To further convolute matters, our translation devices are only programmed for this world's major languages. And with the exception of only one man, Crewman Donald Clifford, none of my people can even come close to the P'othparan tongue.
As a result, we've had to enlist the aid of nativeculture experts from the provincial university on the mainland. We talk to them and they talk to the P'othparans.
Meanwhile, of course, we are continuing our efforts to prevent the meteors from falling in the first place—though it seems futile at this point. Had the swarm approached from Federation space, and not from beyond the Romulan neutral zone, we might have been able to destroy it long before this. As it is, we'll chip away as best we can—until impact.
JIM KIRK, captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise, stood in the ancient village square with the rest of the evac base team. There were half a dozen of his own people and an equal number of the mainlanders, speaking in low voices that showed their fatigue as much as their respect for this place.
Kirk was tired too. Tired and hot. But most of all, he was frustrated.
Beyond the intricately carved stone buildings, beyond the dark humpbacks of the hills, a magnificent red-purple sunset was just beginning to build among the clouds. And somewhere beyond that was the meteor swarm, getting closer with each passing second.
Kirk sensed someone approaching, turned. He recognized the scholar called Lee'dit, the nominal leader of the university contingent.
The T'nufan was born to this climate. After all, the weather on the mainland was nearly as hot and dry as on P'othpar. But his dark bronze skin was every bit as streaked with sweat and dust as that of the humans. And his nerves, like theirs, seemed to be stretched tight as he waited for the last outlying family to be brought in.
Lee'dit indicated the spectacle of the setting sun. "Lovely, isn't it?" he asked Kirk. "The way the clouds catch the light?"
The captain nodded. "Quite lovely."
"You know," said the T'nufan, "a P'othparan seldom sees clouds. He considers them a blessing. A sign that celestial fortune is smiling."
Kirk grunted. "Some blessing. To have one's home near obliterated."
Lee'dit shrugged. "It all depends on how you look at it. True, P'othpar may be destroyed—but thanks to your intervention, the P'othparans will survive. Isn't that something of a blessing?"
"Our intervention," said the captain. "And I suppose it is, if you want to wax philosophical about it."
"I can tell you," said the T'nufan, "the P'othparans are nothing if not philosophical." With a gesture, he took in the square and the buildings beyond it. "All this means less to them than you might think. The external world, according to their beliefs, is only significant to the extent that it fuels the internal."
"Still," said Kirk, "they haven't exactly looked happy about leaving."
"There's no question," said Lee'dit, "that they will miss this place. But if they have to, they'll find another—one that offers them the same degree of insulation from the modern world." He smiled wearily. "Of course, the help we've provided today may encourage a broader cultural dialogue with our province. Did you know, Captain, that as recently as fifty years ago, there was no contact at all. . . ."
Kirk knew a lecture mode when he heard one. He was listening with only one ear when he noticed Clifford headed in their direction.
"Sir," said the crewman, wiping his sunburned forehead with his sleeve, "it's Critelli. He's back."
Kirk followed Clifford's gesture and spotted the small group wending its way down from the hills. Only one of the still-distant figures wore a Starfleet uniform. Another was dressed in the pale robes of the university group, and two more in drab P'othparan tunics.
The captain nodded. "Thank you, Mister Clifford." He flipped open his communicator.
"Kirk to bridge. Come in, Spock."
"Spock here, Captain. I was growing concerned."
"The last of the villagers are just coming in now," said Kirk. "I'm sure Mister Scott will be glad to hear that."
"I believe he will," said the Vulcan. "He has been anything but pleased with the burden we've placed on his energy reserves."
Kirk grunted. "How's Chekov doing at Az'roth?"
"Quite well," said Spock. "In fact, he's being beamed up now—with the last members of his landing party."
"Good." Kirk paused. "And our marksmanship?"
"About as effective as can be expected, Captain. Unfortunately, most of the meteor mass will still be intact when it hits the island."
