by James Blish
On the Enterprise's latest mission an alien presence of unsurpassed beauty invades the Starship; an eighteenth-century squire entertains the crew on an uncharted planet; Kirk declares war on the Klingons; and more!
BASED ON THE EXCITING
NEW NBC-TV SERIES CREATED
BY GENE RODENBERRY
A NATIONAL GENERAL COMPANY
STAR TREK 11
A Bantam Book / published April 1975
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1975 by Bantam Books, Inc.
Copyright © 1975 by Paramount Pictues Corporation.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means,
without permission in writing.
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
ISBN-13: 978-0553087178
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a subsidiary of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 271 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
* * *
PREFACE
WHAT ARE LITTLE GIRLS MADE OF?
THE SQUIRE OF GOTHOS
WINK OF AN EYE
BREAD AND CIRCUSES
DAY OF THE DOVE
PLATO'S STEPCHILDREN
PREFACE
* * *
One of the most frequent requests I receive in the mail is to be supplied with the address of a local or national Star Trek fan club. There are so many of these, and they multiply so rapidly, that I can't keep track of them. However, somebody can, and does: the Star Trek Welcommittee. This describes itself as a central information center to answer fans' questions about Star Trek, and to provide new fans with complete information about Star Trek and Star Trek fandom. It is a nonprofit service organization—not a club to join—with 105 volunteer workers in 23 states (plus representatives in three other countries) who devote their time and efforts to answering such questions. They add:
"Few fans realize all that is really available in the world of Star Trek: over 100 clubs, about 80 fan magazines, 14 books, 5 conventions annually, and many products. [These figures are as of Sept. 26, 1973. They must be much larger now; certainly there are more books!] That's where STW comes in—we can give you information on all of them, plus ST technology, penpals, trivia, fans in your area, ST actors, details of the making of ST (live actor or animation), revival efforts, details of the various episodes . . . Whatever your question on Star Trek or Star Trek fandom, chances are we've got the answer—or can get it for you. Write us. Please enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope when requesting information."
The Chairman is Helen Young, and the address is: Star Trek Welcommittee 8002 Skyline Houston, Texas 77024 U. S. A.
I know nothing more about the organization than what you see above, but you risk no more than a couple of stamps (or an international reply coupon) by directing your inquiry there. The depth of my ignorance of the kind of information they offer is almost bottomless; I just write the books.
Another question which has become more and more frequent is, "What are you going to do when you run out of ST scripts?" And the most usual suggested answer is that I turn to adapting the animated episodes. Thanks very much, but (as probably many of you already know) that job is now being done by another writer, from another publisher. And that's probably just as well, for I have never seen a single one of the animated episodes; they haven't turned up in England yet
Well, what am I going to do? The problem is still several books in the future and the solution isn't entirely in my hands. A number of letters have asked for another ST novel, like SPOCK MUST DIE!, and I'd like to try that. It was certainly fun the first time. Also, I've another idea, which I'm keeping a secret until I'm sure both Paramount and Bantam like it. I'm sorry to be so vague, but publishing is like that: a chancy business.
Though I've said more than once that I can't answer individual letters, I still get some claiming to have read all the books and nevertheless requesting such answers. The record for sheer ingenuity thus far goes to a fan who said he realized that I couldn't reply, but I at least could show that I'd read his letter by arranging the next batch of stories in a certain order, or at least dedicating the book to him.
Well, now he knows I did read it. And in case anybody else needs to know how I work: I arrange the stories in what seems to me to be the most effective order, as part of my duty to the readers as a whole. (To take a simple example, there were several scripts in which Captain Kirk was presumed dead. It would be bad editing to include two such stories in the same book.) As for dedications—well, like almost all other authors I know, I dedicate my books only to personal friends old and new, to people who have helped me to be better as a writer, and to others I have learned to love. I mean this as an honor, whether the dedicatees take it as one or not; for a book takes time and care and skill to write, even if it turns out to be bad, so a dedication must be a gift from the heart . . . And when I can't think of someone who might particularly like a book of mine, I don't dedicate it to anyone. I hope that's clear, for I don't know how to explain it any better. I have no more friends and loved relatives than anybody else, and don't hand out dedications at random.
I hope you won't think this ungracious of me. In the meantime, let me repeat yet again: I do read all your letters, I'm glad to have them, and hope you'll go right on sending them. That's why I give my address. Your welcome enthusiasm gratifies me more than I can say. But I can't answer them. I have received, quite literally, thousands of them and had I replied to them all—as I tried to do during the first year—I'd have had no time to write any more books!
Finally: I've often been asked what other books I've written besides these. I'm flattered to be asked this, but there are more than 30 others and I've lost track of some of them myself. Those that are still available in English are listed in an annual volume called Books in Print, which you can find easily in your local library, and your librarian will help you to run down any that sound interesting. And, of course, I hope you'll like the ones you find.
JAMES BLISH
Treetops
Woodlands Road
Harpsden (Henley) Oxon., U. K.
WHAT ARE LITTLE GIRLS MADE OF?
(Robert Bloch)
* * *
That day the efficiency of the Enterprise bridge personnel was a real tribute to their professionalism. For a human drama was nearing its climax among them, the closer they came to the planet Exo III.
