Star Trek 03

by James Blish

  "He looked into your mind, and selected what he considered to be the best time and place for our punishment. Yes, Captain. While you were pacing back and forth up there at the bar, I was recalling certain tapes in the computers. All unconsciously, you are adopting the true gunfighter's slouch. And a moment ago, you were handling the weapon like an expert."

  "Some inherited characteristic?" McCoy said. "Ridiculous. Acquired characteristics can't be inherited."

  "I know that, Dr. McCoy," Spock said stiffly. "The suggestion was yours, not mine. On the other hand, the possibility of ancestral memories—archetypes drawn from the collective unconscious, if such a thing exists—has never been disproved. And you observed the Captain's behavior yourself. As a further test, would you care to draw your own gun and twirl it, then return it smoothly to its holster, as the Captain did?"

  "I wouldn't dare," McCoy admitted. "I'd be better off with a club."

  "Let me make sure I understand this," Kirk said. "Do you further suggest that the Melkot is counting on me to act completely like one of these frontiersmen? To respond instinctively to the challenge of the Earps, and so bring about our—end?"

  "Not instinctively, Captain, but certainly unconsciously. It's a possibility you must be on guard against."

  "I'll bear it in mind. Now, has anybody any other suggestions for breaking this pattern?"

  "Why don't we just get out of town, Captain?" Chekov said.

  "There is no such place as 'out of town,' " Spock said. "Bear in mind, Ensign Chekov, that we are actually on the planet of the Melkots. Were we to leave this area, they would have no more difficulty in returning us to it than they did in putting us in it in the first place."

  "Logic again," McCoy said. "Why don't you forget logic for a while and try to think of something that would work? If we only had a phaser—or better yet, a communicator! It'd be a pleasure to see the faces of those Earps as we were beamed back to the ship exactly thirty seconds before the big blow-down, or whatever it's called."

  "Bones, you have a point," Kirk said. "Mr. Spock, when we were thrown back in time from the City on the edge of Forever, you managed to construct a functioning computer out of your tricorder. And you've got a tricorder here."

  "But we were thrown back then to the Chicago of the 1930's," the First Officer said. "In those days, the technology was just barely up to supplying me with the necessary parts and power. Here we have no gem stones to convert to tuning crystals, no metals to work, not even a source of electricity."

  "He's quite right there, Captain," Scott said. "I couldn't turn the trick myself, under these conditions."

  "Then," Kirk said, "it would appear that we're limited to contemporary solutions."

  "Maybe not," McCoy said thoughtfully. "We have gunpowder in these shells. And surely there are drugs of some kind in town. One of the Earp crowd is called 'Doc' . . ."

  "He was a dentist," Kirk said.

  "Nevertheless, he must have drugs, herbs of some kind. Cotton wadding. A mortar and pestle. Alcohol—we can use whisky for that if we have to."

  "What do you have in mind?" Kirk said.

  "What would happen if we turned up at the OK Corral with no guns at all—just slingshots—and tranquilizing darts?"

  Slowly, Kirk began to grin. "A fine notion. What's the first step, Bones?"

  "I'll go and see Doc Holliday."

  "But he's one of the opposition. We'd better all go."

  "Absolutely not," McCoy said. "That would start shooting for sure. I'll go by myself, and see what I can talk him out of, as one medical man to another. And the rest of you, if I may so suggest, had better drop out of sight until I get back."

  "All right, Bones," Kirk said slowly. "But watch yourself."

  "I'll do that," McCoy said. "It's myself I'm fondest of in all the world."

  Doc Holliday's office, as it turned out, was in a barbershop. As McCoy entered, he had a patient in the chair. Doc Holliday was pulling; the patient was kicking and hollering. McCoy stared with fascination over Holliday's shoulder.

  Holliday had evidently never heard of white coats. He was wearing a black frock coat, tight pants, a flat hat, and a string tie—a more elaborate version of the outfit McCoy had seen on Morgan Earp.

  After a moment of watching the dentist sweat, McCoy said, "Impacted, I gather."

  Holliday grunted abstractedly. Then apparently recognizing the voice, he leapt back, clearing his coat tail from his gun. He glared at McCoy.

  "You want it now, McClowery?"

  "Actually, the family name is McCoy."

