by 11(lit)
He ignored the bridge's hubbub of welcome. Passing Uhura's station, he snapped, "Lieutenant, try to set our re-corder at maximum speed..."
"Yes, sir." But the lights on her console had gone mad. The rapidity of their flashing turned them into blur. And all around him other boards and panels were affected by the same dementia. Suddenly, relief engulfed him. Grin-ning, he spoke to Scott. "I think we've found Mr. Spock. Lieutenant Uhura, are your circuits clearing?"
Her face was startled. "Yes, sir."
"Mr. Sulu?"
"Clearing, sir."
"Lieutenant Uhura, open all channels." He seized his mike. "Captain to crew. Repairs to the ship are being completed by Mr. Spock. We will resume normal operations... just about immediately."
The air beside his chair seemed to thicken. It solidi-fied. Kirk looked at the elegantly pointed ears. "Greetings, Mr. Spock. My compliments on your repair work."
"Thank you, Captain. I have found it all a most fasci-nating experience."
"I'm glad," Kirk said. "I'm glad on many counts." He got up to pace the round of the stations. "Malfunctions- any anywhere?" Faces beamed at him. He returned to his chair-and the viewing screen lit up. On it the five Scalosians came back into view, Deela's surpassing loveliness transcendent.
"Sorry, sir," Uhura said. "I touched the tape button accidentally."
He leaned back in his chair, eyes on the screen. Deela's face seemed to fill the world. The magnetic field between them-and susceptible to no analysis. The images winked off, leaving the screen blank.
"Goodbye, Deela," he said softly.
Bread and Circuses
(Gene Roddenberry and Gene L. Coon)
There was no doubt about it. The space debris spotted by the Enterprise scanners was all that was left of the Bea-gle, an S.S. survey vessel posted as missing for six years. A mixture of personal belongings and portions of instrumen-tation, the floating junk contained no evidence of human bodies. The conclusion was plain to Kirk. The Beagle's crew had managed to beam down to a planet before catas-trophe had destroyed their ship.
"Mr. Chekov," he said, "compute present drift of the wreckage."
"Computed and on the board, sir."
Kirk glanced at the figures. Then he rose and went to his Science officer. "Mr. Spock, assuming that stuff has been drifting at the same speed and direction for six years... ?"
Spock completed a reading on his library computer. "It would have come from planet four in Star System eight nine two, directly ahead, Captain."
Chekov called. "Only one-sixteenth parsec away, sir. We could be there in seconds!"
Kirk nodded to him. "Standard orbit around the plan-et There may be survivors there, Mr. Chekov."
Spock had more information on the lost Beagle. "She was a small Class Four stardrive vessel, crew of forty-sev-en, commanded by-" He withdrew his head from his hooded viewer. "I believe you know him, sir. Captain R. M. Merrick."
"Yes, at the Academy." It had been a long time ago; and it wasn't too pleasant a memory at that. Merrick had been dropped in his fifth year. Rumor had it he'd gone into the merchant service. True or false, he'd known him. If, by some chance, Merrick was down there, abandoned on that star...
Kirk turned to the bridge screen. They were coming up on the planet. The pinpoint of light it had been was enlarg-ing, growing rounder, transforming itself into a bluish ball, not unlike Earth. But the oceans and land masses were dif-ferent.
He said so and Spock shook his head. "In shape only, Captain. The proportion of land to water is exactly as on your home planet. Density 5.5... diameter 7917 at the equator... atmosphere 78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen. Again, exactly like Earth." He looked up, gesturing to his viewer-computer. "And I picked up indications of large cit-ies."
"Development?" Kirk said.
"No signs of atomic energy yet. But far enough along for radio communications, power transportation, an excel-lent road system."
Uhura slewed around from her station. "Captain! I think I can pick up something visual! A 'news broadcast' using a system I believe was once called 'video'."
" 'Television' was the colloquial word," Spock ob-served.
"Put it on the screen, Lieutenant," Kirk said. For a moment the bridge viewer held only the picture of the planet at orbital distance. Then, as Uhura made a new adjustment, the picture dissolved into the image of a city street-one that, apart from some subtle differences, could have been a city street of Earth's 1960's. Clearly a newscast, the scene showed onlookers in clothes of the pe-riod watching police herd up a small group of people in loin cloths.
An announcer's voice, filtered, spoke from the screen.
"... and in the Forum District today, police round-ed up still another collection of dissidents. Authorities are as yet unable to explain these fresh outbreaks of treasonable disobediences by well-treated, well-protected slaves..."
A shocked, amazed silence fell over the Enterprise bridge. But the bland announcer-voice went on. "And now, turning to the world of sports, we bring you taped reports of the arena games last night..."
Two men appeared on the Starship's screen. They were naked except for leather aprons. Helmeted, carrying oblong shields, they were armed with ancient Roman swords. They advanced toward each other. One attacked -and the announcer's voice said, "The first heat involved amateurs, a pair of petty thieves from city prison. Conduct-ed, however, with traditional weapons, it provided some amusement for a few moments..."
