Star Trek 11

by James Blish

  "This is not the Enterprise. And you're not in command here, Captain."

  Kirk saw Philana shrug. "Why even discuss it, Parmen? Get rid of them."

  "But that might offend the good doctor, Philana." An idea—a delightful one—seemed to strike Parmen. He smiled at Kirk. "You wish to stay? Then do, by all means. You can help us celebrate our anniversary." He spoke to the immobilized McCoy. "In the process, I hope we can persuade you to join our tiny Republic . . ."

  McCoy's tongue was still his to use. "You won't persuade me," he said.

  "I think we will," Parmen told him.

  Two garlands detached themselves from a marble statue of Aphrodite; and, whirling through the air, landed at the feet of Kirk and Spock. They were forced to bend and pick them up. Their gifts fell from their hands; and the same force compelled them to place the garlands ceremoniously on each other's heads.

  Parmen nodded to Alexander. The drum broke into a dancing beat. Kirk and Spock began a tap dance. Spock looked down at his shuffling feet in disgust. But Parmen's delightful idea of celebration was just beginning to be realized. The two Enterprise men found themselves childishly skipping around the pool, bowing to each other in mechanical precision. Then a line of a song was placed in Kirk's mouth. "I'm Tweedledee, he's Tweedledum . . ." Spock bowed to him, singing, "Two spacemen marching to a drum . . ."

  It wasn't over. "We slithe among the mimsy troves," Kirk sang. Spock bowed to him again. "And gyre amidst the borogroves . . ."

  The garlands were exchanged. Kirk pouted sadly at the loss of his; and Spock, grinning madly in triumph, put it on his head. They bowed stiffly to each other and were dropped to their knees.

  "McCoy!" Kirk yelled. "You're not staying here, no matter what he does to us!"

  Parmen made an imperious gesture. Kirk coughed. He could feel the defiance in his face replacing itself with a pleading abjectness. He heard himself reciting—

  Being your slave, what should I do but tend

  Upon the hours and times of your desire?

  I have no precious time at all to spend,

  No services to do till you require.

  Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour

  Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you.

  Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

  When you have bid your servant once adieu . . .

  There was no time for breath. The shaming words continued to stream from him . . .

  Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

  Where you may be or your affairs suppose,

  But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught

  Save where you are how happy you make those!

  So true a fool is love that in your will

  Though you do anything, he thinks no ill . . .

  The idiot thing was done. Kirk's head went down.

  "Stop it! Stop it!" McCoy shouted.

  Kirk looked up. "No matter what he makes me say, it's no. You hear me, McCoy—no! I . . ."

  His head was almost twisted from his shoulders. He was jerked to his feet, an arm wrenched behind his back. Something grabbed him under the chin—and pulled his neck back, back until a cry of pain escaped him.

  "Well, Doctor?" Parmen said.

  McCoy was agonized, wavering with the torment of indecision. He was torn not only by laceration of his deep personal affection for Kirk. There was his professional obligation, too. As the Enterprise's surgeon, its captain's well-being was his prime consideration. If he agreed to remain with these people, he could end the torture, serving both his love for Kirk and his duty to Starfleet service. Finally, he came to his anguished decision. He turned to Parmen. "I have my orders," he said.

  Parmen's mouth tightened. "As you wish, Doctor."

  Kirk was hurled to the ground. He got up, fists clenched, and rushed at Parmen. The Platonian stared at him. Kirk was frozen, a raised foot still in the air. "Is this your Utopia?" he shouted. "You haven't even . . ."

  He was flung again to the floor. Then words, too, were denied him. His vocal cords went dead.

  "We've had enough of your moralizing," Parmen said.

  McCoy whirled. "And we've had too much of yours! You will never get me to stay here!"

  He was smashed backward.

  "You will be happy to stay," Parmen told him. "It takes a little time, Doctor. But you will be happy to stay, I promise you."

  He unfroze Spock from his knees. The Vulcan, sickened by Kirk's misery, moved toward Parmen only to be frozen in mid-stride.

  Philana looked at Spock. "Perhaps you have been a bit too forceful, Parmen. There are other ways that might be more persuasive."

