by James Blish
Again they started off, and again they were halted by a sound—this time a steady whirring behind them. As they turned, they saw floating from behind a rock what could only be a robot: metallic, spherical, about the size of a beachball, studded with protuberances with functions which could only be guessed at. It came toward them at about chest height, flickering menacingly.
The three drew their phasers. A light blinked brightly on the robot's skin, and a bush next to Kirk went up in a burst of flame.
First Kirk and then the other two fired back—or tried to. All three phasers were inoperative. The robot continued to advance.
"Do not kill," a man's voice said. The robot stopped in midair. The owner of the voice came around from behind the same rock: a muscular man of about forty, whose bearing suggested immense dignity, assurance, authority.
"Thanks," said Kirk with relief. "I am Captain James Kirk, of the . . ."
"I know who you are. I have monitored your ship since it entered this system."
"Then you know why we're here, Mr . . ."
"Flint. You will leave my planet."
"Your planet, sir?" Spock said.
"My retreat—from the unpleasantness of life on Earth—and the company of other people."
"Mr. Flint, I've got a sick crew up there," Kirk said. "We can't possibly reach another planet in time. We're sorry to intrude. Well be happy to leave your little private world as soon as possible, but without that ryetalyn, you'd be condemning four hundred and thirty people to death!"
"You are trespassing, Captain."
"We're in need. We'll pay you for the ryetalyn—trade for it—work for it."
"You have nothing I want," Flint said.
"Nevertheless, we've got to have the ryetalyn. If necessary, we'll take it."
"If you do not leave voluntarily, I have the power to force you to leave—or kill you where you stand."
Kirk whipped out his communicator and snapped it open. "Kirk to Enterprise. Mr. Scott, lock phasers on landing party coordinates."
"Aye, Captain. All phasers locked on."
"If anything happens to us, there'll be four deaths," Kirk told Flint. "And my crew will come down and get the ryetalyn anyhow."
"It would be an interesting test of power," Flint said. "Your enormous forces—against mine. Who would win?"
"If you are not certain," Spock said, "I suggest you refrain from a most useless experiment."
"We need only a few hours," Kirk added.
"Have you ever seen a victim of Rigellian fever?" McCoy said. "It kills in one day. Its effects resemble bubonic plague."
Flint's expression turned remote. "Constantinople, Summer, 1334. It marched through the streets—the sewers. It left the city, by oxcart, by sea—to kill half of Europe. The rats—rustling and squealing in the night, as they, too, died . . ."
"You are a student of history, Mr. Flint?" Spock asked.
"I am." He seemed to rouse himself. "The Enterprise—a plague ship. Well, you have two hours. At the end of that time, you will leave."
"With all due gratitude," Kirk said, rather drily. "Mr. Spock, Bones . . ."
"No need," Flint said, indicating the robot. "M-4 will gather the ryetalyn you need. In the meantime, permit me to offer more comfortable surroundings."
"More comfortable" turned out to be a vast understatement. The central room of Flint's underground home was both huge and luxurious. Most impressive were the artworks—framed paintings, dozens or them, hung on the walls, except for one wall which was entirely taken up by books. There were statuary, busts, tapestries, illuminated glass cases containing open books and manuscripts of obvious antiquity, and even a concert grand piano. The place was warm, comfortable, masculine despite all these riches—at once both museum and home.
"Our ship's sensors did not reveal your presence here, Mr. Flint," Spock said.
"My planet is surrounded by screens which create the impression of lifelessness. A protection against the curious—the uninvited."
"Such a home must be difficult to maintain."
"M-4 serves as butler, housekeeper, gardener—and guardian,"
McCoy was looking into the illuminated cases with obvious awe. "A Shakespeare First Folio—a Gutenberg Bible—the 'Creation' lithographs by Taranullus of Centaurus VII—some of the rarest books in the Galaxy—spanning centuries!"
"Make yourselves comfortable," Flint said. "Help yourselves to some brandy, gentlemen." He went out, calmly.
"Do we trust him?" McCoy asked.
"It would seem logical to do so—for the moment."
