SURVIVAL

 

Disclaimer: Copyright for everything related to Star Trek is held by Paramount. This particular story is mine--written for fun, not for profit.

 

Special thanks to the creators, cast, and crew of Star Trek, to the executives at Desilu and Paramount--without them, after all, there wouldn't have been a Star Trek--and especially to Gene Roddenberry, who started it all.  Thanks also to B, for scanning help, and to G, for everything.

 

A note about temperatures:  Yes, I know Trek is metric, but I'm an American and 45° just doesn't sound hot to me--sorry!

 

For Guy, who believed even when I did not--

 

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[Chapters 4-7 ] [Chapters 8-11 ] [Chapters 12-15] [Chapter 16-Epilogue]

 

 

Prologue

 

"Captain's Log, Stardate 7024.8.

         

"Approaching Cinnus II to carry out standard scanning and mapping procedures. Drone probe flyby readings indicate that this planet could prove to be the Federation's greatest mineralogical find since Janus VI. If our scans confirm the probe readings, we will conduct a feasibility study for the Bureau of Colonization, which is interested in establishing a mining colony here.

 

"A routine mission, except for this system's proximity to both Orion and the Klingon Empire. We will be especially alert while in orbit here, but we do not anticipate any trouble."

 

 

Kirk switched off the log record and contemplated the view ahead. One of the great joys of being a starship captain was the chance to see sights that for others existed only in dreams. Time and again he'd thought he'd seen all the dynamic wonders the galaxy could offer--comets, clusters, nebulae, novae--and then, when he thought he must become just another jaded space traveler for whom there were no more surprises, he would find a quiet wonder that would delight and restore.

 

Cinnus II was magnificent. The artist's hand had been lavish here. Every color of the spectrum and an infinitude of variations were mixed and swirled with abandon, so that Cinnus announced her treasures even to those so far away.

 

Preliminary sensor readings were remarkable: large deposits of pergium, iron, aluminum, coal, tin, titanium, chromium--in such concentrations that they masked the weaker readings of flora and fauna and lesser mineral deposits. Rare minerals and gases, petroleum--even dilithium registered on Spock's sensors. A hundred systems in the sector would turn handsprings if those readings proved out; most were resource-poor and would love a source of raw material closer to home than Marinius, shipping prices being what they were.

 

"Approaching Cinnus II, Captain," Sulu said from the helm. "ETA ten minutes."

 

"Very good, Mr. Sulu. Standard orbit, please."

 

"Yes, sir. Standard orbit."

 

They were very close now, and the swirling colors were more riotous than before. If all those colors were any indication of how close those mineral deposits were to the surface, Kirk mused, this planet was a miner's dream. The less they had to dig, the less it would cost them and the more profits they'd collect. And if it looks on the surface anything like it does from up here, it's soon going to be this sector's first tourist attraction . . .

 

 

 

 

"With that heat?" was McCoy's reaction to Kirk's idyllic notion in the briefing room an hour later. "This place at high noon makes Vulcan look like an iceberg."

 

"Really, Doctor, you must learn to control your tendency to exaggerate." Spock, ever the guardian of exactitude, could not let such a blatant misrepresentation of fact pass unchallenged. "The highest surface temperature at our proposed landing site is scarcely fifteen degrees higher than Vulcan's average summer temperature."

 

"Which is?"

 

"One hundred seventeen point seven three seven four degrees Fahrenheit."

         

Somebody whistled. Kirk felt himself beginning to wilt already. He had assembled the landing party--consisting of himself, Spock, and four geologists--to hear Spock's summary of the preliminary sensor readings from Cinnus II. He had asked McCoy to be present because given the extreme heat and aridity of the planet below, and its slightly higher gravity, the doctor's reminder of how one should behave under desert conditions would not be inappropriate.

 

Leonard McCoy's chief contribution thus far, however, had been to distract the science officer. Now he exclaimed, "Spock, that makes this place a hundred and thirty-two degrees! That really is hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement."

         

"One hundred thirty-two point seven seven two six degrees, to be exact," Spock corrected. "But as this planet is uninhabited, I think that we are unlikely to find any pavement--"

         

"Spock, you're missing the point completely!" McCoy interrupted.

         

"The idea, Bones," Kirk interjected before McCoy could get really wound up, "is that you're dressed for it." He sighed. Nobody ever let him have any fun. "Anyway, gentlemen, this is supposed to be a briefing. Mr. Spock, could we please get back to business?" His tone was weary, but he was smiling. When disaster did not loom ahead, the notorious Spock-McCoy repartee was irresistible, and Kirk suspected that they both knew it. He wondered what they'd be like without an audience.

         

"Of course, Captain." Spock settled into his lecturer's pose. "Detailed readings are difficult to achieve through the concentration of minerals--some radioactive, many magnetic--in the air and water, but we have ascertained a great deal of general information. The atmosphere is somewhat thinner than Earth's, though not as thin as Vulcan's. Its mineral content is understandably high, but it is composed primarily of oxygen-nitrogen and is therefore breathable. There is little surface water--no oceans, few lakes--all of them small. Most surface water is contained in the river systems that extend from the poles, and huge salt marshes, sporadically located, which may be all that remains of small seas. Most of the rivers are narrow and shallow and appear to be drying up--perhaps the result of seasonal evaporation, as it is summer below us. We chose our landing site on the basis of its high mineral readings and the proximity of a major branch of a river system which could provide water for a sizable colony."

 

"Thank you, Mr. Spock. Questions, comments so far?" Kirk leaned back in his chair, stretching a little.

 

"Can we drink the water?" McCoy shrugged as someone groaned at the old joke. Spock, of course, took him literally.

 

"Yes, as far as we can determine without detailed analysis, but its taste will leave something to be desired. Since the planet's mineral wealth tends to be concentrated in the area of the river systems, the mineral content of the surface water is quite high."

 

It was McCoy's turn to groan. "Just a joke, Mr. Spock." Spock looked perplexed, and Kirk joined in the friendly laughter.

 

"When do we leave, sir?" Geologist Phillips looked ready to leap from his chair.

 

"I realize, Mr. Phillips," Kirk said dryly, "that the entire geology department is collectively salivating in its eagerness to explore our find, but please be patient." He softened it with a smile.

 

"Yes, sir," Phillips said sheepishly.

 

"All right, Bones, earn your pay. Medical recommendations."

 

"Well," McCoy drawled, "river or no river, I'd have chosen a cooler place to beam down." He glared at Spock, who regarded him evenly, unperturbed. "But nobody asked me." He settled into a serious tone and addressed the human members of the landing party; for Spock, this trip would be like going home. "It'll be early when you get there and you'll be in softsuits, so you'll be able to move around without difficulty for a few hours. Oh, you'll sweat a lot, but it won't kill you. Just drink plenty of water. And take it with you--no need to risk a toxic buildup of mineral levels or anything else in your bodies. Once we get samples we'll know for certain whether we can drink purified river water. And keep your hands and faces covered or use a sunblock. As it gets hotter you'll have to come back to the ship and get some heat control suits from quartermaster's if you're going to keep working. Remember, you're used to working in a cool environment--you might be easily affected by the heat."

 

"What about the mineral levels in the air, Bones?"

 

"According to the readings Spock sent down to Sickbay, air levels aren't as high as water levels, so you don't need filters for a short stay. Of course, colonists might have to use filters--long-term exposure might cause irreversible damage to their lungs. Again, we'll know more after looking at samples."

