Star Trek 08

by James Blish

  "You are going to sleep and sleep and sleep," Kirk said.

  Spock sleepily closed his eyes and immediately opened them in obvious surprise. "The eyelids work," he said. "Fascinating! It would seem, Doctor, that few of your connections were made in error."

  "I performed a miracle of surgery on you to get you back into one piece," McCoy said.

  "Doctor, I regret that I was unable to provide you with a blueprint."

  McCoy turned to Kirk. "What I'll never know is why I reconnected his mouth to his brain."

  Scott came out of the bridge elevator.

  "Our technical aid teams have been beamed down to Planet 7, Captain."

  "First reports, Mr. Scott?"

  Scott rubbed his chin. "Well, sir, restoring friendly relations between its males and females won't be easy. Neither sex trusts the other one."

  "How very human," commented Spock.

  "And very cold," McCoy put in. "Especially the women. However, the aid parties have provided the ladies with a tool for procuring food, furs and fuel from the men."

  "Oh?" Kirk turned from one to the other. "Money?"

  "No, sir," Scott said. "Perfume."

  "I'm not given to predictions, gentlemen, but I'll venture one now," Kirk told them. "The sexual conflict on Planet 7 will be a short one."

  "I fail to see what facts you base your prediction on, Captain," Spock said.

  "On long, cold winter nights, Mr. Spock—on the fact that cuddling is so much warmer than wood fires."

  "Cuddling, sir?"

  "A human predilection, Spock," McCoy said. "We don't expect you to know about it."

  "Of course not, Doctor. It is a well-known fact that we Vulcans propagate our race by mail." He grinned.

  "Spock!" McCoy shouted. "You smiled! No, by George, you positively grinned!"

  "Another tribute to your surgery, Doctor. I was endeavoring to sneeze."

  "Well, of all the ungrateful patients I—" McCoy began indignantly. It was with a real effort that Kirk maintained the gravity that seemed appropriate to the old, familiar, comfortable occasion. And sure enough, Spock nodded politely to the outraged McCoy and returned to his station.

  In the end, Kirk couldn't maintain it. He laughed—a laugh of delighted affection. To the smiling Sulu beside him, he said, "We're through here, Mr. Sulu. Warp factor three."

  THE ENEMY WITHIN

  (Richard Matheson)

  * * *

  The planet's desert terrain had yielded an interesting roundup of mineral and animal specimens, and Kirk was busy checking the containers for beamup to the Enterprise when a gust of icy wind blew a spray of sand in his face. Beside him, Sulu, holding a meek doglike creature on a leash, shivered.

  "Temperature's beginning to drop, Captain."

  "Gets down to 250 degrees below at nightfall," Kirk said. He blinked the sand out of his eyes, stooped to pat Sulu's animal—and wheeled at the sound of a shout. Geological technician Fisher had fallen from the bank where he'd been working. From shoulders to feet his jumpsuit was smeared with a sticky, yellowish ore.

  "Hurt yourself?" Kirk asked.

  Fisher winced. "Cut my hand, sir."

  It was a jagged, ugly cut. "Report to Sickbay," Kirk said.

  Obediently Fisher removed his communicator from his belt. In the Enterprise Transporter Room, Scott, receiving his request for beamup, said, "Right. Locked onto you." He turned to Transporter technician Wilson at the console. "Energize!" he ordered.

  But as Fisher sparkled into shape on the platform, the console flashed a warning red light. "Coadjustor engagement," Scott said hastily. Wilson threw a switch. The red light faded.

  Materialized, Fisher stepped off the platform.

  "What happened?" Wilson asked.

  "Took a flop," Fisher told him.

  Wilson eyed the yellowish splatterings on his jumpsuit. Some lumps of the stuff had fallen from it to the platform's floor.

  "Took a flop onto what?" Wilson asked.

  "I don't know—some kind of soft ore."

  Scott had reached for a scanner device. He ran it over the jumpsuit. "That ore's magnetic," he said. "Decontaminate your uniform, Fisher."

  "Yes, sir."

  Frowning, Scott examined the console. "It acted like a burnout," he grumbled to Wilson. "I don't like it."

  Kirk's voice broke in on his concentration. "Captain Kirk, ready for beamup."