The attacker saw his chance. He lunged, driving his sword into the heart of his opponent. To a background of noisy cheers, he stepped back from the bloody body, rais-ing his sword in salute to the arena's galleries. Over the cheers, the announcer said, "The winner will meet another contestant in tonight's games. In the second heat we'll have a more professional display in the spirit of our splendid past, when gladiator Claudius Marcus killed the last of the barbarians, William B. Harrison, in an excellent example of..."
Static crashed. The picture faded to be replaced by the planet view.
An appalled Uhura, collecting herself, said, "Trans-mission lost, Captain. Shall I try to get it back?"
Kirk didn't answer. Instead, both puzzled and as-tounded, he turned to Spock. "Slaves and gladiators? Some kind of Twentieth-century Rome?"
Spock's face was unusually, grave as he lifted it from his computer. "Captain, the man described as the 'barbarian' is also listed here-Flight Officer William B. Harrison of the S.S. Beagle. At least there were survivors down there."
A landing party. There was no alternative. Kirk wheeled. "Ready the Transporter Room, Mr. Sulu."
They arrived at the base of a shallow canyon. Glanc-ing up at the rocky overhang, Kirk said, "You could have selected a more attractive place, Mr. Spock."
His first officer was already taking tricorder readings. "Practical, however, Captain. Unpopulated but close to that city we saw. We should not be observed." He looked up from his instrument. "Fascinating how similar is this at-mosphere to. your Twentieth century's! Moderately indus-trialized pollution containing substantial amounts of carbon monoxide and partially consumed hydrocarbons."
McCoy said, "The word was 'smog'."
"I believe that was the term, Doctor. I had no idea you were such a historian."
"I'm not. I just wanted to stop you before we got the whole lecture. Jim, do we know anything at all about this planet?"
Kirk shook his head. "The Beagle was doing the first survey on this star sector when it disappeared."
"Then the 'prime directive' is in full effect, Captain."
"Yes, Mr. Spock. 'No identification of self or mission; no interference with social development of said planet'."
McCoy nodded ruefully. "No references to space, to other worlds or more advanced civilizations." He grinned. "Once, just once, I'd like to land someplace and say, 'Be-hold, I am the Archangel Gabriel'..."
Spock cocked a brow at Kirk's chuckle. "I fail to see any humor in such a masquerade."
McCoy eyed him. "I guess becaus
e you could hardly claim to be an angel. But with those ears, Spock, if you landed somewhere carrying a pitchfork..."
A rifle cracked. Its bullet kicked up the dust at Kirk's feet-and a male voice said, "Don't move! Hands in the air!"
"Complete Earth parallel," Spock remarked, "The language here is English..."
The second shot struck close to his feet.
"I said don't move!" the voice shouted.
"I think he means it, Mr. Spock," Kirk said.
Spock looked down at the bullet mark. "That would seem to be evident, sir."
They raised their hands. Above their heads, gravel scuffed to the sound of approaching feet. A big, burly man leaped down from the overhang. Three other men followed him. All wore ragged "slave" loincloths and the alert look of fugitives. Though their rifles were conventionally old-fashioned, they used them skilfully to cover the Enterprise trio. Their uniforms seemed to anger the big man. He glared at them with hostility and suspicion.
"Who are you?" he said.
Kirk spoke. "We come from another-'province'."
The man was staring at Spock's ears. "Where are you from? Are those ears?"
"I call them ears," Spock told him mildly.
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"Never," Spock assured him. He spoke to Kirk. "Col-loquial Twentieth-century English. Truly an amazing parallel."
Their captor was clearly baffled. Kirk undertook to enlighten him. "We come from a place quite a distance from here. I doubt if you've ever heard-"
He was interrupted. Pointing to their clothing, the big leader turned to his men. "Uniforms. Probably some new Praetorian Guard unit." His eyes went back to Kirk. "I should kill you here and now... but Septimus would probably be displeased. You can take your hands down. Our rifles are at your backs. Move on!" He gestured ahead of them.
They obeyed. After about twenty minutes of hard slugging over the rocky terrain, a man in a tattered loin-cloth stepped from behind a boulder, rifle at the ready.
"Praetorian spies," the big man told him. "I'm taking them to Septimus."
They were prodded through an entrance of a cave. In its dimness they saw that it held a number of people, the men loinclothed, the women in coarse tunics. At sight of the strangers, they all gathered around an elderly man. Under his gray hair, his features were distinguished and be-nign.
"I didn't harm them, Septimus," the big man said. "Much as I wanted to."
He received a quiet nod of approval. "Keep always in your mind, Flavius, that our way is peace."
McCoy spoke. "For which we are grateful. We are men of peace ourselves."
"Ah? Are you also children of the sun?"
McCoy hesitated. "If you mean a worship of some sort, we represent many beliefs..."
