by Lee Correy
"I will have to compute the optimum time to dispatch the photon torpedoes, Captain. It may not be possible to do the job before the star is in your local sky down there. However, as I told you, creating a nova is the slimmest chance of all. But you can be assured that I will take whatever actions are necessary to save both the landing party and the ship, should something go awry."
"I'm sure you will, Mister Spock," Kirk told the communicator.
"He will," McCoy put in. He knew the Vulcan, too. Spock wasn't a conniving First Officer eager to assume command. He disliked command as much as Kirk relished it.
"Do I have your permission to proceed with the launching of two photon torpedoes at Mercaniad at my discretion, Captain?"
"Yes, Mister Spock, you do. Keep me informed."
"And just remember, Spock, we're down here on the surface without the ship's shielding that you enjoy," McCoy snapped.
"I presume that was Doctor McCoy," Spock's transmission replied. "Please remind him that the ship's shielding isn't going to do any of us up here any good whatsoever if the torpedoing does not work. . . . But also remind him that I do not intend to fail. Spock out."
Orun was more than interested in the communicators. "I've heard you speak into those little devices, James Kirk, and I've heard them speak back to you. I haven't questioned you, since I was afraid that my interest would arouse the interest of the Guardians or Proctors. What are they? Small calculators that reply to you verbally instead of by digital or analog display?"
"I'll bet that your ancestors had them once," Kirk remarked. He showed his communicator to Orun. "If I was on the other side of Celerbitan, and you wanted to talk to me, what would you do?"
"Why, I would simply use my traveler control to query the Central Directory concerning your location, and then I would merely travel to where you happened to be," the Mercan replied.
"Suppose you didn't have your traveler-control unit? Suppose you were caught as we are now without your traveler control? How would you talk to me?" Kirk persisted.
"I would not. I could not," Orun told him bluntly.
"Ah, but we can. Since we don't have travelers of the sort you use here on Mercan—ours are of a different type—we've developed these communication units to permit us to talk to each other instead of traveling to see one another when we want to talk. It saves a lot of time."
"But who are you talking to?"
"To another person like myself in the traveling device that brought us to Mercan." Kirk flipped open the communicator. "Enterprise, this is Kirk. When is your next pass over the island chain where we are located, Uhura?"
"One moment, Captain. Let me check with Lieutenant Sulu. . . . Approximately five minutes, Captain."
"Thank you, Uhura. Kirk out." He snapped the cover shut and replaced it under his tunic. "Orun, come outside. I want to show you something."
The diurnal convection clouds that brought rain to Celerbitan in the early hours of every morning hadn't yet started to form. The sky was still relatively clear outside the warehouse. Stretched across the sky was the Orion Arm of the Galaxy, a murky river of wan light whose individual stars weren't visible to the naked eye. Kirk watched with Orun for a moment. Then he pointed off to the southwest. "There. Do you see it?"
A bright, gleaming point of light was moving southwest to northeast across the sky at an angle of about five degrees to the equator.
Much as Kirk was in control of himself, a lump arose in his throat when he saw that moving point of light. There she was, the Enterprise. And here he was on the ground. Unless he could manage to work things out down here, his ship was in trouble … perhaps even doomed.
Orun had a different reaction to seeing the moving light in the sky. It was probably the very first time he had ever seen anything moving in the night sky of Mercan. "It … it is hard to believe!" he whispered as he stood there watching the Enterprise move across the Mercan night sky in its standard orbit. "I … I have believed your story, James Kirk, because it's in concert with things that I wanted to believe … things that we were discovering from our own searching into the ways of the Universe. . . . But it's different to actually see something like this and to know that what we believe is probably true. . . ."
"Son, I know how you feel." It was McCoy's gentle voice from behind them. "Sometimes it's difficult to accept the fact that dreams and beliefs can come true. When the world turns out the way you want it to, it's sometimes more frightening than if it had stayed the way it was."