 

"Thank you, Doctor, Mr. Spock. Questions or comments?" Kirk surveyed the room. No one added anything. "Then we'll meet in the transporter room in fifteen minutes. That should give all of you time enough to gather your equipment and change." There were no dissensions; Phillips looked ready to throttle anyone who suggested a delay. "All right--dismissed."

 

McCoy followed Kirk out the door. "You seem warm and mellow today, Jim," he said, sounding warm and mellow himself. "Where's that tough-as-nails captain we all know and love?"

 

Kirk shot him a look, then smiled and shrugged. "I suppose I'm just happy to be assigned a purely exploratory mission for once." His boyish face clouded briefly. "I have to play soldier too often." Then he brightened, refusing to let go of his good mood. "Why don't you come along, Bones, take a look around? Should be quite a sight."

 

McCoy shook his head. "Sorry, I've got a lot of work to do." In Kirk's spartan cabin he waited while the captain changed into the softsuit delivered earlier by quartermaster's, water pouches already filled. As they started for the transporter room he said, "And anyway, what about our friends the Orions and the Klingons? Shouldn't you stay near the bridge?"

 

"Well, of course, we can't be too careful," Kirk replied seriously. "But frankly I'm not as concerned as Starfleet seems to be. We're in undisputed Federation space, even if it is pretty far out, and I'd be surprised if we had any trouble. Besides, I won't be down long. I just want to look around."

 

They entered the transporter room to find Spock and the four geologists suited up, ready and waiting. "Well, I see you didn't need that fifteen minutes, Mr. Spock," Kirk teased.

 

"It is always my endeavor to be punctual, Captain," Spock replied serenely.

 

"Of course. All right, I'm coming." Kirk took the phaser and communicator the Vulcan handed him and turned back to McCoy. "Last chance, Bones."

 

"Jim, I'm really way behind--" McCoy looked at the group of scientists and wavered. Jim wouldn't have much fun with that crew. "Maybe I'll be down in a little while."

 

Kirk nodded happily; McCoy would be good company. He motioned the others to the platform and turned to Chief Engineer Scott, who was manning the transporter. "She's all yours for an hour or so, Scotty." He took his place on the platform and said, "Brace yourselves, gentlemen, we're havin' a heat wave." He didn't care that they all groaned. "Energize."

 

Scott nodded. "Aye, sir. Energizing." With the familiar metallic hum, six cylindrical beams flickered, coruscated in a glittering rain, and slowly faded.

 

 

 

 

On the silent, barren surface of Cinnus II, the process reversed itself. As the glittering cylinders solidified, Spock, his eyes already on his tricorder, was saying, "Actually, Captain, atmospheric pressure readings indicate that this is, relatively speaking, a cool spell--" He turned, and saw an empty space where a man should have been.

 

Kirk wasn't there.

 

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Chapter One


Reaching for his communicator, Spock looked around quickly--and was confronted with disconcerting evidence that something had gone badly wrong. While Phillips was in his proper place to Spock's right, El Maral was standing in water up to her knees three meters out in the river, Aarlsen was on the opposite bank, and Montoya was a hundred meters upstream, jogging toward them.


There was no sign of Kirk.


"Spock to Enterprise."


"Scott here." He sounded puzzled.


"Mr. Scott, is the captain with you?"


"Sir?"


Scott's shocked response gave Spock his answer, but he repeated slowly, "Is the captain still in the transporter room? He did not beam down with us."


Dead silence on the other end; then McCoy, almost shouting: "Are you sure, Spock?"


Spock's right eyebrow twitched. "Doctor McCoy, I am in full possession of my faculties. The captain is not with us. I gather from your reaction that neither is he with you."


"No, dammit, he's not here, Spock!"


"He has not contacted you?"


"No!"


"Scott here, sir. I've been double-checking my readings, and according to the instruments the captain materialized on the surface with the rest o' the landing party. But you're two kilometers south of where you're supposed to be. Is everyone else all right?"


"Only the captain is not with us. If there is any truth to your readings he should at least be somewhere on the surface." He touched a control on his communicator, then another, and another. "The captain does not respond to my communicator signal," he told Scott. "Try to contact him using ship's communications, since it has a much greater range. We will scan with our tricorders."


He directed the remaining landing party members, now reassembled, to fan out, scanning for human life form readings. One by one they confirmed each other's findings: only five humanoids registered anywhere in the immediate vicinity, and beyond a radius of a few kilometers detailed readings became indistinct. Spock listened as Scott tried frequency after frequency; the faint hiss of an open channel, inaudible to human ears, was the only reply.


"Nothing, sir--not even a homing signal."


Spock thought a moment. Wherever the transporter had deposited the captain, it was impossible that he was out of communication range, which was far greater than transporter range. Kirk's continued silence was disturbing.


"It is conceivable that something is interfering with his communicator signal," he said at length. "If the transporter readings are partly correct and the captain is on the surface, we should be able to trace him using ship's sensors. You will please beam me aboard, Mr. Scott."


"No, sir," Scott said flatly, "I can't do that. Until we know what caused this malfunction and whether it's system-wide, I won't authorize any transporter activity."


Spock frowned. He could order someone else to beam him aboard, but he was inclined to take Scott's customary caution somewhat more seriously than Kirk often did. After a long pause he admitted, "You are correct, of course."


"D'ye wish me to send a shuttlecraft?"


"How long will transporter repairs take?"


"I won't know that until I know where the problem is. It'll take about two hours to check over the console."


Spock considered. "Very well. I will remain here for the present. Proceed with your own efforts to locate the captain, and instruct Mr. Chekov to attempt to trace the transporter beam using ship's sensors."


"He'll no' have much luck wi' that, sir." Federation transporters left very little evidence of their use.


"I am aware of that, Mr. Scott. As soon as you have any directional data, relay it to Mr. Chekov to aid him in his search."


"Aye, sir. And I'll contact you the minute I know anythin'. Scott out."


Spock turned to the waiting geologists, who had regrouped a few feet away. He knew they had heard the entire conversation and were very much aware that it could just as easily have been one of them who had disappeared. He sensed their nervousness and their concern for Kirk and decided that his customary businesslike approach would be most constructive. "Our purpose in beaming down was to conduct a standard geological survey," he reminded them. "The transporter malfunction and Captain Kirk's disappearance do not alter our task; they only complicate it. We must delay transferring to our proper coordinates or beaming down other landing parties and equipment until the nature of the malfunction is known. In the interim we will search this area for the captain. The distortion of our earlier rapid scans was possibly caused by the minerals concentrated here. Our search must therefore be visual as well. Mr. Scott will keep us apprised of any developments. Fan out, standard search pattern."


They drifted off, eyes on their tricorders. He could see their worry in the slump of their shoulders, the slowness of their steps; even the exuberant Phillips was subdued. Spock had never understood the human tendency, found even in professionals who should know better, always to imagine the worst before there was any evidence that the worst had occurred. He felt he should say something reassuring, but such sentiments did not come naturally to him. And he had to admit to himself that there was no real evidence that the worst had not occurred. He was veteran enough to know that people who simply disappeared in transporter beams did not often return.





"Transporter Control. Kyle here."


"This is Scott. All transporters are off limits. No one is to use any transporter on this ship without my direct order. Understood, Kyle? Shut them all down!"


"Understood, sir."


"Scott out." He cut the switch on the transporter console and muttered, "That'll keep anybody else from gettin' tossed into space."


A hand clutched his arm. "I thought you said he was on the surface, Scotty. Aren't you sure?"


