by James Blish
Spock let him drop. "Nothing that shouldn't have happened long ago."
"Long ago," McCoy said softly. The intent scrutiny did not waver. "Yes, I guess so . . . Long ago."
The stare disturbed the First Officer, for reasons he did not understand. Wheeling, he went into the underground living room, where Zarabeth was setting a table. She looked up and smiled.
"Ready soon. Would you like a sample?"
"Thank you, but I am not hungry."
She came over and sat down near him. "I can imagine how you must feel. I know what it's like to be sent here against your will."
"My feelings, as you call them, are of no concern," Spock said. "I have accepted the situation."
"I cannot pretend that I am sorry you are here, though I realize that it is a misfortune for you. I am here against my will, too, just as you are."
"I'm sorry I know of no way to return you to your own time."
"I don't mean that I wish to return," Zarabeth said. "This is my time now. I've had to face that. But it has been lonely here. Do you know what it is like to be alone, really alone?"
"Yes. I know what it is like."
"I believe you do. Won't you eat something? Please?"
"If it pleases you." He walked to the table and surveyed it. He felt a faint shock, but it seemed far away. "This is animal flesh."
There isn't much else to eat here, I'm afraid."
"Naturally, because of the climate. What is the source of heat in this shelter?"
'There is an underground hot spring that furnishes natural steam heat and power."
"And there is sunlight available outside. Excellent. It should be possible to build a greenhouse of sorts. Until then, this will have to do as a source of nourishment." He picked up the most innocuous-looking morsel, surveyed it with distaste, and bit into it. It was quite good; he took another.
"There aren't many luxuries here," Zarabeth said, watching him with evident approval. "Zor Khan left me only what was necessary to survive."
"But he evidently intended you to continue living," Spock said, sampling another dish.
"Yes. He gave me weapons, a shelter, food—everything I needed to live—except companionship. He did not want it said that he had had me killed. But to send me here alone—if that is not death, what is? A very inventive mind, that man."
"But insensitive, to send such a beautiful woman into exile." Instantly, he was badly startled. "Forgive me! I am not usually given to personal remarks."
"How could I possibly take offense?" Zarabeth said.
Spock scarcely heard her. "The cold must have affected me more than I realized. Please—pay no attention. I am not myself."
And that, he thought, was an understatement. He was behaving disgracefully. He had eaten animal flesh—and had enjoyed it! What was wrong with him? He put his hands to his temples.
"I say you are beautiful," he said, feeling a dawning wonder. "But you are beautiful. Is it so wrong to tell you so?"
Zarabeth came to him. "I have longed to hear you say it," she said softly.
Then she was in his arms. When the kiss ended, he felt as though a man who had always been locked up inside him had been set free.
"You are beautiful," he said, "beautiful beyond any dream of beauty I have ever had. I shall never stop telling you of it."
"Stay," she whispered. "I shall make you happy."
"My life is here."
"You lie," said a voice from the doorway. Spock spun, furious with McCoy and enjoying it.
"I speak the present truth," he said. "We are here, for good. I have given you the facts."
"The facts as you know them. But you are also being dishonest with yourself, and that's also something new for you. You accepted Zarabeth's word because it was what you wanted to believe. But Zarabeth is a woman condemned to a terrible life of loneliness. She will do anything to anybody to change that, won't you, Zarabeth?"
"I told you what I know," Zarabeth said.
"Not quite, I believe. You said we can't get back. The truth is that you can't get back. Isn't it?"
"She would not jeopardize other lives . . ."
"To save herself from this life alone," McCoy said, "she would lie—and even murder me, the Captain, the whole crew of the Enterprise, to keep you here with her." His hand lashed out and caught her by the wrist. "Tell Spock the truth—you would kill to keep him here!"
Zarabeth cried out in terror, and in the next instant Spock found his hands closing around the physician's throat. McCoy did not resist.
"Spock!" he said intensely. "Think! Are you trying to kill me? Is that what you want? What are you feeling? Rage? Jealousy? Have you ever felt them before?"
