by James Blish
"The Argelian empathic contact, sir?" McCoy said.
"You know of it, Doctor?"
"I've heard of it. I had assumed it was a lost art."
"My wife is a descendant of the ancient priestesses of our land," Jaris said. "She has the old gift. I have come to invite you all to my home."
Hengist protested. "Prefect, don't you think this should be handled in an official manner through my office?"
"It shall be handled in an official manner, inasmuch as I am the highest official of Argelius." The rebuke was as gently spoken as it was courteous. "We will now proceed to my home. There my wife will prepare herself—and we shall learn the truth. Sybo—" He stood aside, bowing, and she moved past him to the café door.
Her drawing room was as impressive as their hostess. It was high-ceilinged, circular and windowless. Luxurious draperies covered its exits. Its tables, chairs, its cabinets matched the draperies in taste. Against one wall there was a simple altar of rich wood. A single flame rose from it.
"I have informed my ship, sir," Kirk turned to Jaris, "that there will be a delay in our return."
"Well done, Captain." Jaris nodded. "Let us proceed. Pray be seated, everyone."
McCoy was restive. "Prefect, depending on your lovely wife's empathic abilities is all very well. But I am a scientist, sir. And my science has available a precise method by which we can discover what it is that Mr. Scott cannot remember. Since you won't permit us to go to our ship, I can beam down a technician with my psychotricorder. It will give us a detailed account of all that has happened to Mr. Scott within the past twenty-four hours."
"I advise against it, Prefect," Hengist said. "This is a purely Argelian matter."
"My wife must meditate for a time before she is ready," Jaris told him. "I see no reason why we should not employ that time to all possible use. Very well, Dr. McCoy."
McCoy whipped out his communicator. "McCoy to Enterprise."
"Spock here, Doctor."
"Mr. Spock, please beam down a technician with a psychotricorder immediately. Use these coordinates."
"Acknowledged. Coordinates received and read," Spock answered.
"Thanks. McCoy out."
Jaris was confiding his own problems to Kirk. "News of this frightful event is spreading among our people. They are greatly disturbed. Already there is talk of placing Argelius under embargo to space vehicles."
"That would be most unfortunate, sir. Argelius is widely known for its hospitality. It also owns strategic importance as a spaceport. It is the only one in this quadrant."
"Prefect," McCoy intervened, "the tricorder examination will require privacy to be effective."
"There is a small chamber below this room. Perhaps it will suffice, Doctor."
Hengist rose from his chair. "I do not wish to seem argumentative, Prefect, but I must point out that these two gentlemen are Mr. Scott's friends. They want to clear him!"
"And if he is innocent, do you not want to clear him, too, Mr. Hengist?"
The mild question rattled Hengist. "Why—I—of course," he stammered. "I am only interested in the truth."
"So are we all," said Kirk brusquely.
The flustered City Administrator addressed Jaris. "There are other people to be questioned. Perhaps I should go to expedite their arrival here."
"Please do so," said the Prefect. "Anyone who has any connection with the murder should be here during the ceremony."
But Hengist's departure was delayed by the Transporter dazzle that appeared near McCoy's chair. It gradually assumed the extremely attractive shape and features of crewwoman Karen Tracy. Hengist eyed her. Then, nodding to her, he passed her and disappeared through a draped door.
The girl, a psychotricorder slung over her shoulder, said, "Lieutenant Karen Tracy, Doctor, reporting as ordered."
Scott, dismay in his face, half rose from his chair. "A—a woman," he mumbled.
Kirk saw Jaris's keen eyes fix on him. "You don't like women, Mr. Scott?"
"It's not that, Prefect," McCoy said quickly. "He was recently involved in an accident caused by a careless woman. He suffered a severe concussion."
"Damage to his brain, Doctor?"
"Some. But in my best opinion, it could not possibly be responsible for . . ."
"I suggested nothing, Doctor."
"No. Of course you didn't." McCoy made a visible effort to get his anxiety back under control. "Lieutenant, I want a twenty-four-hour regressive memory check on Mr. Scott. All possible amnesic gaps to be probed."
"Yes, Doctor. Where shall I set up?"
