by James Blish
Spock continued to feel carefully along the cliff, trying not to maintain contact for more than a few seconds each time. Beside him, McCoy shivered and blew on his hands, then chafed his ears and face.
"Jim's gone!" the surgeon said. "Why can't we hear him?"
"I am afraid that Mr. Atoz may have closed the portal; I doubt that I shall find it now, in any event. We had best move along."
"Jim sounded as if he might be in trouble."
"He doubtless was in trouble, but so are we. We must find shelter, or we will very quickly perish in this cold."
McCoy stumbled. Spock caught him and helped him to a seat on a large boulder, noting that his chin, nose and ears had become whitened and bloodless. The First Officer knew well enough what that meant. He also knew, geologically, where they were; in a terminal moraine, the rock-tumble pushed ahead of itself by an advancing glacier. The chances of finding shelter here were nil. It seemed a curious sort of refuge for a time-traveling people to pick, with so many milder environments available at will.
"Spock," McCoy said. "Leave me here."
"We go together or not at all."
"Don't be a fool. My face and hands are getting frostbitten. I can hardly feel my feet. Alone, you'll have a chance—at least to try to get back to Jim!"
"We stay together," Spock said.
"Stubborn, thickheaded . . ."
His voice faded. Spock looked about grimly. To his astonishment, he saw that they were being watched.
In the near distance was a cryptic figure clad in fur coveralls and a parka, its face concealed by a snow mask out of which two eyes stared intently. After a moment the figure beckoned, unmistakably.
Spock turned to McCoy, to find that he had fallen. He shook the medical officer, but there was no response. Spock put his ear to McCoy's chest; yes, heart still beating, but feebly.
A shadow fell across them both. The figure was standing over them; and again it gestured, Follow me.
"My companion is ill."
Follow me.
Logic dictated no better course. Slinging McCoy over his shoulder, Spock stood. The weight was not intolerable, though it threw him out of balance. The figure moved off among the rocks. Spock followed.
The way eventually took them underground, as Spock had already deduced that it would; where else, after all, could there be shelter in this wilderness? There were two rooms—caves, really—and one was a sleeping room, fairly small, windowless of necessity, furnished most simply. Near the door was a rude bed on which Spock placed McCoy.
"Blankets," Spock said.
The figure pointed, then helped him cover the sick man. Spock looked through McCoy's medical pouch, found his tricorder, and began checking. The figure sat at the foot of the bed, watching Spock, still silent, utterly enigmatic.
"He cannot stand your weather. Unfortunately, he is the physician, not I. I'll not risk giving him medication at this point. If he is kept quiet and warm, he may recover naturally." He scrutinized the mysterious watcher. "It is quite agreeably warm in here. Have you a reason for continuing to wear that mask? Is there a taboo that prohibits my seeing your face?"
From behind the mask there came a musical feminine laugh, and then a feminine voice. "I had forgotten I still had these things on."
She took off the mask and parka, but her laughter died as she inspected Spock more closely. "Who are you?"
"I am called Spock."
"Even your name is strange. Forgive me—you are so unlike anyone I have ever seen."
"That is not surprising. Please do not be alarmed."
"Why are you here?" the woman asked hesitantly. "Are you prisoners too?"
"Prisoners?"
"This is one of the places—or rather, times—Zor Khan sends people when he wishes them to disappear. Didn't you come back through the time-portal?"
"Yes, but not as prisoners. We were sent here by mistake; or such is my hypothesis."
She considered this. "The Atavachron is far away," she said at last, "but I think you come from somewhere farther than that."
'That is true," Spock said. He looked at her more closely. This face out of the past, eager yet reposeful, without trace of artifice, was—could it be what Earthmen called touching? "Yes—I am not from the world you know at all. My home is a planet many light-years away."
"How wonderful! I've always loved the books about such possibilities." Her expression, though, darkened suddenly. "But they're only stories. This isn't real. I'm imagining all this. I'm going mad. I always thought I would."