Spock's hands dropped. His head was whirling. "Impossible," he said. "This is impossible. I am a Vulcan."
"The Vulcan you knew will not exist for another hundred thousand years! Think, Spock—what is it like on your planet now, at this moment?"
"My ancestors are barbarians. Irrational, warlike barbarians . . ."
"Who nearly killed themselves off with their passions! And now you are regressing to what they were!"
"I have lost myself," Spock said dully. "I do not know who I am. Zarabeth—can we go back?"
"I do not know. I do not know. It is impossible for me to go back. I thought it was true for you."
"I am going to try, Spock," McCoy said. "My life is there, and I want the life that belongs to me. I must go now. There isn't much time—I too am changing. Zarabeth, will you help me find my way to the portal?"
"I—Yes. If I must."
"Let's get dressed, then."
The cold seemed more intense than ever, and McCoy, wrapped in a blanket, still had little resistance to it. He leaned against the ice cliff, partially supported by Zarabeth, who once more was almost anonymous in her furs. Spock tapped the cliff, without success.
"There is no portal here," he said. "It's hopeless, McCoy."
"I suppose you're right."
"You're too ill to stay out here in the cold any longer. Give it up."
And then, faintly, they heard Kirk's voice. "Spock! Can you hear me?"
"It's Jim!" McCoy shouted. "Here we are!"
"Stop, we've found them," Kirk's voice said. "Hold it steady, Atoz. Can you hear me any better?"
"Yes," Spock said. "We hear you perfectly now."
"Follow my voice."
McCoy reached out. His hand disappeared into the cliff. "Here it is! Come on, Spock!"
"Start ahead." He turned to Zarabeth. "I do not wish to part from you."
"I can't come with you. You know that."
"What are you waiting for?" Kirk's voice said. "Hurry! Scotty says we've got to get back on board right now!"
"They will have to come through together," the voice of Atoz added, "as they went out together. Singly, the portal will reject them."
Spock and Zarabeth looked at each other with despair. He touched her face with his fingertips.
"I did lie," she said. "I knew the truth. I will pay. Goodbye."
Then they were in the library, Kirk pulling them through. Atoz was spinning the dials of the Atavachron frantically, and then, dashing past them, dived into the portal and vanished.
"Atoz!" McCoy called.
"He had his escape planned," Kirk said. "I'm glad he made it." He raised his communicator. "Are you there, Scotty?"
"Aye. It's now or never."
Spock turned toward the portal and raised his fist as if to strike it, but he did not complete the gesture.
"Beam us up. Maximum warp as soon as we are on board."
The library shimmered out of existence, and they were standing in the Transporter Room of the Enterprise. McCoy, still wrapped in his blanket, was once more regarding Spock with his intent clinical stare.
"There is no further need for you to observe me, Doctor," Spock said. "As you see, I have returned to the present. In every sense."
"Are you sure? It did happen, Spock."
"Yes, it happened
," the First Officer said. "But that was a hundred thousand years ago. They are all dead. Dead and buried long ago."
The ship fled outward. Behind it, the nova began to erupt, in all its terrifying, inhuman glory.
THE DEVIL IN THE DARK
(Gene L. Coon)
* * *
Janus was an ugly planet, reddish-brown, slowly rotating, with a thick layer of clouds so turbulent that it appeared to be boiling. Not a hospitable place, but a major source of pergium—an energy metal-like plutonium, meta-stable, atomic number 358; the underground colony there was long-established, highly modern, almost completely automated. It had never given any trouble.
"Almost fifty people butchered," Chief Engineer Vanderberg said bitterly. He was standing beside his desk, nervous and urgent; facing him were Kirk, Spock, Lt. Commander Giotto, Doc McCoy and a security officer named Kelly. "Production's at an absolute stop."
"I can see that," Kirk said, gesturing toward the chart on the office wall, which showed a precipitous dip. "But please slow down, Mr. Vanderberg. What's the cause?"
"A monster." Vanderberg stared at the Enterprise delegation with belligerent defensiveness, as though daring them to deny it. He was clearly highly overwrought.