  "Just a moment, Captain." Scott tested the console again. "Seems to be OK now," he told Wilson. "But we can do with a double check. Get me a synchronic meter." Returning to his speaker, he said, "All right, Captain. Locked onto you." Then he activated the Transporter.

  There was an unfamiliar whine in its humming. Hurriedly dialing it out, Scott decided to warn Kirk he was delaying the beamup. But the process had already begun. The engineer looked anxiously toward the platform. In its dazzle Kirk stood on it, dazed-looking, unusually pale. As he stepped from it, his legs almost buckled. Scott ran to him. "What's wrong, Captain? Let me give you a hand."

  "Just a little dizzy, that's all," Kirk said. "I'm sure it's nothing serious." He glanced around him. "You're not leaving the Transporter Room untended to look after me, are you?"

  "No, sir. Wilson's just gone for a tool."

  The door closed behind them. More sparkle appeared on the platform. A figure took shape on it. When it had gathered solidity, it could be seen as a perfect double of Kirk. Except for its eyes. They were those of a rabid animal just released from a cage.

  It looked around it, tense, as though expecting attack.

  Wilson opened the door. Immediately sensing that tension, "Captain," he said, "are you all right?"

  His reply was a hoarse growl. The double glanced around it again seeking some means of escape. It licked its dry lips. Then it saw the door Wilson had left open.

  Out in the corridor Kirk was saying, "I can manage now. You'd better get back to the Transporter Room, Scotty."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Thanks for the help."

  "I wish you'd let Dr. McCoy give you a look-over, Captain."

  "All right, Engineer. I'll have him check my engines."

  He didn't have far to go. At the next cross passage he collided with McCoy. "I think we need a control signal at this cor—" McCoy broke off to stare at Kirk. "What's happened to you?"

  "I don't know," Kirk said.

  "You look like you ran into a wall."

  "Is that your official diagnosis?"

  "Never mind my diagnosis! Go and lie down. I have a malingerer to be treated. Then I'll come and check you."

  "If you can find me," Kirk said—and moved on down the corridor. McCoy followed his going with puzzled eyes. Then he hastened on back to the waiting Fisher in Sickbay.

  The soiled jumpsuit had been discarded. McCoy cleaned the cut hand. "Like to get off duty, wouldn't you?" he said. "Take a little vacation."

  Fisher grinned. And McCoy, swabbing the wound, lifted his head at the sound of the opening door.

  The double spoke at once. "Brandy" it said.

  The demand, the manner, the whole bearing of replica Kirk was uncharacteristic of the real one. Fisher's presence put a brake on McCoy's amazement. He decided to ignore the demand. "Don't go running back to work now," he told Fisher. "Keep the bandage moist with this antiseptic. Take the bottle along with you."

  "Yes, sir." Fisher held up his swathed hand, smiling at the double. "It isn't too bad, Captain."

  The remark was ignored. McCoy turned to the double standing in the doorway and gestured to it to enter the office. "Sit down, Jim," he said. "I think we'd better . . ."

  He stopped. The double had gone to the locked liquor cabinet, its nails clawing at it. "I said brandy" it said.

  McCoy stared, dumbfounded. The double was snarling now at its failure to pry open the cabinet's door. Nervous, uneasy, McCoy tried again. "Sit down, Jim."

  A shudder passed through the double. A savage whisper broke from it. "Give me the brandy!"

  "What is
the matter with—" McCoy began. The clawing hands were lifting with the clear intention of smashing the cabinet's glass.

  "Jim!" McCoy shouted.

  The double whirled, crouched for a leap, its fists clenching. Instinctively McCoy recoiled from the coming blow. Then he recovered himself. "All right, I'll give you the brandy. Sit down!" But he didn't give the brandy. As he unlocked the cabinet door, he was shouldered aside—and the double, seizing a bottle of liquor, made for the door.

  "Drink it in your quarters, Jim! I'll see you there in a . . ."

  The door slammed shut.

  McCoy, striding over to his viewing screen, flicked it on. Spock's face appeared. "Anything peculiar happen down on that planet's surface, Mr. Spock?"

  The cool voice said, "One slight accident, Doctor, which I'm sure won't tax your miraculous healing powers."

  But McCoy was too disturbed to rise to the bait. "Did it involve the Captain?"

  "No."

