by James Blish
He could feel the controlled tension in Sickbay the moment he entered it. McCoy, Doctor M'Benga and Christine were all gathered around Spock's still-unconscious form. The sterilite above it swathed it in its eerie glow. Kirk glanced up at the body-functions panel. Its readings were ominously low. There was, of course, the factor of Spock's different Vulcan physiology. But Christine was looking very troubled. And Spock might have been dead, so lifeless he looked on the table.
M'Benga spoke. "We've no replacements for the damaged organs, Doctor. If he's going to heal, his Vulcan physiology will have to do it for him."
"Agreed," McCoy said. "Sterilite off." He moved to his office. Kirk followed him. They eyed each other for a long moment. Then McCoy said, "He may live. He may die. I don't know which."
Kirk paced the distance to the door and back to McCoy's desk. McCoy gestured to the exam room. "Doctor M'Benga interned in a Vulcan hospital, Jim. Spock couldn't be in better hands."
"You're sure of that?"
"Yes."
Kirk hesitated. Then he came to his hard decision. "All right. You and I are transporting back down to the planet, Bones."
"I can't leave Spock at such a time."
"You just indicated you could." He leaned his hands on McCoy's desk. "There are Klingons down there. If their mission is a legitimate research interest in the planet's organic potential, you're the one man who can tell me."
"And if that's not it?"
"Then I'll need help." He pointed to the exam room. "I'll need advice I can trust as much as I trust Spock's."
"That's a rare compliment, Jim, but—"
Kirk flared. "Blast it, McCoy, I'm worried about Spock, too! But if the Klingons are breaking the 'hands off' treaty here, there could be an interstellar war at stake!" He strode to the office intercom. Hitting the button, he said, "Captain to bridge."
"Scott here, sir."
"McCoy and I are beaming back down. Inform ship's stores we'll need native costumes."
"Captain, I may have to break orbit any minute to keep out of their sight. We'd be out of communication range with you."
Kirk was thinking fast. The secrecy of their presence was vital. Any attempt to contact Starfleet Command could reveal it. Asking permission to violate orders concerning this "hands off" planet was a risk he dare not take. He'd have to act alone, on his own judgment.
He turned back to the intercom. "I understand, Scotty. We'll set up a rendezvous schedule. Captain out."
They materialized near a copse of trees. Glancing around, Kirk got his bearings. The copse dipped to a rocky glade he remembered. Tyree's camp was about a quarter of a mile distant.
McCoy, tricorder out, said, "Want to think about this again, Jim? Starfleet's orders are no interference with this planet's state."
“‘With its normal social development.' I'm not only aware of the orders, Bones. It was my survey seventeen years ago that recommended them."
McCoy nodded. "I read your report. 'Inhabitants superior in many ways to humans. Left alone, they will undoubtedly someday develop a remarkably advanced and peaceful culture.’“
"And I intend to see that they get their chance. Are you coming with me, Doctor?"
They moved off down the shale of the glade. The terrain ahead showed bigger rocks and a thick growth of underbrush. McCoy was still troubled; but Kirk, recognizing familiar landmarks, was buoyant. He gestured to some foliage. "The saplings over there, they make good bows. We used to choose our wood from this very spot."
"Almost like coming home, eh?"
"It'll be good to see Tyree again. During that year here, we were made brothers. I lived with his family, wore his Hillpeople clothes. We hunted together . . ."
McCoy halted abruptly. "All right, Jim. I'll try just once more."
Kirk turned, his eyes questioning. McCoy's met them unflinchingly. "So you love this place. Fine! So you want to see an old friend again. Also fine! You believe the Klingons are here, threatening all that you admire so much."
"Bones, we've been over this—"
"You asked me to replace Spock's advice and judgment! Well, I'm doing the best I can to!" There was a deep, sincere concern in McCoy's face. "Jim, I admire a Starship Captain willing to disobey orders—and risk his career when necessary. But how much of this decision of yours is emotion . . . and how much of it is logic?"
Kirk's mouth moved in a small smile. "Logic? I suppose Spock would ask that." He pondered the question. "I do have an emotional attachment to this place. That's obvious. However—"
McCoy interrupted again. "Spock might also suggest that for twenty-four hours we reconnoiter—and obey orders, making no contacts. If you decide to move in after that, I'm with you."