"All right," Kirk said. "Let's assume there's a monster. What has it done? When did it start?"
Vanderberg made an obvious effort to control himself. He pushed a button on his desk communicator, which sat near a globe some ten inches in diameter of what appeared to be some dark-gray crystalline solid. "Send Ed Appel in here," he told it, and then added to Kirk, "My production engineer. About three months ago, we opened a new level. It was unusually rich in pergium, platinum, uranium, even gold. The whole planet's a treasure house, but I've never seen anything like this before, even here. We were just setting up to mine it when things began to happen. First the automatic machinery began to disintegrate, piece by piece. The metal just seemed to dissolve away. No mystery about the agent; it was aqua regia, possibly with a little hydrofluoric acid mixed in—vicious stuff. We don't store vast quantities of such stuff here, I can tell you that. Offhand I don't even know what we'd keep it in."
"Teflon," Spock suggested.
"Yes, but my point is, we don't."
"You said people were butchered," Kirk reminded him gently.
"Yes. First our maintenance engineers. Sent them down into the halls to repair the corroded machinery. We found them—burned to a crisp."
"Not lava, I suppose," Kirk said.
"There is no current volcanic activity on this planet, Captain," Spock said.
"He's right. None. It was that same damn acid mixture. At first the deaths were down deep, but they've been moving up toward our levels. The last man who died, three days ago, was only three levels below this one."
"I'd like to examine his body," McCoy said.
"We kept it for you—what was left. It isn't pretty."
The office door opened to admit a tough-looking, squat, businesslike man of middle age, wearing a number one phaser at his belt.
"You posted guards? Sentries?" Kirk asked.
"Of course. And five of them have died."
"Has anyone seen this—this monster of yours?"
"I did," said the newcomer.
"This is Ed Appel. Describe it, Ed."
"I can't. I only got a glimpse of it. It was big, and kind of shaggy. I shot at it, and I hit it square, too, a good clean shot. It didn't even slow it down."
"Anything a phaser will not affect," Spock said, "has to be an illusion. Any life-form, that is."
"Tell that to Billy Anderson," Appel said grimly. "He never had a chance. I only got away by the skin of my teeth."
"That's the story," Vanderberg said. "Nobody'll go down into the lower levels now, and I don't blame them. If the Federation wants pergium from us, they'll have to do something about it."
"That's what we're here for, Mr. Vanderberg," Kirk said.
"Pretty tough, aren't you?" said Appel. "Starship, phaser banks, energy from anti-matter, the whole bit. Well, you can't get your starship down into the tunnels."
"I don't think well need to, Mr. Appel. Mr. Spock, I'll want a complete computer evaluation, with interviews from everyone who knows anything about the events here. Mr. Vanderberg, have you a complete subsurface chart of all drifts, tunnels, galleries and so on?"
"Of course."
Spock had been inspecting the dark-gray sphere on the desk. He stepped forward and touched it. "This, Mr. Vanderberg. What is it?"
"It's a silicon nodule. There's a million of them down there. No commercial value."
"But a geological oddity, to say the least, especially in igneous rocks. Pure silicon?"
"A light oxide layer on the outside, a few trace elements below. Look, we didn't call you here so you could collect rocks."
"Mr. Spock collects information, and it's often useful," Kirk said. "We'll need your complete cooperation."
"You'll get it. Just find this creature, whatever it is. I'm dead sick of losing my men—and I've got a quota to meet, too."
"Your order of priorities," Kirk said, "is the same as mine."
They worked in a room just off Vanderberg's office, feeding data to the Enterprise's computer and getting evaluations back by communicator. The charts with which Vanderberg supplied them turned out to be immensely involved—thousands of serpentine lines crossing and recrossing. Their number was incredible, even after allowing for fifty years of tunneling with completely automated equipment. The network extended throughout the entire crust of the planet, and perhaps even deeper.
"Not man-made," Spock agreed. "They may be lava tubes, but if so, they are unique in my experience."