Damn, Scott thought. He'd been so busy talking to the bridge and Transporter Control, he'd forgotten McCoy. "No, I'm no' sure. Mr. Spock said the readin's might mean that, but the readin's also tell me that the captain and everyone else materialized on target. Right now I don't trust any o' these readin's." He added more quietly, "Besides, if he's down there, why hasna he contacted us?"


McCoy's jaw clenched, and he had to take several breaths before he could speak again. "Then we don't even know if he's alive."


"No."


McCoy made himself let go of Scott's arm. He wanted to ask a hundred questions, but he couldn't keep Scott from his work any longer. "Keep me posted, will you, Scotty?"


"Aye, that I will, Doctor," Scott promised. He got busy, and did not notice when McCoy drifted away.





Somehow McCoy found his way to his cabin. He was used to the notion that each time might be the last time, that Kirk would someday push too hard. He'd always known that someday he wouldn't get there soon enough or wouldn't have the proper equipment or medication--that someday he wouldn't be able to pull Jim Kirk out of the fire. It had happened often enough with other people, but Jim led a charmed life--everybody knew that. He got away with things other people wouldn't even attempt.


So where's the charm now? McCoy thought.


He had already changed his mind about joining the landing party, and was about to start back to his office to change and get a biological tricorder when Spock called in, just seconds after beaming down. When the nightmare began.


Is the captain with you?


He remembered how Scotty was speechless for a second or two, momentarily unnerved, the startled glance he shot McCoy. He remembered Scotty's hands racing over the controls, calling up figures, dials, double- and triple-checking readings, while McCoy carried on an absurd dialogue with Spock, the three of them trying to deny what they knew to be true--that Kirk had simply vanished.


But for those minutes he had had something to do. Now he was alone with the realization that Jim had probably been scattered into atoms somewhere. He welcomed the interruption of his intercom. It was Chapel, telling him that Ensign Banks had had a fall and broken his elbow. McCoy pushed himself up slowly, using his desk for leverage, and left the dimness of his quarters for the bright corridor full of people who didn't know, who weren't a part of the nightmare.


He wished desperately to wake up.





It was very quiet on the bridge.


Chekov sat glued to the sensor readouts. After more than an hour of searching he had been forced to report to Spock that he had found no trace of Kirk's transporter beam, and that Scott had been unable to supply him with any directional information as yet. His only course was to program the sensors to randomly search the area of the surface within transporter range for human life form readings and communicator and phaser power paks as well. He'd begun with a wide beam pattern, but as Spock and his landing party moved about on the surface they had discovered that life form readings did not always penetrate the unusual mineral concentration, even at close proximity. Chekov had no choice but to switch to a narrow beam search; his data would be more accurate, but he would be able to cover far less territory.


Uhura had the conn while Scott was occupied with the transporter, but nothing could have torn her from her communications board. Creases of worry lined her usually animated features. Her receivers were set at maximum sensitivity, listening for any signal, no matter how weak or how short in duration, that could be the captain's. Any normal signal would probably set her ears to ringing, but she didn't care.


Most on the bridge avoided looking at the empty command chair.


Scott had found no trouble in the transporter console and had begun a complete system check, assigning even off-duty transporter crew to the task; the transporters remained offline. Since the data gathered so far by the landing party warranted an extended stay in the area, a second group of geologists had loaded shuttlecraft Galileo with enough supplies to set up a base camp at the original beamdown coordinates. Spock would pilot Galileo back to the ship himself. He was now Enterprise's commanding officer; given the proximity of both Klingons and Orions his place was on board ship.


When Spock returned to the bridge he stopped first at communications. "Report, Lieutenant."


Uhura looked up, her dark face tense. "No word from Captain Kirk, sir," she said, not even attempting to keep the worry from her voice. "Mr. Chekov is continuing the sensor search. All communication channels open and monitoring for signals of any kind. Mr. Scott is running tests on the transporter, but he's not telling what he's doing or whether it's working."


"Thank you, Lieutenant." Spock approached the science station. "Status, Mr. Chekov."


"Continuing random narrow beam search, ser. Nothing yet."


"Have you received any life form readings at all?"


"Only unstable readings." Chekov frowned. "The minerals are still causing distortion, even on narrow beam. If the sensors are to be of any real help, ser, I think ve vill have to recalibrate them."


Spock nodded. "Yes, I feared as much. And that, as you know, Ensign, will take days. Since we cannot entirely trust the sensors, Lieutenant," he said, shifting his attention once again to Uhura, "tell Security to prepare search-and-rescue teams and vehicles---all the personnel they can spare. Perhaps Mr. Scott's tests will enable us to direct our efforts more effectively. I shall be in Engineering--"


There was no need. The lift doors swished open, and Scott stepped onto the bridge. He was pale, and seemed very tired. Spock went to meet him. "You have finished your tests, Mr. Scott?"


"Aye, sir. 'Twas a brilliant idea, but it didna have the result I wanted."


"Explain."


"I thought maybe that what the transporter did once it would do again. I had my lads make up some small homing transmitters. We used the captain's beam and sent them to the programmed coordinates, hoping the malfunction would repeat itself."


"And did it?" They were all watching Scott now.


"Not exactly. We sent fifty transmitters." He hesitated, and Uhura steeled herself against his next words. "Only four sent back a signal. Two materialized at the beamdown point, one on the surface about two hundred kilometers away, and one about four hundred kilometers away."


"And the others?"


Scott swallowed hard, and took a deep breath. "They never reformed. The beams were interrupted somehow, and just dissolved in space. We tried again with the other beams--same result."


Spock's face lost all expression. A long moment passed. He said tonelessly, "Thank you, Mr. Scott, for your report. Please proceed with repairs to the transporter."


"Aye, sir." Scott's voice was hoarse. He turned back to the lift. Spock's voice, still lifeless, stopped him.


"Have you informed Dr. McCoy?"


"I was just on my way, sir."


"Your expertise is needed elsewhere. I shall inform the doctor."


"Aye, sir." An' I don't envy y' the task. The lift doors closed behind him.


Spock returned to the library computer station, where Chekov sat in stunned silence. "Ensign."


Chekov started. "Yes, ser."


"It seems that we must continue to search slowly." The Vulcan spoke harshly, his words clipped. "You are relieved of all navigational duties until further notice; I will need your assistance with the sensor recalibration. Use any available power to increase sensor strength; perhaps a power increase will simplify the recalibration."


"Aye, ser." Chekov began the programming, requesting the main computer to monitor power levels and divert unused power to the sensors.


Spock turned to Uhura. "Lieutenant, tell Security to dispatch search-and-rescue teams when ready. Base one team at each of the places where transmitters materialized; get those coordinates from Mr. Scott. Spread the other teams at random throughout the search area. Keep monitoring communications and try at intervals to contact the captain. I shall be in Sickbay for a short while. Mr. Chekov, we will begin our task when I return. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn."


"Sir?"


Sulu had sat quietly at his helm through it all, shuddering inwardly at the horrible images his imagination drew--hideous parodies of human shape, bodies forming in the vacuum of space, blood boiling and cells rupturing from the expanding gases within. The dramatic beauty of Cinnus II mocked him from the viewscreen. The thought of piloting the great starship around and around in orbit, facing that image for days on end, was stifling--he felt the need to do something.


"Sir, I'd like to volunteer for one of the search parties. They'll need pilots."


"I believe search-and-rescue teams are adequately supplied with pilots, Mr. Sulu, but I shall consider your request."


Sulu winced at Spock's chilly tone. "Yes, sir." The Vulcan left without another word. Sulu looked helplessly at Uhura, who favored him with a sympathetic half-smile as their eyes followed Spock off the bridge.





