Kraith Collected

Looking up from his reader, Kirk saw that the Rec Room was crowded this evening. He sipped his ice tea with the solicitous pride of a mother cat watching her kittens struggle over a ball of twine.

In one corner, Chekov and Sulu were wrangling over some exotic new game. In another corner, Spock and Tanya sat over an apparently fascinating text, occasionally discussing it in a serious undertone. Kirk was pleased that Spock had found a point of social contact.

Uhura sat with her magnificent legs propped up and some sort of colorful needlework in her lap. She appeared to be napping. Mr. Scott was writing a letter and Christine Chapel was curled up with a tape-reader.

Pleased by the domestic peacefulness, Kirk went back to his roaring sea saga. He was glad he’d come here tonight. It was good to relax with friends. He finished the chapter and looked up again to savour the warm atmosphere.

Sulu and Chekov had untangled the rules of their game and induced Uhura to join them. Now they were looking around for a fourth. Chekov held up a wait-a-minute hand toward Sulu and crossed the room obviously homing in on Tanya. The whole ship still buzzed with rumors that Chekov had set his sights for her and was thoroughly encouraged by her cool indifference.

The room was small and quiet enough that Chekov’s voice carried as he beamed heartily, "Excuse me, Mr. Spock. Tanya, come join us for a new game. It’s called Surinko. It’s a multi-lingual version of scrabble . . ."

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Tanya took a deep breath as if she were about to accept, but Spock gestured sharply, shooing Chekov away, "Mr. Chekov, we’re busy."

Chekov took a deep breath and started to turn away flushed with anger. Even off duty, you don’t talk back at your superior officers. Then temper got the better of him and he rounded on the seated couple aiming his fiery Russian indignation at the impassive Vulcan First Officer . . . oblivious of his accent.

"Mr. Spock, you can’t keep a human girrl verking around the clock all the time! She has a right to a leetle relaczation! Just because she’s a great lingvist doesn’t mean you own her soul!"

Patiently, mildly, Spock answered the emotional outburst, "Mr. Chekov, the young lady does not welcome your attention" and is weary of your persistence."

"The ‘young lady’ can speak for herself!" He vibrated with the intensity of the injustice.

Spock’s voice was as cool as dark velvet and barely carried but Kirk noticed that every ear was tuned to the charged conversation as the First Officer said, "She has asked me to speak for her."

"I’d like to hear that from her. Is she __your__ girl or something?"

All eyes riveted on the Vulcan in undisguised fascination.

Tanya and Spock traded glances, reached a mutual decision and turned back to Chekov. For a long moment nobody breathed . . . nobody moved. Then Spock said, still privately, but positively, "Yes, Mr. Chekov."

Incredulously, Chekov looked to Tanya, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

The Russian gathered his dignity and returned to Sulu. Everyone else traded stunned looks, hardly daring to glance at the Vulcans who continued their discussion as if nothing had happened.

Shortly the humans turned back to what they had been doing, but the warm atmosphere had chilled. Christine was the first to leave. Then Scotty. The game broke up before it actually got started and the three would-be players left. Then Kirk sat pretending to read while trying to decide what to do.

He was chiding himself for being so worried about Spock. The Vulcan was obviously capable of taking care of his own affairs quite efficiently.

Thinking back over it, Kirk realized that it must have been going on for quite awhile. It certainly explained why Spock had been so adamant about having Tanya assigned to the six-year mission. And all without a hint of personal involvement! Not, rationalized Kirk, that he hadn’t hoped there was a personal interest there somewhere, but, he admitted, he’d had no idea it had gone so far!

He wished he knew more Vulcan protocol. Would it be proper to offer congratulations? Or should he just leave quietly?

One thing was certain, and even Spock must realize it. The ship would be bursting with the news before morning. Settling on a compromise, Kirk gathered up his reader, climbed to his feet and headed for the door favoring the couple with an approving smile and a nod.

For one strange moment the scene blurred and split into a double image. He seemed to be watching himself leaving the room while he sat approving of his choice of compromise. He shook his head to clear his vision and headed for McCoy’s quarters.

Now that the question was resolved, Kirk realized how worried he’d been about Spock. No point fretting about it now. It was all settled. He wondered idly when it had happened . . . not that it was any of his business. Tanya had always been cold toward men, but, she’d never been any warmer toward Spock. At least not in public. Her manner toward him seemed to partake of the innocence of a child and the immunity of a nun as if the male/female relationship were completely irrelevant.

T’Rruel, on the other hand, had come aboard carrying a torch that lit up the whole ship. And Spock had responded so strongly, nobody doubted his interest. Maybe, Kirk theorized, that was because he’d just met T’Rruel, but had known Tanya for years?

That idea had a strangely correct ring to it. Again he experienced that odd, splitting sensation, as if part of his thoughts were happening outside his brain. He looked at what he’d been thinking and approved . . . with one addition. T’Aniyeh’s manners were derived from her upbringing. She’d been raised as a Daughter of the Tradition . . . a female of a kataytikhe family. Of course, the Daughters lacked the essential physiology to participate in the male/female relationship. But T’Aniyeh, being human, was not exempt.

Actually, his thoughts went on without his guidance, she’s quite a passionate individual. He’d known that ever since her foster-father had introduced them. Her previous emotional upheavals were merely one symptom of her foster-father’s mistake in failing to mate her. Now, of course, that was fairly well controlled.

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Now wait a minute! He thought back at himself, I’ve never even met Tanya’s foster-father. The first time I ever laid eyes on Tanya was at Spock’s house . . . and at first, I couldn’t decide if she were Vulcan or human. In fact, he thought, I’m still not too sure.

Of course, he conceded to himself, that was the first time __you__ ever laid eyes on T’Aniyeh.

You know, he answered himself, wistfully, that was a lovely interlude. Did me worlds of good. Sometimes, I wish I’d let Sarek talk me into another Flame Sphere. That little trinket could conjure up the whole experience in a flash and leave a washed-clean feeling like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

You know, he answered himself wryly, I wish you’d taken another Flame Sphere too. One or two more deep-contact shocks and your telepathic barriers will be demolished forever. That can be a deranging experience. The Flame can soothe and guide healing by providing a solid anchor in reality. And that is precisely what we need right now . . . both of us. If we had a Flame Sphere, we’d have no immediate problem.

What problem? I don’t have a problem. I’m as free as I was that night we climbed the mesa back of Spock’s house. Remember that?

Indeed I do. It was one of the most difficult pieces of political maneuvering I’ve ever undertaken and at the very last minute, I thought you and Dr. McCoy would back out. It’s a steep climb up that switch back trail, but it’s traditional. It was an experiment that turned out so well it may be credited with saving the Federation.

What in the Universe are you babbling about?

Do you remember the conversation at all?

No, it was mostly in Vulcanar and we weren’t carrying translators. Not that they would have helped much I’m sure.

Hmmm. Probably not. But as we climbed, I worked very hard on T’Pakra because she is one of the Daughters who has T’Uriamne’s confidence. The other eighteen in the group were all chosen for their influence in Guardian Council. I wanted them to see, first hand, what humans were like.

Humans!?