As she shrank from him, Spock reached out and took her hand. "I am firmly convinced that I do in fact exist. I am substantial. You are not imagining this."
"I've been alone here for so long, longer than I want to remember," she said, with a weak smile. She was beginning to relax again. "When I saw you out there, I couldn't believe it."
Spock was beginning to feel something very like compassion for her, which was so unusual that it confused him—which was more unusual still. He turned back to McCoy and checked the unconscious man with the tricorder; this added alarm to the complex.
"I was wrong not to give him the coradrenaline," he said, taking the hypo out of the medical pouch and using it.
"What's happening? Is he dying? I have a few medicines . . ."
"Contra-indicated. Your physiology may be radically different. But I may have given him too much. Well, it's done now."
The woman watched him. "You seem so very calm," she said, "but I sense that he is someone close to you."
"We have gotten used to each other over the years. Aha . . ."
McCoy groaned, stirred and his breathing harshened, as though he were fighting for air. Spock leaned over him.
"Dr. Leonard McCoy, wake up," he said formally but urgently. Then, "Bones!"
McCoy's breathing quieted gradually and Spock stepped back. The surgeon's eyes opened, and slowly came to focus on the woman.
"Who are you?" he asked fuzzily.
"My name is Zarabeth."
Somehow, Spock had never thought to ask that.
"Where's Spock?"
"I'm here, Doctor."
"Are we back in the library?"
"We are still in the ice age," Spock said. "But safe, for the moment."
McCoy tried to sit up, though it was obvious that he was still groggy. "Jim! Where's Jim? We've got to find Jim!"
"You are in no condition to get up. Rest now, and I will attempt to find the Captain."
McCoy allowed Spock to settle him back in bed. "Find him, Spock. Don't worry about me. Find him!"
He closed his eyes, and after a moment, Spock nodded silently toward the door. Zarabeth led the way back into the underground living room, then asked, "Who is this Jim?"
"Our Commanding Officer. Our friend."
"I saw only the two of you. I did not know that there was another."
"There—is not. He did not come with us. The time-portal sent him to another historical period, much later than this one. If I am to find him, there is only one avenue. Will you show me where the time-portal is?"
"But your friend—in the other room," Zarabeth said. "He is ill."
"It is true that if I leave him, there is the danger that he may never regain the ship." Spock thought it over. It proved to be peculiarly difficult. "He would then be marooned in this time-period. But he is no longer in danger of death, so my primary duty to him has been discharged . . . If I remain here, no one of our party can aid Captain Kirk . . ."
"You make it sound like an equation."
"It should be an equation," Spock said, frowning. "I should be able to resolve the problem logically. My impulse is to try to find the Captain, and yet—" he found that he was pacing, although it didn't seem to help much. "I have already made one error of judgment that nearly cost McCoy's life. I must not make another now. Perhaps it has to do with the Atavachron. If I knew more about how it works . . . Zarabeth, you say that you are a prisoner here. May I ask . . ."
". . . why? My crime was in choosing my kinsmen unwisely. Two of them were involved in a conspiracy to kill Zor Khan. It wasn't enough to execute my kinsmen. Zor Khan determined to destroy our entire family. He used the Atavachron to send us to places where no one could ever find us."
"Ah. Then the solution is simple. Zor Khan exists no more. You and I can carry McCoy back to the library. I'll send you and McCoy to the ship, and have Mr. Atoz send me to wherever Jim . . ."
"No!" Zarabeth cried, in obvious terror. "I can't go back through the portal now! I will be dead!"
"You cannot go back?"
"None of us can go back," she said, a little more calmly. "When we come through the portal, we are changed by the Atavachron. That is its function. Our basic metabolic structure is adjusted to the time we enter. You can't go back; if you pass through the portal again, you will be dead when you reach the other side."
And there it was. He and McCoy were trapped here, for the rest of their lives. And so was Jim, wherever he was.
