Star Trek 11

by James Blish

  "Look at the game board," Kirk said.

  The dwarf's fist had been removed from his mouth. It had been removed so that he could play a game with one of the robed academician-guests. Kirk and McCoy saw Alexander move a piece; but his opponent's piece made its countermove by itself.

  "Your pyramid is in jeopardy, Eraclitus," Alexander said.

  A cube rose into the air and descended into another position. "Aha! It isn't now!" Eraclitus laughed. "I won the game."

  Kirk went to Philana. "This psychokinetic power of yours is unique. How long have you possessed it?"

  "Two and a half millennia—ever since our arrival here on Platonius."

  Spock joined them. "How is the power transmitted?" he asked.

  "Brain waves," she told him.

  "Do these waves cease when you're asleep?"

  "No, not if they're embedded in the unconscious," she said.

  "How do dreams affect them?" Kirk said.

  Her anxious face moved in a coldly formal smile. "Our sleep is dreamless."

  McCoy, gathering chemicals from his kit, was mixing them in a vial. Delirium's symptoms were beginning to show in the twisting, fevered Parmen. Frustrated and disturbed, McCoy called to Philana. "Why don't you have doctors? Medicine?"

  "We've had no pressing need for the medical arts, Doctor. While still on Sahndara, we instituted a mass eugenics program. We're the result. Pared down to a population of thirty-eight, we're perfect for our Utopia. Overemotionality and concern with family have been eliminated. We're bred for contemplation, self-reliance and longevity." She paused. "How old would you say I am, gentlemen? Don't be afraid. I'm not vain."

  "Thirty-five," Spock said.

  "That old? I . . . I stopped aging at thirty. Anyway, you missed by two thousand years. I am two thousand, three hundred years old. We married very young, Parmen and I. I was only one seventeen, he was one twenty-eight. You see, we scarcely have to move any more, let alone work."

  Kirk nodded. "That's why you have no resistance."

  "True," she said. "A break in the skin or a cut can be fatal." She looked over at the couch. "We went for a stroll in the moonlight—something we seldom do—and my spouse fell . . ."

  Parmen gave a cry. She hurried away from them to watch McCoy. He was working fast, pulling his mixed chemicals into the hypo. Suddenly a marble bust of Socrates fell from its pedestal, and the game board, along with its geometric pieces, lifted up and went spinning through the room. McCoy was trying to shield the hypo and vial with his body when he was whirled about and sent careening across the floor.

  Kirk ran to help him to his feet. Spock, rescuing the hypo and vial, said, "Captain, I believe we are experiencing the psychokinetic manifestations of Parmen's delirium."

  Kirk's communicator beeped. He flipped it open and Scott's voice said, "Captain, we're fighting a storm!, No discernible cause—I've never seen anything like it! Ten-scale turbulence right now, sir!"

  As he spoke, the Enterprise gave a violent lurch. Scott turned to Sulu. "Emergency gyros and stabilizers at maximum!" To Kirk he said, "If it keeps up this way, we can't last, Captain!"

  "Engines at full speed, Mr. Scott. Get her out of orbit and into space!"

  "I've tried, sir. We're locked tight!"

  "Then there's nothing you can do but batten down and weather it!"

  "Right, sir . . ."

  Kirk replaced the communicator in his belt. "Parmen's mind is not only throwing the furniture around, it's tearing the Enterprise apart! Bones, knock him out—and fast!"

  McCoy drew the last of his chemical mixture into the hypo. He tried to hold his patient still long enough to administer it; but Parmen, staring at him wild-eyed, slammed him back against the wall. McCoy barely succeeded in hanging on to the hypo. Still in his delirium, the philosopher-king caught sight of Alexander. The dwarf was smashed against another marble wall.

  "Help! Save me!" he screamed.

  Unseen hands were pummeling the dwarf. They jerked him forward only to have him lashed again against the wall. He twisted, ran and was hurled once more against the wall. Kirk raced to him. Kirk seized him, shouting, "Stay behind me!"

  "It's no use. His mind will find me anyhow . . ." He whispered, "Don't save him! Please don't save him. Let him die. The others will all kill each other trying to become ruler . . ."

  A blow meant for Alexander grazed Kirk's cheek. "Bones, hurry up with that shot!"