"Too bad," said Kirk. "I've developed a certain fondness for this place."
"I too regret the loss," said Spock. And Kirk knew he meant it, though he'd never actually seen P'othpar. "But I hope," continued the Vulcan, "that you will not linger to contemplate it."
"Not for long," said the captain. "Kirk out."
It was only then, with his communicator off, that he heard the thin, high-pitched wailing. Turning, Kirk traced it to Critelli's group, which had just come past a rocky outcropping.
Of the two P'othparans, one was an elderly male, who needed Critelli's support to make any progress. The other was a female—younger, perhaps only middle-aged, though she too was being helped down the incline.
It was the female who was responsible for the wailing.
Kirk turned to Lee'dit. "Do you have any idea what that's about?"
The T'nufan shook his head. "None."
"Then perhaps," said Kirk, "we should find out." Before the words were entirely out of his mouth, he'd started across the square.
He met up with Critelli and the others just as they entered the outer circle of the village. The female's cries only sounded louder as they echoed among the stone buildings.
"What's going on here?" asked the captain as Clifford came up behind him.
Critelli shook his head helplessly. "I don't know, sir. Kul'lad says she's just upset about leaving the island." But something in the crewman's voice said that he wasn't completely convinced.
Kirk eyed Kul'lad, the young mainlander who'd been teamed with Critelli. The look in his eyes wasn't hard to read. Kirk had seen slow panic before.
Next, he regarded the female. He saw the agony in her pale, T'nufan eyes. Tears glistened on the bronze of her skin.
And there were fingermarks on her arm—a sign that she'd been dragged against her will.
Finally, he turned to the elderly male. The P'othparan was too winded to speak, but there was grief in his face as well.
"No," said the captain. "I think there's more to it than that." Again, he fixed Kul'lad with his gaze. "Isn't there?"
The mainlander could barely contain his anxiety.
"She's babbling," he said. "Who knows? Perhaps she's mad."
The female's wailing began anew.
"Mister Clifford," said Kirk. "Can you understand what she's saying?"
Clifford listened to the female, trying to pick out the sense in her words. His brow furrowed, drawing down an unruly shock of brown hair. After all, his familiarity with the P'othparan language had been limited to what he could speed-learn en route to T'nufo.
Tentatively, he posed a question. The female's lamentations took on a new intensity.
"Well?" asked Kirk, torn by her misery.
"She's incoherent," said Kul'lad. "And we have no time for this. We must leave—now. Before …"
Kirk glared at him and he shut up.
"It's her son," said Clifford. "He went up into the … the hills early this morning. To hunt … some sort of flying lizard."
"It is called slik't," said a T'nufan voice.
Kirk glanced over his shoulder at Lee'dit, who had arrived with the last of the base team.
"And it was not the creature itself he was hunting, but its eggs. They are considered a delicacy here."
The female cried out in anguish.
"He hasn't returned yet," added Lee'dit. "Though by now, he should have. And she does not want to leave without him."
"He's probably dead," said
Kul'lad. "Do you know how treacherous those hills are?" He looked at Lee'dit beseechingly. "Should we have waited for him—and jeopardized our survival?"
The scholar said nothing.
Suddenly, the female let out with a long chain of ululations, and pointed to a pass just west of the village.
"She says," Clifford translated, "that he can be saved. She says he's not so far away. Just up that pass."
Kirk shaded his eyes against the slanting rays of the sun and followed Clifford's gesture. Indeed, there was a passage there between the hills, and it seemed to lead up into them.
"Sir," said Clifford. "I'll go after him."
Kirk looked back at him and saw the resolve in his face.
"No," he said. "I need you to finish up here."
"But, sir, there's nothing left to—"
"That's an order, mister."
Clifford stiffened, turned a shade ruddier than the sun had already made him. His eyes narrowed, but he restrained himself from any further protests. "Aye, sir," was all he said.
Kirk glanced once more at the female.