"Aye." It was Scotty's voice. "Be careful what you ask for, because you'll get it. . . . "In the gloom, Kirk could see that his engineer was watching the bright light of the Enterprise pass across the sky with a wistful longing of his own. Star Fleet people are rarely at home on planets. . . .
"Will your traveling device come back over?" Orun wanted to know when the Enterprise disappeared below the horizon.
"Every two hours," Kirk said, but his Translator broke down on that statement because, as Scotty had pointed out, the Mercan language had no time reference in its structure other than terms for indefinite time periods.
Orun looked around furtively. "I think we had better get back inside," he warned. "The Proctors have devices that can sense our body heat. If they're looking for us, they'll be doing it with infrared sensors."
"Bones, any sign of activity on the tricorder?" Kirk asked.
"Negative, Jim. Nothing except a few small life forms in the thicket over there."
"Orun's right, Captain. If the Proctors have infrared sensors, we're sitting ducks out here in the open. At least the building there masks our body-heat signatures," Scotty pointed out.
Back in the warehouse, Kirk decided they'd have to do more than just hide out there. They'd have to be prepared to detect any Mercan approaching the warehouse in the night, and they'd also have to be prepared to defend themselves against Proctors if necessary. "We've been lax on our security … especially since we're fugitives right now," he said. "Bones, can you set up for an omnidirectional life-forms scan on your tricorder with an alarm that will alert us if anybody comes near?"
"I think I can do that, Jim."
But nothing happened for the rest of the night. Kirk managed only a fitful sleep, anticipating the imminent beeping alarm of McCoy's tricorder at any moment. It seemed strange to him that the Proctors were apparently so ineffectual that five fugitives couldn't be quickly located and apprehended. He thought about this as he tossed and turned, and it finally occurred to him that the Proctors were probably more pomp, show, and bluster than an effective police force. Kirk had gathered that the Guardians had considerable political power over the people of Mercan because of the Guardian possession of the Mystery of the Ordeal—the ability to predict the flare-ups of the Mercaniad irregular variable star. This ability to predict natural activities of a life-and-death nature to all Mercan life would indeed bring in its wake inevitable political power.
The Mercan culture, with its easy access to travel around this world, had enabled the Guardians to unify the planet as Kirk had rarely seen before. It was a classic case of One World, one people, one culture, and one political power base—just like Earth and Vulcan.
But as a result, the Mercans were so unified by their Code, by their obvious social need for the combined astronomical predicting and judicial activities of the Guardians, and the occasional police activity of the Proctorate, the Proctorate itself had almost degenerated into an organization whose only real function was to maintain a show of force.
Mercanians were far too law-abiding.
When Kirk came to that conclusion, it answered a lot of questions about their treatment since arriving on Mercan.
No Mercan could conceive of walking away from a house arrest. It was just unthinkable.
Which meant that the Proctors were perhaps less of a force to be reckoned with than Kirk's own cultural bias had originally been willing to admit. The Proctors were not a planet-bound version of Star Fleet. In essence, the Proctors were just the P
alace Guard, the remnants of a true military force backing up a political force. Once the political force was so firmly consolidated, the real need for the Proctorate became less. The Proctors were one step away from being ceremonial in nature.
And that, in turn, explained to Kirk's satisfaction why the Guardians appeared to be so inept and so confused in their handling of their newly arisen competition, the Technic. They just didn't really remember how to consolidate power once they had it. Their Guardian power had been uncontested for so long that they took it almost for granted. The Guardians couldn't handle the upstart Technic—whoever they might be—because other than Orun, Kirk had no positive knowledge that such group even existed on Mercan.
Dawn came like a blast furnace.
There was no question in anyone's mind that the Ordeal was about to commence and that it would be an ordeal indeed.
It grew very hot very quickly as Mercaniad rose above the horizon.
"Jim," McCoy pointed out, monitoring the output of his tricorder, "if something doesn't happen pretty quick, we're in big trouble. Spock is right: that star is emitting a very powerful form of Berthold Rays. If we don't get some shielding between us and that star within a matter of hours, we might as well forget the whole thing."
