by James Blish
"No," Kirk said. "I don't see it at all."
"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can bring you?"
"Yes. Anan Seven."
"I'll convey the message. But I doubt that he'll come."
As she left, Kirk pounded a fist into a palm in frustration. Then, suddenly, he had an idea. "Mr. Spock!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Vulcans have limited telepathic abilities, don't they?"
"Yes, Captain," Spock said. "But remember that I am only half Vulcan. I could not reach Anan from here—and if I could, I would not be able to transmit a complex message, or pick one up."
"That isn't what I had in mind. I just want to plant a suspicion in that guard outside. Preferably, that we've cut a hole through the wall with some heat device they overlooked. Or if that's too complex, just a feeling that we're getting away."
"Hmm," Spock said. "I know nothing about the sensitiveness of the Eminians. However, nothing would be lost by trying."
"Good. Go ahead."
Spock nodded, leaned his head against the wall nearest the corridor, and closed his eyes. His brow furrowed, and within a few moments he was sweating. Even to Kirk, to whom telepathy was a closed book, it was clear that his first officer was working hard.
Nothing seemed to happen for at least five centuries, or maybe six. Then there was a faint humming at the door, followed by a click. Kirk flattened his back against the wall.
The door swung open and the guard charged in, weapon at the ready. Kirk rewarded him with a crushing blow at the back of the neck; he dropped in complete silence. Kirk dragged him away from the door, retrieving his weapon.
"Thank you, Mr. Spock."
"A pleasure, Captain."
"Now, we've got to get our communicators back, and get in touch with the ship. I don't know how far we'll get without weapons; we'll need more. Mr. Spock, I know how you feel about taking life. But our ship is in danger. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly, Captain. I shall do what is necessary."
Kirk clapped him quickly on the back. "Let's go."
They were perhaps halfway back to the Council chambers when they turned a corner and found themselves on the end of a queue. Kirk signaled a halt and peered ahead.
At the other end of the line was a large enclosed booth, with a control console on one side at which an armed guard was sitting, watching a light over the machine. Presently this went off, and in response to the touch of a control, a door opened in the side of the machine.
The man at the head of the line took a last look around and stepped inside. The door closed. The machine hummed; the light went on, and then off again. The door slid back.
There was nobody inside.
Kirk and Spock exchanged grim looks. Kirk made a pinching motion with one hand, and Spock nodded. Kirk walked rapidly down the side of the queue opposite the side the console and the guard were on.
"All right, break it up," he said. "Stand back, everybody."
Heads turned. The guard half rose. "Just what do you think you're up to . . ." Then he saw Kirk's stolen weapon.
He had courage. Kirk could have shot him easily and he must have known it, but he went for his own gun anyhow. At the same instant Spock, who had scuttled unnoticed down the other side of the line, caught him from behind with his nerve-pinch to the shoulder. Looking astonished, the guard collapsed. Spock scooped up his weapon.
"Excellent, Mr. Spock. The rest of you people, stand back or you'll get hurt."
Kirk leveled his gun at the disintegration booth and pulled the trigger. The results were most satisfying. Nothing seemed to come out of the weapon but a scream of sound, but a huge hole appeared magically in the machine. Sparks flew from the console, and in a moment the booth was in flames.
"All right, now get out of here!" Kirk roared. "Go to your homes and stay there! Go!"
Terrified, the remaining people in the queue turned and ran. Spock joined the Captain, eyeing the gun he had just confiscated with open curiosity, his eyebrows up. "A fascinating weapon. Is it solely sonic, I wonder? If so, how do they keep it in a tight beam?"
"We'll work that out later. Let's get out of here."
There was nobody in the Council room but Anan when they burst in. He was pouring something into a glass from a small bottle. He froze when he saw them, then smoothly resumed the motion and drank.
"Would you care to join me, Captain? You may find our Trova most interesting."
"I didn't come to drink."