Yes. Remember how, when we got to the top of the mesa everybody sat down to give you a chance to rest? It was fully dark by then and the stars were winter brilliant. The chill nightwind hadn’t reached us yet, but it was coming. We could smell it . . . and hear it far up the valley.

We organized into work parties and I showed you how to work the pollinating rods. It’s not difficult, but there is a knack to it. The serious way you took to the strange task impressed the group as words never could. Life . . . all life . . . is sacred to us. You showed them that humans are able to share our attitude.

And then, later, when the fire leaped high, you danced with us . . . without understanding, yet with a reverent joining that transcended all barriers and created something new, something unique in all Vulcan history. That night, two humans taught nineteen Vulcans the meaning of the IDIC.

When the rhythm changed and the traditional argument began, you had sense enough to leave the circle and just watch. That really impressed them.

You may not think that nineteen votes mean very much, but they were nineteen very special votes . . . and I think that one episode can be credited with saving the Federation . . . at least temporarily.

In Kirk’s mind’s eye, he saw again the fire on the mountain top, the bright red flames low but steady, fragrant smoke diluted by fresh night breezes. The odor had a strange ambivalence, as if two sets of olfactory nerves responded differently to the same aroma.

Then the scent faded, and the flames were overlaid in his mind by the fire in the ceremonial pit at the Guardian Council . . . a deeper more ruddy hue. Joined with this, the flickering of the Guardian Flame held by Sekur duly installed before his red curtain in his quarters aboard ship. And yet another fire burned beneath that . . . bright orange coals with an occasional tongue of flame in an open air pit, under a leaning pylon in a two thousand year old amphitheater surviving in weatherworn ruin, yet functional as a place of marriage . . . and death!

His two sets of eyes responded differently to the overlaid fire images. Somewhere within the transparent veils of leaping flames the tiny gold Flame of the Sphere danced its peaceful summons. And yet farther beyond, the distinctive hue of the magnesite-nitron flame grew to sharp brilliance. The multiple images were split into unresolved, double images like the view through badly adjusted binoculars.

Abruptly, one set of images shattered and he reeled dizzily before the bright orange glow of the amphitheater pit, fighting for breath against the spasmodic cramps of the surging fever. The embossings on the wide rim of the pit wavered before his eyes alternating between strangeness and a familiar significance he couldn’t quite name. Suddenly, he was standing with his back to the pit

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and before him marched the ceremonial banner tenders . . . around and around they marched and his eyes riveted on the horizontal rows of bells . . . the horizontal rows . . . the horizontal rows . . . the wedding banners!

Finally, someone sprinkled the precious Flame Dust onto the fire coals releasing the billows of life giving smoke. It drifted around, wafted by the gentle breezes until, fully diluted, it reached him. Responding gratefully, his diaphragm unknotted long enough to draw air and it was as if he’d breathed the fire itself deep into his body with the needed oxygen.

The searing flame ate out his lungs, plunged through his diaphragm and curled deep in his abdomen where it grew tendrils that crawled down his thighs and under his lower left rib to infect his heart. With every pulsation, his heart sent fire surging through his body and ultimately, through his brain His eyes were white-hot coals that strained to leap from his head and all that held him in check was the intermittent, rich chording of the ceremonial bells . . . living symbol of the civilization that gave significance to his needs and promise of meaningful surcease to his agony.

Something deep within him cried out, "No! I will not! The mind controls! __I__ __WILL__ __NOT__!!" But as he fought that soundless battle, he knew it was hopeless. Once begun, it could not be stopped by will.

His heart was a ripe nova, blue-white as the sun itself, throbbing to a chanted rhythm more ancient than civilization. Out of that rhythm grew an image, a cool silhouette . . . dark, lithe and desirable. Promise of relief . . . salvation from this unbearable, useless . . . senseless . . . torture. If he could only reach. . .

The nova exploded!

Darkness.

Silence.

Total lack of sensation.

The strange duality had deserted him. The fire was extinguished as if it had never been. He felt in contact with a pale, flat, unadorned, pragmatic reality.

What a dream!

Way off in the blackness, a tall slender blue flame licked toward the heavens.

He thought, oh, no, no, no, no, not again! I couldn’t take it!! I’m washed out, exhausted.

But, menacingly, the flame floated nearer. He tried to retreat but found himself trapped by the leaden weight of his body. Too exhausted to struggle, he watched the fire grow larger.

This time it stayed a single, well focused image . . . a magnesite-nitron fire, coldly functional, prosaic artifact of civilized technology. It carried no dark mystery, spoke to no ancient drives, beat no ceremonial rhythm, roused no frightful associations. An ordinary, everyday, useful piece of standard equipment.

It stopped approaching. Now, it was a well defined light in an ordinary darkness. It shed radiance about itself in a perfectly ordinary way, illuminating the flat topped rock on which it stood and the smooth fine grained, multi colored sand on which the rock sat.

He took a breath. The air was hot and dry, but hardly fiery. There were scents, strange but not unpleasant. He blinked and his eyes remained cool and moist . . . His body ached as if he hadn’t moved in a century or two, but it was hardly an unbearable agony.

He shook his head. It wasn’t like him to wake disoriented. He looked around. Behind him, a shuttlecraft was parked as if it belonged in the fine, dark sand. Its door was closed. To his left, laid out in a neat row, Scotty, Bones, and Christine Chapel?

Above, hard points of stars decorated a clear, black, moonless sky.

The fire flared briefly, illuminating a dark silhouette. A defiant figure, stiff backed, legs braced slightly apart as if prepared for some demanding test of strength. The arms hung straight down, fists clenched in fierce determination. But that head! He’d know that head anywhere!

Yes! Now he remembered. He’d been on the bridge, worrying about Spock, unconscious in sickbay and about the missing landing party when something had started to happen to the crew. They’d seemed to be falling asleep all around him and he, shocked as he was, couldn’t seem to keep his mind on the situation!

Spock had brought them down to the planet. Shakily, Kirk climbed to his feet and wobbled toward his First Officer.

"Spock!" he called, surprised at the miserable croak he produced.

The Vulcan turned stiffly, "Captain," he drew a ragged breath, frowning, "I must apologize. I had not intended to expose you to that. If there can be no forgiveness, I will understand."

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With one trembling hand, Kirk brushed that aside. "Nonsense." He bit his lip. "But . . . was that . . . well, I mean it was so __real__. Was it __just__ a memory? Or Spock, are you all right now?"

"After a fashion. Temporarily."

Kirk shuddered. He hadn’t needed to ask that question. He’d __known__. And he needed an unstable First Officer like he needed a wildcatting antimatter pod. How long had it been since T’Rruel? Four years?

The ground swayed alarmingly under his feet and his knees gave out. But before he collapsed, the firm Vulcan arm tightened about him, supporting, guiding.

"Captain, you’ve been unconscious for several days. Come inside, drink, eat and I’ll brief you."

Weak as he was, Kirk hung back. "What about the others?"

"I can do nothing for them just now."

Pondering the grieved tone of that, Kirk let himself be tended. Soon, a measure of strength returned and he listened to Spock’s account with increasing concern.