  "Look Doc," the patient said, looking up impatiently. "Are you going to pull it now, or—" Then he, too, recognized McCoy and turned white as milk. "Boys, please, no shootin'! Doc, put away your gun."

  He tried to get out of the chair; Holliday slammed him back into it. "Sit!" the dentist said. "I ain't been through all that for nothin'. As fer you, McClowery, if you're goin' t'backshoot a medical man in the performance of his duties . . ."

  "Not at all. I'm interested in medical matters myself. Mind if I take a look?" McCoy pried open the patient's mouth and peered in. "Hmm, that tooth is in sad shape, all right. What do you use for anesthetic, Preliform D? No, of course you don't have that yet. Chloroform? Is it possible you actually use chloroform? If so, why isn't the patient asleep?"

  "What do you know about it, McClowery?"

  "I've pulled a few teeth myself."

  "I use whisky," Holliday said. "I never heard of chloroform."

  "Tricky stuff, alcohol. You think the patient's too drunk to know his own name, and then there's a little pain, and bang! He's cold sober. Especially with a badly impacted tooth like that. Probably needs some root canal work, too."

  "Whisky's all I got," Holliday said, a little sullenly.

  "Well, actually, you don't need an anesthetic at all. Simple matter of pressure. A Vulcan friend of mine showed it to me. If you don't mind—" he took the crude pliers from Holliday, examined them, and shrugged. "Well, they'll have to do."

  "Now look, McClowery . . ."

  "No, you look, Doctor." McCoy thrust a finger into the patient's mouth. "There's a pressure point above the superior mandible—right here. Press it—hard, mind you—then you . . ."

  He reached in with the pliers, closed, tugged. In a moment he was holding the tooth before Holliday's astonished face.

  "Hey!" said the patient. "What happened? Did you—it's gone! It's gone—and I didn't feel a thing!"

  "Nothing?" Holliday said incredulously.

  "Not a thing."

  "Where'd you learn that trick, McClowery?"

  "You'd never believe me if I told you. Doctor, you're from the South, aren't you?"

  "Georgia."

  "Is that a fact! I'm from Atlanta myself."

  "Is that so? I never knew that," Holliday said. "Now that's a cryin' shame, me havin' to kill another Georgia man, with this place crawlin' with Yankees and all."

  "Actually, I could do you a favor, if I had time. You're not well, Doctor. Those eyes—that pallor—by George, I've never seen a case before, but I do believe you have tuberculosis. If I could run a quick physical . . ."

  With a roar of rage, Holliday slammed his six-shooter on the table top. The patient sprang from the barber's chair and ran.

  "One more peep out of you," Holliday said, "and you won't even hold water!"

  "Why? What are you so mad about?"

  "I may have bad lungs, but I've got a good aim!"

  "Doctor," McCoy said, "if I had my kit here, I could clear those lungs up with one simple injection. One shot, twelve hours of rest, and the disease would be gone. Without the kit, it'll have to take more time."

  "Time is just what you're short on," Holliday said. "You seem like a halfway decent sort, though. Why don't you play it smart and come in with us?"

  "What—double-cross Kirk?"

  "No, just the Clantons."

  "Can't do it," McCoy said. "But if you don't mind our parting friends for the moment,
I'd like to borrow a few drugs."

  Holliday gestured expansively. "A favor for a favor. Just don't expect me to shoot wild at five o'clock tonight."

  It was just that casually that McCoy learned the hour of their death.

  As he emerged into the street, the sunlight blinded him for a moment. Then he became aware that Sylvia was crossing the street near him, her eyes averted. He was puzzled at the apparent cut—after all, she had seemed friendly enough to the Clantons in the saloon—and then realized that there were three other men on his side of the street, lounging outside the Marshal's office. All three were wearing the same kind of outfit as Holliday, and since one of them was Morgan, it did not take much guessing to figure out that the other two must be Virgil and Wyatt Earp.

  McCoy stepped back into the doorway of the barbershop. At the same time, Morgan grinned, nudged one of his brothers, and stepped out to cut Sylvia off.

  "What's the matter, honey?" he said, taking her elbow.

  Sylvia tugged at her arm. "Let me go!"

