by James Blish
Spock called, "Keep trying to reason with them, Captain. It is completely illogical that they—"
"I am very aware that this is illogical, Mr. Spock!"
The Yang jumped him again. The struggle sent the woman flying against the door's iron lattice. Spock reached an arm out to give her his Vulcan neck pinch. The male paused in amazement as she collapsed. He went to her, trying to shake her awake. Disturbed by his failure, he leaned against the door to peer into Spock's cell.
The Vulcan was at its window, pulling at its ornate grillwork. Watching, the savage saw him heave his full weight against the iron embedded in the ancient mortar. A thin trickle of crumbled dust fell on the sill. Spock called to Kirk. "I think I've loosened my window grill a bit. If the mortar on yours is as old . . ."
"I can't even test it. Not with them on me every moment."
But the Yang had held off. Kirk eyed him. The woman sprawled at his feet was slowly reviving. Once conscious again, would she incite her mate to resume the stalk? "Keep talking, Spock. Don't let me doze off."
"Captain Tracy mentioned there apparently was a considerable civilization here at one time. A war is the most likely explanation of its ruin, Captain. Nuclear destruction or a bacteriological holocaust."
"An interesting theory," Kirk said. "Better keep working on your window, Spock, if we're ever to regain our freedom."
In the very act of renewed attack, the Yang male froze. "Freedohm?" he said. He was staring at Kirk with mixed curiosity and awe. "Freedohm," he repeated.
"Spock!"
"I heard, Captain. Ask him if he knows what it means."
"That is a worship word—Yang worship!" cried the savage. "You will not speak it!"
Kirk said, "It is our worship word, too. Perhaps we are brothers."
"You live with the Kohms!"
"Am I not a prisoner of the Kohms now, like yourself?"
He let it rest there. Moving to the cell window, he began to tug at its grillwork. It was immovable. He flung a shoulder against it—and was rewarded with a small sifting of powdered mortar. The Yang looked at his mate. She rose to her feet, lithe as ever, and they both came over to join him. All three pushed their combined weight at the lattice. More mortar fell; and Kirk, turning to the Yang, said, "Why did you not speak until now?"
"You spoke to Kohms. They are for killing only."
The listening Spock called, "Is your window giving, sir?"
"A little . . . we'll get yours next."
Their following heave broke the grill loose at one corner. Now they had leverage. Twisting and bending the iron, they released its top. The old mortar finally surrendered. It was the Yang who wrenched it free. Smiling, Kirk turned his head toward Spock's cell, calling, "Stand by, Mr. Spock. We'll have you out in—"
"Captain!" Spock yelled.
The warning came too late. The heavy grill had caught Kirk on the temple, felling him, unconscious, to the floor.
The Yang shoved his mate through the open window. Spock saw him hoist himself up to the sill, and disappear.
"Captain?"
Spock, crouched at his cell door, tried to reach the unmoving body of Kirk. But it had fallen under the open window at the other side of the cell.
The recovery of consciousness came slower this time. Finally, hearing Kirk move, Spock left his cell window to hurry to its door.
"Captain?"
"Spock? How long?"
"About seven hours, sir."
Seven hours out . . . a rest of sorts. Blood had dried on Kirk's face. Trying to move, he winced at the tide of pain that washed over him. The iron lattice lay beside him. He used its support to get groggily to his feet. Over his head the open window gaped. Stumbling, he put the grill at a slant under the window. Then he climbed it, hauling himself the shortened distance up to the sill. In the alley outside, he located the jail's rear door. It opened; and he hurried to the table drawer where the cells' keys had been placed.
It was Spock who discovered that Tracy had placed a guard in McCoy's quarters. The man stiffened at the scratching noise that came from the door. McCoy, oblivious to everything but his portable computer, didn't so much as look up. When the scratching came again, the guard carefully opened the door. He literally stuck his neck out for Spock's Vulcan pinch. He folded, dropping his sword. Spock had him dragged inside the room before McCoy looked up to register a world beyond his computer.
"Oh . . . Jim," he said. "Good morning."
Spock, eyeing the lab equipment, saw an instrument that might lend itself to conversion into a communications signaler.