An hour later, weak but clear-headed, Kirk sat on the sand beside the fire and regarded his sleeping crew somberly. Spock sat crosslegged before him, staring into the fire over steepled fingers, abstracted into deep Vulcan meditation. The captain mulled the situation over and over, culling through the facts with the tactician’s keenly incisive reasoning. It seemed like a bizarre final-exam question for some nightmare Academy course.

As he waited for Spock’s attention to return, he lined up a set of questions. The more he learned, the greater grew his ignorance.

His impatience mounted. He knew it was both impolite and dangerous to rip a Vulcan out of deep contemplation but as the minutes dragged by and Spock remained locked in thought, Kirk’s anxiety grew. The others must be roused soon if they were going to do anything to save the ship.

Then he conceived another fear. The flame-image had triggered a dangerously compelling association for Spock’s sensitized nervous system. If he became lost in that again, they might all be doomed. On the other hand, Sarek had said the flame was a multi-valued symbol in Vulcan philosophy. For several more minutes, Kirk fretted at the decision and then with a worried glance at the three bodies laid out on the sand behind him, he reached over and stroked Spock’s raised fingers gingerly.

Swift as a Denebian lythma, Spock’s hands captured Kirk’s wrists in a fierce grip that clamped off his circulation and threatened to snap the bones, but the Vulcan’s expression didn’t change. For several long seconds, he continued to stare into the fire, immobile. Then, as if swimming up out of ocean depths, the Spock élan infused the granite-like features with personality. Still staring into the fire, Spock said, "You should never do that, Jim."

Slowly, as if only now regaining control of his hands, Spock released Kirk’s wrists and turned his gaze toward his captain.

"I know. I’m sorry," said Kirk.

"Apology accepted. But never again."

"I’m frightened, Spock."

"A logical reaction under the circumstances."

"But just what __are__ the circumstances?"

"I believe I explained."

"Only partially. Just what is a . . . dze-ut’?" Kirk struggled to get the final aspiration on the "t" just right. He never learned how badly he failed.

"I wish I knew. I call it that because it resembles the mythological structure in shape and function, but I’ve no idea how deep the resemblance actually goes."

"You’ll have to tell me more about it, but first, we must do something for the others."

"I was preparing myself for the attempt when you interrupted. I cannot allow them to experience the confusion of identity that we encountered. I believe I have a method which should be more effective . . . with your assistance."

"What can I do?"

"You __are__ a latent telepath, Captain. We’ve both known that since you were inadvertently en rapport with that gaseous creature that killed Captain Garrovick."

"Nonsense! That was an accident!"

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"I gave you the Flame Sphere mainly because of your reaction to the Household Guardians on your first visit to my home. You’ll recall that Dr. McCoy was unaffected by the Guardians. Nor did he perceive any inordinate depth in the hospitality ceremonies." His eyes sought the fire again. "And there were other occasions when your barriers went down spontaneously. It’s been happening with increasing frequency. Every time circumstances have forced me to touch your mind, your barriers have been further weakened.

"At this point, I dislike exposing you to further stimulation without protective devices at hand. However, I see no satisfactory alternative."

Vaguely, Kirk remembered dreaming some nonsense about telepathy.

"That was no dream, sir. During our confusion of identity, you were thinking with my mind. And I with yours. That can be deadly dangerous, and it must not be repeated."

Shocked, Kirk said, "I’ve never known you to casually read thought like that. It’s very disconcerting."

"Indeed it is. I apologize. However, we are still en rapport, Captain. It is difficult for me to separate spoken from unspoken. __That__ is the only reason you succeeded in rousing me safely. Don’t ever try it again."

"I won’t. What do we do now?"

Unwinding his long legs, Spock rose smoothly to his feet. "Come."

Obediently, Kirk followed. Spock shifted Scotty’s body closer to McCoy and asked Kirk to lay Christine perpendicular to the men’s feet. He placed the captain between the men, joining Scotty’s hand to the Doctor’s and placing Kirk’s on top of the two.

"Captain, reach over and grasp Nurse Chapel’s hand firmly, then fix your eyes on the fire and think about the danger to the __Enterprise__. I want you to __feel__ the fear natural to the situation."

Kirk did as he was told, and, surprisingly, as he catalogued the known risks and speculated on the unknown, the situation seemed fearfully hopeless. It wasn’t panic that he felt, but the normal fear that sharpened his mind, steadying his hand and strengthening his muscles beyond human norms.

He hardly noticed the hot dry skin that brushed his right temple or the steady, charged presence that invaded his mind.

Then, the fire image split into five ghost images, whirled unsteadily, flared blindingly, and exploded into seared blackness.

Suddenly he was ripped apart, torn from his flesh, sundered from identity. Lancing shafts of burning, nerve-grating pain ripped his mind apart. Raw agony shredded his flesh.

Something hauled him bodily away, tearing his nerve-roots from their moorings, shaking him thunderously.

"Jim! Jim!" The urgency in Spock’s voice brought him back. He opened his eyes and found himself sagging against the Vulcan.

"I’m all right, I think. Sorry it didn’t work. I tried . . . but I’m no telepath . . ."

"It did work, Captain. But I thought we were going to lose you."

Regaining his balance, Kirk stood wiping sweat from his brow. He was vaguely aware that his rapport with the Vulcan had been shattered and something told him that Spock was pleased with that. There was a stirring behind him and he turned to see Scotty, Christine and Bones sitting up, dazed and weak. Silently, he set to work with his First Officer, revitalizing the three humans.

Chapter Three

Skirmish

In due course, they all settled down in a circle before the magnesite-nitron fire to make battle plans. This time, Spock sat crosslegged with his back to the fire, Kirk opposite him, McCoy and Christine on one side, Scotty on the other. Interestingly, Kirk noted, McCoy ended up between Spock Christine. The Vulcan was subtly avoiding her.

The captain led off the discussion, "As I see it, we have two choices. Destroy the tower that’s generating this mental field, or remove the ship from its path. Mr. Scott . . ."

"Your pardon, Caption . . ." Spock interrupted.

"Yes, Mr. Spock?"

"Neither of those alternatives would serve our purpose. If we destroy the tower we’ll have no

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way to revive the crew . . . and we’ll destroy the landing party as well. If we succeed in removing the ship from the tower’s influence, we’ll still have no way to revive the crew. You didn’t revive spontaneously when removed from the field."

McCoy said, "But you revived us?"

"True, Doctor. But I’ve previously had occasion to . . . touch minds . . . with each of you. The reason I brought all of you here was that I was unable to reach any of the others."

"And," added Kirk, "the cost to Spock was far greater than anyone has a right to ask."

"Captain," said Scotty, doodling in the sand with a fingertip, "from what I remember just before I . . . fell asleep . . . I dina see how we’re going ta’ move that ship . . . or fire any of her weapons, either. The main computer controls were locked . . ."

Kirk said, "Spock, why . . . how . . . the computers?"

"Captain, the main computer operates on low voltage . . . very similar to an organic brain. The most sophisticated computers are affected by the dze-ut’ field in the same way as an organic brain. The simpler units in the shuttlecraft were largely unaffected . . . but they, too, were vulnerable at close range."

"All right, Spock," said McCoy, "let’s hear your alternative."