When Kirk came to, he found himself all too obviously in jail, and a pretty primitive jail at that, lying on a rough pallet which squeaked of straw. Fingering his head and wincing, he got up and went to the barred door. There was nothing to be seen but a gloomy corridor and the cell opposite his. The gypsy was in it.
She seemed to be about to speak to him, but at that moment there were voices in the near distance and, instead, she shrank into a far corner of her cell. In another moment the constable hove into view, leading a man whose demeanor was all too obviously that of a public prosecutor.
"That's the man," the constable said, pointing to Kirk. "That's the mort's henchman."
He let the prosecutor into the cell. The man regarded Kirk curiously. "You are the thief who talks to spirits?"
"Your honor. I am a stranger here."
"Where are you from?"
Kirk hesitated. "An island."
"What is this island?"
"We call it Earth."
"I know of no island Earth. No matter. Continue."
"I'd never seen the lady across the way before tonight when I heard her scream. As far as I could tell, she was being attacked."
"Then you deny that you're the wench's accomplice?"
"Yes. I was reading in the library when I heard her scream." The prosecutor started visibly at the word "library," and Kirk pursued the advantage, whatever it might be. "Perhaps you remember where the library is?"
"Well, well, perhaps your part in this is innocent," the prosecutor said, with some agitation. "I believe you to be an honest man."
"He's a witch!" screamed the woman from her cell.
"Now, wait a minute . . ."
"Take care, woman," the prosecutor said heavily. "I am convinced you're guilty. Do not compound it with false accusation."
"He speaks to unclean spirits! He's a witch. Constable, you heard the voices!"
"It's truth, my lord," the constable said. "I heard the spirit call him. He answered and did call it 'Bones.' "
"He's a witch," the woman insisted. "He cast a spell and made me steal against my wish."
Aghast, Kirk looked into each face in turn. There was no doubt about it; they believed in witches, all of them. The prosecutor, looking even graver than before, asked the constable, with some reluctance, "You heard these—spirits?"
"Aye, my lord. I'll witness to it."
"The 'voices' they heard were only friends of mine," Kirk said desperately. "They were still on the other side of the wall, in the library, my lord."
"I know nothing of this," the prosecutor said agitatedly. "I cannot judge so grave a matter. Let someone learned in witchcraft examine him. I will have no more to do with this."
"Look, sir. Couldn't you at least arrange for me to see Mr. Atoz? You do remember Mr. Atoz, don't you?"
"I know of no Atoz. I know nothing of this, nothing of these matters. Take him. I will not hear him."
The constable let the prosecutor out, and together they hurried down the corridor.
Kirk called after them, "Only let me speak to you, my lord!"
They vanished without looking back. Kirk shook the bars, frustrated, angry, hopelessly aware that he was alone and friendless here. Across the corridor, the woman's face was contorted with fear and hatred.
"Witch! Witch!" she shrilled. "They'll burn you!"
They took her away later the next day. Kirk scarcely noticed. He was trying to work out a course of action. He had never seen a jail that looked easier to break, but all attempts to think beyond that point were impeded by a growing headache; and when he got up from the pallet to make sure his hands would fit freely through the bars, he had a sudden spell of faintness. Had he caught some kind of bug?
Down the corridor there was a jingling of keys. The jailer was coming with food. It was now or never.
He was sitting on the pallet again when the jailer arrived; but when the jailer straightened from setting down the bowl of food, Kirk's arm was around his throat, his other hand lifting the ring of keys from his belt. Opening the door from the outside, Kirk pulled the terrified man into the cell and shut the door again.
Releasing his grip, Kirk allowed the jailer a single cry, then knocked him out with a quick chop and rolled him under the pallet. End of Standard Escape Maneuver One. With any luck, that cry should bring the constable, and safe-conduct. Curious how dizzy he felt. On an impulse, he lay down and closed his eyes.
