"Medical log, Stardate 5527.1 Captain Kirk and First Officer Spock were rescued—with qualifications—forty-eight hours ago."
He turned the last corner into the recently empty chamber. In place of the double-security door just inside the entrance, a rather different restraining wall had been installed. It consisted of a plate of clear plexalloy, backed by an air space, and then another plexalloy plate. Beyond this airtight seal the chamber was filled four-fifths full with water—a special kind of water, at that.
McCoy was taking no chances with substitutions from the Enterprise's own tanks. The water which filled the room had been transported up in containers from the Argoan world-ocean—from the inlet where Kirk and Spock had been found. The amber sand that covered the floor of the room came from the same location. McCoy's only liberty had been with the air supply: he had to substitute a pump for the natural plant oxygenation system below. So far, neither officer had demonstrated any ill effects from this one concession to convenience.
Kirk and Spock were at the far end of the room, moving aimlessly, dispiritedly over the bottom sand. They were deep enough in thought, undoubtedly musing on their present situation, so that they failed to notice the doctor's entrance. McCoy studied them, resumed speaking into the pickup.
"They have no recollection of what happened after they were thrown from the shuttle. Medical analysis has revealed the presence of an unknown and as yet unidentified substance in their bloodstreams. There is a high probability that this substance is responsible for the alteration of their metabolism and for changing them into water-breathers."
He stopped, shut the recorder off. Both men had noticed his arrival and were moving toward the transparent wall. As they approached, McCoy once again marveled at the process which had somehow altered his friends' internal structure so efficiently.
Even their eyes had been affected. They were now covered with a transparent film like the second eyelids of some lizards. And of course there were the primary manifestations of the change such as the pronounced scaling and toughening of the skin, increased layers of subcutaneous fatty tissue, and webbing of fingers and toes.
While the two officers stared at him mutely, he moved to a panel set in the wall, examined the gauges and meters it proffered.
Temperature, pressure, salinity, oxygen content . . . everything read normal . . . for a fish. He nodded to the watching Kirk and Spock. Kirk acknowledged with a single jerk of his head and McCoy touched a switch in the bottom of the panel.
A metal section in the nontransparent portion of the wall slid aside. McCoy entered the pressure cubicle and touched another switch, closing the door behind him. A nudge on the belt at his waist, and the glow of a life-support system enveloped his form in soft yellow radiance.
At the adjustment of a simple lever set inside the cubicle, water began to creep up around his feet, ankles, knees. When the chamber was completely filled, McCoy slid the interior door aside and walked clumsily into the water room.
Kirk and Spock were waiting for him. As usual, their voices held a slight fuzziness, like a beam transmission coming in unamplified from across too many light-years. That they sounded even halfway normal was in itself remarkable, but whatever had touched them had been thorough . . . their vocal cords had been altered for speaking under water.
"Well, Bones?" was all Kirk said.
"We're stumped, Jim. Nothing's worked. We've pretty much settled on this new hormone in your blood as the root cause of the entire mutation. Antidote doesn't automatically follow identification, however. There are some of the weirdest-looking molecules involved you ever saw, and they go on forever. So far the situation defies analysis."
Kirk just nodded—there wasn't much else he could do. "What about the other thing . . . are you sure the alteration wasn't performed naturally?"
McCoy shook his head. "No, Jim. Someone's been working on the both of you. I'm certain of that. There are too many signs of penetration at key structural points—you had to receive the hormone artificially."
Kirk let out a bitter, bubbling laugh. "Bang goes the theory of there being no intelligent life on Argo." He paused, thoughtfully. "The medical computers have the entire medicinal knowledge of the Federation in their archives. Can't you duplicate the procedure on a lab animal, then work backwards to find the antidote?"
McCoy didn't mention the nagging fear that the mutation might be irreversible. "Sorry, Jim. The surgico-chemical methodology here is utterly alien to us—to me, anyhow. Highly sophisticated, too. If I knew how to begin to approach the procedure, I might . . ." His voice trailed off.