The Vulcan eyed him coolly, "We must dismantle the dze-ut’ circuit . . . not destroy it."

"Just what," asked Kirk, "is that going to involve?"

Spock studied the fine sand in the dancing blue firelight, "We must approach the dze-ut’ while it is still in operation. We must nullify whatever security guards the natives have posted. We must then penetrate the tower, locate the power nexus, and remove the focusing filters." He looked up, meeting each pair of eyes in turn, then leveling his gaze at Kirk, he said, "It is my guess . . . hardly more than a wild surmise . . . that T’Aniyeh is both power-nexus and main focus of the circuit. If we are to free the crew, we must recover her alive."

Kirk blinked. He’d never known Spock to prevaricate or to load the facts toward his personal preference . . . but there was always a first time. And the pressure on Spock was, Kirk knew from recent personal experience, enormous. Possibly, the only way to save the ship and the crew was to destroy the tower and Tanya with it. But at the moment, Spock’s personal values would place Tanya’s safety above all of their lives. And Spock was the only one among them who had any knowledge, however hazy about what they were up against. Just how far could he trust his First Officer?

Kirk said, "Are you certain, Spock, very, __very__ certain, this is the __only__ way to save the ship?"

Levelly, as if aware of Kirk’s doubts, he answered, "No, Sir, I’m not at all certain. My reasoning is based on possibly fallacious analogy, and fragmented legends which are notoriously inconsistent with one another. I __may__ be wrong."

"We must act," said Kirk. "Time is short, just how short we don’t know. Bones, how much longer would you say the crew can survive in that state?"

McCoy cleared his throat, pulling a long face, "Well, now Captain, it’s hard to say . . ."

Spock broke in, "It is also irrelevant. The important question is how much longer T’Aniyeh can survive."

Kirk snapped, "Explain!"

"When she dies . . . if she dies while still holding the crew in paralysis . . . they all will die with her."

"How certain are you of that?" asked Kirk.

"No more than of the rest. But I do know that the stress of the nexus operator of a dze-ut’ circuit is such that he will certainly die well before the subjects. This circuit has been operating for almost four days. Our legends quote a maximum of a little more than twice that. However, T’Aniyeh is human. If she is at the nexus, we may have much less time." He frowned, "But she is also a Daughter of the Tradition. There is an ancient fragment of legend to the effect that only a Daughter who is . . . betrothed . . . can survive the focal-nexus.

Scotty unfurrowed his brow. "How does this . . . circuit you’ve postulated actually work?"

"That, Engineer, is something which I couldn’t explain to you even if I did understand it myself. The dze-ut’ come down to us from our equivalent of thaumaturgy, alchemy, witchcraft and magic. No dze-ut’ has been constructed on Vulcan . . . if indeed one ever was . . . in more than ten thousand Earth-years."

Scotty was helplessly intrigued, "Ten thousand years! Then how do you know of it at all?"

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Spock shrugged, "Fragmentary references to legends of an oral tradition recorded hundreds of years after writing was invented. Nobody even knows to what language the word dze-ut’ belongs."

McCoy shifted his weight on the sand, fishing under one hip to remove a sharp stone, "I knew you were a history buff, Spock, but I never realized you went so far!" He tossed the offending rock into the darkness.

Spock skewered him with a glance, "My family takes its responsibilities very seriously, doctor."

"All right," Kirk interrupted, "let’s presume we’re going to remove Tanya alive. The first step is to approach the tower. How can we do that, if the minute we enter the field we’re rendered unconscious again?"

Spock’s eyebrows climbed innocently, "It will, of course, be necessary to construct a protective device."

McCoy nodded, his inherent cynicism rising to the occasion, "And I suppose you’ve got that all planned."

"Unfortunately, no, doctor . . . though I have some ideas."

Kirk asked, "And just what will this device do?"

"It should render each of you immune to the dze-ut’ field . . . that is, if it can be constructed, and if it can be made to work."

Kirk sighed, "Supposing we have such a device . . . then what?"

"We must deal with their guards."

Scotty wiped sweat off the back of his neck and peered anxiously toward the sunrise line, "You make it sound too simple."

"Not intentionally, Engineer. That may well be the most difficult part of the operation. You may ask yourself what kind of a society could, without discernible technology, detect and nullify a starship in orbit? What kind of a society would construct an operational dze-ut’ and incorporate an alien entity into the circuit? These people are armed with devices that generally destroy the operator as well as the target. What does that imply of their psychology?"

Determined to hear the worst, Kirk pressed, "And what happens after we get into the tower?"

"I have no idea, captain."

"Take a guess."

He shrugged an eyebrow, "T’Aniyeh and the others must be removed from the circuit . . . alive. If that is accomplished, the crew should waken spontaneously, and so should T’Aniyeh . . . and anyone else affected by the circuit."

McCoy challenged, "You seem awfully sure Tanya is in the thing."

The expression on Spock’s face belied his words, "I’m not certain, doctor. I can only guess."

"All right," said the captain, "I guess we haven’t much choice. We’ll try it your way. What’s the first step in constructing this field nullifier?"

Spock said, "While you’re resting, I’ll do some prospecting."

"For what?" asked Kirk.

"I don’t know, sir. But this world must be rich in raw materials and this region looks most promising."

Kirk shrugged. He was in over his head . . . and his head was spinning from cumulative exhaustion. "Good luck."

A few moments later, Spock strode off into the pitch darkness, a field exploration belt buckled low on his slender hips.

Tucking his apprehension under his captain’s braid, Kirk got everybody bedded down in the open. There was still a good seven hours before dawn so there was no reason to cram themselves into the shuttle. Kirk had elected the first watch, giving Scotty the second, and McCoy the third. That way they’d each get almost four hours sleep.

After setting the automatic alarms, he perched on a warn rock in the light spilling from the open door of the shuttlecraft. It was a little late to worry. They’d already chosen a course of action. Nevertheless, Kirk spent two hours in intensive worry. That, after all, was a Captain’s job.

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Then Scotty tapped him on the shoulder, interrupting a doze he hadn’t been aware of entering. He found himself a place on the soft sand and was asleep immediately.

He woke to the tweet of his Communicator and had it open before McCoy could grab it. The first hint of dawn was paling the sky as Spock’s voice came tensely, "Captain, check your tricorder readings. I believe the natives know we’re here."

He turned to McCoy who re-checked the readings he’d been checking every five minutes for the last hour. McCoy shook his head.

Kirk said, "Spock, we don’t read anything here. Where are you?"

"On the far perimeter of the crater, Captain. Due west of you. And I do read a group approaching slowly. Bearing 119 mark O. Range . . . approximately one mile."

"Did you find what you went after?"

"A suitable facsimile."

"Fine, then return immediately. We’ll prepare to take the __Galileo__up."

There was a long pause followed by a hesitant, "Yes, Sir. Spock out."

Lips pursed, Kirk closed the grid with his forefinger and tapped it thoughtfully. Then he said. "Bones, get everybody up. Yellow alert. I’m going to check our supplies."