"I can cross-circuit this unit, Captain. We can contact the Enterprise in a few moments."
"Bones," Kirk said, "what have you found?"
"I'm convinced now that there was once a frightful biological war. The virus still exists. The crew of the Exeter was killed by it; we contracted it, too. But over the years nature has built up immunizing agents in the food, water, soil . . ."
Spock, busy with tools, observed, "The war created an imbalance: nature counterbalanced."
McCoy nodded. "These natural immunizers just need time to work. That's the real tragedy. If the Exeter landing party had stayed here just a few hours longer, they never would have died."
Taking in the statement's implications, Kirk said, "Then we can leave any time we want to?"
McCoy nodded again. Kirk's face lightened with his first grin in a long time. Then it disappeared. "Tracy," he said, "is convinced this immunizing agent could become a fountain of youth. Isolate it, make a serum, inject it into others."
"Poppycock!" McCoy snorted.
"Bones, some of them here live to be a thousand years old."
"Possible. Because their ancestors who survived had to have superior resistance. And they developed powerful protective antibodies in their blood during the wars. You want to destroy a whole world, maybe your descendants can develop a longer life—but I hardly think it's worth it."
"Then any serum you develop out of this is useless."
McCoy shrugged. "Who knows? It might finally cure the common cold. But lengthen our lives? I can do more for you if you'd eat right and exercise regularly."
Over at the corner bench where he'd been working on the lab instrument, Spock made some final adjustment; and looked up to say, "Somewhat crude, Captain, but I can signal the snip with this. No voice contact possible, of course."
"That will be quite sufficient, Mr. Spock." Kirk was moving toward the bench when the signaler in Spock's hand glowed red under the brilliant beam of a phaser. It disappeared—and Spock was slammed violently backward, grazed by the fierce energy in the scorching beam.
Tracy, his uniform spattered with blood, was leaning against the doorframe, disheveled, wild-eyed. He lowered the phaser. "No messages," he said. He glanced around the room. "Kirk, the Yang in the cell with you. Did you set him free?"
Kirk ignored him to join McCoy, who was kneeling beside the wounded Spock. "Alive at least," McCoy said briefly.
"The savage, Kirk! Did you send him to warn the tribes?
Kirk looking up, saw that Tracy was badly shaken. "What happened?" he said. "Where are your men?"
"The Yangs must have been warned. They sacrificed hundreds just to draw out into the open. Then they came . . . and came . . . and came." His voice trembled. "We drained three of our four phasers and they still came! We killed thousands and they still came!"
Tracy became suddenly aware that he was shouting. He made a visible effort to control himself, and McCoy, intent on Spock, said, "He'll live. But I'll have to get him to better facilities than these."
"Impossible," Tracy said, "You can't carry the disease back up to your ship."
"He's fully immunized now," McCoy told him. "All of us are!"
"We can beam up any time, Tracy," Kirk said. "Any of us."
"You've isolated the serum?"
"There is no serum!" Kirk said. "There are no miracles here—no immortality! All this has been for nothing!
Tracy stared at him, dumbfounded. Then, unbelieving, he looked at McCoy. "Explain to me, Doctor! Explain!"
"Leave medicine to medical men, Captain!" McCoy snapped. "You've found no fountain of youth! They live longer here because it is now natural for them to live longer!"
Color drained from Tracy's face. Even the cuts on it had gone pale. He raised his phaser, motioning Kirk to the door with it. "Outside," he said. "Or I'll burn down both your friends now."
He'd do it, too, Kirk knew. "Do what you can for him, Bones," he said and walked to the door.
The frightened villagers had left the street empty.
Tracy, phaser pointed at Kirk, tossed him a communicator. "Let's see how willing you are to die," he said. "Call your ship!"
Silent, Kirk looked at the communicator. "I need your help, Kirk!" Tracy cried. "They'll attack the village now! My phaser is almost drained; we need more, fresh ones."
So that was it. The Enterprise was to get into the weapon-smuggling business to accommodate this madman. At the look on Kirk's face, Tracy shouted, "You're not just going to stand there and let them kill you, are you? If I put a weapon in your hand, you'll fight, won't you?"