Kirk looked at the earnest eyes. "All right, Bones. We stay out of sight for a day. We'll cut through here and—"
He never finished his sentence. There was a hoarse snarl—and a huge, hairy creature, faintly gorillalike, lips crawled back over its wicked teeth, burst out of a clump of brush where it had been biding. A clawed fist the size of a ham knocked Kirk from his feet. Then it leaped for McCoy in the very act of reaching for his phaser. He was slammed back into rock, the weapon knocked from his hand. He fell, stunned—and the aroused gumato turned on Kirk again. He went down once more, the beast's frothy jaws tearing at the flesh of his shoulder. McCoy, trying frantically to clear his head, stretched an arm toward his phaser. Kirk landed a hard kick in the animal's belly; but the fury of the alien thing clawed him down. McCoy grasped his phaser; and making a swift adjustment on it, snouted, "Jim . . . roll free so I can shoot!"
He fired a stun charge. The gumato staggered. Then it whirled on McCoy, roaring. He got to his knees, loosing the full phaser power. The gumato vanished. But Kirk lay still. McCoy crawled to him, medikit out.
"Contact ship," Kirk whispered. "I took . . . full poison . . . its fangs . . ."
The hypo hissed against his arm. Then McCoy spoke into his communicator. "Landing party to Enterprise, come in! Enterprise, this is McCoy! Emergency. Come in!"
Kirk's forehead was already beading with sweat. The poison was in his bloodstream. McCoy had to stoop to hear the weakening voice. "Afraid . . . they've left . . . orbit."
"Jim, there's no antitoxin for this." He used the hypo again. "I can keep you alive for only a few hours with these injections."
"Tyree . . . some of them have . . . cure."
Kirk slumped into unconsciousness. In the lonely silence, McCoy heard a twig snap. Three men, bows and spears at the ready, were standing behind him, suspicion and curiosity equally mingled in their faces.
"Are you Hillpeople? Do you know a hunter named Tyree?" McCoy gestured to Kirk. "A gumato attacked him. He's James Kirk, a friend of Tyree . . ." He waited for some response. None came. Blast it, do something!" he shouted. "He's dying!"
But the Hillpeople still stared at him stolidly.
Later, he was to feel-grateful to them. Their settlement was crude, even for a nomadic people—a place of fire-pits, log shelters and primitive pottery. But the cave into which they carried Kirk's limp body was warm. And the pallet they laid him on was soft with animal skins. He was wet now with sweat and beginning to tremble violently. McCoy turned to the man who had directed them into the cave. "Yutan, more skins—blankets. I must keep him warm."
When the coverings came, McCoy piled them on Kirk. Tyree's woman—she was said to possess a cure for the effects of gumato venom. But both were absent from the camp. Superstition, anyway. And yet . . . there was Starfleet's extraordinary interest in the medical promise of this planet's organic substances . . .
Kirk was babbling in the first stages of delirium. It would reach its climax. Then coma and death. McCoy looked desperately around the cave. Slowly he got to his feet. Incredibly the boulder opposite him moved when he pushed it. Straining against its weight, he rolled it over beside Kirk. After a moment he went toward another one. "You and your 'Garden of Eden,’“ he muttered. "First Spock, now you. Maybe Adam was better off
out of Eden."
Tyree and his woman were crouched in the shadow of a rocky overhang, watching a file of villagers pass down a trail, armed with their flintlocks. Though the woman's wild black hair had never known a comb, her thin features held intelligence and a savage beauty. She leaned to Tyree, whispering urgently. "We must obtain the same firesticks, husband! We could take their goods, their horses—kill them!"
"Enough!" he rebuked. "In time the villagers will return to the ways of friendship."
She spotted a small plant beside her. Its root came up to the prize of her sharp-bladed knife. "In time?" she said. "How many of us must continue to die waiting for this 'time' of yours?"
Tyree opened her small leather bag for her. As she dropped the root into it, she said, "I am a Kahn-ut-tu woman, Tyree! In all this land there are few of us. Men seek us for mates because through us they can become great leaders!"
He smiled at her. "I took you for mate because you cast a spell upon me, Nona."