  "Well, there's something very wrong with him. He just left my office after carrying on like a wild man."

  The wild man, rampaging down the corridor, suddenly had a mind to private drinking. A sign over a door declared it to be the entrance to the quarters of Yeoman Janice Rand. The double touched it, conceiving unmentionable notions—and slipped through the door. Inside, it uncorked the bottle. Tipping it up, it gulped down the brandy in deep swallows. Then it grunted in pure, voluptuous pleasure. The bite of the brandy down its throat was too seductive to resist the impulse to swallow some more. Eyes half-shut in sensual delight, its face was the face of a Kirk released from all repressions, all self-discipline and moral order.

  Kirk himself had not entirely recovered from his mysterious vertigo. Alone in his quarters, he had his shirt off, and was flexing his neck and shoulder muscles to rid his head of the whirling inside it. When the knock came at his door, he said, "Yes?"

  "Spock, sir."

  "Come in," Kirk said, pressing the door's unlocking button.

  "Dr. McCoy asked me to check on you, sir."

  Shouldering back into his shut, Kirk said, "Why you?"

  "Only Dr. McCoy could answer that, Captain."

  "He must have had a reason."

  "One would assume so," Spock said mildly, his keen eyes on Kirk's face.

  "Well, Mr. Spock? I hope you know me next time we meet."

  "Dr. McCoy said you were acting like a wild man."

  "McCoy said that?" Kirk paused. "He must have been joking."

  "I'll get back to the bridge now," Spock said.

  "I'll tell McCoy you were here."

  As the door closed, Kirk, puzzled by the interchange, reached for his Captain's coat.

  On Deck 12, corridors above him, his double was feeling the effects of the brandy. But at the sound of a door sliding open, it was sober enough to take hiding in the bedroom of Yeoman Rand's quarters. It watched her enter. When she had placed her tricorder on a table, it stepped forward into her full sight.

  It was not Kirk's custom to visit the bedrooms of attractive female members of his crew. Janice was shaken by his appearance in hers. She decided to smile. "This is an unexpected pleasure, sir," she said gamely.

  The smile faltered at the suggestive leer she received. "Is there something I can—?" Then she tensed. The double had come so close to her she could smell the brandy on its breath. She flushed at such male nearness, fought back an uprush of embarrassed apprehension and said, "Is there—can I do something for you, Captain?"

  "You bet you can," the double grinned. "But Jim will do here, Janice."

  Neither the words nor the tone fitted the image of Kirk that existed in the mind of Janice Rand. She had never seen him anything but coolly courteous toward women members of his crew. Since the day she had joined it, she had thought of him as the unobtainable but most desirable man she'd ever met. However, that was her own secret. It just wasn't possible that he was obtainable, not Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. And by a twenty-year-old, obscure yeoman named Janice Rand. He'd been drinking, of course; and when men drank . . . Nevertheless, of all the women on the ship, this handsomest man in the world had sought her out; and by some miraculous quirk of circumstance seemed to be finding her worthy of his sexual interest. She suddenly felt that she, along with her uniform, had gone transparent.

  "I—Captain, this isn't—" she stammered.

  "You're too much woman not to know," the double said. "I've been mad for you since the day you joined the ship. We both know what's been inside us all this time. We can't say no to it—not any more, not when we're finally alone, just you and me. Just try to deny it—after this . . ."

  It swept her into its arms, kissing her hard on the lips. For a moment she was immobilized by the shock. Then she pulled back. "Please, Captain. You—we . . ."

  The handsome face tightened with anger. She was kissed again harshly; and with a little moan, she tried to pull free. She was jerked closer. Now the kisses pressed against her throat, her neck.

  "You're—hurting me," she whispered.

  "Then don't fight me. You know you don't want to."

  She stared into what she thought were Kirk's eyes. In some shameful way it was true. She didn't want to fight the Captain's kisses. Only how dare he presume to know it?

  "Shall I make that an order, Yeoman Rand?"

  This time the kiss on her mouth was openly brutal. Janice, infuriated by exposure of a truth she wanted neither to know herself nor be known to anyone else, began to fight in earnest. She scratched the double across its handsome face. It pulled back; and she dashed for the door. She was grabbed as it opened—but out in the corridor, Fisher, returning to his room with the antiseptic liquid he'd forgotten, had seen the struggling pair.