Spock walked down the curved corridor toward Sickbay. He was vaguely surprised by the atmosphere of normalcy that prevailed. Members of the crew passed him, nodding respectfully, unaware of what had befallen their captain. He had instructed Uhura not to inform the crew of Kirk's disappearance as yet, but he must make an announcement soon. With Security mobilized in a search-and-rescue operation word would travel, and this sort of news was far better spread from the source than by rumor.


He was surprised also by his behavior toward young Sulu, who had only wanted to help. He could not understand his violent reaction to Scott's report, as the information was not unexpected. To have "hoped for the best," as his human shipmates would phrase it, was inexcusable; his acceptance of the facts should have been completely neutral. He must do something to repair the wound his unreasonable behavior had caused.


When he reached Sickbay, he did not quite hesitate to cross the outer lobby to McCoy's office door. The doctor sat at his desk, a pile of report cassettes to which he paid no attention spread before him; he looked up at Spock's soft knock. Seeing the Vulcan's expression, he sank back in his chair, resigned.


"You didn't find him."


Spock shook his head once. "Not yet."


A trace of hope came into McCoy's expression. "'Not yet'-- You mean you think there's still a chance?"


"Only a slim one, but a chance nonetheless. Mr. Scott has completed preliminary tests of the transporter." He explained the action Scott had taken and the behavior of the transmitters.


McCoy digested this. "You mean two minutes more or less and Jim might have made it."


"Or someone else might have disappeared. Or all of us, or none of us. It appears to be an intermittent malfunction."


McCoy stared at the desk, fists clenched. "Damned transporters," he muttered bitterly. "Men weren't meant to travel that way, anyway!" He struggled for a moment with quiet fury at the inanimate, at his lack of control. "You said there was still a chance?"


"Yes. We are instituting a sensor search from the ship and a visual search on the surface. That is all we can do at present." He paused, could think of no reason to stay longer, and said, "I must return to the bridge." He turned to leave, but the doctor's voice stopped him.


"Spock?" McCoy rose and moved from around the desk, coming face to face with the Vulcan's direct, impassive gaze. He forced himself to say it. "How much chance?"


Spock regarded the doctor with honest confusion. "Are you asking me to quote odds, Doctor?"


"Oh, for God's sake, Spock, I just want a straight answer!"


"I do not have one. Whether we find him depends on whether or not he is injured, conscious, stationary or moving--"


"That's assuming he's alive."


"We have no specific reason to believe he is dead. Based on our current data, there is an eight percent chance that he is alive. Even a far lesser percentage would justify a search."


McCoy's eyes searched the Vulcan's angular features. "Spock, what do you think?" He braced his wiry frame for the brutal, inescapably logical answer, and cursed himself for a fool for even asking the question.


Spock's reply made his mouth fall open in utter stupefaction at the unpredictability of a certain Vulcan, and put just the tiniest bit of bounce back in his step as he carried out the day's duties. "I believe he is alive . . ."





Spock stopped briefly at the science labs on deck two to assign his assistants to coordinate the geological survey data as it came aboard, then went up to the bridge, suppressing his desire to be elsewhere.


Sulu vacated the command chair wordlessly as Uhura informed Spock that search teams were on their way to the surface via shuttlecraft. Spock stepped down to the command chair in the center of the bridge; he looked at it a long moment before he sat down. He pressed the intraship communications button on the chair arm.


"All hands, this is First Officer Spock. All transporters are off limits until further notice. Repeat, all transporters are off limits until further notice." He paused, carefully considering his next words. "During routine beamdown at 1420 a directional malfunction of the transporter occurred. The beam carrying Captain James T. Kirk did not materialize him at the beamdown point. The captain's whereabouts are unknown. We are conducting a search; details will be forthcoming. That is all."


He switched off, and silence settled over the bridge.


Spock then joined Chekov at the sensor controls. The sensors could continue to operate as the recalibration proceeded; their performance would gradually improve as the instruments were instructed to filter out certain elements. Recalibration was a drastic measure, undertaken only in the most extreme circumstances. But Spock had never seen a planet with such a heavy concentration of minerals and radioactive and magnetic materials. Some distortion was to be expected, but to have any real chance of locating Kirk and completing as detailed a geological survey as Starfleet required, the sensors must be operating with greater efficiency than this. He was conscious of an irrational sense of inadequacy--irrational because he was doing everything he could, inadequacy because everything was not enough.


Uhura continued to broadcast regular signals, but to no avail. She also monitored the communications of the search teams as they began to reach the surface, and messages between the landing parties and their departments. At one point she looked up. "Mr. Spock, Geology requests permission to use shuttlecraft Challenger to transport more equipment to the surface."


Spock straightened from his work. "Granted. Have Lieutenant Chay report to the hangar deck." Sulu flinched. He was still smarting from Spock's verbal cut, and wondered if the first officer was intentionally excluding him--Chay was a relief helmsman.


As Spock turned back to his station, his eyes fell on Sulu's unnaturally straight back. "Mr. Sulu."


Sulu swiveled his chair to face him. "Yes, sir?"


"You will please report to the hangar deck where you and Mr. Chay will pilot Challenger to the surface." Sulu's expression brightened slightly. "Check with Security as well--there may be more personnel to be taken to the surface. Both of you will aid the geologists in unloading their equipment, and then aid the search effort in the vicinity of the base camp. Until Mr. Scott completes the transporter repair, you will serve as primary transportation to and from the ship. When the transporters are repaired you may continue searching if you so desire."


Sulu beamed. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." So Spock wasn't mad at him after all. Worry for the captain was just making the first officer tense, and Sulu too sensitive. In fact, at the moment Spock seemed almost friendly. With the perverse human desire to know the worst, Sulu asked the question that had been on his mind. "Mr. Spock--do you think the captain's still alive? Transporter malfunctions can be pretty ugly."


Spock seemed mildly taken aback by the question, but replied evenly, "I accept the percentages, which inspire very little hope. But until I have proof that Captain Kirk is dead, I shall proceed as if he is alive." A black eyebrow lifted. "Good enough, Mr. Sulu?"


Sulu smiled. "Yes, sir. Good enough." The helmsman set his board for automatic until relief arrived, and left the bridge. Spock hadn't really answered his question, but he had strengthened Sulu's own conviction that a possibility, no matter how small, was a possibility nevertheless. Maybe Spock wasn't what you'd call optimistic, but he was going to play that small percentage for all it was worth.





Directing the sensor recalibration with one portion of his mind, Spock reflected on human behavior with the other. Some time after Sulu had left the bridge, he had set the sensors to record their readings and Chekov to monitor them and had gone down to the secondary engineering hull to consult with Scott. The chief engineer had nothing to report except befuddlement. But, oddly, he also wanted to know if Spock thought Kirk was still alive. What was it about humans that made them seek comfort, or at least information, from an authority figure? Why did they think he knew something they did not?


He wondered, too, at his own behavior. What had possessed him to declare to McCoy, in the face of all probability otherwise, that he believed Kirk to be alive? He again considered the odds: there was a ninety-two percent probability that Kirk was dead, only an eight percent probability that he was alive--and that eight percent decreased with every hour that passed. Try as he might, Spock could not change those fatal numbers. But for the first time in his life he could not entirely believe in the numbers. Except for the devastating moment on the bridge, when he had been shocked into unforgivable behavior toward Sulu--except for that, he did not believe James Kirk was dead. For the first time he thought he understood why Kirk so often ignored the odds completely.


Because there was something else.


