“These readings just don’t match up with Spock’s official report,” she snapped. “So far I count three sensor readings that are off—two of them dealing with wavelengths of that probe. That’s not like Spock.”
She was damning herself now for not sounding the general alarm when she’d had the chance. It wouldn’t do much good now. She glanced around at the rest of the bridge.
Sulu was sleeping, head down, on the navigation console. Lt. Arex occasionally patted all three hands together in the manner of a little boy, and Scott—Chief Engineer Scott—was ignoring the still-recording log and conducting a silent orchestra of his own. If she’d seen the instruments involved, even Uhura might have blushed. She used a remote to switch off the log.
No, their reaction to a general alarm would be somewhat less than devastating.
She turned back to the computer. There had to be an explanation buried somewhere in the sensor readings.
There had to be.
The temple reminded -Kirk of a well-insulated Parthenon as viewed through a fun-house mirror. Basic architectural lines were there, but they conformed to no known earthly pattern. He couldn’t even tell whether the marblelike facing, brilliant white with pink veins and black striations for contrast, was stone or metal. The top of the structure seemed to melt into a pink fog that swirled gently in the light air.
A moment before, several small mist-shrouded forms had coalesced in front of the structure to leave Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and Carver standing just at its base.
It seemed they’d forgotten their life-support-belts. Tch! It could have been fatal, but Spock’s easygoing assumption as to the planet’s congeniality turned out to be correct. By now any outsider would be justified in questioning their sanity, but none of the men affected seemed to find the oversight worth mentioning.
Spock had remembered to bring his tricorder, however. The security guard had one, too, and McCoy had a medical ’corder in addition to his standard emergency kit.
Their gaze never strayed from the temple. They stared in admiration at the arching columns of polished stone/metal, at the delicate, gravity-defying arches.
“Fantastic architecture,” Kirk murmured. “Only an incredibly advanced race could have built this place.” He didn’t seem to find it particularly significant that the temple might be made of stone instead of duralloy or some equally technologically advanced structural material.
His opinion of the astonishingly advanced civilization of this world was echoed by the other members of the landing party. Carver turned to Kirk and gestured at his own tricorder. He appeared to be having some trouble speaking. What was wrong with the enlisted ranks these days?
“You want the routine post-landing checks made, sir?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary, Carver,” Kirk replied easily. “Why go to all that trouble? There aren’t any threats here.” His assurance bothered no one. “Spock can handle any required scans.”
Fortunately, the science officer’s judgment was less affected than the captain’s. He was already taking readings.
That didn’t keep him from staring at the temple, nor did it make his voice less distant and dreamy.
“There’s something compelling about it, Captain.”
“Yes.” There was no music now, no all-absorbing rhythm pounding in their ears, but Spock was right. Something was pulling at them!
Kirk took a half-step backwards and frowned. Spock continued to work with his tricorder and abruptly he also seemed to realize something had taken an unpleasant grip on them.
“Captain, the urgency of the attraction suggests that more than mere visual compulsion is at work here. I advise remaining at a distance until I can determine the depth and significance of this influence. Life forms are indicated—concentrated at some point within this structure.”
Kirk’s trancelike expression intensified, and the momentary feeling of unease vanished. He seemed to hesitate, looking around for—something. But when his gaze finally returned to the temple, it stayed there—fixed.
“There’s no apparent danger, Spock. A belligerent life form would already have sallied out to attack us. Let’s go.” He moved quickly now, even eagerly, towards the temple steps.
McCoy and Carver needed no urging and followed close on his heels. Spock followed more warily.
It was all very logical, of course. That wasn’t the trouble. The trouble was that his logic was leading him down possible lines he didn’t care for. But something at work here had a way of muffling the normal lines of reason. Spock almost seemed to have cause and effect tied together, and then everything would sort of blur in his mind.
Huge, intricately carved doors were recessed into the front of the temple. As soon as the men from the Enterprise had approached to within a few steps, the doors began to swing silently inward. That in itself should have been cause for greater caution. But Kirk led them inside as though they’d been expected for a long, long time.
They walked down a high, narrow hall which gradually opened into a huge audience chamber. Huge, hammock-like settees filled with silken cushions and high, cube-shaped tables of red-gold were set on both sides of the chamber. Various ornaments and utensils carved from single gems studded the tables and walls.
Always they moved toward a high, cushioned dais at the far end of the chamber. The aliens were there, waiting for them.
Resting on the dais itself or standing in a semicircle around it were a cluster of the most breathtakingly beautiful women any of them had ever seen or imagined. They wore long, togalike costumes which tantilized more than concealed. A few lounged on thick cushions covered with fur.
Like everything else on this world, their skins seemed tinged with a combination of gold and pink. All the colors of the rainbow gleamed in their flowing waist-length hair. Their eyes were a deep, drowning violet.
All stood about two and a half meters tall.
When they eventually moved it was slowly, and with great care and with deliberate patience. The reactions of the landing party were similar.
“Radiant… like goddesses… such eyes!” came the varied whispered comments. Even Spock was overwhelmed. He did, however, retain enough presence of mind to borrow McCoy’s medical tricorder. The good doctor didn’t seem to need it.
