Star Trek 10

by James Blish

  Ferris pointed to the screen. "In all that? Two days?"

  Kirk lost his temper. "Are you suggesting that I just turn around and leave them in it?"

  "You shouldn't have sent them out in the first place!" Ferris paused. "You are concerned with only seven people. I am thinking of the millions in the New Paris colonies who will die if we don't get these medicines to them. It's your obstinate insistence on carrying out these inconsequential investigations that . . ."

  A bureaucrat is a bureaucrat is a bureaucrat, Kirk thought. They could function with paper. But remove them from paper into the sphere of decisive action and they turned into moralizing futilities. Scorn restored his composure. "We will make our scheduled rendezvous, Commissioner," he said evenly. "You have my word."

  Uhura spoke. "Captain, there is one planet in this vicinity capable of sustaining human life. Type M, oxygen-nitrogen. Listed as Taurus II." The sympathy in her voice was cool water to a thirsty man. Kirk went to her. She looked up at him. "It is very nearly dead center of the Murasaki Effect, as closely as we can make out with our equipment malfunctions."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant," Kirk said. "Mr. Sulu?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Set course for Taurus II."

  "Course laid in, sir."

  "Aren't you shooting in the dark?" Ferris said. "Assuming that they are there?"

  "If they aren't there, Commissioner, they are all dead by now. We will search Taurus II because there is no sense in searching any place else."

  "You said something about a needle in a haystack. Useless."

  "Not if you want your needle back."

  Strangely enough, the needle had fallen upon soft hay. However, soft was the best you could say about the spongily ugly surface of Taurus II. It had cushioned the impact of the Galileo's crash landing in a roughly circular crater. Rock walls reared up toward a sky of a repellently bilious shade of green. It was not a prepossessing planet. The craft, canted over, had banged people and things around inside. Spock was bleeding green from a cut on his head. McCoy attended to it and then made his way to Yeoman Mears.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I . . . think so, Doctor."

  Boma said, "That is what I call a ride."

  "What happened?" Latimer asked him.

  "I can't be sure . . . but I'd say that the magnetic potential of the Murasaki Effect was such that it was multiplied geometrically as we gathered speed. We were simply shot into the center of the Effect like a projectile. What do you think, Mr. Spock?"

  "Your evaluation seems reasonable."

  Scott, holding an aching head, joined Spock in checking the instruments and control panel. "What a mess!" he said.

  Spock stood up. "Picturesque descriptions won't mend broken circuits, Mr. Scott. I think you'll find your work cut out for you." He threw a switch on the communicator.

  "Galileo to Enterprise. Do you read me?"

  "You don't really expect an answer, do you?" Scott said.

  "I expect nothing. It is simply logical to try every alternative. A reading on the atmosphere, please, Doctor McCoy."

  "As soon as I finish checking the crew . . ."

  "If anyone had been injured, I assume you would have been so informed by now. The reading, Doctor."

  There was irritation in the glance Spock received from McCoy. After a moment the Medical Officer picked up his kit and moved to an instrument panel. "Partial pressure of oxygen is 70 millimeters of mercury. Nitrogen, 140. Breathable, if you're not running in competition."

  "The facts, please," Spock said.

  "Traces of argon, neon, krypton, all in acceptable quantities. But I wouldn't recommend this place for a summer resort."

  "Your opinion will be noted. You are recording this, Yeoman?"

  "Of course, Mr. Spock."

  "Very good. Mr. Scott, if you will immediately conduct a damage survey."

  Scott said, "Naturally."

  Spock ignored the tone of the comment. He said, "I suggest we move outside to give Mr. Scott room to work. Mr. Latimer, Mr. Gaetano, please arm yourselves and scout out the immediate area. Stay in visual contact with the ship."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Gaetano said.

  The two were removing phaser pistols from a locker as McCoy turned to Spock. "What do you think our chances are of communicating with the Enterprise?"

  "Under current conditions, extremely poor."

  "But they'll be looking for us!"

  "If the ionization effect is as widespread as I believe it is, they'll be looking for us without instruments. By visual contact only. On those terms, it is a very large solar system."

  "Then you don't think they'll find us."

  "Not so long as we are grounded."