  "I doubt that they will be as entertaining. But if you want to have a try, do so."

  Spock gave a cry. Philana had sent him into a wild, stamping flamenco. He danced around and around the downed Kirk. McCoy, unseeing, was staring straight ahead.

  "An excellent choice, Philana," Parmen said. He spoke to the rigid McCoy. "All you have to do is nod."

  The air was filled with the clack of castanets. The viciously-heel-stamping Spock was moved in close to Kirk's head. An inch closer—and Kirk would be trampled to death. A stomping heel grazed his head. McCoy, about to make an appeal, clamped his mouth shut. Then he closed his eyes against the sight of Spock's helpless attack on Kirk.

  The Castanet sounds ceased. So did Spock's dancing. He froze in a finger-snapping gesture over Kirk's body. His arms dropped. He began to shake. Out of him came wild peals of laughter.

  McCoy opened his eyes as he heard them. He looked, appalled, at Spock as his laughter grew wilder. He swung around to Parmen. "Mr. Spock is a Vulcan," he said. "You must not force emotion from him."

  "You must be joking, Doctor," Philana said.

  "It can destroy him," McCoy said.

  "Come now," Parmen said. "There's nothing so wholesome as a good laugh."

  Spock was battered now by the insane fits of laughter. McCoy saw him pressing at his chest to soothe the agony of the spasms. Kirk was fighting to lift himself to get to Spock. He sank back to the floor, too weak to do it. McCoy launched a fierce blow at Parmen. "You're killing Spock!" he cried.

  "Then we can't let him die laughing, can we now?" Parmen asked.

  The laughter ended. Slowly Spock fell to his knees, his head limp, arms dangling.

  "The poor fellow does look rather miserable, doesn't he, dear wife?"

  Philana encircled Parmen with her arm. "He does, dear husband. You know, nothing relieves misery like a good, honest cry." k

  McCoy stared at them. "He's a Vulcan! I beg you . . ."

  Parmen's face was flushed with a growing excitement "Later! Later!" he said impatiently. "That's probably not true of Vulcan men, anyway. Shall we test it, Philana?"

  Spock's shoulders began to shake. His body rocked from side to side as though wracked by a sudden woe. He was looking into Kirk's pain-ravaged face. Kirk moved on the floor toward him, his arm out. "Hang on, Spock," he whispered. "Hang on! Don't let him break you open . . ." He was tense with the struggle to support Spock's repression. But it was no good. Spock's quiet face had turned into the tormented mask of tragedy. Tears welled in his Vulcan eyes and dripped down his cheeks. Unable to control his sobs, he crashed to the floor.

  Alexander, trembling and outraged, hurried to the center of the chamber, his lyre in his hand. "Parmen! They saved your life!"

  He was flipped back into the pool. He staggered up, soaking wet, his tears mixed with the water. From deeps he didn't know he owned, he delivered his final judgment on his society. "I'm ashamed to be a Platonian. Ashamed!"

  It was a resourceful society. Kirk was lifted to his feet; and, from the pool, the dwarf was placed upon Kirk's back. Alexander's arm whipped him on as he was driven, skipping around Spock's body, its eyes vacant as Kirk passed him.

  Parmen spoke sadly to McCoy. "How can you let this go on, Doctor?"

  For the moment their ordeals were suspended. They'd been permitted to return to t
heir suite. Alexander had followed them; and was now dressing himself in the dry tunic and pantaloons that were his buffoon's costume. But Spock, his eyes closed, sat apart. The total loss of emotional control had been such a violation of his Vulcan nature that he was still inwardly trembling. Kirk, resting on a couch, watched him anxiously. "Bones, can't you do anything for him?"

  "There's no medicine that can help him, Jim. He has to get through this himself."

  Despite his aching back, Kirk got up. As he crossed to Spock, McCoy joined him. They stood before him a moment, both quiet; and Spock, slowly becoming aware of their presence, opened his eyes. The awful experience of his turmoil was still evident in them. Kirk looked away from the painful sight of an overwrought Spock. He had no right to intrude on such private agony.

  "I trust they did not hurt you too much, Captain."

  "Just a sore set of muscles, Spock."