Anan nodded toward the weapon in Kirk's hand. "I assume that is what you used to destroy disintegration chamber number twelve."
"Yes. A most efficient weapon—and I'm not at all chary of using it."
"That much is obvious," Anan said. "Clearly you are a barbarian."
"I am?" Kirk said incredulously.
"Quite. Why not? We all are. Surely in your history too, you were a killer first, a builder second. That is our joint heritage."
"We are a little less cold-blooded about it than you are."
"What does that matter to the dead?" Anan said.
"You have a point. Nevertheless, I don't think you realize the risk you're taking. We don't make war with computers and herd the casualties off to suicide stations. We make the real thing. I could destroy this planet of yours, Councilman. Mr. Spock, Yeoman Manning, see if you can find one of our communicators in this place."
"I already have," Spock said. He handed it over. Anan watched warily.
"Captain," he said, "surely you see the position we are in. If your people do not report to the disintegration chambers, it is a violation of an agreement dating back five hundred years."
"My people are not responsible for your agreements."
"You are an officer of a force charged with keeping the peace," Anan said. He seemed almost to be pleading. "Yet you will be responsible for an escalation that could destroy two worlds. Millions of people horribly killed, complete destruction of our culture and Vendikar's. Disaster, disease, starvation, pain, suffering, lingering death . . ."
"They seem to frighten you," Kirk said grimly.
"They frighten any sane man!"
"Quite so."
"Don't you see?" Anan said desperately. "We've done away with all that! Now you threaten to bring it all down on us again. Do those four hundred people of yours mean more than the hundreds of millions of innocent people on Eminiar and Vendikar? What kind of a monster are you?"
"I'm a barbarian," Kirk said. Nevertheless, this was indeed a nasty impasse. After a moment, he activated the communicator.
"Mr. Scott? Kirk here."
"Captain! We thought they'd got you."
"They thought so too," Kirk said. "What's the situation up there?"
"It's been lively," Scott's voice said. "First they tried to lure us all down with a fake message from you. Luckily, our computer told us the voice-patterns didn't match, though it was a bonny imitation—you'd have enjoyed it. Then they sent us their ultimatum. I dinna have any such orders and I paid no attention."
"Good for you. Then what?"
"When the deadline was past, they opened fire on the Enterprise. Of course, after the ultimatum we had our screens up. I wanted to bounce a couple of dozen photon torpedoes off them for a starter—after all, the time was past when they said they were going to kill all of you—but Ambassador Fox wouldna let me. Then he wanted me to let down the screens so he could beam down to the planet and try to patch things up, and I wouldna do that. Now the haggis is really in the fire as far as he's concerned."
"Scotty, your decisions were entirely proper, and I'll back them to the hilt. I'm going to try to straighten this mess out down here. There's a good chance that I won't succeed. If you don't hear anything to the contrary from me in forty-eight hours, execute General Order Twenty-Four."
"Twenty-Four? But, Captain . . ." There was a long pause. Then Scott's voice said: "In forty-eight hours. Aye, sir. Good luck."
"Thanks. Kirk out."
"And just what," Anan asked,
"does that mean?"
"It means that in forty-eight hours, the Enterprise will destroy Eminiar Seven."
"You're bluffing. You wouldn't."
"I didn't start this, Councilman," Kirk said. "But I mean to finish it. Now . . ."
He moved to the table and pushed the button he had seen Anan use earlier. The wall slid aside as before, revealing the war room.
"Mr. Spock, see if you can figure that installation out. Anan, you still have something to learn. Destruction. Disease. Suffering. Horror. That's what war is supposed to be, Anan. That’s what makes it a thing to be avoided. But you've made war neat and painless—so neat and painless that you had no reason to put a stop to it. That's why you've been carrying it on for five hundred years. Any luck, Mr. Spock?"
"Yes, sir," the first officer said. "I cannot read the big map, but the rest of it seems to be quite straightforward. This unit controls the disintegrator booths; these the attacking devices; this the defense. And these compute the casualties. They are all tied in with a subspace transmission unit, apparently so they are in constant contact with their Vendikan counterparts."