  McCoy exploded. "I've never been able to stand your confoundedly eternal cheerfulness, Spock!"

  "Better make an effort to, Doctor." The suggestion was mildly made. "We may be here for a long time."

  Kirk himself had small cause for cheer. The Enterprise scanners had gone completely on strike. "Mr. Sulu, have you tried tying in with the auxiliary power units?"

  "Yes, sir. No change."

  Scowling, Kirk hit a button. "Transporter Room. This is the Captain. Are the Transporters beaming yet?"

  The technician sounded apologetic. "Not one hundred percent, sir. We beamed down some inert material but it came back in a dissociated condition. We wouldn't dare try it with people."

  "Thank you." He pushed another button. "Captain to Flight Deck. Prepare shuttlecraft Columbus for immediate search of planet surface. Correlate coordinates with Mr. Sulu. Lieutenant Uhura?"

  "Yes, sir?

  "Anything at all?"

  "All wavelengths dominated by ionization effect, Captain. Transmissions blocked, reception impossible."

  To add to his joy in life, Ferris appeared beside Kirk's command chair. "Well, Captain?"

  Kirk said, "We have until 2823.8 to continue our search, Commissioner."

  "You don't really think you'll have any luck, do you?"

  Kirk drew a hand down his cheek. "Those people out there happen to be friends and shipmates of mine. I intend to continue this ship's search for them until the last possible moment."

  "Very well, Captain. But not a second beyond that limit. Is that clear? If it is not, I refer you to Book 19, Section 433, Paragraph 12."

  "I am familiar with the regulations, Commissioner. And I know all about your authority."

  Tight-faced, he struck a button on his console.

  "Launch shuttlecraft Columbus!"

  Outside the Galileo, Spock was examining the nearest section of the wall encircling the crater. Rescue was indeed a remote possibility. Even if the Enterprise's searching equipment had remained unaffected by Murasaki 312, Taurus II was just one planet among many in the quadrant's solar systems. Hidden like this in the hollow made by the crater's rocky wall, the Galileo would be virtually invisible,

  McCoy, joining him, looked up at the wall. "I can't say much for our circumstances," he said, "but at least it's your big chance."

  "My big chance for what, Doctor?"

  "Command," McCoy said. "I know you, Spock. You've never voiced it, but you've always thought logic was the best basis on which to build command. Am I right?"

  "I am a logical man," Spock said.

  "It'll take more than logic to get us out of this."

  "Perhaps, Doctor . . . but I can't think of a better place to start trying. I recognize that command has fascinations, even under such circumstances as these. But I neither enjoy the idea of command nor am I frightened by it. It simply exists. And I shall do what logically needs to be done."

  They clambered back into the craft, and Scott lifted a grim face from the control panel. "We've lost a great deal of fuel, Mr. Spock. We have no chance at all to reach escape velocity. And even if we hope to make orbit, we'll have to lighten our load by at least five hundred pounds."

  "The weight of three grown men," Spock said.

  Scott glanced at him, start
led. "Why, yes . . . I guess you could put it that way."

  McCoy was openly outraged. "Or the equivalent weight in equipment," he said.

  Spock faced him. "Doctor McCoy, with few exceptions we will use virtually every piece of equipment in attaining orbit. There is very little surplus weight except among our passengers."

  Boma, with Yeoman Mears, had been taking tricorder readings near the hatch. Now he stopped. "You mean three of us will have to stay behind?"

  "Unless the situation changes radically," Spock said.

  "And who is to choose those who remain behind?"

  "As commanding officer the choice is mine."

  Boma's face hardened. "You wouldn't be interested in. drawing lots?"

  Spock said "I believe I am better qualified to select those who will stay behind than any random drawing of lots." He spoke without a trace of egotism in voice or manner. "My decision will be a logical one, Mr. Boma, arrived at through logical, processes."

  "Life and death are not logical, Spock!" McCoy cried.

  "But attaining a desired goal is."

  Spock ignored the tension in the atmosphere. "I would suggest we proceed to a more careful examination of the . . . hull: We may have overlooked some minor damage."

  Boma glared after him as he left. "Some minor damage was overlooked," he said, "when they put his head together!"

  "Not his head," McCoy said. "His heart."