Kirk shook his head in frustration. His options were rapidly disappearing again. He couldn't wait for the invisible Technic; they might not show up at all. He couldn't count on Spock's actions in torpedoing Mercaniad; it might occur too late to save the party on the ground from the lethal effects of the radiation from Mercaniad. He had to get his landing party and Orun back to the Enterprise, where they had some shielding.
"Enterprise, this is Kirk. Spock, we're getting a bellyful of these hyper-Berthold Rays down here," Kirk snapped into his communicator. "When are you scheduled to torpedo Mercaniad?"
"Optimum time would appear to be in ten hours and forty minutes, Captain."
"That's too long. We'll fry down here. Beam us up."
"Captain, transporter activity on the Island of Celerbitan has increased again with the coming of sunrise there," Spock reported from the ship. "There's so much activity that we may not be able to beam you up at all."
"Have him get down to the transporter room himself," Scotty suggested. "Between Spock and Kyle, there's not two people on the Enterprise right now that know more about the transporter!"
"Mister Scott, I am in the transporter room now," Spock's voice came back. "We are trying to lock on you. We can't get a scan-lock."
"I'll take my chances down here on Mercan with Berthold Rays rather than get scrambled in a bad transporter beaming," McCoy growled. "Unless Spock gets a clear lock, beam up without me. It's bad enough to go through that thing when it's working right."
"As a matter of fact, Captain," Spock's voice went on as though McCoy had been completely ignored, "there is strong transporter activity in the immediate vicinity of your signal at this moment. I would suggest an immediate tricorder life-form scan around you at once, because something is beaming into your area now. And I can't beam you out under those circumstances."
Through the walls of the warehouse, Kirk heard the ringing song of a transporter/traveler materialization.
Chapter Nine
Spock's words galvanized Kirk into action.
"Phasers out and on stun," Kirk snapped, pulling his phaser from beneath his tunic. "Rand, Bones, tricorder sweep. Where are they?"
"Outside the building, Captain," Janice Rand reported, swinging her tricorder around.
"How many?"
"Three of them, sir."
"Do we take up defensive positions in here?" Scott wanted to know.
"No, they might burn this place down around us. They're still materializing, so they aren't organized yet. We'll attack before they get the chance." Kirk headed toward one of the big doors to the warehouse. "Rand, McCoy, cover Scotty and me. We'll go for the stream and get them in cross fire. Once we're down, we'll cover for you."
Although Kirk was in a lighter gravity field than standard, he discovered that he didn't move faster than Orun, who beat him to the door, his Mercan single-shot firearm drawn and ready to blast away for effect if necessary. The Mercan assumed a crouch in the doorway, firearm held out in front of him with both hands, ready to fire.
But Orun dropped his gun to his side, then holstered it just as Kirk and Scott got ready to make their dash through the door to the streambed.
"James Kirk, hold! Our visitors are Delin and Othol with a Technic leader!" Orun shouted. "They've come, just as I knew they would."
Kirk held up his hand to his landing party and did not put his phaser away. "Orun, check them. Make certain they're alone. This could be a Proctorate trap."
"It's no trap," Orun told him. "Not with a prominent Technic leader in the group." The tall Mercan walked out into the glaring sunlight toward the group of three Mercans which was approaching the warehouse from the forest margin near the stream.
"Whew!" McCoy breathed a sigh of relief. "Talk about the cavalry coming over the hill to the rescue at the last moment. . . ."
"You're an incurable romanticist, Bones," Kirk remarked, securing his phaser as he saw for himself that it was indeed the rescue group that Orun had forecast.
"Well, perhaps not at the last moment," the doctor added, correcting himself. "But another couple of hours in this growing Berthold radiation would have made it the last moment."
Kirk flipped open his communicator. "Enterprise, this is Kirk. Spock, the transporter activity you detected was a group of three of their technical people coming to rescue us."
"Thank you for reporting, Captain. We were getting ready to beam you out of there," Spock's voice replied.
"I don't think that will be necessary now, Spock. We've made contact here with the group that has the best chance of being able to help Scotty."