Reason, sanity. Was Tracy any longer capable of either one? Kirk said, "We can beam back up to the ship. All of us."
"I want five phasers . . . no, make it ten. Three extra power packs each."
"All right," Kirk said. The phaser lifted and aimed at him as Tracy waited. Kirk clicked the communicator open.
"Enterprise, this is Captain Kirk."
He could hear the relief in Uhura's voice. "Captain! Are you all right now?"
"Quite all right, Lieutenant. I want ten phasers beamed down, three extra power packs each. Do you have that?"
Uhura didn't answer. "Say again!" Tracy said.
"Enterprise, do you read?"
Sulu's voice spoke. "This is Sulu, Captain. We read you—but surely you know that can't be done without verification."
"Not even if we're in danger, Mr. Sulu?"
A good man, Sulu. And smart. "Captain, we have volunteers standing by to beam down. What is your situation?"
Tracy made an impatient gesture.
"It's not an immediate danger, Mr. Sulu. Stand by on the volunteers. We'll let you know. Landing party out."
Kirk snapped off the communicator. Tracy nodded in a begrudged approval. "You have a well-trained bridge crew. My compliments." He extended his hand for the communicator. It was the chance Kirk had been waiting for. He grabbed the hand, twisted it; and lashing out with his fist, knocked Tracy off balance, reaching for the phaser. But Tracy eluded the reach and, rolling with the blow, came back with the weapon at the ready. As Kirk dived around a building corner, he fired it. The beam struck a rainbarrel—and the chase began.
The dash around the building corner put Kirk in an alley he recognized. It was the one that passed the jail's cellblock. Racing by a Kohm cart, he made for the jail. Behind him, Tracy leaned against the cart, kneeling to aim at Kirk's back. But his weight was too heavy for the flimsy cart. Its rear wheel collapsed. Kirk ran on. He jumped into cover through the jail's rear door. He was barely inside when a phaser beam blasted a porch support. He heard the porch crash down.
The iron lattice that had felled him—it would still be in his cell. He found it. Not much use against a phaser, but it was all he had. Opposite the jail's front door was the execution block. As he emerged from the door he saw Tracy standing beside it. The phaser came up. Tracy fired it point blank. Nothing happened. Tracy stared at the drained phaser. Then, flinging it aside, he grabbed up the executioner's ax. He charged Kirk, taking a murderous swing at him. Kirk ducked and slammed the iron lattice into his middle. Tracy fell, but kicking out, tripped Kirk; and the two closed, grappling in the dirt.
Tracy had kneed him in the groin when he gave a cry. The point of a spear had pricked his shoulder. Both men looked up. The Yang stood over them. Behind him were ranged other armed white savages.
The brazier had been removed from the central table in the villagers' clubhouse. Now it held a worn parchment document, some ancient-looking books and Tracy's communicator. The whole interior of the room had been altered into what Kirk could only consider to be a primitive court scene. White savages composed the "jury." Among the men Kirk saw the young woman from the jail cell. He, Spock, McCoy and Tracy had been seated to the left of the table.
The male Yang of the jail cell strode to the seat behind the table.
He looked at Kirk. "My name," he said, "is Cloud William." Then he looked away to nod at one of his warriors guarding the door. A procession of Kohm Elders were herded into the room and up to the table. Kirk looked anxiously at the stiff figure of Spock. "I am weak, Captain, but not in difficulty."
McCoy leaned over to Kirk. "He must have attention, Jim! And soon."
Spock indicated the Kohms. "Prisoners, Captain. It seems they like killing less than we thought."
Kirk glanced around at the rough courtlike arrangements. "If my ancestors had been forced from their cities into deserts, the hills . . ."
"Yes, Captain," Spock said. "They would have learned to wear animal skins, adopted stoic mannerisms, devised the bow and the lance."
"Living much like Indians . . . and finally even looking like the American Indians." He paused, startled by his own sudden idea. "Spock! Yangs . . . yanks . . . Yankees! Is it possible?"
Spock nodded. "Kohms . . . kohmunists. Almost too close a parallel, Captain. It would mean they fought the war you avoided and here the Asiatics won, took over the Western world."