She withdrew an odd-shaped leaf from her bag. The look in her brilliant dark eyes was openly inviting. "And I have spells to keep you!" She crushed the leaf until its heady scent had impregnated her fingers. "Remember this fragrance? The night we camped by the water . . .?"
He pushed her away. "Yes. The night of madness."
She caressed his face with her scented fingers. His eyelids drooped. She leaned closer to him. "Madness? Did you really hate that madness, Tyree?"
"No," he pleaded. "Nona, no. It calls up evil beasts from my soul."
"Only one lovely beast, Tyree . . . you, my strong, angry man."
His arms went around her. He was drawing her down to the leaves when Yutan, running, broke through the trees. Nona looked up; and he stopped dead at the look in her eyes.
"For . . . forgive me," he stammered. "But there are strangers in the camp. One has taken a gumato bite. He dies."
Nona was on her feet. "Strangers? Explain."
"It is said that the dying one is a friend of Tyree. From long ago."
Tyree was still fighting the intoxicating effects of the leaf's odor; but Nona, in full command of herself, nodded. "That one!" she exclaimed. "I go. Bring Tyree when his head clears."
Kirk was moaning in the clutch of his delirium. McCoy went to the cave entrance. The curious crowd that had thronged it had disappeared. He pulled his phaser, aimed it at one of the boulders beside Kirk, and fired it. The rock glowed red with heat. With perhaps too much. He bent over the phaser to readjust it—and Nona, a dark ghost, slipped into the cave. She looked from the red rock to the weapon in McCoy's hands, her face alive with fascinated interest. Pulling back into the shadows, she watched the phaser beam strike the other boulder. It, too, went red. Nona turned and left the cave as silently as she'd entered it.
Tyree, Yutan beside him, was running toward it. She extended a hand. "Stop!" she said. "Do you want me to save him?"
Her tone halted him. "You must!" he cried. "He is the one I told you of, the friend of my young days!"
She had seen a miracle—a firestick of marvelous power. A Kahn-ut-tu woman knew how to take advantage of miraculous opportunities. Wife to a supreme leader of men . . .
"My remedies," she said, "require full knowledge of the people they cure. I must know all that is known of your friend."
Tyree shook his head. "I gave him the Promise of Silence, Nona. He was made my brother!"
"And I am your wife—his sister. I promise silence also. Quickly, Tyree. Or he dies!"
Spock had still to recover consciousness. Christine Chapel, frightened, looked away from the low readings on his body-functions panel. Maybe his pulse . . . She took it and her hand slipped down to hold his. Words she didn't know were in her came to her lips. "Mr. Spock, you've hardly ever noticed me . . . and I understand. You can't. But—I'd give my life to save you . . ."
Sickbay's door opened. She hurriedly replaced Spock's arm on the bed—but M'Benga had seen.
He examined the panel. "Don't let those readings unduly trouble you. I've seen this before in Vulcans. It's their way of concentrating their strength, blood and antibodies on the injured organs." He eyed the pale face on the pillow. "A form of self-induced hypnosis."
"You mean he's actually conscious, Doctor?"
"In a sense. He knows we're here and what we're saying. But he can't take his mind from the tissue he is fighting to heal. I suppose," he added, "that he even knows you were holding his hand."
He left her, eyes averted from the painful flush that flooded her face. She moved to gather up some charts. Then she turned to address the still form on the bed. "Mr. Spock," she said, "a good nurse holds the hands of all patients. It proves to them that one is . . . interested."
The lie made her feel much better.
The boulders were cooling. But it was still very hot in the cave. McCoy brushed sweat from his face and bent to pull back Kirk's eyelid. He shook his head; and was drawing a blanket closer about him when Tyree and Nona walked into the cave.
The man spoke at once. "I am Tyree." He strode to Kirk as one who had the right, passing the dull red rocks without a glance. But McCoy's interest was focused on Nona. She was emptying the contents of a small leather bag on a flat rock. He moved in to watch her over her shoulder. "And I am Tyree's woman," she told him without turning.
On the rock's flat surface lay a root, wet, covered with small open spores. Nona drew her razor-edged knife, pressed its blade on the root—and it began to writhe. She picked it up on the flat of her knife, speaking briefly. "A Mahko root."
