by James Blish
"And we shouldn't be talking so much in his presence, for that very reason," Adams said, a faint trace of annoyance in his voice for the first time. "Better if further explanations waited until we're back in the office."
"I'd better ask my questions while they're fresh," Kirk said.
"The Captain," Helen said to Adams, "is an impulsive man."
Adams smiled. "He reminds me a little of the ancient skeptic who demanded to be taught all the world's wisdom while he stood on one foot."
"I simply want to be sure," Kirk said stonily, "that this is in fact where Dr. van Gelder's injury occurred."
"Yes," Adams said, "and it was his own fault, if you must know. I dislike maligning a colleague, but the fact is that Simon is a stubborn man. He could have sat in here for a year with the beam adjusted to this intensity, or even higher. Or if there simply had been someone standing at the panel to cut the power when trouble began. But he tried it alone, at full amplitude. Naturally, it hurt him. Even water can poison a man, in sufficient volume."
"Careless of him," Kirk said, still without expression. "All right, Dr. Adams, let's see the rest."
"Very well. I'd like to have you meet some of our successes, too."
"Lead on."
In the quarters which Adams' staff had assigned him for the night, Kirk called the Enterprise, but there was still nothing essentially new. McCoy was still trying to get past the scars in van Gelder's memory, but nothing he had uncovered yet seemed contributory. Van Gelder was exhausted; toward the end, he would say nothing but, "He empties us . . . and then fills us with himself. I ran away before he could fill me. It is so lonely to be empty . . ."
Meaningless; yet somehow it added up to something in Kirk's mind. After a while, he went quietly out into the corridor and padded next door to Helen Noel's room.
"Well!" she said, at the door. "What's this, Captain? Do you think it's Christmas again?"
"Ship's business," Kirk said. "Let me in before somebody spots me. Orders."
She moved aside, hesitantly, and he shut the door behind himself.
"Thanks. Now then, Doctor: What did you think of the inmates we saw this afternoon?"
"Why . . . I was impressed, on the whole. They seemed happy, or at least well-adjusted, making progress—"
"And a bit blank?"
"They weren't normal. I didn't expect them to be."
"All right. I'd like to look at that treatment room again. I'll need you; you must have comprehended far more of the theory than I did."
"Why not ask Dr. Adams?" she said stiffly. "He's the only expert on the subject here."
"And if he's lying about anything, he'll continue to lie and I'll learn nothing. The only way I can be sure is to see the machine work. I'll need an operator; you're the only choice."
"Well . . . all right."
They found the treatment room without difficulty. There was nobody about. Quickly Kirk pointed out the controls the therapist had identified for him, then took up the position that had been occupied by the patient then. He looked ruefully up at the device on the ceiling.
"I'm expecting you to be able to tell if that thing is doing me any harm," he said. "Adams says it's safe; that's what I want to know. Try minimum output; only a second or two."
Nothing happened.
"Well? Any time you're ready."
"I've already given you two seconds."
"Hmm. Nothing happened at all."
"Yes, something did. You were frowning; then your face went blank. When I cut the power, the frown came back."
"I didn't notice a thing. Try it again."
"How do you feel now?"
"Somewhat . . . uh, nothing definite. Just waiting. I thought we were going to try again."
"We did," Helen said. "It looks as though your mind goes so completely blank that you don't even feel the passage of time."
"Well, well," Kirk said drily. "Remarkably effective for a device Adams said he was thinking of abandoning. The technician mentioned that suggestion was involved. Try one—something harmless, please. You know, when we finally get through this, I hope we can raid a kitchen somewhere."
"It works," Helen said in a strained voice. "I gave you two seconds at low intensity and said, 'You're hungry.' And now you are."
"I didn't hear a thing. Let's give it one more try. I don't want to leave any doubt about it."
"Quite right," Adams' voice said. Kirk sat bolt up right, to find himself staring squarely into the business end of a phaser pistol. The therapist was there too, another gun held unwaveringly on Helen.