"If you will follow me, young lady—" Jaris was leading the way toward the room's nearest exit when Kirk spoke to Scott. "You are to give Lieutenant Tracy complete cooperation. Maybe we can clear this thing up once and for all."
At the look in Scott's eyes, Kirk had to down an impulse to place an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "Yes, Captain. This—not remembering—it's hard to take."
Kirk watched him go with Tracy and Jaris. "All right, Bones. We're alone. Opinions?"
McCoy was grave. "Jim, in normal circumstances, Scotty simply couldn't have done such a thing. But that knock on the head—it could have tossed all his previous behavior patterns into a junk heap. What worries me is that he's telling the truth about not remembering."
"Why does it worry you?"
"Hysterical amnesia. When a man feels guilt about something—something too terrible to face up to—he will blot it out of his conscious memory."
Kirk felt his mind wince away from the words. Was it possible that Scott's conscious memory was sparing him recollection of an action too appalling to remember? The windowless room seemed suddenly suffocating. I need fresh air, he thought—but Jaris had returned, And the slender Sybo, her face absent looking, abstracted, was pushing aside the drapery of another door.
"Are you prepared, Sybo?" Jaris asked her.
"I am ready. May I have the knife, please?"
Jaris turned to them. "My wife also possesses the ability to receive sensory impressions from inanimate objects." He moved to a table. "The knife," he said. "Do you have it, Captain?"
Startled, Kirk echoed, "The knife? No. I thought . . ."
"I placed it on this table when we arrived," Jaris said. "It's gone."
There was an uncomfortable silence. It was shattered by a shriek, muffled, but so high-pitched that it penetrated the floor's tiling. The underground room! Kirk and McCoy exchanged the same glance of apprehension. Then Kirk burst into action. Tearing aside a door curtain, he bolted headlong down a flight of stairs, McCoy's feet pounding behind him. They were in an unlit hall, a closed door facing them. Kirk broke through it into a small chamber.
Scott, his eyes closed, was sitting, rigid, in a chair. Karen Tracy, her equipment scattered around her, lay on the floor. McCoy ran to her. But Kirk had seized Scott's shoulder. "Scotty!" he shouted, shaking the shoulder. "Scotty, snap out of it!"
The shoulder sagged under his hand. Scott moaned, swaying, while McCoy, getting to his feet, said, "She's dead, Jim."
Kirk looked at him. "Don't tell me. I know," he said. "She's been stabbed to death, hasn't she?"
"Over and over again," McCoy said. "Just like the other one."
They had to support Scott up the stairs. Jaris poured some amber fluid into a glass and handed it to McCoy. "An Argelian stimulant, Doctor. An effective one." But an overwhelming tension had reclaimed Scott. The glass just clattered against his clenched teeth. It took the combined skills of McCoy and Kirk to pry his locked jaws open and pour the liquid down his throat. As color began to return to his ashen lips, Kirk saw that Sybo had stepped to the altar, a dream-lost look on her face. A nice thing to have—a private dream world, he thought grimly, pouring the rest of the liquor into Scott's mouth. This time he swallowed it voluntarily. Blinking his eyes, he glanced around him. "Lieutenant Tracy?" he said. "Captain—where is . . .?"
"Lieutenant Tracy is dead," Kirk said.
Scott stared at him. "Dead?"
"Yes," Kirk said harshly. "What happened down there?"
"I was sitting there, sir—and she was taking the readings." He made a move to rise. "Why am I back here now? She wasn't finished."
"That's all you remember?" McCoy asked.
"Scott, concentrate!" Kirk said. "The girl is dead. You were with her. You must have seen what happened. What was it?"
The anguished look of helplessness returned to Scott's eyes. "I don't remember. I can't remember, Captain. I must have passed out, but why, if I did . . ."
McCoy said, "It could be, Jim. The head injury . . ."
Kirk yelled, "I don't want to hear any more about that head injury! Scott! Think!"
"Watch it, Jim," McCoy said. "If he can't think, he can't do it because he's told to."
Kirk swung around to Jaris. "Prefect, is there another door to that room?"
"One that leads into the garden. But it's been locked for years."
"Locks can be picked," McCoy remarked.
"Check it, Bones," Kirk said.