"A plant?" said the wary McCoy. "It moves."
"For one who knows where to find it and how to pick it."
Tyree was kneeling at Kirk's head, his kindly face anxious. When Nona approached them, he pulled back so that she could seat herself next to his friend, the root still moving on the knife blade. When she touched Kirk's throat with her free hand, his mouth opened slightly. She leaned over him gently; and exhaling a long breath of her own between his lips, whispered, "Take this of my soul . . . this of my soul into thy soul . . . into thine . . ."
McCoy was shocked. He turned to Tyree, crying, "I was told she had a cure!"
"Be silent," he said sternly.
Nona was breathing more of her breath into Kirk's open mouth. She lifted unseeing eyes, chanting more of her strange incantation. "Deeply . . . deeply . . . deeply . . . we must become as one . . . as one . . . as one . . ."
To McCoy's total amazement, Kirk had begun to breathe evenly in time with the woman's breathing. But the mystic element in the chant horrified him. He had started toward Kirk when Tyree's strong arm barred the way. He saw Nona bare the exact spot on Kirk's shoulder where the gumato fangs had struck, and slap the twisting root on the punctures. Then, turning the knife on her own hand, she slashed it deeply and pressed it, bleeding, on top of the ugly root. She groaned with pain. Kirk echoed the groan as though he, too, felt the agony of the slash. She shut her eyes. Swaying, she chanted, "Together . . . your pain in mine . . . together . . . your soul in mine . . . together . . . together . . . together . . ."
Both of them were now inhaling in perfect unison. And to both, in unison, came easier breath, relaxation. Nona's eyes fluttered open. "Return . . . it is past . . . return . . . return . . . return . . ."
And Kirk's eyes, too, fluttered open. Against the animal skins of his pallet, his face was at peace.
Nona remained close to him for a long moment. Then very slowly she withdrew her hand from his shoulder. She extended it, palm up, to McCoy. It held no sign of knife wound, only the small, withered thing that had been the writhing root. She got to her feet, making way for McCoy. But he didn't need to examine Kirk's shoulder. He knew what he'd find—and he found it. The flesh was healthy, unmarked.
Kirk smiled up at him. "I've been having . . . a strange dream."
"How do you feel, Jim?"
"I'm tired—just tired. You've done a fine job, Bones."
He was already asleep. McCoy looked up to see Tyree su
pporting Nona.
"Thank you for saving him. I'd like to learn more of this . . ."
"She must sleep now," Tyree said.
"Is there any condition I should watch for in him? Any aftereffect or danger?"
Nona spoke weakly. "Our blood has passed . . . through the Mahko root together . . . our souls have been together. He is mine now."
Startled, McCoy spoke to Tyree. "What does she mean, 'he's hers'?"
"When a man and a woman are joined in this manner, he can refuse her no wish." He smiled faintly. "But only a legend. There is no danger."
Tyree was leading her from the cave when she passed close to McCoy. Though her eyes were heavy with exhaustion, there was a look on her face that troubled McCoy. It suggested that she knew she had won some obscure victory. When he noted the same half-smile of satisfaction on Kirk's sleeping features, McCoy's sense of apprehension became definite.
It grew so insistent it aroused him from his deep sleep of weariness. The cave was black with night. His first conscious thought was of Kirk. He reached for his medikit and groped his way past the rocks to the pallet. It was empty.
He stood still for a moment, fully awake now. The layout of the camp was still unfamiliar to him. He moved to the cave entrance, trying to get his bearings in the darkness. To his left there was the darker shadow of a structure of some kind. It turned out to be a lean-to. The still-glowing embers of its firepit showed two sleepers. A dim form was standing over one of them.
"Jim?" McCoy whispered.
One of the sleepers awoke, rolling instantly into a crouch. It was Tyree. He stared at McCoy. Then, bounding to his feet, he turned and saw Kirk, eyes closed like a sleepwalker's, beside the sleeping body of his wife.
"Jim!" McCoy shook Kirk's arm. The eyes opened to fill with surprise. "Quite . . . all right, Bones. I felt better and thought I'd stretch my legs." He recognized Tyree; his face alight with pleasure, cried, "Tyree! It is you, my old friend!" His hand went out to grip the man's shoulder in genuine affection.