"Is that essential?"
"I would think so, Captain. The minute contact is broken; it would be tantamount to an abrogation of the entire agreement between the two warring parties."
"What are you talking about?" Anan said, in dawning horror.
"This is the key, Captain," Spock said, pointing to an isolated computer. He threw a switch on it, and then another. "The circuit is locked. Destroy this one, and they will all go."
"Good. Stand back. You too, Anan." He raised the stolen disrupter.
"No!" Anan screamed. "No, please . . ."
Kirk fired. The key computer burst. A string of minor explosions seemed to run from it along the main computer bank—and then they were no longer minor. Hastily, Kirk herded everyone out into the corridor. They huddled against the wall, while the floor shook, and billows of smoke surged out of the door of the Council room.
It took a long time. At last, Kirk said, "Well—that's it"
"Do you realize what you've done?" Anan screamed.
"Perfectly. I've given you back the horrors of war. The Vendikans will now assume that you have abandoned your agreement, and will prepare for a real war, with real weapons. The next attack they launch will do a lot more than count up numbers on a computer. It will destroy your cities, devastate your planet. You'll want to retaliate, of course. If I were you I'd start making bombs."
"You are a monster," Anan whispered.
Kirk ignored him. "Yes, Councilman, you've got a real war on your hands. You can either wage it—with real weapons—or you might consider the alternative."
"There is no alternative."
"There is," Kirk said harshly. "Make peace."
"After five hundred years of casualties? You're mad!"
"Maybe. But we too have killed in the past, as you pointed out a while ago. Nevertheless, we can stop. We can admit we have been killers—but we're not going to kill today. That's all it takes; one simple decision. We are not going to kill today."
Anan put a shaking hand to his forehead. "I don't know . . . I can't see . . ."
"We'll help you." He raised the communicator. "Scotty, have you and Ambassador Fox been following this conversation? I left the line open for you."
"Aye, that we have."
"Then you can beam the Ambassador down here if you want."
After a moment, there was a shimmer in the chamber, and Fox materialized, looking portly and confused.
"This is what you do," Kirk told Anan. "Contact Vendikar. I think you'll find that they're just as terrified and appalled as you are at the prospects. They'll do anything to avoid the alternative I've just given you; peace—or utter destruction. It's up to you."
Anan looked at them all, hope fighting with despair on his face. Ambassador Fox stepped forward.
"Councilman," he said, "as a third party, interested only in peace and the establishment of normal relations, I will be glad to offer my services as a negotiator between you and Vendikar. I have had some small experience in these matters."
Anan took a step toward him. "Perhaps," he muttered. "Perhaps there may be time. I have a direct channel to the Vendikar High Council. It hasn't been used in centuries."
"Then it's long overdue," the Ambassador said. "If you'll be so kind as to lead the way . . ."
Anan started hesitantly down the corridor, his steps beginning to regain their springiness. Fox followed closely. Anan said, "I understand the head of the Vendikar Council—his name is Ripoma—is an intelligent man. And if he hears from a disinterested party like yourself . . ."
His voice became unintelligible as they rounded a corner. The rest of the Enterprise party watched them go.
"There is a chance it will work, Captain," Spock said. "Much depends upon the approach and the conduct of the negotiations, of course."
"Annoying though he is, Ambassador Fox has a reputation for being good at his job," Kirk said. "I'm glad he's going to be good for something at last." He raised the communicator once more. "Kirk to Enterprise. Cancel General Order Twenty-Four. Alert transporter room. Ready to beam up in ten minutes."
"Aye, sir."
"Still, Captain," Spock said, "you took a very big chance."
"Did I, Mr. Spock? They were killing three million people a year—and it had gone on for five hundred years. An actual attack might not have killed any more people than the fifteen hundred million they've already killed in their computer attacks—but it would have destroyed their ability to make war. The fighting would be over. Permanently."