Its heroine was the Starship's chief nurse, Christine Chapel. She stood beside Kirk at his command chair, her eyes on the main viewing screen where the ice-bound planet was slowly rotating. Touched by the calm she was clearly struggling to maintain, he said, "We're now entering standard orbit, Nurse."
A flicker of her nervous anticipation passed over her face. "I know he's alive down there, Captain," she said.
Kirk said, "Five years have passed since his last message." It seemed only decent to remind this brave, loving, though perhaps vainly hoping woman of that sinister fact. But she answered him with firm certainty. "I know, sir. But Roger is a very determined man. He'd find some way to live."
Uhura spoke from her panel. "Beginning signals to surface, Captain."
"Run it through all frequencies, Lieutenant." Kirk rose to go and check the library computer screen. Spock, concentrated on it, said, "Ship's record banks show little we don't already know. Gravity of the planet one point one of Earth, sir. Atmosphere within safety limits."
"But surface temperatures are close to a hundred deg
rees below zero," Kirk said.
Spock, too, was conscious of the woman who was patiently awaiting her moment of truth. He lowered his voice. "It may have been inhabited once, but the sun in this system has been steadily fading for half a million years." He hit a switch. "Now for Doctor Korby, the hero of our drama, Captain . . ."
Onto the computer screen flashed a small photograph of a distinguished-looking man in his vital mid-forties. There was a printed caption beneath it and Spock read it aloud. "Doctor Roger Korby, often called the 'Pasteur of archaeological medicine.' His translation of medical records salvaged from the Orion ruins revolutionized immunization techniques . . ."
"Those records were required reading at the Academy, Mr. Spock. I've always wanted to meet him." Kirk paused. Then, he, too, lowered his voice. "Any chance at all that he could still be alive?"
Grave-faced, Spock shook his head. He switched off the photograph; and Uhura, as though confirming his negative opinion, called, "No return signal, Captain. Not on any frequency."
"One more try, Lieutenant." Kirk returned to the waiting woman who had heard Uhura's report. She said, "His last signal told about finding underground caverns . . ."
Her implication was only too obvious. Korby had sheltered in the caverns so deeply no signal could reach him. He was safe. He was still alive. Kirk, remembering how it is to be tortured by a hopeless hope, said gently, "Christine, since that last signal, two expeditions have failed to find him."
Uhura, making her second report, called, "I've run all frequencies twice now, Captain. “There’s no—" A blast of static crackled from all the bridge speakers. It subsided—and a male voice, strong, resonant spoke. "This is Roger Korby," it said. "Come in, Enterprise. Repeating, this is Roger Korby . . ."
Christine swayed. Reaching for the support of Kirk's command chair, she whispered, "That's—his voice . . ."
It spoke again. "Do you read me, Enterprise? This is Doctor Roger Korby, standing by . . ."
Kirk seized his speaker. "Enterprise to Korby. Thank you. We have your landing coordinates pinpointed. Preparing to beam down a party." He smiled up at Christine. "It may interest you to know that we have aboard this vessel—"
Korby's voice interrupted. "I have a rather unusual request, Captain. Can you beam down alone, just yourself? We've made discoveries of such a nature that this extraordinary favor must be required of you."
Astounded, Kirk took refuge in silence. Spock joined him, torn between his respect for the great scientist and the unprecedented demand. Cocking a brow, he said, "Odd. To say the least . . ."
"The man who's asked this is Roger Korby," Kirk said.
Spock spoke to Christine. "You're quite certain you recognized the voice?"
She laughed out of her great joy. "Have you ever been engaged to be married, Mr. Spock? Yes, it's Roger."
Kirk made his decision. Hitting the speaker button, he said, "Agreed, Doctor. However, there will be two of us." He nodded to Christine, passing the speaker to her.
"Hello, Roger," she said;
There was a long pause. Then the unbelieving voice came. "Christine . . .?”
"Yes, Roger. I'm up here."
"Darling, how . . . what are you . . ." The voice poured excited enthusiasm through the speaker. "Yes, by all means, ask the Captain to bring you with him! I had no idea, no hope . . . Darling, are you all right? It's almost too much to credit . . ."
"Yes, Roger," she said. "Everything's all right. Now everything is just fine."
The anxious tension on the bridge had given way to a sympathetic delight. Kirk, feeling it, too, recovered his speaker. "We're on our way, Doctor. Be with you soon, both of us. Kirk out."
He made for the bridge elevator, followed by the radiant Christine.
They materialized in a rock cave. It was primitive, unfurnished. Beyond its rough entrance there stretched an unending snow-world; a world as white as death under its dark and brooding sky. Its horizon was jagged, peaked by mountains. In the half-twilight of the planet's dying sun, Kirk could see that they were shrouded in ice, cold, forbidding. It was a depressing arrival.
"He said he'd be waiting for us," Christine said.
Kirk also found the absence of welcome strange. He went forward to peer deeper into the cavern; and Christine, touching one of its walls, hastily withdrew her chilled fingers. Kirk, cupping his hands to his mouth called into the darkness, "Doctor Korby! Korby!" The rebounding echoes suggested a long extension of distance beyond the cavern.