Kirk climbed into the shuttle and began sorting through the packing cases stowed precisely according to regulations in every available square foot. When he’d finished the inventory, he rocked in the pilot’s chair, meditatively staring at the non-reflective blue-gray bulkheads, the round-hooded plotting scopes, the triplets of levers and twinkling control lights. Deactivated, the three forward viewscreens were hidden by safety shields the same color as the bulkheads, giving the cabin a closed, almost claustrophobic feeling that wasn’t quite dispelled by the white light of the overhead glow-panel striking clean highlights off the six shiny, black chairs.

Mechanical miracles. Technological slaves. Polished sterility. Against . . . what? They’d confronted many formidable telepaths . . . but never anything like this.

His glum thoughts were interrupted by the sound of familiar steps in the sand. He called, "Spock, come in here!"

Tapping the fine dust off his boots, Spock entered, "Yes, Captain?"

"You knew we wouldn’t be taking the shuttle up again didn’t you?"

"No, Sir. But it seemed a reasonable assumption in view of what happened to the shuttle on the way down . . . and what they’ve done to the __Enterprise__Computers."

"Will destroying the dze-ut’ fix the __Enterprise__Computers?"

"Destroying the dze-ut’ will fix nothing."

"Your pardon. I meant dismantling . . . or whatever you have in mind."

"Unknown, Captain."

"And you’re not particularly interested in that aspect of the problem right now?"

Spock lowered his eyes. The gray-green lids were like sore bruises under the sharply slanted brows.

"Spock, level with me. How long do you have?"

The Vulcan paced stiffly to the far end of the cabin, removed his equipment belt and began to sort items. He said, "I wasn’t mistaken about those readings, Captain. A group of natives is approaching."

"Don’t change the subject. I’m not moving out until I know what I’ve got to contend with."

Speaking to the wall, the First Officer continued, "I was proud of you, that night on the mountain. You are of my mother’s people and in that sense I was proud. But at this moment, I am ashamed."

"Spock, it would be illogical to hold me to Vulcan standards of behavior. I ask because I need to know. And I’ve no other way to find out . . . unless you want me to order Bones to . . ."

Spock held up his hand, "I apologize, Jim."

"Unnecessary and irrelevant. Just answer the question."

He met Kirk’s eyes soberly for a moment, then turned back to his sorting, "I estimate

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about thirteen standard days before . . ." he trailed off, unable to find the words.

Kirk supplied, ". . . before you’d be likely to do anything foolish?"

He nodded turning back to his equipment.

McCoy’s voice drifted in, "Jim, we’ve got a flicker of a life-reading now. Someone __is__ approaching . . . make that a group . . . maybe ten individuals."

Spock added softly, "At least fifteen."

Kirk went to the door, "All right, Bones, we’re leaving . . . on foot. Get a directional fix on the group. Nurse Chapel, douse the fire. Scotty, get in here and give us a hand."

As the Engineer climbed into the cabin, stamping sand, yawning and scratching, Kirk went to the pile of equipment and hefted a ruck sack. Just hauling one’s own body around in this gravity was a chore . . . but it would be more of a chore without food or water. He began choosing and sorting items.

When Scotty saw what the Captain was doing, he picked up another of the feather-light packs and exercised his own judgment in loading up. He said, "Captain, I dinna see that we’ll get vera far on foot. The heat, gravity, low oxygen . . . and the sun will be up soon."

Kirk answered, "We may not get very far, Mr. Scott, but it will probably be farther than we’d get in the shuttle now that they know we’re here. It will just have to be far enough."

Scotty nodded gravely, "Aye. But how will we carry enough water to last more than a day out there?"

Spock turned, strapping the re-stocked belt about his hips, "We won’t carry that much water Mr. Scott, two quart canteens will be sufficient."

Highland skepticism played about those expressive eyes, "I havna seen any sign of water aroun’ here."

Cocking his head to one side in peculiarly Spockian amusement, the Vulcan said, "You ‘havna’ looked, Engineer."

Kirk backed off from the array of crates, swung his pack to his shoulder and leaned out the door, "Bones, your turn."

As the Doctor approached, Kirk continued. "Take whatever medical supplies you think will be useful. Split the load between you and Christine. I’ve got rations for five days for you both. If we haven’t succeeded by then, we’ll be dead."

Mentally gauging the weight of Kirk’s pack, McCoy started to protest, then subsided. He was a Doctor, not an explorer.

Scotty finished stowing his load and backed out leaving McCoy and Spock to work over the remaining three packs. Scotty joined the Captain at the shuttle’s controls trying to milk the last possible shred of meaning from the larger sensor system of the shuttlecraft.

Presently, Spock joined them, "Those readings are almost meaningless."

Scotty turned, offended by the insult to his carefully tended machines. "Oh, are they now? And how would you be sa’ wise?"

Spock placed a transparent orange crystal on the desk before them. It looked like a natural growth of quartz with faceted spikes jutting in every direction. "This is far more reliable than a tricorder or sensor system under the circumstances. The natives have something that distorts all sensor readings that are based on neural activity." He brought out a second crystal, a long, emerald-green shaft. As he touched it to one of the projecting facets of the orange crystal, a blue spark jumped the gap and a tiny picture materialized in the green crystal.

The humans bent forward to peer at the image. There was a sandy plain dotted with petrified growths and sand sculpted rock outcroppings. Filtering among these with obvious stealth, fifteen tiny figures advanced along a curving front, arrayed for battle.

The image wavered and broke apart. Spock drew a ragged breath, "I can’t do that for sustained periods, but I assure you it’s accurate."

Scotty’s head swiveled on tense shoulders, "A bloomin’ crystal ball!"

"Not exactly, Engineer," replied Spock dryly.

Kirk asked bemused, "How does it work?"

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"I don’t know, Captain. I’ve never heard of anything like it before. I stumbled on it by accident while looking for something else. That group is much closer than our tricorders indicate. I suggest we move if such is our intention." He pocketed the two crystals and sealed the flap.

Kirk wondered what other surprises his First Officer would spring on them from that loaded belt. But he gave the orders to lock up the shuttlecraft and soon they were wading through loose sand . . . toward a barely visible cleft in the crater wall.

The stars were disappearing already and the half-gray, shadow-less pre-dawn light lent a weird, shifting quality to the rugged skyline that surrounded them. Spock kept throwing worried glances around them and stepping up the pace until the humans were choking on dry throats and searing lungs.

As the first slice of blue-white sun topped the horizon, and they were only ten yards from the heap of loose boulders that filled the cleft, Spock whirled around, bent into a fighting crouch, pushing Scotty on ahead with one outflung arm, "Run!"

Simultaneously, five silhouettes topped the ridge behind them and to their right, and a blood-curdling shriek echoed across the silent desert. One of the five silhouettes leaped high and seemed to float down to the sand not twenty yards from them.

Kirk whipped out his phaser, but Spock’s hand shot to his wrist, deflecting his aim, "General Order One, Captain."

Kirk replaced the weapon grimly, "You’re right."

The First Officer added, "Our phasers wouldn’t affect them on anything less than maximum. They have some sort of neural shield."

Kirk glanced behind. Scotty, McCoy and Nurse Chapel were scrambling for cover among the rocks.

Abruptly, a ton of glowing, orange gelatin seemed to whomp him soundlessly on the back of the head and then it crawled into his brain!