  Tension was rising in everybody. Over at the farther crater wall Latimer and Gaetano were making a nervous survey of the area. Suddenly Gaetano stopped, listening. Latimer, too, halted. They listened to the sound—a rhythmic scraping noise such as might be made by rubbing wood against some corrugated surface. Latimer became conscious of an uneasy impression that the crater wall was breathing, the mist of its breath the fog that drifted over it, reducing visibility. The mist had come suddenly, like the sound. The scraping noise was repeated.

  "What is it?" Latimer whispered.

  ''I don't know," Gaetano said. "It came from up there."

  "No . . . back there . . ."

  They stared at each other. The sound surrounded them.

  "Everywhere . . . it's all around us."

  "Let's get out of here!" Latimer cried.

  Then he yelled, breaking into a run. From the shadow made by a cleft in the wall above them a gigantic shape had emerged. Latimer screamed—and fell. Gaetano jerked out his phaser. He fired it at the fog-filled cleft.

  He turned. The shaft of a spear was protruding from Latimer's back. It was as thick as a slim telephone pole.

  The scream, reverberating against the crater's walls, had been heard by Spock and Boma. The Vulcan strode to Gaetano, where he stood over Latimer's body, still in shock, still staring up at the foggy cleft.

  "How?" Spock said.

  The dazed Gaetano lowered his phaser. "Something . . . huge . . . terrible. Up there!" He pointed to the cleft.

  Spock walked over to the wall. Seizing an outcropping of rock, he began to climb up to the crevice. Boma spoke to Gaetano. "What was it? Did you see what it was?"

  "Like a . . . a giant ape." He started to tremble. "It was all . . . so quick. There was a . . . a sound first."

  Spock was back. "There's nothing up there," he said.

  "I tell you there was!" Gaetano shouted.

  Spock's voice was quiet. "I do not doubt your word."

  "I hit it. I swear my phaser hit it," Gaetano said.

  Spock didn't answer. Looking down at Latimer's body, he tugged at the spear shaft. It came loose in his hand, exposing its point—a large triangular stone, honed into shape and sharpness.

  "The Folsom Point," Spock said.

  "Sir?"

  "Mr. Boma, this spearhead bears a remarkable resemblance to the Folsom Point, discovered in 1926 old Earth calendar, in New Mexico, North America. Quite similar . . . more crudely shaped about the haft, however. Not very efficient."

  "Not very efficient?" Boma was furious. "Is that all you have to say?"

  Surprised, Spock looked at him. "Am I in error, Mr. Boma?"

  "Error? You? Impossible!"

  "Then, what—" Spock began.

  "A man lies there dead! And you talk about stone spears! What about Latimer? What about the dead man?"

  "A few words on behalf of the dead will not bring them back to life, Mr. Boma."

  Gaetano was glaring at him, too. He spoke to Boma. "Give me a hand with Latimer, will you?" He turned to Spock. "Unless you think we should leave his body here in the interest of efficiency."

  "Bringing him back to the ship should not interfere with our repair efforts. If you'd like some assistance . . ."

  "We'll do it!" Gaetano said sharply. Nodding to Boma, they reached down to the body. As they lifted it, Spock's keen eyes were studying the spearhead's construction.

  Kirk was trying to fight off a sense of complete futility.

  ". . . and great loss." His voice was so broken as he dictated the last three words into his Captain's Log that he wondered if he should delete them. Spock . . . McCoy . . . Scott . . . all three of them gone, lost to the hideous blueness of what still showed on the screen.

  Uhura spoke. "Captain, the Columbus has returned from searching quadrants 779X by 534M. Negative results."

  "Have them proceed to the next quadrants. Any word from Engineering on the sensors?"

  "They're working on them, sir. Still inoperable."

  "The Transporters?"

  "Still reported unsafe, sir."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant."

  "Captain Kirk . . ."

  It was Ferris. "Captain, I do not relish the thought of abandoning your crewmen out there. However, I must remind you that—"

  "I haven't forgotten," Kirk said wearily.

  "You're running out of time," Ferris said.

  A man of paper. "I haven't forgotten that, either," Kirk said. He rammed a button on his console. "This is the Captain. Try using overload power on the Transporters. We have to get it working." He got up to go to Uhura. "Lieutenant, order the Columbus to open its course two degrees on each lap from now on."