"When you return to the ship," he told Clifford, "inform Mister Spock of my whereabouts."
The crewman's features went slack. "Whereabouts, sir?"
"Whereabouts," confirmed the captain.
And before they could waste any more of what little time was left, he loped off in the direction of the pass.
The forward viewscreen showed the periphery of the meteor swarm, chiseled and defined by the white-hot glare of T'nufo's sun.
Suddenly, a beam of intense, red phaserlight stabbed through the swarm. Found a chunk of rock, obliterated it.
But the rest of the meteors, unaffected, continued to plunge toward their rendezvous with P'othpar.
Lieutenant Hautala, acting as navigator in Chekov's absence, spun around in his seat.
"Mister Spock," he said, "we are now within photon torpedo range."
In the command chair of the Enterprise, First Officer
Spock punched up a channel to the weapons room.
"Adler here."
"Ready to fire photon torpedoes, Mister Adler."
"Aye, sir."
Spock could hear Adler barking orders to his team.
"Fire," said the first officer.
A moment later, the viewscreen lit up with blue-violet pyrotechnics. When it cleared, there was a gap in the swarm that hadn't been there before. But the vast bulk of the meteor mass remained intact.
Spock leaned back in the captain's seat, his elbows resting on the armrests. He formed a bridge with his fingers and held it out before him.
"Ready to fire again, sir," announced Adler.
"Fire," said Spock.
Again, the screen sizzled with blue fire. And again, the torpedoes had limited effect. The meteors moved inexorably toward their ultimate rendezvous.
Spock sighed—a barely perceptible flaring of his finely shaped nostrils.
"Shall we try it again, sir?" asked the weapons officer.
"I think not," said Spock. "For now, resume phaser barrage. We will try the torpedoes again when the swarm is closer."
"Aye, sir. Adler out."
Spock felt thwarted, helpless, as he watched the phaser fire lance through the meteor configuration. And of all the human feelings he'd inherited from his human mother, he found helplessness the most onerous. Almost, he wished he could trade places with the captain. At least he'd be doing something.
There was an abrupt hiss as the door to the turbo lift opened behind him. But Spock didn't have to turn around to know who'd joined them on the bridge. The muttered invective was sufficient identification.
Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy was hovering over him a moment later. The Vulcan maintained his scrutiny of the viewscreen.
"Spock," said McCoy, in a voice too low for the rest of the bridge contingent to overhear, "I just got wind of a nasty rumor. I want you to tell me there's no truth to it."
"That would be difficult," said Spock, "not knowing the substance of the rumor."
"Blast it," said McCoy, "you know what rumor. Scotty says Jim's left the evac site and headed for the hills—on some wild-goose chase."
"Actually," said the first officer, "the captain's objective is a native youth. I do not believe that geese are among the four thousand three hundred and ninety-four species still extant on T'nufo."
The doctor raised his voice to a harsh whisper. "I'm all for saving lives, Spock. But you know the odds of finding anyone in those hills. How can you let him traipse around down there when there's less than an hour before impact?"
Spock resisted the impulse to correct McCoy's estimate. There were actually thirty-two-point-two-four minutes—ship's time—left before the devastation would begin.
"Need I remind you," he said instead, "that the captain is still the commanding officer of this vessel? I can hardly beam him up against his will. What's more, his decision is perfectly logical. Until the danger posed by the meteors becomes more immediate, why not continue the search? In the worst case, he will only fail to find the youth."
McCoy leaned a little closer, his blue eyes blazing.
"Sure. And because he's a rational being—just like yourself, Mister Spock—he'll accept that failure in plenty of time to beam up. Is that what you're telling me?"
Spock conceded that the doctor had a point there. Finally, he looked at him.
"Very well," he said. "When the time comes, I will remind the captain of the situation."
McCoy sputtered. "When the time comes …?"
A couple of heads turned on the bridge. Spock cocked an eyebrow.