It was a feeling, something he could not share, not even with McCoy. The feeling--not at all logical--that if Kirk had died, he would have felt--something. A feeling is not much to go on, he had once said to Kirk, who had replied with a quiet smile, Sometimes a feeling, Mr. Spock, is all we humans have to go on.


And the occasional Vulcan, it would seem. So he easily held worry at bay.


For now.

 

********************

 

Chapter Two

 

Heat.


Pain.


Hours later, Kirk woke alone.


He lay still for a while, trying to clear the fog in his brain. He was dimly aware that he was sprawled on the ground, hard hot ground, and that he was hotter and in more pain than he had ever been in his life. He opened his eyes slowly, saw only a blurred world. He squinted, tried to focus, could not. He realized his hand was clutching rock. Letting go was a mistake; he began to slide down a rough, stony incline. He clutched again and stopped sliding. Still couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe--air too hot. Must be desert. Mostly desert here. Like Vulcan.


He tried to move, one limb at a time. Legs okay, just muscle soreness. Held on with right arm, tried to bend left--pain. He cried out, a weak croaking sound. Sharp, shooting fire through his whole body, then numbness. No feeling at all in the left arm now. Couldn’t move it. He could see a little better now, but only colors, no shapes yet--reddish brown land, unearthly blue sky. He tried to lift his head, almost fainted. Explosions inside his skull, he saw only blackness, and white flashes. But he hung on, didn’t pass out again. Couldn’t quit, not yet. What happened to me?


Tried to move again, fought the nausea and the muscle spasms in his whole body, tried to sit up, managed only to curl legs to body. Still hanging on, to keep from sliding down--what? A hill? A cliff? Couldn’t let go yet--not until he could see. Left arm useless--somewhere underneath. He knew he was lying on it, but felt nothing now. Holding on with right. He buried his face in the crook of his right elbow, trying to shield his eyes from the glare.


After a while he opened his eyes again, slowly. They burned fiercely, from dust and glare. And blood. Blood on the rock beneath his head. He could see it, could feel it crusted on his face. Hard to open his eyes in that glare, but he did it. And the blurring was less severe. He could make out the gravel and rock around him, the rock that bit into his right hand which clutched it desperately. And he could see why he was sliding. A steep slope--couldn’t see where it ended. But next to him was a narrow level spot. If he could make it over there, he could rest. Rest. Sleep.


No. Can’t sleep. This is desert. Need water. He pulled with his weakening right arm toward the level spot, and managed to brace a boot against a small lump of rock. Now he had to let go of the rock he was holding on to, and use his good arm to push over to the ledge. The damaged left arm wasn’t even useful as a prop--dead weight at his shoulder. If his foot slipped--


But he made it, and collapsed onto the tiny plateau. He fainted.





He woke again a couple of hours later. The sun was higher in the sky, its heat more intense. His right arm was curled over his head, providing a little shade. He opened his eyes and tried again to look around, and found that his vision, though still blurred, had improved. He tried again to sit up, slowly. He made it this time, and sat with his head bowed between his knees, waiting for the pounding to stop. He found the mouthpiece of the tube that led to the water pouch of the softsuit, flipped the cap and drank deeply, and did not mind the warmth of the water. He wished he could wash the scratchy dried blood from his hair and face, but he dared not be profligate with the water just yet. He sat quietly, and after a few minutes the pounding in his head subsided a little. Gently he felt his scalp, and found three lumps encrusted with dried blood. At least he wasn’t still bleeding. But he undoubtedly had a concussion--headache, blurred vision, unconsciousness were telltale symptoms.


He tried to remember what had happened. The transporter, that was it. The transporter had materialized him in midair, some eight or ten meters up. In the split second that he hung in the air he had realized his horrific predicament. He remembered the paralyzing feeling of absolute helplessness--knowing he was going to fall and that there was no way out of it. He had tried to prepare, tried to land and roll, but he hadn’t been able to twist far enough and in the higher gravity he had landed hard. Thankfully he did not remember the moment of impact. Evidently he had hit the ground on his left side, landing on his arm, and, from the numbness of it, nearly tearing it from his body. On the steep rock face he had begun to slide, had grabbed frantically at anything that might save him. Rocks and pebbles and small boulders battered his body, cut and tore at his flesh as he slid. He dimly remembered holding on with his right hand to a little bump for dear life, and dragging himself over to this ledge.


Well, this is one for the record books, he thought, an opportunity for renown he would gladly have passed by. He reached for his communicator.


His heart skipped a beat, and he gasped as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.


It wasn’t there. Nor was his phaser.


He fought down the panic that threatened to engulf him, tried to slow the rapid heaving of his chest. After that fall it would have been a miracle if they had stuck to the patches on his waistband. Calmer now, he chastised himself for his automatic dependence on his equipment. Before man had invented the wireless, he had simply shouted. He called out to Spock and the landing party. Called again.


There was no answer.


He shouted again, desperately. Still silence.


It hit him suddenly--the realization that the transporter malfunction was directional as well. Spock had chosen coordinates on flat land near a river. There was no river in sight.


But the rock slope stretched up and behind him, blocking his view and deflecting his calls. He must go up the slope; perhaps from higher ground he could get his bearings.


A misleading surge of energy ran through him and he tried to stand. And nearly passed out again. He sat for a while, leaning against the rock, and waited for blackness to recede. He tried again, slowly, shifting his legs under his body and working his way to his knees. The pounding in his head increased, but this time he did not feel faint. He started to push up, but his left arm did not obey him. For the first time, he looked down at it carefully, and found a new cause for alarm. The upper arm was grotesquely swollen down to the elbow, stretching the sleeve of the loose-fitting softsuit. He tried to move his shoulder; it did not respond. He prodded gently with his other hand, suddenly thankful for the numbness of the arm--at least he felt no pain. He could move his elbow slightly, but not in all directions; his forearm and hand were only barely responsive. Probably there was a major nerve damaged in the shoulder, and the swelling and stiffness suggested a break in the upper arm. But he couldn’t try to set it up here on the ledge; he had to be where he could use his full weight as leverage. If he tried that now he’d fall off the cliff. He tried not to worry about the arm just yet, and concentrated on getting up the slope.


Dizziness and nausea hit him hard as he gained his feet and he swayed dangerously. He closed his eyes and fought it; he had to stay alert. After a few terrifying moments, he regained his balance and opened his eyes. The red slope stretched away on both sides; there was no easier route in sight. He would have to go up. Thrusting his left hand into a pocket to keep the arm from swinging freely, he climbed carefully, slowly, taking great care to place his feet away from any pebbles or loose gravel. But the boots of the softsuit were designed for walking, not rock climbing, and he slipped and slid repeatedly, always catching his full weight with his right hand and arm. As he climbed, he scanned the slope for his lost equipment, but did not see it in the open.


He reached the top, perhaps thirty meters up from his starting point, sweat-drenched and dizzy from sustained effort in the thinner atmosphere. An appalling sight met his gaze. Nothing. Nothing but rock as far as he could see. His vision was almost clear now; though details were fuzzy, he could distinguish land formations and the faint line of the horizon in the distance. He faced, not a river-carved valley, but a brown-red mesa stretching away before him. The land climbed away from the mesa many kilometers distant, and merged into a low range of bluish peaks. There was no sign of life, no landing party. No animals, no vegetation.


No water.


Just how far away had the transporter put him?


They would be looking for him, he knew. Spock and McCoy would move earth and stars to find him. Then a thought struck him. He looked at his chronometer, which, though scratched and dented, seemed still to be functional. He had been out here in this godforsaken waste for ten hours. He swallowed hard, but there was no liquid in his mouth to swallow. Wherever the transporter had sent him, the beam should have left a faint trail--a trail which should have led the Enterprise’s sensors to him long before now.