  "The humiliation must have been hardest for you to bear, sir. I . . . I can understand."

  He assumed his customary impassive expression. But it was belied by the tremor in his voice and hands. Kirk's fury flamed in him.

  McCoy tried to be soothing. "The release of emotion is what keeps us healthy," he observed. "At least, emotionally healthy."

  "Fascinating," Spock said. "However, I have noted, Doctor, that the release of emotion is frequently very unhealthy for those nearest to you. Emotionally, that is."

  Kirk forced a chuckle. "Which proves again that there are no perfect solutions."

  "It would seem so, Captain."

  Spock's eyes closed again. He spoke with them closed. "Captain!"

  "Yes, Spock."

  "Captain, do you still feel anger toward Parmen?"

  "Great anger."

  "And you, Dr. McCoy?"

  "Yes, Spock. Great hatred."

  "You must release it somehow . . . as I must master mine."

  Spock suddenly stood up, his eyes wide open. They blazed with rage. He shuddered with the effort to control it, his fists clenching. "They almost made me kill you, Captain. That is why they have stirred in me such hatred. Such great hatred. I must not allow it to go further. I must master it. I must control . . ."

  He grabbed Kirk's arm. His hand tightened on it until it seemed his great strength would snap a bone. Kirk held absolutely still. Gradually, Spock relaxed. He dropped the arm. His body was quieted as though the fierce embrace of his captain's arm had been a desperately needed reassurance of the dear existence. He sat down.

  McCoy, his face drawn with strain, drew Kirk aside. "Jim . . . Jim, listen. I've thought it over. This is senseless. I'm going to stay."

  "You can't, Bones."

  "I have Parmen's word that you'll be safe."

  "Parmen's word! He'll let us beam up to the Enterprise—and then plunge the ship into this atmosphere!"

  McCoy shook his head. "Why bother to trick me?"

  "If he killed us outright in front of you, you'd retaliate. You're a doctor, you have the means." He put a hand on McCoy's shoulder. "I know you're trying to do the right thing. But if anyone of us got away, Parmen knows that Starfleet will never let this planet go unpunished. He dare not let us go. Sacrifice yourself by agreement to stay—and you'll only be signing our death warrant."

  Alexander pulled at McCoy's uniform. "The Captain is right. I didn't warn you. They treated you like they treat me. Only you fight them . . ."

  The dwarf's eyes filled with tears. "All this time I thought it was me—my mind that couldn't move a pebble. They told me how lucky I was that they bothered to keep me around. And I believed them. The arms and legs of everybody's whim. Look down! Don't meet their eyes . . Smile! Smile! Smile! Those great people . . . They were my gods . . ."

  He seized a vase; and, smashing it against a column, picked up a long, jagged shard of hard earthenware. "You made me see them!" he cried. "I know what they are now. It's not me, not my runty size! It's them. It's them!"

  "Alexander, put that down," Kirk said.

  "No! It's the best thing for them!"

  Kirk and McCoy moved toward nun. "I said drop it," Kirk said.

  Alexander backed toward the door. "I'm going to cut them up. Parmen first. They'll become infected. Only this time, no matter what they say, let them die!"

  Kirk nodded at McCoy. They both rushed the little man; and, as McCoy, pinned an arm, the dwarf reluctantly surrendered the weapon to Kirk. "Let me at least give them a taste of what they gave me!" he pleaded. "Please! They're going to kill you anyhow! You already know that . . ."

  "There's no point in your dying, too," Kirk said.

  Alexander stared at him. Then a sob broke from him.

  "That's . . . the first time . . . somebody's thought of my life before his own . . ." Remorse overwhelmed him. "But it's . . . all my fault. I should have told you right off that they were out to kill you. I knew . . . I knew—but I was afraid." The tears welled again.

  "It's all right, Alexander," Kirk said. "We haven't given up. Maybe you can help us."

  "I'll do anything for you . . . anything. Just tell me what to do."

  "It might help us to know one thing. Did all the other Platonians always have the power?"

  "No. Not before we came here to this terrible planet.".

  Spock had joined them. "Then they acquired their psychokinetic power after coming here," Kirk said..

  "I guess so."