"Very well, sir, but there is still considerable transporter activity going on within a ten-kilometer radius of your location, although not enough to prevent us from obtaining a good transporter lock on you. Prudence dictates that we maintain readiness here to beam up a large party if necessary," the First Officer of the Enterprise suggested.
"Logical, Spock."
"Of course, Captain."
"Kirk, come!" Orun called out to them.
"Keep this channel open, Spock." He turned to Janice Rand. "Yeoman, keep your communicator open to Spock. Secure phasers, everyone. Let's go meet our rescuers."
Kirk recognized the woman Delin and the other young Mercan, Othol, both of whom had been present at their original beam-down site. They greeted the Federation party with palms up, the Mercan sign of welcome. A tall Mercan man, obviously older than the rest, with thinning head hair and a spotty loss of protective skin coloring on his high cheekbones and other prominent high points of his face, extended his palms up to Kirk. "Welcome, James Kirk. And welcome to your companions. I am Thallan of the Technic Peers. Please accept the apologies of the Technic for not coming to your aid before this, but we could not do so without creating a confrontation with the Proctorate. . . ."
"Your apologies are accepted, Thallan," Kirk told him, offering him palms up in return. He started to introduce the remainder of his landing party, when Thallan interrupted.
"We know of them, James Kirk. Formal introductions should wait until we have traveled to the safety of our private Keep under Eronde," the Technic leader said. "We dare not stay out here too long because Mercaniad is becoming more active every moment. We're also in danger of the Proctorate discovering our traveling here, in spite of their heavy activity in getting the populace into the Keeps. . . ."
He handed a small device to Kirk while Orun distributed others to the Federation landing party. Kirk recognized it as a Mercan traveler control. "Thallan, we're not from Mercan. We don't know how to operate these."
Thallan nodded. "As I had expected from Othol's report. Very well, if you'll follow my instructions, we'll travel to our Keep. . . ."
The Technic leader's brie
f lecture on operation of the Mercan transport-control unit was interrupted by the ringing sound of multiple transporter materializations around them.
Within seconds, the entire group was surrounded by nine armed Proctors who materialized with weapons drawn and ready.
Prime Proctor Lenos himself materialized not five meters from Kirk and Thallan.
"Long life to you, Thallan. And to Othol and Delin as well," Lenos said with just a touch of mockery in his voice. "We knew that if we waited long enough, you'd rise to the bait in this trap and attempt to save your Technic constructs. Now, hand me your traveler controls, all of you. We are going to travel together, but not to Eronde."
"Proctor Lenos, you have no right under the Code to detain us," Thallan protested, making no move to surrender his traveling control.
"I'm operating under a warrant from the Guardian One to detain these four Technic constructs and any Mercan who is accompanying them," Lenos replied in less than cordial tones, the cultured mannerisms of Mercan slipping away under the increasing emotional strain of the encounter. "They've made insane statements to the Guardian Group leaders concerning the truth of the Code of the Abode and the accepted legends of the Beginning. Hand me your traveling control. . . ."
"They're not Technic constructs, nor are they part of the Technic group, Lenos," Thallan replied, still holding his control. "I haven't seen them before and know of them only what Othol and Delin here have reported to me."
"They're not from the Abode, Lenos," Orun repeated. "I've told the Guardian One this fact. He doesn't believe me."
"This is why all of you must travel with me," Lenos commanded. "You are all afflicted with this insanity and will require retraining. We will travel with you all to the Retraining Keep, where you'll be examined by the Guardians and subjected to retraining … except that your deformed constructs here will be used for medical studies. . . ."
Insofar as Kirk was concerned, this was getting out of hand again very quickly, and the Proctorate trap he'd feared had now been sprung and was leading them into a worsening situation. In addition, it was getting hot! Beads of sweat stood out on the faces of the other three members of his party, and sweat ran down his own face and into the corners of his eyes, making it difficult for him to see without rubbing his eyes. Now he knew why the Mercans wore the headbands. . . .