His knees buckled beneath him and he sank to the ground at the edge of the escarpment. In spite of the infernal heat he felt suddenly cold, chilled to the core. They had no idea where he was. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name. If it had been possible to find him, if they had had any idea at all where to look, he would have waked up in Sickbay, not--here.


He had to find that communicator.


It seemed to be midafternoon. He had a lot of daylight left in which to search, but the baking sun, despite the reflective properties of the hooded softsuit, warned him that he should wait out the worst of the afternoon’s heat. Three or four hours’ rest would conserve energy and bodily fluids and help his body begin to recover from the fall. His head pounded incessantly, and the climb had left him shaky and weak. His descent back down the slope was hardly more than a controlled slide. He crawled over to the ledge and sat with his knees drawn up and his back to the rock wall, the ledge not being wide enough to lie down safely. He drank again from his water supply, then pulled from the large chest pocket of the softsuit the items besides the water most likely to save his life--a large piece of cloth two meters square of the same reflective material as the softsuit, and a lightweight telescoping pole. With these he fashioned a kind of tent just large enough to cover his body, the material draped over the pole held in his hand, and waited in its shade.


He already realized his good fortune. He was not seriously injured, considering how bad the fall had been. He could have fractured his skull or broken a leg, or suffered any of a hundred other injuries that would have been his death sentence. And he had with him the bare necessities for desert survival. It was not generally his habit to change into special clothing for a brief look around on a planet surface, such as he had planned. But Spock’s report of Cinnus II’s intense heat had made him decide to put on more suitable attire this time. The desert softsuit, of Vulcan design modified for human needs, was work clothing, not a survival suit, but it did contain a day’s supply--six liters--of water in a pouch across the back; dark goggles constructed into the hood that protected the eyes from glare and ultraviolet light; and the cloth and pole to provide shade. The reflective cloth would protect him from much of the sun’s energy and allow him to survive a day--maybe two--longer with no water at all than he otherwise could. He was grimly aware of the situation he would be in now if he had landed on his back in the fall; the tough plastic of the water pouch, though it could withstand any normal blow, would surely have succumbed to the force of his landing and spilled the precious water over the rock. He was fortunate to have been able to drink deeply as soon as he recovered his senses enough to do so; he knew from survival training that water taken soon after an accident reduces shock.


Six liters of water, however, probably would not last him even through the next day. His thirst seemed suddenly to increase. He would soon be forced to go in search of water; he could not afford to give in to his intense desire to rest the night here. But search where? He had seen no water from the top of the slope, no green in the distance, no flashes of reflected sunlight--nothing but unrelieved solid rock. He leaned his head back against the rock wall, once again fighting the despair that could defeat him before he started. The tent cloth hid from his view the endless rocky waste; it was a cocoon from which he dreaded to emerge.


While he waited for the searing heat to lessen, he tried to recall his survival classes at the Academy and the refresher courses given periodically aboard the Enterprise by Security personnel. But it was hard to focus his thoughts; the heat and slightly thinner air combined with his head injury made him drowsy, and all he wanted to do was sleep. He made himself concentrate, and remembered the trainers saying that fear could be one’s worst enemy, but it was also one’s best friend. "In conditions of high stress you have increased strength, super endurance, and a tremendous ability to tolerate pain," the manual said. "Always keep a positive attitude--be prepared for anything, expect the worst, and never give up." Kirk tried to determine his priorities but his thoughts kept losing clarity. Maybe just an hour’s nap . . .


His head jerked up, something occurring to him that woke him completely. He was not necessarily the only member of the landing party affected by the malfunction. Perhaps they were all lost, scattered in six different directions by faulty circuits. He could not help remembering all the times Bones had railed against the transporter. Of all the landing party, only Spock could survive for long without water.


Spock.


And if Spock, too, were lost, how long would Starfleet Command allow the Enterprise to remain here to search for her senior officers? How long would it take the ship’s sensors to search a quarter of a planet? Was this his destiny then, to die alone, utterly alone, on an uninhabited world?





He did not find the communicator.


He found the phaser wedged in a shallow crack, battered and barely functional, only when sunlight flashed off the tiny metal plate at its nozzle.


He had emerged from his shelter in the late afternoon after a rest of only two hours. His whole body ached, his muscles so stiff that just standing was a supreme effort. Watery bloodstains covered the front of the softsuit as perspiration gradually cleansed his hair and face. The sweat stung the right side of his face, badly sunburned and blistered from his long hours unconscious under the merciless sun.


He had searched the rest of the day, risking serious falls scrambling over the slope, trying to crisscross systematically an area perhaps twenty meters to either side of where he had struck the ground and slid; he had found the spot by following the path cleared by his body. He moved slowly, carefully, looking at each section of the slope from every angle, hoping in vain for another glint of reflected sunlight. But all his effort, all his care, was to no avail. The rock was pierced by dozens, hundreds of cracks and fissures of varying length and width. He could only conclude that the communicator had fallen deep into one of these. Ordinarily there was power enough in a hand phaser to chisel the rock, to widen the cuts. But his unit was badly damaged and the strength of its beam was hardly enough to make a scratch.


The sun dipped low in the intensely blue sky. He should get off the slope and onto level ground while the light was strong. With his vision still blurred, any lessening of light would increase his chances of another fall. He made his way down to the small ledge where he had lain earlier and rested there a few minutes, his head bowed on his knees, gathering his failing energies for the steeper descent below him.


Then he had an idea. There was a chance that the communicator was putting out some sort of signal, or that the ship’s sensors would somehow determine the direction of the transporter beam. He worked his way over to the pool of now-congealed blood that had formed under his head while he lay unconscious--any search party who got this far certainly would notice that. He cleared the stony litter from a space several feet square next to the brownish-red stain, and set the phaser for cutting beam; it worked, in fits and starts. Going over each cut several times, he used the weak beam as a laser and carved in large letters his initials and the direction he planned to travel--NE. The terrain seemed to slope more steeply downhill in that direction, and, since water flowed downhill, northeast seemed the most logical direction.


His thoughts turned to Spock. What would the Vulcan’s cool, logical mind tell him to do? What would be Spock’s priorities?


Survival. It was as if he could hear the quiet voice.


He tried to consider his situation logically. Chances were his communicator had been too badly damaged in the fall to be of any use to him anyway. Standard procedure in the event of a missing crewman was to call at least every quarter hour while at the same time proceeding with a search. In the four hours he had searched for the communicator, he had heard no familiar chirping sound. If he had, he could have used the phaser’s remaining power to try to cut away the rock and get to the unit. Standard landing party procedure also called for a continual signal to be broadcast by each crewman’s communicator, so that the transporter officer knew exactly where each crewman was at all times.


Even with these precautions, they still had not found him. They would be dependent on a sensor search which, though fairly thorough, would take time, and a surface search using teams which would depend on chance. In Spock’s place--he insisted on thinking that the Vulcan was alive and unharmed--he would place search parties randomly, but he would base at least one team at the beamdown point. Therefore, if he was not too far away from that point, he should be able to reach it by following the river system. If he could find it.


Water first, then travel. He stood, and as his legs once again nearly collapsed, he altered his plan. Water, rest, then travel.


Getting to level ground was a greater test even than traversing the slope. The rock face below him was almost sheer. If his right arm had enough strength, he could lower himself to what looked like fairly good toeholds a meter or so down. He had to protect the water pouch, without which he had virtually no chance at all of survival. If he fell and could not control the landing-- Again tucking his left hand into his pocket, he slid over the edge.