"I would not care to have counted on that," Spock said.
"I wasn't, Mr. Spock. It was only a calculated risk. What I was really counting upon was that the Eminians keep a very orderly society—and actual war is very messy. Very, very messy. I had a feeling they'd do anything to avoid it—even talk peace!"
"A feeling, Captain? Intuition?"
"No," Kirk said. "Call it . . . shall we say, cultural morphology?"
If Spock had any answer, it was lost in the shimmer of the transporter effect.
TOMORROW IS YESTERDAY
(D. C. Fontana)
* * *
The star was very old—as old as it is possible for a star to be, a first-generation star, born when the present universe was born. It had had all the experiences possible for a star—it had had planets; had gone nova, wiping out those planets and all those who lived upon them; had become an X-ray star; then a neutron star. At last, slowly collapsing upon itself into an ultimately dense mass of pseudomatter resembling—except for its compaction—the primordial ylem out of which it had been created, it drew its gravitational field in so closely about itself that not even the few dim red flickers of light left to it could get out, and it prepared to die.
The star was still there, still in its orbit, and still incredibly massive despite its shrunken volume; but it could no longer be seen or detected. It would soon be in a space all its own, a tiny sterile universe as uninteresting and forgotten as a burial jug. It had become a black star.
The Enterprise, on a rare trip back toward the Sol sector and Earth, hit the black star traveling at warp factor four—sixty-four times the speed of light.
It could not, of course, properly be said that the Enterprise hit the black star itself. Technically, the bubble of subspace in which the Enterprise was enclosed, which would have been moving at 64C had the bubble impossibly been in normal space at all, hit that part of the black star's gravitational cocoon that had also begun to extrude into subspace. The technicalities, however, are not very convincing. Since no such thing had ever happened to a starship before, nobody could have predicted it, and the theoreticians are still arguing about just why the collision produced the results it did.
About the results themselves, nobody is in any doubt
Captain Kirk dragged himself up from unconsciousness and shook his head to clear it. This was a mistake, and he did not t
ry it a second time. The bridge was dim and quiet; the main lights were off, so was the screen, and only a few telltales glowed on the boards. Crew personnel—Spock, Uhura, Sulu—were slumped in their seats; Ames, the security chief, was spilled crookedly on the deck. It looked like the aftermath of a major attack. "Spock!"
The first officer stirred, and then got shakily to his feet. "Here, Captain. What in the nine worlds . . ."
"I don't know. Everything was normal, and then, blooey! Check us out."
"Right." In immediate control of himself, Spock ran a quick check of his library computer. Except for a few flickers here and there on the board, it was dead, as Kirk could see himself. Spock abandoned it without a second thought and went promptly to Uhura.
"Except for secondary systems, everything is out, sir," he said. "We are on impulse power only. If Mr. Scott is still with us, the auxiliaries should be on in a moment. Are you all right, Lieutenant?"
Uhura nodded wordlessly and smiled at him, though it was not a very convincing smile. At the same moment, the main lights flickered on, brightened and steadied. A hum of computers and pumps began to fill in the familiar, essential background noise that was as much a part of life on the Enterprise as the air.
"Mr. Scott," Spock said, straightening, "is still with us."
Sulu sat up groggily, also shook his head, and also apparently decided against trying the experiment a second time. Kirk flicked a switch on his chair panel.
"This is the captain," he said. "Damage control parties on all decks, check in. All departments tie in to the library computer. Report casualties and operational readiness to the first officer. Kirk out. Miss Uhura, contact Starfleet control. Whatever we hit in the Base Nine area, I want them alerted—and maybe they'll know something about it we don't. Mr. Spock?"
Spock half-turned from his station, an earphone still to one ear. "Only minor injuries to the crew, Captain. All decks operating on auxiliary systems. Engineering reports warp engines nonoperational. Mr. Scott overrode the automatic helm setting and is using impulse power to hold us in fixed orbit, but . . ."