"So we are left with locating a previously unknown, unsuspected sapient life-form below," Spock put in. "Evidently the initial surveys saw nothing but simple marine forms." McCoy looked hesitant
"I don't see how even a dumb drone could miss a race capable of this kind of medical technology."
"Medical technology is not highly visible," Spock countered. "Knowledge of that sort does not imply knowledge of, for example, advanced structural engineering or other highly visible signs of civilization. Many primitive cultures possess basic, yet complex medical abilities."
"You're reaching, Spock," said McCoy.
"It is only one of several possible explanations," the first officer readily admitted. "Another lies in the composition of the Argoan sea itself. The presence of large amounts of dissolved metals and mineral salts could easily distort delicate sensor readings, block others entirely. Also, such sensors were probably set for shallow scans, ignoring possibly inhabited depths."
McCoy smiled.
"All very plausible, Spock. But if true, where does that leave us? We can't carry out efficient underwater exploration without the aqua-shuttle, and that was our only vehicle designed for liquid-environment study." He gestured at the belt circling his waist.
"We can exist underwater with life-support belts, but out time is limited and our mobility even more so. Also, if there's somebody down there who wants to stay hidden, it would be pretty damn difficult to hide a bunch of floating yellow light bulbs."
"Well, we aren't limited!" Kirk blurted in frustration. "Spock and I go anywhere in that ocean as efficiently as the natives." He smiled grimly. "We've been designed to do so."
McCoy's face took on a look of alarm. "Too risky, Jim. Argo is totally unexplored. If sensors couldn't penetrate that metalized soup you want to go swimming about in, chances are communications won't be much good, either. And if there are any more minnows down there like the one that hit the shuttle . . ."
Kirk's smile widened, but the grimness remained in his voice. "We don't have a choice, Bones." He waved a webbed hand. "I can't command a ship from in here . . . hell, I can't even live in here! We'd go crazy in a week!"
"The captain somewhat exaggerates the subjective time involved," Spock corrected evenly, "but the inevitability of his prediction is one I'm not prepared to argue with."
"I know how you feel, Jim, Spock," said McCoy. "But there's still a chance we might find a solution in the lab. If you go down into that ocean, out of contact . . ." Kirk cut him off.
"Right now the percentages give us two choices, Bones. Live in an aquarium for the rest of our lives like curiosities, freaks—or stay on Argo as her first Federation settlers. I refuse to accept either one of them."
McCoy shifted his attention from the stubborn set of Kirk's face to appeal to Spock.
"What about you, Spock? You can view this in a logical, dispassionate manner."
"The captain states the case emotionally, of course," Spock replied instantly, "but correctly." McCoy's expression fell. "I would be of very little value to this ship—or to myself—if I were to remain confined to a tank in Sick Bay." He paused, added, "In a way, we are total invalids, Doctor. Something you should be able to understand. We must seek any possible treatment, no matter what the corollary dangers."
Kirk raised his right hand, studied the webbing. "Any intelligence that can produce this kind of mutation ought to be able to change us back. H
as to change us back." He lowered the hand and stared unwaveringly at McCoy.
"There are some other physicians in this vicinity, Bones, and we've got to find them . . ."
III
The sun of Argo, slightly yellower than Sol, glinted sharply off mirrorlike swells, struck the small silver splinter excitedly and raced on to illumine the island.
Kirk, Spock, Scott and Clayton filled the gig, the latter two holding phasers as they surveyed the surrounding surface for signs of anything even faintly inimical. The tiny boat bobbed just outside the long morning shadows cast by the towering island.
Kirk and Spock made final adjustments of the dark green vinyl that clung to their bodies like a second skin. Bubbles burst occasionally inside the awkward, water-filled masks they wore. Spock moved to the side of the gig while Kirk turned to face his chief engineer. His words came through the mask barely comprehensible.
"We'll make contact as soon as possible, Mr. Scott."
"Aye, sir," Scott replied uneasily. He felt no better about this than had McCoy.
