," indicating the barkeeper, "knows you. That Sylvia, she sure knows Billy Claiborne. Now, if'n you want to pertend you're somebody else, that's your business. Only, if you've turned yellow, what'd you come back to town for at all?"
Kirk frowned and tried to think, twirling his gun absently. The cowboy turned pale and backed away a step. Realizing belatedly what he had done, Kirk returned the gun to its holster and swung back to the barkeeper.
"Ed . . ."
"It's okay with me, Ike," Ed said placatingly. "Anything you say. It don't make no difference who I think you are. Your problem is—who does Wyatt Earp think you are?"
Hopelessly, Kirk returned to the table. His men looked at him strangely. What was the matter with them, now?
"Well, scratch that," he said, sitting down. "I can't get through to them."
"Captain."
"Yes, Mr. Spock."
"We know that the Melkotians are true telepaths. And the Melkot said that it was from you that he would 'draw the pattern' of our deaths."
"Are you suggesting that because I'm familiar with this part of American history . . .?"