"I'll need two hours," McCoy said worriedly, "to process that ryetalyn into antitoxin."
"If the ryetalyn doesn't show up in one hour, we go prospecting," Kirk said. "Right over Mr. Flint, if necessary."
Spock was now looking at the paintings. "This is the most splendid private art collection I have ever seen," he said. "And unique. The majority are works of three men: Leonardo da Vinci of the sixteenth century, Reginald Pollock of the twentieth century, and even a Sten from Marcus II."
"And this," said McCoy, going over to the bar and picking up a bottle, "is Sirian brandy, a hundred years, old. Now where are the glasses? Ah. Jim? I know you won't have any, Spock. Heaven forbid that your mathematically perfect brainwaves be corrupted by this all too human vice."
"Thank you, Doctor. I will have brandy."
"Can the two of us handle a drunk Vulcan?" McCoy asked Kirk. "Once alcohol hits that green blood . . ."
"Nothing happens that I cannot control much more efficiently than you," Spock said, after a sip. "If I appear distracted, it is because of what I have seen. I am close to feeling an unaccustomed emotion."
"Let's drink to that," McCoy said. "What emotion?"
"Envy. None of these da Vinci paintings has ever been catalogued or reproduced. They are unknown works. All are apparently authentic—to the last brushstroke and use of materials. As undiscovered da Vincis, they would be priceless."
"Would be?" Kirk said. "You think they might be fakes?"
"Most strange. A man of Flint's obvious wealth and impeccable taste would scarcely hang fakes. Yet my tricorder analysis indicates that the canvas and the pigments used are of contemporary origin."
"This could be what it seems to be," Kirk said thoughtfully. "Or it could be a cover—a setup—even an illusion."
"That could explain the paintings," McCoy said. "Similar to the real thing . . ."
"One of you, get a full tricorder scan of our host," Kirk said. "See if he's human."
"The minute he turns his back," McCoy agreed.
Kirk got out his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise. Mr. Scott, run a library check on this Mr. Flint we've encountered here—and on this planet, Holberg 917-G. Stand by with results; I'll contact."
"Aye, sir."
"Kirk out. Now let's enjoy his brandy. It tastes real."
But as he lifted the glass to his lips, he once again heard the whirring of the robot, M-4. The men froze warily as the machine entered and moved toward them, stopping to hover over a large, low table. A front panel opened, and out came cubes of a whitish material onto the table. The robot closed the panel and floated back a pace.
McCoy snatched up one of the cubes. "This looks like—it is! Ryetalyn! Refined—ready to be processed into antitoxin!"
"Whatever our host may be, he's come through," Kirk said. "McCoy, beam up to the ship and start processing."
"That will not be necessary," Flint said, appearing at the top of a ramp. "M-4 can prepare the ryetalyn for inoculation more quickly in my laboratory than you could aboard your ship."
"I'd like to supervise that, of course," McCoy said.
"And when you are satisfied as to procedures, I hope you will do me the honor of being my guests at dinner."
"Thank you, Mr. Flint," Kirk said. "I'm afraid we don't have time."
Flint came a step down the ramp. "I regret my earlier inhospitality. Let me make amends." He half turned, extending a hand.
<
br /> At the top of the ramp appeared a staggeringly beautiful girl in loosely flowing robes. She looked down at the, three strangers with a mixture of innocence and awe.
The two descended the ramp. The girl was graceful as well as lovely, yet she seemed quite unaware of the charm she radiated.
"I thought you lived alone, Mr. Flint," Kirk said when he could get his voice back.
"No, this is the other member of the family. Gentlemen, may I present Rayna."
The courtesies were exchanged. Then Rayna said, "Mr. Spock, I do hope we can find time to discuss inter-universal field densities, and their relationship to gravity vortex phenomena."
If Spock was as staggered as Kirk was by this speech, he did not show it. "Indeed? I should enjoy such a talk. It is an interest of mine."
"Her parents were killed in an accident, while in my employ," Flint explained. "Before dying, they placed their infant, Rayna Kapec, in my custody. I have raised and educated her."
"With impressive results, sir," McCoy said. "Rayna, what else interests you besides gravity vortex phenomena?"