Kirk moved to the side of the gig, looked at his first officer. Spock nodded once. Both men took a deep breath, the water level falling visibly within their faceplates. Then they hurriedly removed both masks and attendant tanks, dropped them into the boat, and dove over the side.
Scott moved to the side, looked down at both men floating comfortably just under the surface. Kirk looked up at him, waved once, and turned to swim downward. The water was clear and Scott continued staring for a long time, until both men had finally disappeared from view . . .
There are three habitable zones to most life-giving worlds: the air, the land and, lastly, the sea. And those who have claimed either of the first two have clearly not deigned to get their feet wet.
It's not merely the incredible lushness that mesmerizes those who plow beneath the surface, nor is it the overwhelming abundance of life that comprises such lushness. To most, it's the constant motion that contrasts so heavily with the stilted, jointed world of air-breathers. Everything underwater is part of a single, unending ballet—a dancing ecology, where every inhabitant from the lowliest worm or plant to the bemuscled and fanged carnivore knows its assigned steps and performs uncomplainingly a perpetual choreography.
Such was the world of green glass through which Kirk and Spock now probed a leisurely path. Descending gradually, they leveled off about a dozen meters from the sandy bottom, began to swim outward from the island. Clusters of amber moss sequined with phosphorescent shells and tiny crawling things drifted lazily in the gentle current. Tight formations of brilliantly hued little fish wheeled and spun in Prussian cloudlets, while larger solitary swimmers observed enviously.
The two bipeds began to move in a widening spiral, now well out from the lonely gig bobbing far above and behind them. Finally, on the fourth curve out, Kirk and Spock encountered what looked very much like a cultivated area. The garden was laid out in an unearthly but undeniably artificial fashion. Instead of distinct rows of different plants, all grew together, but neatly spaced among themselves. There was no crowding, no competition for light or sandy soil among the green, pink and amber vegetation.
Climbing over low sand dunes, the garden appeared to thicken in the distance. A few kicks brought Kirk and Spock to the outlying growths. Wordless, they examined the unmistakable signs of hand planting, constant weeding and care. Spock pointed and without a word they swam to the top of the first dune. They gently nudged through the dense vegetation crowning its top and studied the view beyond.
The garden, farm, or whatever it was stretched out impressively, occupying the sandy plain in all directions for a considerable distance. Far more commanding, however, were the shapes that swam slowly and purposefully among the intricate patterns.
They were humanoid and had almost human fore-limbs. But the rear limbs bore no resemblance to anything mankind had ever possessed. The legs appeared almost boneless, while the feet were true flippers, supple and flexible. A small dorsal fin set just back of the neck between the shoulder blades added to the alien aspect. The skin was a variant of the omnipresent amber, with shades of gold or green, while strands of vestigial hair the color of silver and gold tinsel topped the skull.
The race was obviously mammalian, women mixing in about equal numbers with men in the garden. Both sexes were clad in close-fitting garments of minute, metallically colored shells arranged in a multitude of individual designs.
"Once again, the basic humanoid model dominates," Spock murmured softly, "fully adapted for oceanic survival."
"Even so, Spock, they still seem to retain some above-water movements. Maybe instinctive, maybe habitual . . . I don't know. Here's another sign of the rapid subsidence of land hereabouts." He paused. "And I think we've been noticed."
Sure enough, several heads had turned to stare in their direction. Some of the figures were moving hastily backward, giving signs of alarm.
"I cannot vouch for their other senses," Spock commented appraisingly, "but their hearing is evidently acute."
"Well, we came to find them," Kirk sighed. He kicked with both legs, moving through the soft growth and down the slope. Spock followed.
At this first hint of movement, several more of the Argoans moved away, while others stood their ground and brandished tools which were none the less lethal-looking for all their agricultural design. One of the natives drifted slightly in front of his companions, then mouthed something momentarily incomprehensible at Kirk and Spock. Apparently the linguistic pattern was relatively standard. The tiny universal translators strapped beneath the green bodysuits hummed softly and the message came out in their ear speakers as, "Go away, air-breathers. You are not wanted here."