"And yet if that were true, Spock, all these generations of Yanks fighting to win back their land . . ."
"You're a romantic, Jim," McCoy said.
He sat back in his chair. Yang warriors were pushing their Kohm prisoners into attitudes of respect. The crash of a drumbeat's ceremonial tattoo silenced the room. Proud and tall, Cloud William rose from his seat behind the table.
"That which is ours is ours again! It will never be taken from us again." He pointed to the rear door and a steady drumbeat throbbed. "For this day we mark with the great Ay Pledgili Holy!"
Turning to look, Kirk, Spock and McCoy stiffened in unbelieving amazement. The door had opened. A guard—an honor guard—had entered. One carried a staff. From it hung an incredibly old and tattered flag, its red, white and blue faded by time. But its stars and its stripes had out-lasted the centuries' ravages. They had triumphed over time.
Kirk, watching the flag proudly planted in its stand at the front of the room, felt his blood chill with awe.
Tracy whispered, "The American flag!"
Kirk turned to Spock. "After so long, I wonder if they really understand what they were fighting for."
"I doubt it, Captain. Some customs remain, but most of them would have become only traditions by now."
"And ritual," McCoy said. "The flag was called a 'holy.’“
Tracy said, "They can be handled, Kirk. Together, it will be easy." He leaned toward the three of them. "I caution you, gentlemen, don't fight me here. I'll win—or at worst, I'll drag you down with—"
He was silenced by a nudge from a spear. Cloud William was speaking. "I, Cloud William, am chief, also the son of chief, Guardian of the holies, Speaker of holy words, leader of warriors. Many have died; but this is the last of the Kohm places. What is ours is ours again."
The words were repeated by the crowd. "What is ours is ours again!"
Cloud William placed his right hand over his heart. "You will say these holy words after me." The Yang guards placed the Kohm prisoners' right hands over their hearts. Cloud William turned to the old flag. "You will all say Ay pledgli ianectu flaggen tupep likfor stahn . . ."
Kirk sprang to his feet. ". . . and to the republic for which it stands. One nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all!"
The room exploded in shouts. A guard, moving to Kirk, halted in shock.
Cloud William was in quiet but agitated conversation wit
h an aged savage at his table. The old man, shaking his head, referred to one of the yellowed books on it. Guards were removing the Kohm prisoners from the room. Two warriors, uneasy and uncertain, moved toward Kirk. One motioned him to face the Yang chief.
The chief was rapping the butt of his knife on the table to quiet the room.
"You know many of our high-worship words. How?"
Kirk said, "In my land we have a—a tribe like you."
"Where is your tribe?"
Kirk pointed upward. "We come from there. From one of those points of light you see at night."
Uproar broke out again. Kirk tried to go on but his words were drowned by the noise. Cloud William rapped for quiet once more. He turned to nod at the old Yang scholar beside him. The still-keen eyes fixed on Kirk. "Why are you here? Were you cast out?"
The Yang jury waited for his answer. Kirk spoke carefully. "You are confusing the stars with 'heaven' from which—"
"He was cast out!" Tracy shouted.
He jumped from his chair to confront the jury. "Don't you recognize the Evil One? Who else would trick you with your own sacred words? Let your God strike me dead if I lie!" He looked upward. "But He won't because I speak for Him!"
The brutal murder of Raintree . . . the betrayal of his service oath . . . now this exploitation of ignorance and superstition. He should have known, Kirk thought. To further his purpose there was nothing that Tracy would not do. But the old Yang scholar had hurriedly opened a thick, black book.
Cloud William was studying Tracy. "Yet you have killed many Yangs," he said.
"To punish them. You would not listen when I tried to speak with you. You tried to kill me."
Kirk said, "I am a man like yourself. I am not God. I am not the Evil One."
"Would a man know your holy words?" cried Tracy. "Could a man use them to trick you?" He extended a dramatic ringer at Spock. 'And see his servant! His face, his ears, his eyes! Do Yang legends describe the Evil One?"
Kirk turned to the tribunal. "Do all your faces look alike? Can you tell from them which of you is good and which is bad?"