Somewhere a bell rang. Jaris pressed a button, and Hengist, shoving two men before him, pushed through a door curtain. "Prefect," he said, "both of these people were in that café the night of the murder."
Kirk spoke to the older man. "I've seen you. You were one of the café's musicians. You played for Kara."
"She was my daughter," the man said. "She danced to my music as a child. Now she is dead and I am left to grieve." He turned to Jaris. "Prefect, how could this thing happen here? The man who did it must be found. And punished."
Hengist said, "I promise he will be, Tark."
Kirk indicated the younger man. "And he left the café just before Scott and Kara."
"Who are you?" Jaris asked the man. "Is what you have just heard true?"
"I am Morla of Cantaba Street. Yes, Prefect. I was there. I have nothing to hide."
"Did you know Kara?" Kirk asked.
Morla nodded. And Tark cried, "Of course he knew her! They were to be married. But his jealousy was a disgust to my child!"
"Jealousy?" Jaris said. "That is disquieting. In Argelius jealousy is virtually unknown."
Morla's mouth trembled. "My jealousy was a sorrow to me, Prefect. But I could not help it. I loved her. When I saw her go to the table with these men, I could not watch. I left the café."
"Where did you go?" Kirk asked.
"Home. Straight to my home. I needed to meditate—to rid myself of anger."
Kirk said, "Prefect, jealousy is a notorious reason for murder."
"I know. That is why it is disapproved here."
"I could not kill." Morla's voice broke. "It is not in me to kill. It is not in me to kill what I loved."
McCoy, returning, took in the scene. "That lock may or may not have been picked, Jim. Even with a tricorder, it would be hard to tell."
Kirk spoke again to Morla. "Can you prove that you went straight home?"
Hengist broke in. "Captain, I insist that you leave this questioning to me!"
"Then get on with it, man!" Kirk shouted. "Don't just hang around!" He looked at Tark. "A father, maybe angered by a daughter's disobedience—you wouldn't be the first one to—" He broke off. "Prefect! A future husband enraged at seeing his girl with other men—you cannot deny that is motive for murder! But Mr. Scott had none. Lieutenant Tracy was killed because she was about to discover the truth!"
Jaris's reply came slowly. "That is possible, Captain."
"Probable, sir."
The mild eyes met Kirk's. "Captain, you sound, you know, like a man who's determined to save the life of a friend."
"Yes, sir. Your judgment of me is impeccable. I do want to save my friend. And I remind you that he has not yet been proven guilty."
"Let me remind you that this friend of yours has been found with the body in each of these cases." Hengist's round face had flushed with anger.
Kirk had no time for a further retort, because at that moment Sybo announced, "I am ready, husband."
There was a strange authority in her quiet voice. Nobody spoke as she turned from the altar, her face serene, reposed. "The flame of purification burns," she said. "It points to the direction of truth." She stepped down from the altar. "We shall join hands. Our minds shall mingle—and I shall look into your deep hearts."
With a courtly gesture, Jaris led her to the table. "We shall sit, gentlemen, all of us. And as my wife asks, we shall join hands."
"On one condition, sir," Kirk said. "This room must be sealed so no one can enter or leave it during the ritual."
"The room is sealed," Jaris said.
He was seating Sybo at the table when Kirk's communicator beeped. It was Spock. "May I have a word with you, Captain?"
Kirk turned to Jaris. "A message from my ship, sir. Please excuse me for a moment." He moved to the end of the room. "Yes, Mr. Spock?"
"I have been considering the unfortunate situation, sir, as you related it to us. In my opinion, the Argelian empathic contact is a phenomenon worthy of study. I merely wonder if it is sound enough a technique to entrust with a man's life."
"What do you suggest, Mr. Spock?"
"That we beam up Mr. Scott in order to allow our computers to arrive at the truth."
"Impractical, Mr. Spock. To adopt your suggestion could close Argelius as a spaceport. We must respect the emotions and pride of these people. They have their own methods for handling this affair—and while we are here, we are subject to them."
"Understood, Captain."
"I don't like it any more than you do; but there's nothing we can do about it. Kirk out."
When he faced the room again, everyone was seated at the table, Sybo at its head. Behind her the altar flame flared up—and waned. "Let us begin," she said. "Let us join hands. Let the circle not be broken. Look upon the fire that burns on the altar of truth."