Kirk had hoped for a friendly greeting at best, a curious one at the least. But this expression of familiarity combined with hostility had taken him aback.
Keeping his gaze on the speaker, he directed his voice toward the pickup set in the concealed translator. It rescrambled his voice into something the sea-dwellers could comprehend.
"We won't harm you . . . we are friends. We seek only friendship . . . and knowledge."
"Leave us!" a woman shouted from the crowd. "It is enough for our young to have saved your lives once. If you go on, nothing will save you again." She turned, swam with powerful strokes over the next dune.
Others turned, started to follow. "Wait, listen," Kirk implored those departing, "we only . . ."
"Go away!" the man at the head of the mob shouted. He lingered longer than the others; but eventually he, too, turned and swam furiously to catch up.
A mystified Kirk and Spock found themselves floating alone in the field.
"It doesn't make any sense, Spock. They said that they saved us once; and so they have, but why . . .?"
"Excuse me, Captain," Spock cut in, "but I believe their exact phrasing was, 'our young saved your lives once.' " That gave Kirk pause.
"Yes, that's right—and these adults didn't seem to approve." He stared in the direction taken by the vanished Argoans. "The answers appear to be that way, Mr. Spock."
As they swam after the retreating farmers, Spock mused, "They are not particularly rational," he observed in a mildly reproving tone, "or at least one of them would surely have realized that we were badly outnumbered as well as apparently weaponless.
"Yet even so, they were frightened. Their primitive fear of air-breathers and this," he gestured around them, "evidence of simple hand farming hardly indicate a race capable of highly advanced surgical procedures. A curious dichotomy here, Captain. Our observations will not readily supply a solution."
"Then we'll just have to press a little harder, Spock. Eventually something's going to have to give. With answers, I hope." They swam on in silence.
Several minutes of steady swimming brought them to the base of a coral-studded reef which rose to the surface. Kirk treaded water easily as they studied the sweeping escarpment. It swept off unbroken to left and right.
"Surely th
ey didn't go over the top of this, Spock."
"Possible but not likely, Captain, I agree. I suggest we separate and study potential approaches, staying within sight of one another."
"All right." Kirk swam off to the left, Spock went the other way. Soon thereafter, he turned at a feathery yell from his first officer.
"Here, Captain . . .!"
A moment later he drifted alongside Spock, where the latter floated by a crevice in the undersea palisade—a fathomless, gaping wound that penetrated the reef for an unknown distance.
"Excellent place for an ambush," he muttered
"True, Captain. Yet why arrange so elaborate a deception? They could easily have overpowered us earlier. I submit they went through here . . . without stopping." He nodded toward the horizontal shaft.
Both men worked at their suit belts, produced thin, sealed cylinders—powerful undersea lights. Kirk activated his, turned to throw a tubular beam of brightness into the crack. He moved it around, and the beam revealed nothing but naked rock, dead coral, and a few stunted plants and some terrified dwellers in darkness, who quickly darted out of sight into private abysses of their own.
Keeping both beams fairly parallel, they entered the trench.
It was longer than Kirk expected. In places it became almost a tunnel, as the walls arched overhead to blot out all hints of the surface.
He forced himself to concentrate on the finite cone of rock illumined by the light. This was a place for observation, not imagination, to hold sway.
Something touched him on the shoulder and he jerked sharply, but relaxed when he found it was only Spock's hand. The first officer extinguished his light, motioned for Kirk to do the same. They waited silently while their eyes readjusted to the absence of light. Or was it absent?
For several moments while they floated in dark coolness, he saw nothing. Then he became aware that he could make out the faint outlines of the trench around them, albeit dimly.
The illumination appeared to emanate from somewhere close ahead. A few kicks brought them into increased light from overhead once again. Eventually they reached the end of the trench.
Star Trek - Log 5 Page 4