  Spock spoke. "Is it possible for you to recall how long after you arrived here that their power began to develop?"

  "How could I forget? It was exactly six months and fourteen days after we got here that they started pushing me around."

  "Would you know how many months' supplies you brought with you?"

  The dwarf's effort to remember was obvious. "I think it was four months . . . no, three. Yes, three . . ."

  "That's close enough," Spock said. "Fascinating. The power developed two or three months after they started eating native foods."

  Alexander's eyes widened in surprise. "Yeah! That's right."

  Spock turned to Kirk. "Then it would be logical to assume that there is connection between their psychokinetic power and the native foods."

  McCoy puzzled over Spock's hypothesis. "Then why wouldn't Alexander have the same power as the others?"

  "Perhaps his system can't absorb the crucial element, Doctor."

  "Bones, I'd like you to take a reading of Alexander's blood," Kirk said.

  The dwarf clutched Kirk. "Will it hurt much?"

  McCoy smiled at him. "You won't know it happened," he said as he ran his tricorder over his arm.

  "Bones, you still have the tricorder reading of Parmen's blood?"

  "Of course. Parmen possesses the highest order of psychokinetic ability; Alexander the lowest—and under the same environmental conditions." He looked at Kirk. "I'll put both of their blood samples through a full comparative test in the tricorder."

  "If our theory proves out, we've got a weapon . . ." Kirk said.

  When the tricorder buzzed, McCoy read out its information on its data window. "The one significant difference between Parmen's blood and Alexander's is the concentration of kironide, broken down by pituitary hormones."

  "Kironide's a high-energy source. It could be it!" Kirk said.

  "The pituitary hormones confirm the assumption," Spock said. He looked at Alexander. "They also regulate body growth."

  "You mean the same thing that kept me from having the power made me a dwarf?"

  Spock nodded. "It is obvious now why Parmen has kept his Utopia such a secret. Anyone coming down here and staying long enough would acquire the power."

  "Exactly, Mr. Spock." Kirk wheeled to McCoy. "Isn't there some way to build up the same concentration of kironide in us?"

  "It'll take doing but it should be possible, Jim."

  "Then what are we waiting for?"

  McCoy went to work. Pulling vials from his kit, he inserted them in the tricorder. He checked a dial. Then he reached for an optical tube. More vials went i
nto the tricorder. He hesitated. "Jim, even if the kironide has the desired effect, it still may not help us get out of here."

  Kirk looked anxiously at Spock. "If all of us do come up with the power, what chance do we have against thirty-eight of them?"

  "The point's well taken, Captain. However, the power isn't additive. If it were, with the Platonians' hostile propensities, two or three of them would have combined forces centuries ago—and deposed Parmen."

  Alexander pulled at Kirk's sleeve. "He's right. Parmen says everyone has his own separate power frequency. He says whenever they try to put their power together and use it, it never works."

  McCoy straightened, the hypo in his hand. "I'm ready."

  "Then let's not waste time. Give us double the concentration found in Parmen's blood."

  As Spock was injected, he said, "The time factor concerns me. It may take days or weeks before there's enough buildup from the kironide to do us any good."

  "What about Alexander?" Kirk asked.

  "Well," McCoy said, "since the kironide's already broken down and injected directly into the bloodstream, it should work on him as well as the rest of us. Better, in fact—he's acclimated."

  But Alexander wanted no part of kironide. "You think the power is what I want? To be one of them? To just lie there and have things done for me—a blob of nothing! You're welcome to the power! And if you make it out of here, all I ask is that you take me with you. Just drop me any place where they never heard of kironide or Platonius!"

  Kirk said, "All right, Alexander. All right . . ."

  "Jim!"

  At the tone of McCoy's voice, Kirk whirled. In the room air was shimmering with the familiar Transporter sparkle.

  Unbelieving, he watched the dazzle form into the shapes of Uhura and Christine Chapel. They saw him—but when they tried to speak, their mouths were clamped shut. Then their legs moved, marching them like marionettes toward a dressing room.

  "Nurse! Lieutenant Uhura!" Kirk shouted.

  They didn't turn. As they disappeared into the dressing room, two lovely, sheer mini-robes floated after them.