"They won't make hunting any easier," Kirk said. "Bones, what's the word on the autopsy?"
"The plant's physician and the chemists were right, Jim. Schmitter wasn't burned to death. He was flooded or sprayed with that acid mixture."
"Could it eat away machinery, too?"
"Aqua regia will dissolve even gold. What puzzles me is the trace of hydrofluoric acid. It's a very weak acid, but there are two things it attacks strongly. One of them is glass—you have to keep it in wax bottles, or, as Spock suggested, teflon."
"And the other thing?"
"Human flesh."
"Hmm. It sounds like a mixture somebody calculated very carefully. Mr. Spock, do you think this monster story could be a blind for some kind of sabotage?"
"Possibly, Captain. For example, Mr. Vanderberg thinks that the creature uses the network of tubes to move through. But if you plot the deaths and the acts of destruction, and their times, you find that the creature cannot possibly have appeared at all these points as rapidly as indicated."
"How recent are those tunnel charts?"
"They were made last year—before the first appearance of the alleged monster, but not long before. Moreover, Captain, a sensor check indicates no life under the surface of Janus but the accountable human residents of the colony. We are confronted with two alternatives: either to patrol thousands of miles of tunnels, on foot, in the faint hope of encountering the alleged monster; or to find a plausible human suspect who has managed to manufacture and hide an almost inexhaustible supply of this intractable corrosive, and who has a portable, innocuous-looking carrier for it with a capacity of at least thirty liters."
"I rather prefer the monster theory," McCoy said. "If we catch a man behind these murders, I think we ought to lower him into his own acid vat a quarter of an inch at a time."
"If," Spock said, "is the operative word in either case . . ."
He was interrupted by a distant, heavy boom. The room shuddered, the lights flickered, and then an alarm bell was clanging. A moment later, Vanderberg burst in from his office.
"Something's happened in the main reactor room!" he shouted.
They left at a dead run, Vanderberg leading the way, McCoy bringing up the rear. The trail wound up in a tunnel elaborately posted with signs reading CAUTION: RADIATION—MAI
N REACTOR CHAMBER—ONLY AUTHORISED PERSONS BEYOND THIS POINT. The floor of the tunnel looked as though something very heavy had been dragged along it. At the far end was what had once been a large metal door, but which now consisted chiefly of curled strips around a huge hole. Before it was a small, blackened lump which might once have been a man.
Vanderberg recoiled. "Look, at that!" Then he hurried toward the ruined door. McCoy knelt quickly beside the charred lump, tricorder out; Kirk and Spock followed Vanderberg.
Inside, the bulk of the reactor was buried in the walls, showing only a large faceplate and a control panel. Pipes crisscrossed the chamber; and an appalled Vanderberg was standing looking down at a sort of nexus of these—a junction that ending in nothing.
Kirk scanned the control panel. "I didn't know anyone still used fission for power."
"I don't suppose anybody does but us. But pergium is money—we ship it all out—and since we have so much uranium nobody wants, we use it here. Or we did until now."
"Explain."
"The main moderator pump's gone. Lucky the cutouts worked, or this whole place would be a flaming mass of sodium."
Spock knelt and inspected the aborted junctions. "Acid again. Like the door. Mr. Vanderberg, do you have a replacement for the missing pump?"
"I doubt it. It was platinum, corrosion-proof, never gave us any trouble; should have lasted forever." Suddenly, visibly, Vanderberg began to panic. "Look, the reactor's shut down now—and it provides heat and electricity and life support for the whole colony! And if we override, we'll have a maximum accident that will poison half the planet!"
"Steady," Kirk said. "Mr. Spock, might we have a replacement on shipboard?"
"No, Captain. To find one, you would need a museum."
Kirk took out his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise . . . Lt. Uhura, get me Mr. Scott . . . Scotty, this is the Captain. Could you contrive a perfusion pump for a PXK fission reactor?"
"Hoo, Captain, you must be haverin'."
"I'm dead serious; it's vital."
"Well, sir—I could put together some odds and ends. But they wouldn't hold for long."
"How long?"