Her eyes closed. The odd authority in her low voice now invested her stillness. Kirk saw her lift a rapt face, the room putting shadow into the hollows beneath her cheekbones. Then suddenly, shockingly, she was speaking in a different voice—a much older voice, deeper, resonant. "Yes, there is something here in this room—something terrible—out of the past. I feel its presence—fear, rage, hatred." A groan broke from her. "There is evil here—monstrous, demonic . . ."
She paused as though all her senses were centered on listening. "A consuming hunger that never dies—hatred of life, of woman, hatred undying." The voice rose. "It is strong—an ancient hunger that feeds on terror—closer, closer—growing among us now—evil lust for death—death. It has been named—boratis—kesla—redjac . . ."
Sybo's words were coming in a frightened wail. "Devouring evil—eating life, light—hunger that preys—redjac—redjac . . ."
The altar flame winked out. In the darkness flooding the room, Kirk heard a rushing sound like the flapping of great wings. Then Sybo gave a wild scream.
"Get the lights!" he shouted.
They blazed up. Hengist was over at the light panel, his hand still on it.
But all Kirk had eyes for was Sybo. She was slumped in Scott's arms. Very slowly her body twisted in them. From her back the haft of a long knife protruded. Scott's nerveless arms relaxed—and the body fell to the floor. Scott looked down at it. Then Kirk saw him look away from it to stare at his bloody hands.
Jaris's face was gaunt with grief. And Kirk, listening to Hengist's tirade, thought—and not for the first time—Mr. City Administrator, you are an insensitive man.
"Three murders!" Hengist was yelling. "And this man on the scene each time! What do you require, Captain? That he stab another woman in the back before your very eyes?"
"Mr. Hengist, please—not now," Jaris said. "My poor wife—her body has just been removed . . ."
Hengist persisted. "Prefect, I am perfectly satisfied that this Enterprise crewman is guilty!"
"But not responsible," Kirk said. "These acts have been acts of insanity. If Mr. Scott is guilty, he is a madman. On our ship we have instr
uments able to determine his mental state."
"And save his life?" There was a sneer in Hengist's voice.
"Insanity cannot be held responsible under anybody's laws," Kirk said. "It is unaware of what it does to others."
"Gentlemen, please—" Jaris said.
"I am sorry, Prefect," Hengist said. "My heart grieves for you—but I can stand by no longer! This man has killed three times! Even Captain Kirk admits it! But this last-minute attempt to help Scott evade punishment. . . ."
Kirk kept his voice level. "No, Mr. Hengist. To see that justice is done."
"I—don't know," Jaris, said.
"How many other murders will occur unless we take prompt action, sir?" Hengist asked him. "The old laws still exist. I can get the truth from this killer."
"By torture?" Kirk said. He turned to Jaris. "Prefect, I told you before, we'll stand by your laws. If Mr. Scott is mentally responsible, he is yours to punish. But I must insist that everything possible be done to establish his mental condition."
Jaris's mouth trembled. Shock had visibly aged him. "How could any man do these monstrous things?"
"That is what I hope to find out, sir," Kirk said gently.
With an effort Jaris looked at Scott. "And you, Mr. Scott, what do you have to say?"
Scott stood up. "Sir, I swear before God that I did not kill your wife. I have not killed anyone."
"By your own admission you don't know whether you did or not," Hengist said. "Your so-called failure of memory . . ."
"Mr. Hengist," McCoy interrupted him, "aboard our ship it is possible to record all registrations that have been made on Mr. Scott's conscious or subconscious mind. We can recover all that has occurred to him. The recordings are factual. They will tell us exactly what has happened to him in the recent past."
Kirk pressed McCoy's point. "There would be no room for doubt," he said. "We would know. Isn't that what we want, Prefect? To know?" He looked at Hengist. "The investigation and disposition of the case would still remain in your jurisdiction. What we're after is the removal of doubts."
Hengist's face hardened. "Your suggestion would be illegal. If this man is taken back into your ship with you, what legal assurance do we have you'd return him to Argelius even if your instruments prove him guilty? I have the authority to . . ."