"Everything. Less than that is betrayal of the intellect."
"The totality of the universe?" McCoy said gently. "All knowledge? Remember, there's more to life than knowing."
"Rayna possesses the equivalent of seventeen university degrees, in the sciences and arts," Flint said. "She is aware that the intellect is not all—but its development must come first, or the individual makes errors, wastes time in unprofitable pursuits."
"At her age, I rather enjoyed my errors," said McCoy. "But, no damage done, obviously, Rayna. You're the farthest thing from a bookworm I've ever seen."
"Flint is my teacher. You are the first other humans I have ever seen."
Kirk stared at her, not sure he liked what he had heard. But it was none of his business.
"The misfortune of men everywhere," McCoy was saying, "is our privilege."
Flint said, "If you would accompany my robot to the laboratory, Doctor, you can be assured that the processing of the ryetalyn is well in hand."
McCoy picked up the ryetalyn cubes and looked uncertainly at M-4. The robot turned silently in midair and glided out, the surgeon in tow.
"Your pleasure, gentlemen?" Flint said. "Chess? Billiards? Conversation?"
Kirk was still staring at Rayna. "Why not all three?" he said absently.
Kirk was no pool shark, and found Rayna far better at it than he was. He lined up a shot, intent. Flint and Spock watched.
Flint said, "I have surrounded Rayna with the beautiful and the good of human culture—its artistic riches and scientific wisdom."
Kirk muffed the shot.
"I have protected her from its venality—its savagery," Flint went on. "You see the result, Captain."
Rayna had lined up a three-cushion shot, which paid off brilliantly. Kirk straightened, feeling resigned.
"Did you teach her that?" he asked.
"We play often."
"May I show you, Captain?" Rayna said. She stepped close to him, correcting his grip on the cue.
"You said savagery, Mr. Flint," Kirk said. "How long is it since you visited Earth?"
"You would tell me that it is no longer cruel. But it is, Captain. Look at your Starship—bristling with weapons . . ."
Kirk and Rayna were bending, close together, their arms intertwined on the cue as she set him up for the shot. He found that not much of his mind was on Flint.
". . . its mission to colonize, exploit, destroy if necessary, to advance Federation causes."
Kirk made the shot. This time it was a pretty good one.
"Our missions are peaceful," he said, "our weapons defensive. If we were such barbarians, we would not have asked for the ryetalyn. Your greeting, not ours, lacked a certain benevolence.
"The result of pressures that are not your concern."
Spock had wandered over to the piano and sat down, studying the manuscript on the music rack.
"Such pressures are everywhere," Kirk said, "in every man, urging him to what you call savagery. The private hells—the inner needs and mysteries—the beast of instinct. As humans, we'll always be that way." He turned to Rayna, who seemed surprised that anyone would dare to argue with Flint. "To be human is to be complex. You can't escape a little ugliness, inside yourself and from without. It's part of the game."
Spock began casually to pick out the melody of the music manuscript. Flint looked toward him, seemingly struck by a sudden notion, "Why not play the waltz, Mr. Spock?" He turned to Kirk. 'To be human is also to seek pleasure. To laugh—to dance; Rayna is a most accomplished dancer."
Sight-reading, Spock began to play. Kirk looked at Rayna. "May I have the pleasure?"
She went into his arms. The first few steps were, clumsy, for Kirk was somewhat out of practice, but she was easy to lead. She was wearing a half smile of seeming curiosity. Flint watched them both, outwardly paternal, but also speculatively.
Spock was doing very well, considering that the manuscript looked hastily written; but there was something in his intentness that suggested more than mere concentration on the problems of reading the notation.
As Kirk and Rayna whirled past Flint, she gave Flint a bright, pleased smile, more animated than any expression she had shown before. Flint returned the smile with apparent affection—but there was still that intent speculation underneath.
Then McCoy entered, looking very grim indeed. Spock stopped playing, and the dancing couple broke apart.
"Something wrong?" Kirk asked.
"Nothing to dance about. The ryetalyn is no good! We can't use it. It contains irillium—nearly one part per thousand."