  Sulu, surprised into protest, spoke. "But Captain, two degrees means they'll overlook more than a dozen terrestrial miles on each search loop."

  Kirk turned. "It also means we'll at least have a fighting chance of checking most of the planet's surface. Mind your helm, Mr. Sulu."

  Sulu flushed. "Yes, sir."

  Ferris was still standing beside his command chair. He said coldly, "Twenty-four more hours, Captain." Kirk didn't answer. He stared ahead at the viewing screen. Somewhere in the midst of that mysterious blueness, Taurus II existed, its substance solid, its air breathable—an oasis in the center of hell. Had Spock found it?

  In the marooned Galileo, McCoy and Yeoman Mears had collected equipment to jettison. Arms laden, McCoy said, "This stuff ought to save us at least fifty pounds of weight, Spock."

  "If we could scrape up another hundred pounds, what with Mr. Latimer gone . . ." Yeoman Mears didn't finish her sentence.

  "We would still be at least one hundred and fifty pounds overweight," Spock said.

  "I can't believe you're serious about leaving someone behind," McCoy said. "Whatever those creatures are out there . . ."

  "It is more rational to sacrifice one man than six," Spock said.

  "I'm not talking about rationality/"

  "You might be wise to start."

  Boma stuck his head through the open hatch. "We're ready, Mr. Spock."

  "For what, Mr. Boma?"

  "The services . . . for Latimer."

  Spock straightened. "Mr. Boma. We are working against time."

  "The man is dead. He deserves a decent burial. You're the Captain. A few words from you . . ."

  If Spock's facial muscles had been capable of expressing annoyance, they would have twisted with it. As they were not, he looked at McCoy. "Doctor, perhaps you know the correct words for such an occasion."

  "It's your place," McCoy said.


  "My place is here. If you please, Doctor."

  The facial muscles of the non-Vulcans had no trouble in showing annoyance. Spock's cool detachment exceedingly irritated them. "Spock, we may all die here!" McCoy shouted. "At least let us die like men, not machines!"

  "By taking care of first things first, I hope to increase our chances of not dying here." Spock moved to where Scott was still at work on the console. "Perhaps if you were to channel the second auxiliary tank through the primary intake valve, Mr. Scott."

  "Too delicate, sir. It may not take the pressure as it is."

  McCoy glared at Spock's stooped back. Then he followed the others out of the hatch and over to the mound of earth a few feet away from the Galileo. He bent for a handful of dirt and dropped it on the mound. "Dust thou art and to dust shalt thou return. Amen."

  People's heads bowed. "Amen," they echoed. They all stood still for a minute, each with his private thoughts—and the rhythmic grating sound came from what seemed to be distance.

  "What is it?" said Yeoman Mears.

  McCoy had looked up. "I don't know. But it sounds manmade."

  "Manmade! You wouldn't say that if you saw what I saw!" cried Gaetano. "It's them, those things out there somewhere!"

  McCoy spoke to him and Boma. "You'd better stay on watch. I'll check with Mr. Spock."

  He and Yeoman Mears reentered the craft to hear a dismayed Scott cry, "The pressure's dropping, sir. We're losing everything!"

  "What happened?" Spock asked.

  "One of the lines gave. The strain of coming through the atmosphere . . . the added load when we tried to bypass—"

  McCoy interrupted. "Spock!"

  The Vulcan made a gesture for silence, concentrating on Scott. Staring at a gauge, the engineer said slowly, "Well, that does it. We have no fuel at all!"

  "Then that solves the problem of who to leave behind."

  "Spock!" McCoy yelled.

  "Yes, Doctor?"

  "Come outside. Something's happening."

  Straightening, Spock said, "You will consider the alternatives, Mr. Scott."

  Scott rose impatiently. "What alternatives? We have no fuel!"

  "Mr. Scott, there are always alternatives."

  He took his Vulcan calm with him as he followed McCoy out of the ship. The grating noise was louder. Spock listened, as concentrated on it as he'd been on Scott. McCoy glanced at his composed face. "And what do those super-sensitive ears of yours make of that?"