He heard hurrying feet, then the creak of the hinges as the newcomer tried the door. The subsequent muffled exclamation told him that he had been luckier than he knew; the man outside was the prosecutor. Kirk emitted a muffled groan.
Shuffling noises, and then the sound of breathing told him that the prosecutor was bending over him. A quick glance through half-closed lids told him where the nearest wrist was. He grabbed it.
"If you yell, I'll kill you," he whispered with fierce intensity.
The prosecutor neither yelled nor struggled. He merely said, "It will go harder with you if you persist."
"I am being falsely accused. You know it."
"You are to come with me to the Inquisitional Tribunal. There the matter of your witchcraft will be decided."
"There are no such things as witches."
"I shan't say you said so," the prosecutor said. "That is heresy. If they hear you, they will burn you for such beliefs."
"You are the only one who can hear me. Before the Inquisitor, it will be different. I'll denounce you as a man who came from the future, just as I did. Therefore, you too are a witch."
'They would surely burn me as well," the prosecutor agreed. "But what good would that do you?"
"Use your head, man," Kirk said. "I need your help."
"How can I help you? I will do my utmost to plead your innocence. I may be able to get you off—providing you say nothing of the comrades you left behind."
"Not good enough. I want you to help me to return to the library."
"You cannot go back."
"I tell you, I must. My comrades are lost in another time-period. I have to find them. Why don't you go back too?"
"We can never go back," the prosecutor said. "We must live out our lives here in the past. The Atavachron has prepared our cell structure and brain pattern to make life here natural. To return to the future would mean instant death."
"Prepared?" Kirk said. "I am here by accident. Your Mr. Atoz did not prepare me in any way." As he spoke, his temples began to throb again.
"Then you must get back at once. If you were not transformed, you cannot survive more than a few days here."
"Then you'll show me where the portal is?"
"Yes—approximately. But you must find the exact spot yourself. You understand I dare not wait with you . . ."
"Of course. Let's go."
Five minutes later, Kirk was back in the library. It looked as empty as it had when he had first seen it. He checked the contemporary time with the Enterprise, shunting aside a barrage of frantic questions. It was s
eventeen minutes to nova. Evidently, no matter how much time he spent in the past, the gate at its present setting would always return him to this day. It had to; for the gate, there would be no tomorrow.
He drew his phaser. It had not worked in the past, but he was quite certain it would work here. And this time, Mr. Atoz, he thought grimly, you are going to be helpful.
McCoy was still abed, but he was feeling distinctly better, as his appetite proved. Zarabeth, who had adopted a flowing gown which made her look positively beautiful, was out in her work area, making something she had promised would be a delicacy.
"I hope the Enterprise got away in time," McCoy said.
"I hope it will get away. The event is a hundred thousand years in the future."
"Yes, I know. I wonder where Jim is?"
"Who knows?" Spock said. "We can only hope he is well, wherever he is."
"What do you mean, we can only hope? Haven't you done anything about it?"
"What was there to do?"
"Locate the portal," McCoy said impatiently. "We certainly didn't come very far from it."
"We've been through all that already, Doctor. What's the point of rehashing the subject? We can't get back. Wasn't that clear to you?"
"Perfectly. I just don't believe it. I refuse to give up trying."
"It would be suicide if you succeeded."
McCoy sighed. "I never thought I'd see it. But I understand. You want to stay here. I might say, you are highly motivated to remain in this forsaken waste."
And not ten minutes ago, Spock thought, it had been McCoy who had been praising Zarabeth's cooking, and offering other small gallantries. "The prospect seemed quite attractive to you a few moments ago."
"Listen to me," McCoy said, "you point-eared Vulcan . . ."
Before Spock fully realized what he was doing, he found himself leaning forward and lifting McCoy off the bed.
"I don't like that," he said. "I don't believe I ever did. Now I'm sure."
McCoy did not look in the least alarmed. He simply seemed to by studying Spock intently. "What is it, Spock?" he asked. "What's happening?"