  "I'm just letting you get a jump on things. After tonight, there ain't goin' to be any Billy Claiborne."

  Both the watching brothers tensed suddenly, their grins fading. McCoy followed the direction of their stares. To his horror, he saw Chekov coming down the middle of the street, jaw set, face flushed.

  Morgan saw him too. He gently thrust the girl to one side, still holding her with his left hand. "Well," he said. "Here he is—the baby who walks like a man."

  "Take your hands off her, you . . ."

  Morgan abruptly thrust Sylvia away. Chekov went for his gun, but there was only one shot; Chekov's gun didn't even clear his holster. With a look of infinite surprise, he clawed at the growing red stain on the front of his tunic, and then pitched forward on his face.

  McCoy was already running, and as he hit the dirt, he saw Kirk and Spock rounding a corner at top speed. Morgan Earp stepped back a few paces, contemptuously. McCoy fell to his knees beside Chekov, just in time to feel the last feeble thrill of life flutter out.

  He looked up at Kirk. Scotty was there too; God knew where he had arrived from.

  "Bones?" Kirk whispered, his face gray.

  "I can't do a thing, Jim."

  Kirk looked slowly toward the smiling Earps. Fury began to take possession of his face. McCoy heard the grating noise of the barbershop door opening; evidently Doc Holliday was coming out to join his confreres.

  "Well, Ike?" Wyatt Earp said softly. "Want to finish it now?"

  Kirk took a step forward, his hand dropping toward his gunbutt. Spock and Scott grabbed him, almost simultaneously. "Let me go," Kirk said, in a low, grinding voice.

  "Yeah, let him go," Morgan said. "Let's see how much stomach he's got."

  "Control yourself, Captain," Spock said.

  McCoy rose slowly, keeping his own hand near his gun, though it felt heavily strange and useless on his hip; it occurred to him that the thing was at least three times as heavy as a phaser. "Easy, Jim," he said. "You wouldn't have a chance. None of us would."

  "They murdered that boy! You think I'm going to . . ."

  "You've got to," Scott said intensely. "You lose your head and where would the rest of us be? Not just the laddie, but . . ."

  "More data," Spock said. "Jim, listen to me. We need more data."

  "Smart, Clanton," Wyatt said. "Get as much living in as you can."

  Slowly, slowly, Kirk allowed himself to be turned away. His face was terrible with grief.

  In a back room of the saloon, Spock fitted nail points to darts; McCoy dipped the points into a mortar which contained a tacky brown elixir—his improvised tranquilizing drug. Five even more improvised slingshots lay to hand, as did an almost denuded feather duster—supplied by Sylvia—from which Spock had fletched the darts.

  "I can only hope these will fly true," Spock said. "A small hand-driven wind tunnel would help, but we have no time to build one."

  "Somehow I can't seem to care," Kirk said. "Sometimes the past won't let go. It cuts too deep. Hasn't that ever happened to you?"

  "I understand the feeling, Captain."

  " 'I understand the feeling,' " McCoy mimicked angrily. "Chekov is dead and you talk about what another man feels. What do you feel?"

  "My feelings are not a subject for discussion."

  "There aren't any to discuss," McCoy said disgustedly.

  "Can that be true?" Kirk said. "Chekov is dead. I say it now, yet I can hardly believe it. You knew him as long as I did, you worked with him as closely. That deserves its memorial."

  "Spock will have no truck with grief," McCoy said. "It's human."

  "I did not mean any disrespect to your grief," Spock said from behind his mask. "I, too, miss Ensign Chekov."

  There was silence for a moment. Dully, Kirk realized that they had been unfair to the First Officer. No matter how often we run into the problem, he thought, we'll never get used to Spock's hidden emotional life.

  Upstairs, a grandfather clock struck four. Time was running out.

  "Captain, I've been thinking," Spock said. "I know nothing about the history of the famous gun battle we seem about to be engaged in. Was the entire Clanton gang involved?"

  "Yes."

  "Were there any survivors?"

  "Let me think—yes. Billy Claiborne—Billy Claiborne!"

  "Thus we are involved in a double paradox. The real Billy Claiborne was in the battle. 'Our' Billy Claiborne will not be. The real Billy Claiborne survived the fight. 'Ours' is already dead. History has already been changed."