He was aware of a sudden uneasiness. "I suppose it's possible," he said, "that we hit the wrong cavern entry." But the supposition didn't hold up. The beam-down coordinates had been checked with Korby in the Transporter Room. And Spock was right. Korby's request had been odd. He detached his communicator from his belt. "Captain to Enterprise."
"Spock here, sir."
"Beam down a couple of security men," Kirk said.
"Any problems, Captain?"
"Some delay in meeting us, Mr. Spock. Probably nothing at all. Kirk out." He motioned to Christine to join him at a wall to leave the cave's center open for the beam-down. "Getting up here to us may be taking more time than the Doctor estimated," he told her. "The corridors of this place may go deeper than we know."
She said, "Thank you, Captain. I'm trying not to worry."
He felt distinct relief when crewmen Matthews and Rayburn sparkled into materialization. Spock had seen to it that they were both fully armed. "Maintain your position here in this cave, Rayburn." Turning to Matthews, he added, "Nurse Chapel and I are going to investigate a little further. You'll go with us."
They found the narrow passageway that led out of the cave. They found it by groping along a wall. It slanted downward. The inky blackness ahead of them endorsed what the echoes had suggested. The passageway could divide itself into many unseen and distant directions.
The light grew still dimmer. Abruptly, Kirk halted. "Stop where you are," he told the others. He stooped for a stone and flung it into what he'd sensed lay right before him—an abyss. They could hear the stone rebounding from rock walls. Then there was silence—absolute. Christine had clutched at Kirk's arm when a light beam suddenly blazed at them, blinding them in its searchlight glare. Kirk jerked his phaser out. As he shielded his eyes with his left hand, a figure stepped in front of the light, a featureless shadow.
Christine hurried forward. "Roger!"
Kirk grabbed at her. "Careful! That drop-down . . ."
The figure stepped to what must have been a light-switch panel. The glare faded to a fainter light that revealed the rather ordinary face of a middle-aged man. Christine stared at him in mixed surprise and disappointment. It wasn't Korby. Kirk adjusted his phaser setting and stepped up beside her just as recognition broke into her face.
"Why, it's Doctor Brown!" she exclaimed. "He's Roger's assistant!" Identifying the man for Kirk, she rushed toward him, crying, "Brownie, where's Roger? Why . . .?”
She never finished her sentence. Behind them, Matthews shrieked, "Capt—! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .hhh . . ."
The scream died in the depths of the abyss. Then there was only the clatter of stones dislodged by Matthews' misstep.
Sickened, Kirk pulled himself out of his shock. He went to his knees, edging himself dangerously near to the pit's rim. Pebbles were still falling from it into the blackness below. Brown joined him. "Careful . . . please be careful," he said.
Kirk rose. "Is there any path down?"
"There's no hope, Captain. It's bottomless."
Though Doctor Brown had warned of peril from the pit, he did not mention the momentary appearance of a huge, hairless nonhuman creature on the other, shadowy side of the pit. Perhaps he didn't see it. It remained only for a second before it was gone, a monstrous shadow lost in shadows. Instead, he said sympathetically, if unhelpfully, "Your man must have slipped."
"Any chance of a projection? A ledge of some kind?"
"None, Captain. We lost a man down there, too. Listen . . ." He reached
for a heavy boulder and heaved it over the pit's edge. There was the same crashing of rebound—and then the same absolute silence.
"Unfortunate," Brown said. "Terribly unfortunate. Doctor Korby was detained. I came as rapidly as I could."
"Not soon enough," Kirk said.
He looked at Brown in his worn lab clothing. One learned composure in the presence of human death, if you lived with its daily threat for five years. His voice had sounded regretful. Was he regretful? Was he composed? Or was he cold, numb to feeling? Kirk could see that the weeping Christine had also sensed a certain peculiarity in Brown's response to Matthews' death.
She wiped her eyes on her uniform sleeve. "Brownie," she said suddenly, "don't you recognize me?"
"Explain," Brown said.
"You don't recognize me" she said.
"Christine, you look well," Brown said. He turned to Kirk. "My name is Brown. I am Doctor Korby's assistant. I presume you are Captain Kirk."
Something was definitely askew. Christine had already named Brown as Korby's assistant. And the man had addressed Kirk as "Captain" several times. Why did he now have to "presume" that he was Captain Kirk? Christine's uncertainty was mounting, too. Her eyes and ears insisted that Brown was indeed her old acquaintance—but the feeling of an off-kilter element in his present personality persisted. Of course, Time and harsh experience did make changes in people . . .
Kirk had returned to the pit's edge. "He's dead, I assure you," Brown said. "Come. Doctor Korby will be waiting." He moved over to the searchlight panel to turn a couple of switches. Lights came on further along the corridor.
Kirk walked back to Christine. "You do know him well, don't you? This Brown is the Brown you remember, isn't he?"
She hesitated. "I—I suppose existing alone here for so long . . ."
Kirk reached for his phaser. Then he snapped open his communicator. "Captain Kirk to Rayburn."