He managed to hold on with his right hand, finding strength in his fingers he didn’t know he had, forcing his feet hard into the toeholds. Muscles screaming, he jammed his fist into another fissure lower down and began to ease his body downward to feel for more toeholds. But the soles of his boots slipped on the smooth rock. His hand came out of the insecure hold and he fell the last two meters. Twisting to protect the water pouch, he landed with a grunt of pain and felt something give high at the side of his chest. Gingerly he felt his ribs, inhaling carefully. Relief washed over him--nothing seemed to be broken. But the ribs were bruised, and walking would be painful.


The red sun had slipped behind the slope above him, and shade was beginning to form over the base of the rock where he had landed. He searched the wind-smoothed bedrock thoroughly, in case the communicator had slid all the way down the slope and off the edge, but without success. He made himself accept the distressing fact that he was not going to find the communicator. He was afraid, but he was alive and he had a chance; he must concentrate on that.


He prepared himself for his next difficult task. He had to set the broken arm, and he had to do it now, before increased swelling and muscle spasms made it more painful later. With his right hand he made his left into a fist, wedged it tightly into a crevice in the rock face, and, after a moment’s hesitation, took a deep breath and leaned back with his full weight. He expected blinding agony, but thanks to the damaged nerves felt only a dull pain. He heard the grinding snap of bone against bone, and the ache went away. Muscles tensed from the expectance of severe pain relaxed in relief. His arm tingled, leading him to hope that he might soon regain some feeling in it. He managed to work the square cloth into a sling, using the tent pole as a splint--flimsy, but better than nothing--and bound the arm to his torso. He would not need the cloth and pole until he stopped during the next day’s heat; in the meantime they made effective emergency first aid gear.


He rested then in the shade of the escarpment, unwilling to begin walking until the sun had set further. He wanted desperately to lie down, but he could not take the chance of falling asleep. He sat uncomfortably in the dry, draining heat for perhaps an hour, then staggered to his feet and started off.


A hundred meters or so away from the shadow of the escarpment he stopped and laboriously gathered enough stones, shoving or rolling them with his feet and one useful arm, to form an arrow some five or six meters long. He must do everything he could to make himself or his trail visible to searchers in the air. Once he had a water supply he could devote time and energy to gargantuan signals, perhaps even something visible from space. But for now an occasional large arrow would have to suffice--searchers could easily pick up his trail from there. He shoved the last stone into place and pressed on.


Walking was difficult. The ground was uneven and strewn with rocks and gravel. Still stiff and sore, he stumbled constantly, pulling at the bruised ribs, and often fell, lacerating his knees and the palm of his right hand. The sun had set now, but there was light enough for walking, and he chose a landmark on the horizon to aim for--two towering formations of blue-gray stone. When he reached them he would choose another guide on the far horizon, and so on. Another hour or so of twilight and light enough for distance vision would be gone, but by that time the stars would be visible and would lead him on, as they had always done.


Though most of his attention was focused on keeping his feet, at some level he was able to appreciate the stark, barren beauty of his harsh surroundings. Close up, Cinnus II was just as beautiful--but far more forbidding--as it had appeared from orbit. The rocky land stretching away from him on all sides was mostly iron-red, but here and there were patches of colors muted by the twilight. As he put some distance between himself and the slope on which he had landed, he turned to look at it and was able to see threads of blue and green laced throughout the rust-red rock. Occasionally a last ray of sunlight glinted off some metallic ore in the formations ahead of him--pyrite, maybe, or mica--so that they glistened and seemed to pulsate with life. And the sunset itself, as desert sunsets often are, was glorious. Color exploded in the blue, blue sky as if someone was setting off paint bombs, and whenever Kirk thought the scene must be complete and the colors would now begin to fade, another bomb went off and shadings of orange or purple or pink splashed over the sky. It was breathtaking, spectacular, and more than a little unsettling to be surrounded by so many reminders of his own insignificance.


Never give up, he commanded himself. Never give up.

         

He paced himself carefully. In his weakened state he was vulnerable to misstep and injury, and the heat, though much less intense now that the sun had set, still sucked his energy. He had to control sweating yet cover as much ground as possible during the night. Silence was all around him, the only sounds his heavy breathing in the thin air, the soft tread of his boots, and the slight noise he made when he stumbled or fell. Not even an occasional breeze whispered across his path.


He tried again to think, to remember his survival training, the class at the Academy during which each student was deposited in every conceivable environment and expected to keep himself or herself alive for two weeks. His stay in the Great American Desert had allowed him valuable practice in class-taught skills, but knowing he would be retrieved at the end of the trial had taken fear away. He had not been injured then, either. His enthusiastic instructor would cheerfully have provided a concussion or broken bone for her pampered students to cope with, but regulations prohibited such realism.


There were ways of finding water even in the least habitable deserts. You could dig, of course, and hopefully water would seep into the hole. But to dig you needed a soft surface and something to dig with. You could sponge condensation off rock in the early morning if the night temperature dropped low enough for dew to form. You could make a vegetation still, collecting the condensation that formed on the inside of a large plastic bag full of desert scrub; but you needed a sheet of plastic and plants for that one. He thought it unlikely that the night temperature would drop enough to cause condensation on the rocks; if he were at an altitude high enough for cool nights, he would have become chilled soon after the sun had set. If he came to an area of sand loose enough to dig in he could perhaps find some stones beneath the desert floor cool enough to form some condensation . . .


He tried to plan, tried to consider options, but his mind wandered. He was exhausted. His body craved sleep. Tomorrow he could rest. Tomorrow.


Darkness fell, and thoughts of sleep were difficult to keep at bay. A huge moon rose, corn-silk yellow with a reddish cast, and stars appeared, more comforting than the swirling colors of the sunset, so many that the night sky seemed solid with them. From horizon to horizon they stretched, thousands, maybe millions, and one of them was perhaps not a star, but home. If only he knew where on the planet’s surface he was he would know which part of the sky to study for a star that did not change its position relative to the rotating world. To know she was up there was solace and anguish blended.


As the night wore on, conscious, coherent thought began to elude him. His mind floated from one flicker of thought to another, never staying long enough for thought to form, for individual thoughts to coalesce into a train. Walk, just walk. Cover ground. He could not walk and think at the same time. He stayed true to his direction; using stars as a guide was second nature to him. But he ceased to notice the shapes of desert formations he passed, their colors muted in the starlight to blue-grays, reddish-grays, yellow-grays. The desert night was well lit by the stars but the shadows were different now, hazards instead of shelters. In his semi-awareness he often steered around them, thinking them solid obstacles to avoid, losing a little time but always returning to his course.


Suddenly he fell. He tried to focus his eyes and his mind. The rock had swallowed his left leg. Curious, but too tired to be alarmed, he rubbed his arm across his eyes, as if that would help. Then he saw that he had come to a playa--an ancient lake bed baked to bedrock hardness. But periodically through the eons rain had poured onto the playa in brief thunderstorms and the torrents had channeled cuts into the sunbaked clay. Once a cut was started the walls of water brought by each successive rainstorm deepened and widened it until some were like miniature canyons, three times as deep as Kirk was tall and wider than he could leap across. He had stepped into a knee-deep crack, coming down hard on his right knee with a boneshaking jolt. It ached already and he hoped with weary desperation that he had not cracked the kneecap. He sat back and pulled his left leg, uninjured beyond a bad scrape along the inside of the calf, out of the crevice. In the surreal light the playa seemed overlain with a web of black lace; every strand of black to his tired body was a yawning gulf. Trying not to think about how bad the mishap could have been, he got awkwardly to his feet, got his bearings, and kept going.