  McCoy, crouching too low for Parmen to see him, grabbed his arm and got the hypo home against his shoulder. Alexander was screaming again. "Agh . . . I . . . I can't breathe! Choking . . . chok—"

  "Bones, shake Parmen! Break his concentration!"

  As McCoy obeyed, emptying the hypo, the invisible clutch released the dwarf's throat. A pedestal about to fall slowly righted itself. Kirk opened his communicator. Had quiet returned to the Enterprise?

  "It's all right, Captain," Scott said. "The turbulence has abated."

  "I think you'll find the orbit lock is broken as well, Assess damage, Mr. Scott, and repair what's necessary."

  "Aye, sir."

  Philana had seen that sleep had stilled the patient. Gracious now, she spoke to the visitors. "I don't know how I can ever thank you enough, not only for myself but for Platonius."

  Kirk was brief. "No thanks are necessary."

  "Alexander, show our guests to the South Wing."

  "No, thank you," Kirk said. "We must return to the Enterprise."

  McCoy spoke. "Jim, I think I should wait till the fever breaks."

  Kirk hesitated. He'd had enough of Platonius and Platonians. On the other hand, McCoy was a doctor. To snatch him away from a patient for whom still more might need to be done was arbitrary action, whoever the patient was.

  "Then we'll stay," he said.

  The South Wing was a magnificent suite, hung with silk and decorated in the same classic Greek fashion as Parmen's atrium. Alexander scurried about, introducing them to dressing rooms and sleeping quarters. "You need anything, just say so," he told Kirk.

  Kirk smiled at him. "Thanks, Alexander."

  "Think nothing of it; you people saved my life." He swallowed nervously. "I . . . I think I ought to tell you . . ."

  "Tell us what?" Kirk said.

  The little man appeared to change his mind. He shook his head, a worried little smile on his mouth. "Just that I didn't know any people like you existed."

  Kirk peered through the door into an empty corridor. "Where is everyone?" he said.

  "In their chambers—meditating."

  Kirk turned. "Alexander, are there other Platonians like you?"

  The dwarf's face quivered. "What do you mean, 'like me'?"

  "Who don't have psychokinetic ability?" Kirk said quietly.

  "For a minute I thought you were talking about my . . . my size. They laugh at my size. But to answer your question, I'm the only one who doesn't have it. I was brought here as the court buffoon. That's why I'm everybody's slave."

  "How does one get this power?" Spock said.

  "As far as I know, it just comes to you after you're born. They say I'm a throwback and I am. But so are you!" Fear came into his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean, anything. I shouldn't have said that."

  "Don't worry about it," Kirk said. "We're happy without the ability."

  Alexander studied Kirk's face. "You know, I think you are," he said slowly. He paused. "Where you come from, are there a lot of people without the power . . , and my size?"

  Kirk was beginning to like the little man. "Size, shape or color doesn't matter to us. And nobody has the power."

  Alexander stared. "Nobody!"

  Even as he stared, he was being pulled backward toward the door. He gave a miserable little laugh. "Somebody wants me," he told them. Then he was yanked out of the room.

  Kirk looked at Spock. The Vulcan shrugged. "It will be pleasant to leave," he said.

  Kirk began to pace. "That may not be easy. If Parmen should die . . ."

  "Even if he
shouldn't . . ."Spock said.

  Kirk nodded. "This little Utopia of theirs is about the best-kept secret in the galaxy. Screening themselves from, our sensors, locking us in orbit—it all adds up to a pattern, Spock—and one I do not like . . ."

  McCoy, with his medical kit, came through the door. He closed it behind him.

  "Well?" Kirk said.

  "My concoction has actually worked. Fever's broken, and Lord, what recuperative powers! The infection's already begun to drain."

  "Dr. McCoy, you may cure the common cold yet!" Spock said.

  Kirk took out his communicator. "If we're going to make it out of here, this is the time." He flipped the dial "Kirk to Enterprise. Scott, come in, please . . ."

  "Scott here, sir."

  "Standby to beam us up."

  Scott spoke slowly. "I'm afraid I can't, Captain. All our instrumentations, even our phaser weapons, are frozen."

  "The turbulence hit you that hard?"

  "It's not the turbulence, sir. Damage to the ship is minimal."