"Prisons and mental hospitals," Adams went on, smiling, almost tolerantly, "monitor every conversation, every sound—or else they don't last long. So I'm able to satisfy your curiosity, Captain. We'll give you a proper demonstration."
He stepped to the control panel and turned the potentiometer knob. Kirk never saw him hit the on-off button. The room simply vanished in a wave of intolerable pain.
As before, there was no time lapse at all; he only found himself on his feet, handing his phaser to Adams. At the same time, he knew what the pain was: it was love for Helen, and the pain of loneliness, of being without her. She was gone; all he had was the memory of having carried her to her cabin that Christmas, of her protests, of his lies that had turned into truth. Curiously, the memories seemed somewhat colorless, one-dimensional, the voices in them, monotonous; but the longing and the loneliness were real. To assuage it, he would lie, cheat, steal, give up his ship, his reputation . . . He cried out.
"She's not here," Adams said, passing Kirk's phaser to the therapist. "I'll send her back in a while and then things will be better. But first, it's time to call your vessel. It's important that they know all is well. Then perhaps we can see Dr. Noel."
Through a renewed stab of pain, Kirk got out his communicator and snapped it open. "Captain . . . to Enterprise," he said. He found it very difficult to speak; the message did not seem to be important.
"Enterprise here, Captain," Spock's voice said.
"All is well, Mr. Spock. I'm still with Dr. Adams."
"You sound tired, Captain. No problems?"
"None at all, Mr. Spock. My next call will be in six hours. Kirk out."
He started to pocket the communicator, but Adams held out his hand.
"And that, too, Captain."
Kirk hesitated. Adams reached for the control panel. The pain came back, redoubled, tripled, quadrupled; and now, at last, there came a real and blessed unconsciousness.
He awoke to the murmur of a feminine voice, and the feeling of a damp cloth being smoothed across his forehead. He opened his eyes. He was on his bed in the quarters on Tantalus; he felt as though he had been thrown there. A hand obscured his vision and he felt the cloth again. Helen's voice said:
"Captain . . . Captain. They've taken you out of the treatment room. You're in your own quarters now. Wake up, please, please!"
"Helen," he said. Automatically, he reached for her, but he was very weak; she pushed him back without effort.
"Try to remember. He put all that in your mind. Adams took the controls away from me—do you remember the pain? And then his voice, telling you you love me—"
He lifted himself on one elbow. The pain was there all right, and the desire. He fought them both, sweating.
"Yes . . . I think so," he said. Another wave of pain. "His machine's not perfect, I remember . . . some of it."
"Good. Let me wet this rag again."
As she moved away, Kirk forced himself to his feet, stood dizzily for a moment, and then lurched forward to try the door. Locked, of course. In here, he and Helen were supposed to consolidate the impressed love, make it real . . . and forget the Enterprise. Not bloody likely! Looking around, he spotted an air-conditioning grille.
Helen came back, and he beckoned to her, holding his finger to his lips. She followed him curiously. He tested the grille; it gave slightly. Throwing all his back muscles into it, he bent it outward. At the second try, it came
free in his hand with a slight shearing sound. He knelt and poked his head into the opening.
The tunnel beyond was not only a duct; it was a crawl-space, intended also for servicing power lines. It could be crawled through easily, at least, as far as he could see down it. He tried it, but his shoulders were too bulky.
He stood up and held out his arms to the girl. She shrank back, but he jerked his head urgently, hoping that there was nothing in his expression which suggested passion. After a moment's more hesitation, she stepped against him.
"He may be watching as well as listening," Kirk whispered. "I'm just hoping he's focused on the bed, in that case. But that tunnel has to connect with a whole complex of others. It probably leads eventually to their power supply. If you can get through it, you can black out the whole place—and cut off their sensors, so Spock could beam us down some help without being caught at it. Game to try?"
"Of course."
"Don't touch any of those power lines. It'll be a bad squeeze."
"Better than Adams' treatment room."
"Good girl."