"Irillium would make the antitoxin inert?" Spock said.
"Right. Useless."
"Most unfortunate that it was not detected," Flint said. "I shall go with M-4 to gather more ryetalyn and screen it myself. You are welcome to join me, Doctor." He went out, evidently to summon the robot.
"Time factor, McCoy?" Kirk said. "The epidemic?"
"A little over two hours and a half. I guess we can get in under the wire. I've never seen anything like the robot's speed, Jim. It would take us twice as long to process the stuff."
"Would we have made the error?" Kirk asked grimly.
"I made the error, just as much as the robot. I didn't suspect the contaminant until scanning the completed antitoxin showed it up. What if all the ryetalyn on this planet contains irillium?"
"Go with Flint. Keep an eye on procedures."
"Like a hawk," McCoy said, turning away. "That lab's an extraordinary place, Jim. You and Spock should have a look."
He went up the ramp after Flint. Spock got up from the piano bench, picking up the manuscript.
"Something else which is extraordinary," he said. "This waltz I played is by Johannes Brahms. But it is in manuscript, Captain—written in Brahms' own hand, which I recognize. It is an unknown waltz—absolutely the work of Brahms—but unknown."
"Later, Mr. Spock," Kirk said, preoccupied. "I think I will take a look at that laboratory. All our lives depend upon it. If we could get the irillium out of the existing antitoxin . . . Where did Rayna go?"
"I did not see her leave, Captain. I was intent upon . . ."
"All right. Stay here. Let me know when McCoy and Flint return."
Spock nodded and sat down again at the piano. As Kirk went up the ramp, the strains of the waltz began to sound again behind him.
He found the laboratory without difficulty, and it was indeed a wonder, an orderly mass of devices only a few of which looked even vaguely familiar. What use did Flint ordinarily have for such an installation? It implied research work of a high order and constantly pursued. Was there no limit to the man's intellectual resources?
Then Kirk realized that he was not alone. Rayna was standing on the other side of the lab, before another door. Her hands were clasped before her and her eyes were raised in an attitude of meditation, or of questioning for which she could not find the wo
rds. But she seemed also to be trembling slightly.
Kirk went to her, and she turned her head. Yes, she was shivering.
"You left us," Kirk said. The room became lonely."
"Lonely? I do not know the word."
"It is a condition of wanting someone else. It is like a thirst—like a flower dying in a desert." Kirk halted, surprised at his own outburst of imagery. His eyes looked past her to the door. "What's in there?"
"I do not know. Flint has told me I must never enter. He denies me nothing else."
"Then—why are you here?"
"I—do not know. I come to this place when I am troubled—when I would search myself."
"Are you troubled now?"
"Yes."
"By what?" She looked intently and searchingly into his eyes, but did not answer. "Are you happy here, with Flint?"
"He is the greatest, kindest, wisest man in the Galaxy."
"Then why are you afraid? You are afraid; I can see it." He put his arms around her protectively. The trembling did not stop. "Rayna, this place is cold. Think of something far away. A perfect, safe, idyllic world—your presence would make it so. A world that children dream of . . ."
"Did I dream? My childhood—I remember this year—last year . . ."
What had Flint done to this innocent? He felt his expression hardening. She looked bewildered. "Don't be afraid," he said gently. He kissed her. It was meant to be only a brotherly kiss, but when he drew back, he found that he was profoundly shaken. He bent his head to kiss her more thoroughly.
As he did, her gaze flashed over his shoulder, and her eyes widened with horror. "No!" she cried. "No, no!"
Kirk whirled, belatedly aware of the whirring of the robot. The machine was floating toward him, lights flashing ominously. He put himself between the robot and the girl. It advanced inexorably, and he backed a step, trying to lead it away from Rayna.
"Stop!" Rayna cried. "Stop!"
M-4 did not stop. Kirk, backtracking, ducked behind a large machine and pulled out his phaser; when the robot appeared, he fired point-blank. As he had more than half expected, the weapon failed to work.
"Stop! Command! Command!"
Steadily, the robot backed Kirk into a corner. He braced himself to rush it—futile, without doubt, but there was no other choice.