He stumbled two more paces and sprawled full length on the warm sand, mouth and eyes frozen wide open in the gritty sand. His thoughts oozed orange gelatin and sent orange ice down his nerves, jerking his body spasmodically. Then, suddenly, it was gone and momentum carried him to his feet.

Spock’s strong hand on his elbow propelled him toward the rocks. He staggered a few steps and the hand was gone, "Captain, take cover!"

Spitting dry grit from his mouth, Kirk wiped his streaming eyes and turned back to face their attackers. More heads were silhouetted against the paling sky now and six tall, thin natives faced off in a parabola with Spock at the focus. The Vulcan stood frozen in the act of reaching for one of his belt pockets.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk saw Scotty’s head bobbing up from behind a boulder and sensed the phaser the Engineer held. Blinking away tears, Kirk gestured hold-your-fire.

Spock’s arm jerked another inch toward his belt. The six natives arrayed on the flat sand before him tensed in unison as if linked in exerting some common force. At once, Kirk knew the orange gelatin was invading Spock’s mind, but he was fighting it . . . successfully enough to engage six opponents at once.

The others on the ridge above them seemed content to stay out of it, but Kirk wasn’t. Warily, he moved in under Spock’s line of sight, crouching low, keeping a close eye on the six natives. When he’d reached the Vulcan, he hesitated, trying to decide which of those pockets Spock’s hand was going for. Then he seized one of the flaps and fumbled it open.

Within were several porous rocks, spongy-soft inside, but lava-sharp on the jagged surface. He took the largest and placed it in Spock’s hand waiting out the eternity until those fingers closed on the pale orange treasure.

Then Kirk retreated the way he’d come, giving Spock room to do whatever it was he’d planned.

Spock’s arm swung up and around in an overhand pitch and the rock soared . . . not toward the six natives confronting him, but high up onto the rim of the crater. The six opponents cut and ran in terror and at the same instant, Spock turned, grabbed Kirk’s arm and pounded for the rocks where the others waited. As he ran, the Vulcan shouted, "Take cover!"

A split second later, he threw the Captain down behind a boulder and flung himself onto Kirk’s body as if protecting a child from a force that could rip flesh from bones.

Then the world ended in searing orange flame that encased Kirk’s mind in ice-cold gelatin. The explosion behind Kirk’s eyes seemed to split his head open like a ripe cantaloupe. Then, mercifully, he blacked out.

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A moment . . . or a year? . . . later, Kirk opened his eyes to find his First Officer seated on a convenient rock elbows propped on knees, two fingers steepled in that peculiar gesture of immersion in subjective reality. Kirk rubbed the nape of his neck looking for the source of the migraine that was nesting in his skull as he watched McCoy lead the ungainly scramble down the rock-slide with Scotty and Christine racing behind him.

CHAPTER FOUR

GADGETATION

McCoy had his medical scanner out and going before he was even in range and he couldn’t seem to decide who to start on. With a disgusted glance toward the Vulcan, he tackled Kirk, "What happened?"

The Captain submitted to the examination passively, "You’re asking the wrong man, Bones."

"It doesn’t look as if I’m likely to get anything out of him," he chinned in the direction of steepled fingers, "for a while."

Kirk nodded, regretted the extravagance of the motion and said softly, "We’d better leave him to his own devices."

McCoy fumbled in Christine’s rucksack and came up with a squeeze bottle, "Tilt your head back, Jim, and look at the sky."

Gentle fingers deftly peeled Kirk’s eyeball. Reflexes aside, the irrigation did him worlds of good. A few seconds later, a hypo finished off the headache and a mouthful of water rinsed the sand from his teeth. He felt almost human again before Spock lowered his hands to rub his left calf, gingerly.

McCoy drew the medical scanner on the Vulcan, but as he consulted the three-inch tube, Spock snatched it, switched it off and returned it to McCoy’s belt pouch, "I suffered no physical injury save for a slight muscle strain."

McCoy grunted skeptically, but Spock moved past him before the Doctor could check for pulled muscles and torn ligaments. The Vulcan walked smoothly enough, but that was no guarantee he was uninjured.

Then Spock looked into Kirk’s eyes solemnly and time seemed to pause in its headlong dash to eternity. The three humans watching the confrontation sensed an interflow compounded of deep regret, denial, and slow resignation. It was as if both Kirk and Spock had died in the skirmish and now, meeting as ghosts, they were about to call a conference on haunting tactics.

The sun cleared the horizon, rolling back the shadows like the veils of a limbo set rising to reveal . . . reality.

Kirk said quietly, "You might have broken my ribs, Mr. Spock."

"Which is worse, Captain, a cracked rib or a mind shattered beyond repair?"

Kirk blinked, "That bad?"

"Worse."

"Are you all right?"

"Functional."

"I don’t understand any of this."

"Neither do I. I’ve learned much in the last few minutes. I’ll require some time to digest it. Meanwhile, I suggest we place as much distance between us and our opponents as the advancing day will allow."

"We’ll need shelter from the sun. We should return to the shuttlecraft and wait until night."

"That’s what they expect us to do, Sir. They will use the daylight remaining after they regain their senses to see to it that the shuttle never rises again."

Kirk rubbed his chin, "How long will it be before they wake up?"

"Unknown. However, we’ll find suitable shelter along our path."

Gauging the remaining shadows, Kirk rubbed the back of his neck, "Did you scout the region from the air?"

"Fleetingly. But I gained much more data from our recent attackers."

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With one more glance at the sun and an ineffectual swipe at his streaming brow, Kirk said, "All right, let’s move out!"

Once more, the group scrambled over the jumbled heap of boulders, this time Spock took the lead while the humans helped each other up the steepest parts.

By the time they crested the pile of rubble, the sun was fully master of the glaring sky. The rolling hills of pale ochre rock and sand that stretched before them undulated beneath an early morning blanket of heat-shimmer reminding the Captain queasily of the gelatin that had frozen his mind.

As they paused to catch their breath, Spock came to Kirk’s side . . . as far away from Christine as he could inconspicuously arrange . . . and scanned the view before them, "It’s going to be a nice day. Unfortunate that we must spend it in a cave."

Kirk looked at him suspiciously, "Mr. Spock, are you joking?"

"No, Captain, it would never occur to me. I was merely stating the fact as I see it."

Kirk gestured to the broken country before them. "Well, that looks like a vision of purgatory to me. On Earth, they call stretches like that ‘badlands’."

Expressive eyebrows arched upwards, "On Vulcan they call it a forest."

"Oh, come now, Mr. Spock. It takes trees to make a forest. That’s a definition true on any planet."

"Correct."

"Well, I don’t see any trees."

"I do." He walked over to an ashen-gray boulder that stood as high as his head and ran a hand appreciatively over the rough surface. "This, for example, is a healthy sapling resembling the genus __portunakreas__. Its root system must reach down almost fifteen hundred feet already. When it taps the water table, it will flower, spreading surface tendrils hundreds of feet in all directions."

Kirk joined him, touching the pulpy surface hesitantly. It did seem to be alive!

"May I suggest, Captain, that you caution everyone to watch carefully where they put their feet from now on. Within the crater, the sand effectively protected the life-forms, but here, one might injure the vegetation by tripping over tendrils or exposed root-nodules."