He looked down at her. The pain was powerful, reinforced by memory and danger, and her eyes were half-closed, her mouth willing. Somehow, all the same, he managed to break away. Dropping to her knees, she squirmed inside the tunnel and vanished, and Kirk began to replace the grille.
It was bent too badly to snap it back into place; he could only force it into reasonable shape and hope that nobody would notice that it wasn't fastened. He was on his feet and pocketing the sheared rivet heads when he heard the tumblers of the door lock clicking. He swung around just in time to see the therapist enter, holding an old-style phaser pistol. The man looked around incuriously.
"Where's the girl?" he said.
"Another of you zombies took her away. If you've hurt her, I'll kill you. Time for another 'treatment'?" He took a step closer, crouching. The pistol snapped up.
"Stand back! Cross in front of me and turn right in the corridor. I won't hesitate to shoot."
"That would be tough to explain to your boss. Oh, all right, I'm going."
Adams was waiting; he gestured curtly toward the table.
"What's the idea?" Kirk said. "I'm co-operating, aren't I?"
"If you were, you wouldn't have asked," Adams said. "However, I've no intention of explaining myself to you, Captain. Lie down. Good. Now."
The potentiator beam stabbed down at Kirk's head. He fought it, feeling the emptiness increase. This time, at least, he was aware of time passing, though he seemed to be accomplishing nothing else. His very will was draining away, as though somebody had opened a petcock on his skull.
"You believe in me completely," Adams said. "You believe in me. You trust me. The thought of distrusting me is intensely painful. You believe."
"I believe," Kirk said. To do anything else was agony.
"I believe in you. I trust you, I trust you! Stop, stop!"
Adams shut off the controls. The pain diminished slightly, but it was far from gone.
"I give you credit," Adams said thoughtfully. "Van Gelder was sobbing on his knees by now, and he had a strong will. I'm glad I've had a pair like you; I've learned a great deal."
"But . . . what . . . purpose? Your reputation . . . your . . . work . . ."
"So you can still ask questions? Remarkable. Never mind. I'm tired of doing things for others, that's all. I want a very comfortable old age, on my terms—and I am a most selective man. And you'll help me."
"Of course . . . but so unnecessary . . . just trust . . ."
"Trust you? Naturally. Or, trust mankind to reward me? All they've given me thus far is Tantalus. It's not enough. I know how their minds work. Nobody better."
There was the sound of the door, and then Kirk could see the woman therapist, Lethe. She said:
"Dr. Noel's gone. Nobody took her out. She just vanished."
Adams swung back to the panel and hit the switch. The beam came on, at full amplitude. Kirk's brainpan seemed to empty as if it had been dumped down a drain.
"Where is she?"
"I . . . don't know . . ."
The pain increased. "Where is she? Answer!"
There was no possibility of answering. He simply did not know, and the pain blocked any other answer but the specific one being demanded. As if realizing this, Adams backed the beam down a little.
"Where did you send her? With what instructions? Answer!"
The pain soared, almost to ecstasy—and at the same instant, all the lights went out but a dim safe light in the ceiling. Kirk did not have to stop to think what might have happened. Enraged by agony, he acted on reflex and training. A moment later, the therapist was sprawled on the floor and he had Lethe and Adams covered with the old-style phaser.
"No time for you now," he said. Setting the phaser to "stun," he pulled the trigger. Then he was out in the corridor, a solid mass of desire, loneliness, and fright. He had to get to Helen; there was nothing else in his mind at all, except a white line of pain at having betrayed someone he had been told to trust.
>Dull-eyed, frightened patients milled about him as he pushed toward the center of the complex, searching for the power room. He shoved them out of the way. The search was like an endless nightmare. Then, somehow, he was with Helen, and they were kissing.
It did not seem to help. He pulled her closer. She yielded, but without any real enthusiasm. A moment later, there was a familiar hum behind him: the sound of a transporter materialization. Then Spock's voice said:
"Captain Kirk—what on—"
Helen broke free. "It's not his fault. Quick, Jim, where's Adams?"