A quick scan brought some interesting information.
“The form—as is obvious—is humanoid,” he murmured. “But there are a number of internal differences of indeterminate significance. Endocrinology especially appears to operate at variance with the humanoid norm. Also, their bodies appear to function at a surprisingly high electrical level.
“According to the tricorder the range of psychokinestatics—outside influences having an actual effect on bodily function—is abnormally high.”
“Prettiest body functions I ever saw,” McCoy mumbled, utterly enthralled.
For their part, the reactions of the women as they rose and slowly surrounded the men were equally ecstatic.
“They are here… such wondrous ones… they honor us with their presence…” and similar phrases not calculated to lower the ego of any masculine listener.
It all puzzled Spock, briefly, only because their reactions were exactly what one might dream for. It was ideal—too ideal. Too perfect. That didn’t keep him from abandoning himself to it completely.
The crewmen had to lean backward to maintain eye contact as the tallest of the women stepped forward and extended her hand to each of them in turn. Her voice rang like prayer bells sounding through Lhasa.
“I am Theela,” and the very name seemed to hint of warmth and love, “the head female. Welcome, James Kirk, Dr. McCoy, Mr. Spock, Ensign Carver. Welcome, honored ones.”
“Welcome, honored ones!” came the heavenly chorus from the assembled women.
Kirk mumbled some suitably mushy reply, the sentiment, if not the actual words, echoed by his companions—including Spock. It was fortunate no recorder was on to set down their words for posterity. Their infantile respons
es would never come back to haunt them.
They didn’t sound infantile at the time, however. They sounded delightfully appropriate.
“How do you know our names?”
“The Oyya revealed you to us,” Theela explained. She turned to face a shockingly blue curtain shot through with silver wire. Instead of touching a switch or giving a signal, she hummed a single soft, distinctive note. The curtain responded by sliding silently aside.
Jutting out from the wall behind the curtain was a large transparent cube. In its center floated a perfect three-dimensional model—no, not model, a picture, image, whatever label one could think of—of the Enterprise. More perfect than any hologram, it was so real it seemed the ship itself had been reduced in size and set into the cube.
The landing party moved closer, eyeing the device with real interest. As an example of alien engineering it was intriguing, but not quite spectacular. Although there were aspects of it which were unfamiliar—no Federation instrument could produce quite so realistic a depiction, for example—the technology required to produce it was not beyond comprehension.
But those few aspects bothered Spock. That, and the sophistication of such a machine in comparison with its basically barbaric surroundings. They did not add up.
“Tonal control,” he murmured sleepily. “Quite impressive.” Theela moved close and put a hand on his shoulder, looking down at him.
“The Oyya will reveal the answer to whatever is asked of it, Mr. Spock.”
Spock was skeptical, but before he could ask questions Theela moved away from him to stand next to Kirk.
“We are grateful you heard the signal, Captain, and responded.”
Signal… there was something about a signal. Something was hammering insistently at the back of his skull, screaming for attention. He shunted it angrily aside.
Signal… they were here in the first place because of… why were they here?
“That signal—-it was a distress call?” Kirk asked.
Theela’s smile faded. For a second a terrible sadness seemed to come over her. Then she quickly forced cheer-fullness back into her voice.
“I will explain its meaning later, Captain. For now, we have prepared a feast to celebrate your coming—and your safe arrival.”
Kirk would have pursued the matter further. He wanted to—it seemed he ought to—-but somehow, in the face of Theela’s radiant smile and the proximity of her body, the questions lost their initial urgency.
Several women guided each man to one of the swaying, overstuffed hammocks, helped him gently into it. Others brought elaborate golden trays piled high with exotically colored fruits, and white-gold chalices filled with cool bubbling drink.
Two or three women clustered around each man. They began to eat and drink. Especially choice tidbits were chosen for the visitors from the mountain of food.
One swarthy giantess rose and took several round gold fruits from a crystal bowl. “My name is Darah, honored ones,” she whispered sensuously. She moved to the center of the chamber.
There she began juggling the fruits while simultaneously starting a wild, barely controlled dance. Performed by anyone else the combination would have seemed ludicrous. But Darah’s movements turned it into an incredibly alluring ballet.
Kirk and his companions watched. Theela had knelt at his feet and was stroking his bare legs above the boot tops. From unseen instruments, heady music throbbed. If possible, the women now seemed more beautiful, more exotic, more alive than ever. Very much more alive.
“Captain’s log,” Kirk sighed heavily, not caring whether or not a tricorder was running to pick it up, “stardate 5483.9. The beauty of this place is unequalled. It’s the answer to all a man’s secret desires, private fantasies, dreams. Exquisite in every way.” He paused drowsily and managed to get the chalice to his lips for another sip of the champagnelike liquid.
“We’re here to investigate… here to investigate.” He almost frowned. A last warning tried to sound, faded quietly behind a wall of suffocating pink flesh. “To investiga…” Theela made a deft move with her hips, and he smiled.
“The women themselves radiate delight.” He watched as Darah continued her juggling dance, moving quickly, easily, back and forth across the chamber floor. McCoy fervently seconded Kirk’s unrecorded sentiments.