Kirk gaped incredulously. Vulcans! Indeed! More worried about injured vegetation than injured humans! But all he said was, "A wise precaution, Mr. Spock. However, a wiser one would be to find shelter before we all collapse from the heat."

Spock pointed straight ahead . . . directly along their line of march to the tower, "On the far side of the next ridge, just below the crest, is a deep, root-cavern and a water supply."

"You seem certain of that."

"I am." The gravely drawn planes of the Vulcan’s features didn’t invite further inquiry. They moved out.

A hundred weary years and two gallons of sweat later, they ducked into the moist darkness of an oasis and, shedding their packs, collapsed on the soft dirt floor to rub sore legs and gulp the cool air into desiccated lungs. The last to eschew the sun and duck into the tunnel was the Vulcan. The body responds to the life-surges of the biosphere where it __belongs__ and no amount of intellectual discipline can lessen the call of the seasons.

Unlimbering his canteen, Kirk called his First Officer over, then swigged luxuriously at the precious liquid.

"Spock, what kind of a place is this?" He offered the canteen and, at the expected refusal, stoppered it.

"An unpleasantly chilly one," Spock answered glumly.

Scotty had arranged a field lantern and the long, moist tunnel was revealed for a good twenty yards back. It was about four yards wide and rose to barely seven feet high after the low entrance. Then it tapered sharply as it slanted downward and back. Spacious enough, and seemingly pleasant enough. Kirk said, "You expect dangerous animals?"

"No, Captain. The few species of insect likely to be found here are harmless."

Kirk looked around for the tricorder, spotted it, and called, "Nurse Chapel, what was the temperature out there?"

"A hundred thirty and rising, Sir. It’s about ninety in here. Shall I check again?"

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"No . . . no. Just morbid curiosity. Mr. Spock, what do you expect the peak temperature in here will be?"

"I doubt if it will be more than a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. There is considerable evaporation holding the temperature down."

Kirk nodded and pulled his shirt over his head, "You mentioned a water source . . . ?"

Spock gestured toward the sloping rear of the tunnel, "The moisture is coming from the main taproot. It shouldn’t be too far back. Shall I collect the canteens and refill them?"

Kirk shrugged a helpless little smile, "Why not? Tell me, Mr. Spock, is this a common phenomenon on Vulcan, too?"

Spock nodded, "In certain areas where this species abounds and logging operations are in progress."

"Logging operations?" Kirk prompted numbly determined to hear the whole incredible story.

"Yes. Harvesting of the surface nodules after the tendrils have dried stimulates the seeding process if it’s done properly." He put a hand out to test the tunnel walls, "Whatever else these people lack, they do have an efficient logging policy . . . and considerable sophistication in agriculture in general."

A bit dizzy from the heat, Kirk leaned his shoulders against the cool, moist wall. Against his bare skin, the tender root fibers entwined in the silky soil felt as good as satin sheets. He said, "Isn’t it strange to find a species of Vulcan ‘tree’ here?"

"No, Sir. Throughout Federation Space, we’ve found life-forms virtually identical to those evolved on Earth. And we’ve found much other evidence of the activities of the Preservers. In this galactic sector, M-IV worlds abound. It is not surprising to find Vulcanoid species. You’ll recall that it has been suggested we are not native to Vulcan."

Spock gathered the canteens, purification pellets and a filtration funnel and disappeared down into the dark hole, his belt light gyrating wildly against the walls revealing the mat of threadlike roots that supported the loose dirt.

Christine knelt by Kirk, expertly opening and presenting his ration packet, "Captain, what’s the matter with Mr. Spock? I’ve been afraid to utter a sound in his hearing ever since we woke up in that . . . crater. Did you see the look he gave me when I reported the temperature? It’s as if he’s furious with me for some dreadfully careless error . . . ?"

Kirk pulled a face to hide his amusement. "No, Miss Chapel, it’s no mistake of yours. Let’s just say he’s . . . very concerned . . . for the safety of the landing party."

"Oh." She became all stiffly starched nurse as she arranged his meal and moved on. Even covered with sweat, dust, and sand, strained with anxiety, fear, and battle-shock, she could still project an image of aseptic efficiency. It was the kind of unquestioning obedience that could only be given by the quick-witted, strong-willed, and highly-educated.

Scotty dropped down near Kirk and wriggled himself a comfortable seat in the rich soil, "I’ve never known Spock’s concern for anyone’s safety to make him snub someone. And he’s too good a command officer to intentionally demoralize his crew, though he can be vera’ difficult at times."

"Well, Scotty, there’s always a first time."

The Engineer’s slight turn of head and furrowed brow was purest highland skepticism.

Kirk’s lips pursed. Then he sighed, "We’re all entitled to our little . . . obsessions . . . from time to time. It’s only natural."

Scotty frowned his puzzlement.

Reluctantly, Kirk continued, nearly in a whisper, "At the moment, Spock is very, __very__ concerned for Tanya’s safety. In fact. I’d say he’s somewhat . . . emotional . . . about it."

"He’s really serious about her . . . ?"

Kirk nodded.

A knowing smile lit Scotty’s face, "Ah," he nodded, "Well, as you say, Sir, even Vulcans are entitled."

Just then, the dull clinking and the flashing light announced Spock’s return and Scotty pulled his face down to innocent neutrality. The Vulcan marched casually into the group placing each canteen by its proper owner with a courteous, matter-of-fact air. In some undefinable way, his manner discouraged the humans’ reflexive but almost meaningless, thank-you’s. He stepped around Christine with the fastidiousness of a cat and settled near the entrance where it was warmer.

As Scotty, McCoy and Christine searched out sleeping places and made themselves comfort-

(page break)

able, Kirk rose, scratching his bare cheat, wondering if he could sleep again. He went over and hunkered down next to the Vulcan who was sorting through his rock collection. "Don’t you think you should get some sleep, Mr. Spock? You were up all night."

"I will, Captain, but first I have some work to do."

"Mind explaining what?"

"I am building a mechanical mind-shield."

"But, that’s impossible, isn’t it?"

Spock gave him a reproachful look.

"Well, I mean the designers of the Universal Translator have tried to produce one for years and haven’t got a commercial model yet."

"Wrong approach, Captain."

"So what is the right approach?"

He held up one of his raw jewels, "This . . . with a little magic, some superstition, and a dash of legend for flavoring."

Kirk looked askance. That didn’t sound like Spock.

Impassively, the Vulcan continued fashioning, chipping, grinding, probing, poking, and taking tricorder readings. He said, "I learned a great deal from our late enemies."

"Are you sure they didn’t learn a lot from you, too?"

"I don’t believe they gained anything of value."

"And what did you learn about them?"

With nearly savage concentration on his task, the Vulcan spat out his words in little, toneless bursts as if reciting strings of transporter co-ordinates, "They’ve turned their minds into offensive weapons. The strongest mind in a clan-family group actually dominates and physically __controls__ those under him. They were attempting to take control of us in the same way they took T’Aniyeh. They are incredibly strong-willed and they use augmenting devices of subtly sophisticated design."