"There is only one true belief!" Flavius shouted. "They are Roman butchers sent by the First Citizen!"
Kirk addressed him directly. "Are we like any Roman you ever saw?"
"Then are you slaves like ourselves?" Septimus asked.
"No. Our people do not believe in slavery."
Flavius cried, "A Roman lie! We must kill them, Sep-timus!"
Spock stepped forward. "Sir, we have come here looking for some friends. Forty-seven of them who..." he paused, the "prime directive" in mind... "were 'stranded' here six years ago. They wore clothing similar to ours. Have you heard of such men?"
Nobody had. Flavius, still suspicious, said, "Septimus, I know killing is evil but sometimes it's necessary!"
"No."
"They've located our hiding-place! It's better that a few of them die than all of us!"
One of Flavius' men spoke up. "He's right, Septimus. I don't care for myself, but I've brought my wife here, too, my children :.."
"If they don't die, Septimus, it's the same as if you killed us all yourself!"
Flavius rallied more shouts of agreement. Kirk could see that Septimus was wavering. Rifles were lifting. "Wait," he said. "I can prove we're telling the truth! A small device, Flavius. I'll bring it out slowly..."
Fingers were on triggers as he carefully reached for his communicator. He held it out so that it could be openly seen. Then, very slowly, he opened it and placed it to his lips. "Kirk to Enterprise. Come in..."
Scott's filtered voice was audible in the cave's sudden silence. "Scott here, Captain."
"Lock in on my transmission. Scan us."
"Scanning, sir."
"Including ourselves, how many people in this cave?"
"Twelve, Captain."
Flavius and Septimus looked quickly around, counting. There were indeed twelve people in the cave. Aston-ished, they looked at Kirk. He smiled at them.
"Maintain scanning, Scotty: we'll continue checking in. Kirk out." He closed the communicator, turning to Septimus. "The Enterprise is our vessel... sailing out at sea. The voice belongs to one of my crew. That's all I can tell you. If it's not sufficient, then I suppose you'll have to kill us."
Rifles were lowering. Septimus, impressed, spoke to Flavius. "Tell me the Empire has an instrument like that -and you can kill them. Otherwise, accept them as friends."
The tension subsided. A woman came forward, offer-ing a pannikin of milk to Kirk. He smiled at her, drank it and seized his first chance to take in the cave. The beds of the truant slaves were rough-hewn rock ledges. What furniture their retreat contained was equally primitive, battered pots and pans-the crude necessities of their harsh exis-tence. Yet the Enterprise men were beginning to feel at ease in the cave. Perhaps it was due to the abruptly warm friendliness of the people's effort to make amends for their original reception of the guests.
It was difficult to credit the way they lived to their era. Telecasts-and that rough log table with its torn magazines and newspapers. Was this star a strange example of Hodgkins Law of parallel planet development? A world much like his own back in the Twentieth century-that was undeniable. But on this odd "Earth," Rome never fell. It survived; and was apparently ruled by emperors who could trace their line back to the Caesars of two thousand years ago.
The fate of the Beagle crew uppermost in his mind, Kirk approached Septimus again. But the old man shook his head. "No, Captain. I'm sure I would have heard of the arrival of other men like you."
Kirk persisted. "Have you heard... let's say, an impossible story about men coming from the sky? Or from other worlds?"
Septimus smiled. "There are no other worlds."
"The stars..."
"Lights shining through from heaven. It is where the sun is. Blessed be the sun."
"Yes, of course. Excuse me..." Spock, holding a magazine, had beckoned. It was ti-tled The Gallian; and its cover was the photograph of a gladiator, fully armed with sword, shield, breastplate and helmet. The caption under the picture read, the new heavyweight champion.
Kirk, leafing through it, came on a colored drawing of a sleek automobile. The ad copy told him its name and purpose. It said: the jupiter eight for royal com-fort.
"Fascinating," Spock said.
"The Jupiter Eight. Conventional combustion en-gine... you were right about that smog, Spock. But Jupiter cars? And here's Mars Toothpaste... Neptune Bath Salts..."
"Taken from the names of false gods," Septimus said. "When I was a Senator, I worshiped them, too... but I heard the, words of the Sun. I became a brother. For that they made me a slave."
"Septimus... will you help us?" Kirk said. "We must go into the city. We know that one of our missing friends was seen there recently..."
"My advice to you is to leave this place... to go back where you came from."
"We can't do that. Perhaps you have heard this name. 'Merrick' or 'Captain Merrick'?"
Septimus backed away, his face changing. Kirk was suddenly aware of Flavius' watchful eyes.
"Merikus?" Septimus said.
"Merrick. The leader of our friends..."
"Merikus is First Citizen!" Flavius cried. "Butcher!"
"It could not be the same man," Kirk told him. "Cap-tain Merrick is no
butcher."
Spock interposed. "A logical question if I may, Cap-tain." He addressed Septimus. "How many years ago did this Merikus become First Citizen?"
"Perhaps five years..."