  "Then what's caused it?"

  Scott's voice was despairing. "I wish I knew, sir. You tell me. I'm only reporting the facts."

  Kirk eyed the door. It was still closed. "Scotty, we're up against a society that has psychokinetic energy more powerful than our machines. Did you get out into space?"

  "No, Captain. The orbit lock is tighter than ever. And our subspace communication with Starfleet Command is completely severed."

  Kirk spoke softly. The contrast between his voice and the fury in his face was so marked that McCoy and Spock stared at him. "I'm going to take care of this. I'll get back to you, Scotty." He closed the communicator, replaced it in his belt; and opening the door, strode out into the corridor.

  He found Parmen sitting up on the couch. The philosopher-king's eyes were closed, not with weakness, but with the ravishment of aesthetic ecstasy. The deformed Alexander stood beside him, plucking a lyre as he chanted a song from an Aristophanes play . . .

  Great Pan

  Sounds his horn:

  Marking time

  To the rhyme

  With his hoof,

  With his hoof.

  Forward, forward in our plan

  We proceed as we began . . .

  The wretched dwarf croaked, imitating a chorus of frogs.

  He turned at the sound of Kirk's entrance. He seemed to shrink into a still smaller man at Kirk's approach to the couch.

  "Your Excellency!" Kirk said.

  Parmen opened his eyes, annoyed by interruption of his artistic trance. Then Plato's views on Republican behavior calmed him. "Parmen will do," he said. "Philosopher-kings have no need of titles."

  "I want to know why the Enterprise's weapons and instrumentation are frozen—why the ship itself is locked in orbit!"

  "Captain, please. You're mistaken, I assure you . . ."

  The bland evasion enraged Kirk further. "I just spoke to my Engineer aboard the Enterprise," he said. "We showed our good faith. Now you show yours. I want that ship released immediately."

  Alexander, in panic, was shaking his head at him, mouthing the words, "No—no . . ." Kirk saw why. Parmen was manifestly displeased. The cultivated benignity of his face had been displaced by a supercilious tightness. "The amenities, Captain," he said. "Allow me to remind you that I am the head of this Principality. Guests don't come barging in here, making demands and issuing orders!"

  He looked at Kirk's phaser. The weapon left Kirk's belt and zoomed into Parmen's hand. Kirk studied the cold face with contempt. "Guests!" he said. "You don't know the meaning of the word! Guests are not treated like common prisoners!"

  Parmen was more than displeased by the rebuke. His face worked with rage—a rage that held no vestige of Platonic calm. "Don't take that tone with me!" he shouted.

  Kirk's hand was lifted to strike him sharply across his left cheek. Then his other hand was brought up to slap his right one. In a matter of seconds he'd lost all power to control his hands. Parmen, leaning back on the couch, watched him repeatedly slap himself across the face with one hand after the other.

  Control of his communicator seemed to be also lost. Despite several calls to Scott, he couldn't raise him. Finally, he closed the communicator. His face was burning from the beating he'd given it. Like his anger. That burned, too.

  Spock turned from one of the silken curtains that draped a window of their suite. "Obviously," he said, "Parmen does not want any contact made with the Enterprise."

  McCoy protested. "He may still need the ship's medical stores. Why should he prevent contact?"

  "To hide any knowledge of his brutal treatment of a Starfleet Captain," Spock said.

  Kirk shook his head. "No, Mr. Spock. One thing is certain. Parmen is not concerned with either my dignity or safety."

  "Agreed, Captain," Spock said. "And he would not have treated you so brutally if he had any intention of releasing you—or the Enterprise."

  Suddenly, McCoy rose from a couch and started toward the door.

  "Where are you going?" Kirk said.

  "I don't want to go, Jim—but I can't help myself."

  As he spoke, Kirk was yanked toward the door, too; and Spock, twisted around, was forced to follow him. The three were literally trotted into the corridor, staring down at their moving legs in horror. Willessly, they were propelled back into Parmen's chamber. And to the beat of a lyre and drum. At their entrance, Alexander, a one-man band, evoked a great drum roll that matched the rhythm of their trotting feet. Parmen, Philana beside him, applauded the show.