  "And maybe we can change it again," Kirk said with dawning hope. "Bones, how long will that tranquilizer goo of yours need to take effect?"

  "No more than three or four seconds, I think. But of course it hasn't been tested. No experimental animals."

  "Try it on me," Scotty suggested. "I have an animal nature."

  "Well—a dilute solution, maybe. Okay. Roll up your sleeve."

  "Captain," Spock said, "may I propose that this is also an opportunity to see how the darts fly? We can put Dr. McCoy's dilute solution on one."

  "Too dangerous. Slingshots can kill at short range. Remember David and Goliath."

  "Vaguely. But I do not propose to use a sling—only to throw the dart by hand."

  Scott ambled across the room to a bureau, on which he leaned like a man leaning on a bar, imaginary glass in hand, his hip thrust out. "How's this?"

  "A prime target." Spock threw the dart, gently, underhand. It lodged fair and square in Scott's left buttock. He said, "Oof," but held the pose. They watched him intently.

  Nothing happened. After five long minutes, McCoy went over to him and withdrew the dart. "It penetrated the muscle," he said. "It should have worked by now. Feel anything, Scotty?"

  "Nothing at all."

  "No sweating? No dizziness? No palpitations?"

  "I never felt better in my life."

  McCoy's face fell. "I don't understand it," he said. "Full strength, that stuff should knock out a charging elephant."

  "Fascinating," Spock said.

  "Fascinating!" Kirk exploded. "Mr. Spock, don't you realize that this is our death warrant? There isn't time to devise anything else!"

  "It is nevertheless fascinating," Spock said slowly. "First a violation of physics, then a violation of history—now a violation of human physiology. These three violations cannot be coincidence. They must contain some common element—some degree of logical consistency."

  "Well, let's see if we can think it through," Kirk said. "But there's one last chance. We may be able to violate history again. Ten minutes from now, it's all supposed to end at the OK Corral. Very well—we are not going to be there. We are going to sit right here. We are not going to move from this spot."

  Spock nodded slowly, but he was frowning. The others braced themselves, as if daring anyone to move them.

  Flip!

  Sunlight blazed upon them from a low angle. They were in the OK Corral.

  "Let's get out of
here!" Kirk said. He vaulted over the fence, hearing the others thump to the ground after him, and dashed into an alley. At the other end, he paused to reconnoiter.

  Ahead was the corral, with a wagon box and several horses tied in front of it. Kirk started, momentarily stunned.

  "Must have gotten turned around," he said. "This way."

  He led the way back up the alley. Its far end debouched onto the main street. They crossed quickly into another alley, jogging, watching the blank wooden buildings that hemmed them in.

  At the end of the alley was the OK Corral.

  "They're breeding like pups," Scotty said.

  "Down that way . . ."

  But 'down that way' also ended at the OK Corral.

  "They've got us," Kirk said stonily. "The Melkotians don't mean for us to miss this appointment. All right. Remember that these guns are heavier than phasers. Pull them straight up—and drag them down into line the minute you've fired off the first shot."

  "Captain," Spock said, "that is suicide. We are none of us skilled in the use of these weapons. Nor can we avoid the OK Corral, that is quite clear. But—very quickly—let me ask you, what killed Ensign Chekov?"

  "Mr. Spock, he was killed by a bullet."

  "No, Captain. He was killed by his own mind. Listen to me, please; this is urgent. The failure of Dr. McCoy's drug was the clue. This place is unreal. It is a telepathic forgery by the Melkotians. Nothing that happens here is real. Nothing at all."

  "Chekov is dead," McCoy said grimly.

  "In this environment, yes. Elsewhere—we cannot know. We can judge reality only by the responses of our senses. Once we are convinced of the reality of a given situation, our minds abide by its rules: the guns are solid, the bullets are real, they can kill. But only because we believe it!"

  "I see the Earps coming toward us," Kirk said. "And they look mighty convincing—and deadly. So do their guns. Do you think you can protect us just by disbelieving in them?"

  "I can't protect anybody but myself, Captain; you must entertain your own disbelief—totally. One single doubt, and you will die."

  The three Earps, side by side, black-clad and grim, walked slowly down the street, their faces expressionless. Pedestrians scurried away from them like startled quail.