“Truly, Theela, you are the most beautiful women in the galaxy. But where are your men?”
“They have their own temple, their own compound,” the giantess informed him. “We find it better this way. We are thus free to pursue our own pleasures and fulfill our own needs without harassment from the other.”
“I’ll drink to that,” McCoy bubbled.
Darah, her filmy toga flying in loose folds from her magnificent form, spun across the floor toward them. Suddenly, she called out laughingly.
“Mr. Spock!” She tossed one of the golden fruits toward him.
“I’ll drink to that,” echoed McCoy.
Spock rose automatically to catch, reeled dizzily and nearly fell over. Theela and several of the other women caught him before he struck the floor.
Kirk was halfway out of his hammock and starting toward Spock, his increasing lethargy finally interrupted by his friend’s plight. He got only a few steps before he found himself swaying unsteadily. It finally penetrated the rose-colored haze that had enshrouded him that something was wrong here.
McCoy and Carver were also on their feet, but barely. Neither was in any condition to help anyone but himself. Other women rushed to their assistance.
“Take them to the slumber chambers,” Theela directed. “They are tired and heavy with food and drink. They must rest.”
There was no malice in her voice, nothing threatening, only honest concern for their well-being. It didn’t make sense that they’d been drugged, tricked. And the giantess’ reaction was hardly one of triumph.
With a pair of women supporting each of them, the men of the Enterprise were led, staggering, toward a side corridor. McCoy managed to gasp something intelligible, but his words were badly slurred.
“Prob… probably that nectar, or whatever it was they gave us to drink. It’s as potent as Saurian brandy.”
“I’ll drink to that,” mimicked Carver sarcastically. Of the four, he was the last one who should have succumbed to the lure of alien liquor. Some security man! He was blaming himself needlessly. They’d all been fooled.
McCoy looked as if he wanted to say more, but couldn’t. Now he was almost wholly under the effects of the powerful drink.
None of them could see very well either. None of them looked back. And so none of them saw Theela staring after them, sadly. Tears were beginning to trail from the corners of her wide violet eyes.
VII
They slept for a long time in the slumber chamber. It was dimly lit, but filled with luxurious furnishings and ornamentation. Kirk lay asleep on an enormous cushioned couch veiled with iridescent black curtains that shut him off from the rest of the room.
A gold headband with a large blue gem set in its center encircled his head. The gem did not sparkle in the dim light. His sleep had been deep, dreamless—but now he found himself stirring and trying to sit up.
The result of these efforts was a wave of dizziness that sent him falling back onto the cushions. A hand moved shakily to his head, touched, examined. He felt the headband. Experimentally he grabbed it as best he could and tugged. The pull failed to dislodge it. It was tight—too tight.
Both hands now. There didn’t seem to be any kind of clasp or latch. Maybe he could force it apart along some hidden seam. Useless, it was locked firmly in place.
This time when he tried to sit up he managed it, though it cost him another attack of dizziness. He felt vaguely nauseated. Once more he worked feebly at the headband.
That’s when he heard the voice. It was urgent and anxious.
“Jim… Jim… !”
Funny, that sounded like McCoy. But there was a subtle difference. Even when drunk the doct
or’s voice had never been that—well, that shaky.
A hand divided the smooth spun curtains. McCoy stood framed in the opening, swaying unsteadily. A headband identical to Kirk’s own was wrapped tightly around his forehead. Kirk’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped.
McCoy’s hair was much thinner—and graying! He stood now with a noticeable stoop and his face, his face was lined like that of a man of sixty. But an even greater shock was in store.
Spock joined them a moment later. He still stood upright, but there was a definite flutter in his hands. His hair was also tinged with gray. While he definitely looked older, he wasn’t in the state of advanced desiccation that had afflicted McCoy. Vulcans generally had a longer lifespan than humans. Therefore the peculiar aging disease had affected Spock less than McCoy.
In the background, Kirk could see a greatly matured Carver. For the first time, he wished he’d brought a younger security guard with them. Even so, Carver was younger than any of them, so it appeared the aging effect wasn’t proportional. Carver had aged faster than any of them.
It was almost as if he’d had more to give.
Kirk rose and eyed them in turn, still stunned.
“Bones… Spock… what’s happened to you?”
“Not just to us, Jim,” said McCoy quietly in that old man’s voice. “You too.”
Kirk swayed. McCoy’s statement penetrated—not without resistance. His hand came up to touch his own face. His hand—dry, wrinkled. Drier, less supple skin on his cheeks, loose folds of flesh around his neck, under his eyes—lines that didn’t belong there. That hadn’t been there, hours ago.
He couldn’t see the streak of white that ran through his hair, but McCoy told him about it.
“You look about fifty, Jim. I’d guess Spock’s artificially advanced age at about the same, though he’s got more years to play with than us.”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Kirk stuttered desperately. He’d once seen a man who’d lost his suit on Dryad, the hothouse world in the Demeter system. The man had made it to a survival base. When the rescue team finally reached him, they found only a very large man-shaped fungus spotted with short, sprouting, brown tendrils.
[Star Trek Logs 02] - Log Two Page 10