  She rose from the couch and curtsied to them. "Gentle spacemen, we are eternally in your debt," she said. "Please accept some trifles as tokens of our gratitude. They stem from the very source of our inspiration. To the noble captain, a shield carried by Pericles as a symbol of his gallant leadership . . ."

  She motioned to a shield on the wall. It flew into Kirk's hands. He was about to drop it; but it hovered at his hands, persistent. At last he was compelled to take it; and Philana, smiling, said, "And to our silent and cerebral Mr. Spock, that kathara from which to pluck music to soothe his ever-active brow . . ."

  The instrument left a bench. It sailed over to Spock, who took it; and without looking at it, shoved it under his arm.

  It was McCoy's turn to become the recipient of favor. "And lastly, the physician who saved Platonius and my spouse. To you, Dr. McCoy, that ancient collection of Greek cures, penned by Hippocrates himself . . ."

  A scroll rose from a table and floated over to McCoy. Kirk saw him begin to unroll it. He took a furious step forward. "Has my ship been released yet?" he demanded.

  Parmen spoke. "Captain, wait. I know what you're thinking. My humble apologies. You were badly used. In my own defense, allow me to say that my illness was more profoundly disturbing than I myself realized."

  He leaned back on his couch. A great leaner, Parmen. From his newly-relaxed position, he added, "I'm sure, Captain, that you, too, have been out of sorts; and have reacted with fits of temper and rage. Unlike you, however, what I think and feel is instantly translated into reality. Please find it in your heart to forgive me."

  Kirk said, "Has the Enterprise been released yet?"

  "It will be, shorty. You're free to leave the planet."

  Kirk turned on his heel, speaking over his shoulder. "Good day, then. And thank you for the gifts."

  "Not at all. There is, though, one final request . . ."

  Kirk whirled. He'd known there was a catch in this somewhere. "Well?" he said.

  But Parmen was looking at McCoy. "After my nearly fatal infection," he said, "it has become clear to us all that we cannot afford to be without a skilled physician." He paused. "We'd like you, Dr. McCoy, to remain with us."

  Kirk stood very still. He heard McCoy say, "I'm sorry. That's impossible."

  Parmen sat up. "Your duties will be extraordinarily light. You'll be able to read, meditate, conduct research—whatever you like. You will want for nothing."


  "I'm afraid the answer is no."

  "We'd like to keep this cordial—but we're determined to have you stay, Doctor."

  Kirk fought to keep his voice steady. "You can bring yourself to do this after Dr. McCoy saved your life?"

  "I'm losing patience, Captain . . ."

  Despite all his efforts, Kirk's scorn broke through. "And you consider yourself Plato's disciple!"

  The comment amused Parmen. "We've managed to live in peace and harmony for centuries, my dear Captain."

  Spock's voice was icy. "Whose harmony? Yours? Plato wanted beauty, truth and, above all, justice."

  The remark hit Parmen where he hurt. "Captain, please! I admit circumstances have forced us to make a few adaptations of Plato. But ours is the most democratic society conceivable! Anyone at any moment can be and do just as he wishes, even to becoming the ruler of Platonius if his mind is strong enough!"

  "And if it isn't strong enough, he gets torn apart like Alexander!"

  Parmen reverted to another lean-back against his couch. "Oh, come now, Captain, we're not children. In your culture, justice is the will of the stronger. It's forced down people's throats by weapons and fleets of spaceships. On Platonius we'll have none of these. Our justice is the will of the stronger mind. And I, for one, consider it a vast improvement."

  "Why?" Kirk said. "Never would we use our weapons for the kind of brutality you practice!"

  Relaxation deserted Parmen again. He got to his feet. "Farewell, Captain Kirk."

  Kirk spoke to McCoy. "Come on, Doctor."

  He and Spock turned to leave. But McCoy was rooted to the spot where he stood. Kirk, looking back, saw him unmoving, rigid.

  "Bones?"

  "I—I can't move, Jim. They're going to keep me, no matter what. Leave, please!"

  Before, Kirk had never understood the term "towering rage." Now he did. His fury seemed to be making him twelve feet tall in height. "No!" he shouted. "You're a doctor, Bones! They need your goodwill. They're just trying to—"

  Parmen interrupted. "Captain, go while you still can."

  "We're staying right here until Dr. McCoy is released!"