Avoiding Kirk’s eyes, he continued with un-suppressible distaste, "They do not have marriage, but only demand-rights within the clan-group. They sell their children to the strongest bidder, and destroy the un-sellable ones. They live like animals who know no beauty. I want nothing more than to leave this world as swiftly as possible."

The intensity carried across the two feet of moist soil and shook Kirk. Never before had he known Spock to condemn the values of an alien society. But, as he’d told Scotty, there was always a first time. He was sure the Vulcan would regain his perspective . . . afterwards.

With every cell of his body, Kirk experienced Spock’s primordial horror at the use the natives had made of the mind-meld.

The mind-mind touching was a deeply personal experience, a sharing that can weld two fiercely independent beings into an indivisible unity. Kirk knew the Vulcan’s reverence for this touching, and knew within his bones, that the only time such subjugation is justified is the only time it is unavoidable . . . when the ancient drives surface and cannot be denied.

With his own glands, Kirk knew the many-pronged fear that was eating at Spock’s vitals. Uppermost, was a black horror at the kind of people who had their hands on her.

He remembered their fatuous gloating when, during their second attack on his mind, they’d discovered his condition. He’d let them presume that to be his only motivation in seeking her out. That had provoked a vague, ill-defined threat to . . . use . . . her at some imminent opportunity.

The disgust! The primitive anger that rose at the memory flooded his body with liquid flame. Only with grim determination did he master that surge. He would bring her out of their hands . . . untouched. There was no reason for haste. There remained much work to be done . . . and plenty of time . . .

But his mind refused to let it lie. Their time would come in due course. But, what then?

Of course, the probability of conception was relatively low. But such a pregnancy would be very dangerous. The __Enterprise_ certainly couldn’t abandon the mission for the sake of two lives. He had absolutely no faith in McCoy. Saptiir was the only man living who could be trusted with such a problem. And he was beyond reach, at home.

He’d not expected this situation to develop until they were well on their way back into

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Federation territory. But, apparently, his human half wasn’t about to cooperate . . . as usual.

Nevertheless, danger or no danger, he knew beyond the slightest question that they’d both do their best to assure conception. Nature provided for the survival of the species . . . not individuals. They were helpless in the face of that.

He became aware that his eyes had closed and he sat in limbo. Outside . . . way outside . . . somebody was calling him, "Jim! Jim! Break it off! Withdraw! You are Captain James Kirk! Captain!"

"No," he protested feebly "I’m . . ."

He opened his eyes. Dizzily, he saw himself standing in front of himself shaking himself by the shoulders. The scene flipped inside out with a sickening blur and he was staring at Spock.

"Captain?"

"Spock! What happened?"

Spock closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, deliberately draining the tension from his face. Then he released Kirk and went to sit down beside the rock where he’d spread out his collection of oddments.

"I was afraid we’d lost you that time Captain. We must be much more careful."

Kirk looked around. The others were all asleep. He sat down. "Spock . . . for a few minutes . . . I . . . we . . ."

"I warned you before, Captain. It is dangerous to do that."

"But, I didn’t __do__ . . ."

"Your pardon, sir, but you __did__. You reached out . . . touched . . . and joined. You have a very tenacious will. It was all I could do to disentangle from the linkage."

He turned from his work to frown penetratingly at the human, "Jim, violation of mental privacy is a very, very serious crime . . . among Vulcans. We tend to react with . . . violence."

Kirk took a deep breath. He’d just been reprimanded and warned by his First Officer. But, he now knew the fierce sincerity behind those coolly spoken words. He said, "I understand . . ."

Spock dropped his eyes, "You must learn to control your need . . . for contact . . . at least until we get home."

"I’ll try. But I wasn’t aware . . ."

"I know. You must try __very__ hard."

Kirk climbed to his feet.

"Captain," Spock looked up at the human, "it’s very like asking a baby not to try to walk. I know that. But you must restrain yourself . . . you __must__."

"Thank you, Mr. Spock. Now, I think we both must get some sleep."

"Yes. It’s quite exhausting. I’ll have part of this working in a few minutes. Then I’ll rest. We’ll be safer with a nullifier over us."

Kirk nodded and stumbled off to find himself a place to sleep. His mind was reeling under the load it had absorbed in the last half day. Sleep might help to digest some of it and give him the vitality to face the rest.

As he stretched out and squirmed himself comfortable, laying his head on his pack and spreading his shirt under his bare shoulder, he thought, one advantage to being in Spock’s mind was that the smothering heat became a delightful chill and the dead dry, tasteless air became moist with delicate fragrances, rich vegetation, and teeming life. The grim hell out there turned into an unspoiled picnic ground good for roaming aimlessly and communing with nature in the Vulcan way.

He caught himself. Those were the kind of thoughts Spock had just warned him against. He cast about for some peculiarly Kirkian thing to dream about and in five minutes was sound asleep on an ancient, square rigged sailing ship, creaking and groaning against the waves with the quiet reassuring twitter of mice busy in the holds, inches above the black bilge water.

"NO!"

Kirk woke to Spock’s husky cry of anguished denial. With one motion, he rolled over and was on his knees searching the darkness for his friend.

Near the entrance, the dazzling rays of the late afternoon sun struck deep into their hole, drying a half-circle of floor near the entrance to an ashen grey. At the edge of the steaming cracked soil, stood the Vulcan, braced tall, head thrown back a grimace of pain distorting his

(page break)

features as he sucked air through clenched teeth.

Before Kirk could rise, Spock had dropped to his knees, all trace of that bone cracking rigor drained away. By the time the captain reached him Spock was shaking uncontrollably.

Kirk knelt and placed his hands on Spock’s shoulders, "Spock, what is it? What’s the matter? Are the natives attacking again?"

Shrinking from the touch of human flesh, he shook his head, "Leave me!"

"I want to help, Spock. Tell me what happened. What’s wrong?"

Breathing easier now, he tried to control the shaking enough to rise, "Nothing!"

"You expect me to believe that?" Kirk reached out a hand to steady his friend, not daring to admit to himself how much he feared that that second touch would be rejected.

Gaining his feet independently, Spock grasped Kirk’s wrist bruisingly, "I am . . . very cold. I am going outside for awhile."

He started past the human, but Kirk blocked his way, "Spock, __what__ __happened__?"

The Vulcan inspected Kirk’s hand as if it were a specimen of poisonous reptile he’d captured, "It’s not something that any human should experience. You’re too easily subject to cardiac arrest, brain hemorrhages, and similar malfunctions."

The purpling flesh was beginning to prickle. Ignoring the pain of Spock’s grip, Kirk implored his friend, "Spock . . ."

The Vulcan met his eyes, "She __knows__, Jim. She’s waiting . . ." He had the shaking under control now and he sighed, "But there’s time. Time enough."

As Kirk absorbed this, Spock shifted his attention back to the wrist he held, loosening his grip, "Captain, you absolutely must control yourself. I know it’s not easy, but you __must__ wait." Firmly he placed the hand at Kirk’s side and released it. "I’ll be back in a short while."

Then he was gone. For a pleasantly refreshing stroll in the 145 degree sunshine . . . and for the private meditation he needed as a human needs sleep and dreams.