  "On your way!" It was Kirk's command voice.

  Relief surged through Janice. The Captain had implicated himself in this disgraceful scene. If there was penalty to pay in loss of his crew's respect, he'd have only himself to blame. She screamed, "Call Mr. Spock!"

  Fisher gaped at her. "Call Mr. Spock!" she screamed again. Fisher broke into a run. The double tightened its hold on her. Then, realizing how the witness menaced it, it rushed out into the corridor.

  Fisher made it to a wall intercom. "This is Fisher of Geology! Come to Deck 12, Section . . ."

  The double caught him in midsentence. Fisher was spun around to take a smashing right to his jaw. It was his turn to scream. "Help! Section 3!"

  The scream came through to the bridge. Spock bolted for the elevator, shouting "Take over!" to navigator Farrell.

  Deck 12 was deserted. Spock hesitated. Then, starting down the corridor, he slowed his run to a wary walk, his sharp Vulcan eyes searching. After a moment, he stooped to run a finger along a dark streak on the flooring. When he looked at the finger, it was red, wet with blood.

  Its trail of drops led to the quarters of Yeoman Rand. He opened the door. She was sitting on a chair, her uniform disheveled, her eyes blank, stunned. Near her, Fisher lay on the floor. She didn't speak as Spock bent down to him. His face was a mass of mangled flesh and blood.

  "Who did this to you?" Spock asked. Fisher's torn lips moved. "Captain Kirk," he whispered. Then he subsided into unconsciousness.

  Kirk asked his question very quietly. "And Yeoman Rand says I assaulted her?"

  "Yes, sir," Spock said. "And technician Fisher also accuses you of assault upon her and himself."

  "I've been here in my quarters for the past half hour," Kirk said.

  Spock held up the nearly empty brandy bottle.

  "What's that?" Kirk said.

  "The bottle of brandy Dr. McCoy says you took from his office cabinet. I found it in Yeoman Rand's room with Fisher."

  "McCoy says I took that brandy?" The whirling in Kirk's head had come back. He shut his eyes against its wheeling stars. Then he rose. "Let's find out what's going on in this ship." He moved past Spock into the corridor.

  The elevator door closed behind them—and the double, a darker shadow in
the shadows of a cross passage, slipped quietly out into the corridor. Panting, it pried at the door of Kirk's quarters. It got it open. Inside, the lock on the panel of the sleeping compartment caught its eye. It depressed the unlocking button. It relocked the panel behind it and fell across the bed, sighing with exhaustion. Then it buried the replica of Kirk's face in a pillow to shut out the sights and sounds of a world that hated it.

  In Sickbay, Yeoman Rand was saying, "Then he kissed me—and said we—that he was the Captain and could order me to—" Her eyes were on her cold hands, safer to look at than Kirk's face. She had addressed her words to Spock.

  "Go on," Kirk said.

  She looked at him now. "I—I didn't know what to do. When you started talking about—us—about the feeling we've been—hiding all this time . . ."

  "The feeling you and I have been hiding, Yeoman Rand?" Kirk said. "Do I understand you correctly?"

  "Yes, sir." In desperation she twisted around to McCoy. "He is the Captain, Doctor! I couldn't just—" Her face tightened. "I couldn't talk to you!" she burst out at Kirk. "I had to fight you, scratch your face and kick and . . ."

  "Yeoman Rand," Kirk said. He went over to her, pretending not to notice how she shrank from his approach. "Look at me! Look at my face! Do you see any scratches on it?"

  "No, sir," she whispered.

  "I have been in my quarters, Yeoman. How could I have been with you and in my own quarters at one and the same time?"

  She wrung her hands. "But—" Her voice broke. "I know what happened. And it was you. I—I don't want to get you into trouble. I wouldn't even have mentioned it if technician Fisher hadn't seen you, too, and . . ."

  "Yeoman," Kirk said, "it wasn't me!"

  She began to cry. She looked very small, very young in her rumpled uniform. Kirk reached out a compassionate hand to her shoulder—but she shied away from his touch as though it might burn her.

  Spock said, "You can go now, Yeoman."

  Sobbing, she got to her feet. As she reached the door, Kirk said, "Yeoman." She stopped. "It was not me," he repeated. But she went on out the door without looking back.