The doctor made a sound deep in his throat—one which Spock recognized as a sign of concession among humans.
"All right," McCoy said finally. "I suppose I should be glad I got that much out of you." He straightened, taking up a position by Spock's side.
On the forward monitor, yet another phaser beam sliced into the meteor swarm. There was an explosion—pitifully small, in the context of the screen—as it found a mark.
"You need not remain on the bridge," said Spock, "if you have duties awaiting you in sickbay."
"The hell I need not," said the doctor. "I'm waiting here until the time comes. To make sure you keep your word."
Spock shrugged. "Suit yourself, Doctor," he said.
Did McCoy honestly think he'd fail to contact the captain—at the appropriate juncture? Or that he hadn't planned to do so all along—even prior to this conversation?
After all, one didn't have to be human to be worried about a friend.
Kirk scrambled up the trail, dislodging pebbles in his haste. The riotous sunset had all but descended behind the ridge to his left, and the sky was turning darker. Soon, there'd be no light but what the stars threw off, for T'nufo had no moons.
But that was the least of his problems. The meteors would start to hit long before the light was gone.
His communicator beeped again, and he whipped it open without breaking stride. "Kirk here," he said, a little hoarse from the dry air and his exertions.
"Captain, y've got t' come aboard!" It was Scotty again—for the third time since he'd left the village. "Y've less than twelve minutes now before impact—surely, y've done all ye could."
Kirk swore beneath his breath. Less than twelve minutes.
"Did ye say somethin', sir? A' didna hear ye."
"Have you got a fix on my coordinates?" asked Kirk.
"That a' do," said the chief engineer. "Shall a' beam ye up, then?"
"Not yet," said Kirk, nonetheless grateful for Scotty's preparedness. "I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet, Mister Scott."
"But, sir …"
"Kirk out."
He replaced the communicator on his belt and negotiated a sharp bend in the trail, using his hands to help his progress. As he mounted the turn, he saw that the ground fell away abruptly just beyond it, spilling into a deep, dark ravine.
For a moment, he stopped to peer int
o it. But it was no good—he couldn't see the bottom. And there was no sign of the youth along the long, smooth slopes.
Kirk went on, wondering if Kul'lad had been right. There had been a dozen places like this on the way up, where the P'othparan could have slipped and fallen to his death.
But he still had time left. There was no sense giving up until he had to.
It was the kind of logic even Spock couldn't have argued with.
A dry wind scoured the hills as Kirk pelted along beside the ravine. It seemed to be growing narrower, he noted, and its flanks steeper. After a while, it was almost a sheer drop on either side.
Suddenly, there was a rush of air just behind him, and a thin, high-pitched scream. Kirk threw himself flat against the ground—just as something large and leathery passed over him.
Then the thing was up ahead, gliding on what must have been an updraft from the ravine, gleaming like lapis and emeralds in the dying light.
It was huge, with a wing span nearly twice as long as Kirk was tall. And the hooked talons it carried beneath it were only partly concealed by a long, reptilian tail.
A slik't, Kirk told himself. It had to be.
And if it was headed back to its nest, it might lead him to the P'othparan. That is, if the youth had made it this far.
Kirk got up and started after the creature. As if to oblige him, the slik't seemed to slow down a bit—just enough for him to keep pace with it if he pushed himself.
Part of Kirk acknowledged the inadvisability of moving so quickly, so near to the ravine. It was the part of him that held things together, that enabled him to make decisions when four hundred thirty lives depended on them.
But another part of him wasn't fazed by the danger. That was the part that couldn't shake the sight of the female's face … the agony of her cries. . . .
As the shadows deepened, pooling in the hollows, it became harder and harder to keep track of the slik't. Its scaly hide, shielded from direct light, was almost indistinguishable from the patches of scrub that grew out of the hillsides.
How much time was left now? It was difficult to say. He could have called up to the ship, of course, but that would only have slowed him down. When the meteors came, he'd know it.
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