"Above," Kirk said dully. "In the treatment room. Helen—"
"Later, Jim. We've got to hurry."
They found Adams sprawled across the table. The machine was still on. Lethe stood impassively beside the controls; as they entered, backed by a full force of security guards from the ship, she snapped them off:
McCoy appeared from somewhere and bent over Adams. Then he straightened.
"Dead."
"I don't understand," Helen said. "The machine wasn't on high enough to kill. I don't think it could kill."
"He was alone," Lethe said stonily. "That was enough. I did not speak to him."
Kirk felt his ringing skull. "I think I see."
"I can't say that I do, Jim," McCoy said. "A man has to die of something."
"He died of loneliness," Lethe said. "It's quite enough. I know."
"What do we do now, Captain?" Spock said.
"I don't know . . . let me see . . . get van Gelder down here and repair him, I guess. He'll have to take charge. And then . . . he'll have to decondition me. Helen, I don't want that, I want nothing less in the world; but—"
"I don't want it either," she said softly. "So we'll both have to go through it. It was nice while it lasted, Jim—awful, but nice."
"It's still hard to believe," McCoy said, much later, "that a man could die of loneliness."
"No," Kirk said. He was quite all right now; quite all right. Helen was nothing to him but another female doctor. But—
"No," he said, "it's not hard to believe at all."
THE UNREAL McCOY
(George Clayton Johnson
* * *
The crater campsite—or the Bierce campsite, as the records called it—on Regulus VIII was the crumbling remains of what might once have been a nested temple, surrounded now by archeological digs, several sheds, and a tumble of tools, tarpaulins, and battered artifacts. Outside the crater proper, the planet was largely barren except for patches of low, thorny vegetation, all the way in any direction to wherever the next crater might be—there were plenty of those, but there'd been no time to investigate them, beyond noting that they had all been inhabited once, unknown millennia ago. There was nothing uncommon about that; the galaxy was strewn with ruins about which nobody knew anything, there were a hundred such planets for every archeologist who could even dream of scratching such a surface. Bierce had j
ust been lucky—fantastically lucky.
All the same, Regulus VIII made Kirk—Capt. James Kirk of the starship Enterprise, who had seen more planets than most men knew existed—feel faintly edgy. The Enterprise had landed here in conformity to the book; to be specific, to that part of the book which said that research personnel on alien planets must have their health certified by a starship's surgeon at one-year intervals. The Enterprise had been in Bierce's vicinity at the statutory time, and Ship's Surgeon McCoy had come down by transporter from the orbiting Enterprise to do the job. Utterly, completely routine, except for the fact that McCoy had mentioned that Bierce's wife Nancy had been a serious interest of McCoy's, pre-Bierce, well over ten years ago. And after all, what could be more common place than that?
Then Nancy came out of the temple—if that is what it was—to meet them.
There were only three of them: McCoy and a crewman, Darnell, out of duty, and Kirk, out of curiosity. She came forward with outstretched hands, and after a moment's hesitation, McCoy took them. "Leonard!" she said. "Let me look at you."
"Nancy," McCoy said. "You . . . you haven't aged a year."
Kirk restrained himself from smiling. Nancy Bierce was handsome, but nothing extraordinary: a strongly built woman of about forty, moderately graceful, her hair tinged with gray. It wasn't easy to believe that the hard-bitten medico could have been so smitten, even at thirty or less, as to be unable to see the signs of aging now. Still, she did have a sweet smile.
"This is the Captain of the Enterprise, Jim Kirk," McCoy said. "And this is Crewman Darnell."
Nancy turned her smile on the Captain, and then on the crewman. Darnell's reaction was astonishing. His jaw swung open; he was frankly staring. Kirk would have kicked him had he been within reach.
"Come in, come in," she was saying. "We may have to wait a little for Bob; once he starts digging, he forgets time. We've made up some quarters in what seems to have been an old altar chamber—not luxurious, but lots of room. Come on in, Plum."