The effort it took to concentrate, to place his feet so carefully, was enormous. The playa stretched for kilometers in every direction; crossing it was like crossing a stream using stepping stones, but being unable to see the opposite bank. Smaller rocks and pebbles littered the polygonal islands; it would be so easy to trip over them or step on a patch of gravel and have his feet shoot out from under him. His vision still tended to blur now and then, from concussion and lack of sleep, and sometimes he had to stop and wait for the edges of fissures to become crisp and clear before he tried to step across. He moved very, very slowly; time ebbed and flowed until he could not have said how long he had been picking his way. Twice he came to his senses to find that he had sat down, just sat at the edge of a polygon, as if the breadth of the next crevice had defeated him.


The second time he woke to dawn, the faint light filling the sky, gradually allowing him to see what surrounded him. The expanse of the playa was staggering. When he looked behind him he could not see where it began; he had put its edge below the horizon. But the edge toward which he traveled was also below the horizon; he had the sensation of being on the open sea. No vegetation grew in any crack, the lack of it evidence of the hardness of the ground; no rain had fallen here for a very long time. He pressed on once again; he had three or four hours of early morning cool before the increasing heat would force him to stop for the day.


Finally, indistinct in the distance he saw a bulge in the flat line of the horizon. Land, land, his mind whispered feebly, and his legs seemed to quicken their pace of their own accord. On and on he walked, falling into a kind of rhythm, and the bump on the horizon grew and became the far bank. He reached it just as increasing perspiration was warning him he must stop. Stepping off the playa onto red rock streaked with a quartzlike material, he struggled up the gentle bank; there was no shade at the top, but there was also nothing to block any breeze. Locating a fairly smooth spot, he unfastened his sling and spread the reflective cloth on the ground. He found some flat stones nearby and shoved them with his feet over to the cloth. He stacked three stones, draped a corner of the cloth over the stack, then used his right arm and the opposite foot to lift a fourth stone onto the top of the stack to anchor the cloth. He repeated the process at the next corner, then simply weighted the opposite corners down with stones, pulling the cloth so that it lifted away from the ground. The result was a low but serviceable half-tent, ground-anchored on one side, raised by the calf-high stacks of stones on the other. He crawled under it and collapsed full length in its life-giving shade.


He drank from the pouch, drank deeply. The last thing he should do in a desert survival situation was ration water; while a few sips might quench his thirst they would do nothing to replenish his body’s tissues. The indicator showed that a quarter of his supply remained. The pouch had contained more the last time he remembered checking. He did not remember drinking during the night, but obviously he had; survival instinct was evidently stronger than awareness. It was a comforting realization.


He tried to think now, demanding even more from his weary body and mind, tried to plan, but could not. He had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, and during that time his body had suffered merciless abuse. Mind over matter only went so far; his body betrayed him, and he slept.





He dreamed.


Terrifying images. Fire all around him. He was in hell. People he knew paraded before him, laughing at him, at his pitiful efforts to survive. Spock, not even sweating in the infernal heat, mocking the miserable human who thought he could cheat death in the desert.





Falling, he was falling, he landed, but the earth swallowed him up, his torso stuck out from the dry lake bed, the rest of him buried to the hips, and now the dry lake was wet, the channels were filling, and all the other buried people were floating free but he was trapped and the water rose around him wet life-giving water he was drowning he screamed.





Dry hacking sobs tearing at his chest awakened him. His sobs. He woke from one nightmare into another. He fought to sit up. Something in his way. Suffocating him. He remembered the cloth. He lay down again, coming fully awake with shuddering relief.


He rolled out from under the tent--slowly, painfully. He could hardly move. His entire body was a mass of pain; every muscle burned. He struggled to his feet, fought the body that wanted to lie down again. His limbs were heavy, his brain clouded with sleep. He focused his mind on the cloth. Take the cloth. Clumsily he dismantled the tent and rewrapped his sling and splint. It came to him then that the slant of the tent had shifted to the opposite direction. He must have waked at some point during the day and rearranged it--he did not remember.


He began to walk slowly toward the northeast. It was late afternoon, hot but not intolerable, and as he walked some of the stiffness began to leave his body. His legs ached, the muscles strained from unaccustomed effort. Gradually he again fell into a slow, shuffling rhythm; he would be able to pick up his pace once the sun went down. He could have used more sleep, a lot more, but sleep tortured by such dreams was hardly restful.


He walked on and on across the endless red rock, not seeing or feeling or thinking, mesmerized by the metronomic sound of his footsteps. The sun set, the stars and the reddish-yellow moon came out again, and it was perhaps after midnight when he drank the last of his water and began to die.

 

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Chapter Three                  

         

Security Chief Enrico Giotto glared with hard brown eyes at the search grid on the viewscreen opposite his desk. How could his people possibly search an area the size of United Europe with just four shuttlecraft and four two-man flitters in only two or three weeks? They couldn't, and Giotto knew it. The search had begun within an hour of Kirk's disappearance more than twenty-four hours before, but an observer would have to search the search grid to find very many red squares denoting areas that had been covered.


Giotto was not a pessimistic man, but he was a realist. Without effective sensors and having to rely on a visual search they had very little hope of finding the captain. And without operational transporters Giotto could not fully utilize the personnel and equipment at his disposal. Enterprise carried several land vehicles that could be beamed down via the cargo transporter; they could not begin to cover the territory that the flyers could, but any aid was better than none. And without personnel transporters he was denied the use of another search procedure. One or two people standing on high ground with high-magnification field glasses could scan to the horizon, thus searching circular areas some ten to twelve kilometers in diameter the flyers would not have to cover. If enough searchers were stationed in this way they could make a noticeable difference, but without the transporters to place and retrieve them the method was not practical. When his spirits were lowest Giotto tormented himself with the thought that with the search proceeding so slowly Kirk could easily move into an area that had already been searched, and they would never know.

         

His morose thoughts were interrupted by the beep of his desk speaker. "Giotto."

         

"Lieutenant Sulu here, sir. We've finished J5 and we're moving on to J6. Nothing to report."


"Acknowledged, Lieutenant. Giotto out." The commander pressed a few buttons on the computer controls at his desk. The wall screen promptly colored sector J5 a very pretty red. Giotto had to look hard to find it.

         

         

         

Sulu and Chay had ended up flying almost as often as the official search pilots, breaking only occasionally when the geological teams needed this or that from the ship. They were midway through their second day of searching, scheduled to cover at least J1 through J10 today. After all this time they were still within two days' walk of the base camp at any given time. No wonder Chief Giotto was a bit abrupt on the comm; he was the one who had to coordinate all the negative reports. But even suffering the frustrations of the search, Sulu was grateful to be occupied, to be away from the bridge, which the few times he'd been there recently had still been much too quiet.

    

While Sulu piloted Challenger, Danny Chay was monitoring scanner readings and visually searching the area around them with the craft's magnifying viewscreens. He sighed and ran a hand through his coarse blond hair. "It's ironic, I suppose, that such gorgeous scenery should be so depressing."

         

Sulu studied the terrain over which they flew--barren, lonely, devoid of anything but color. Blood-red cliffs that as they weathered and broke apart exposed startling veins of reflective minerals that winked and flashed in the sun. Intertwining iridescent ores of purple and blue streaking peach-colored escarpments. Breathtaking, intimidating, empty.


"Yeah," he said soberly. "I know what you mean."

         

"Could the captain really survive in that?" Chay's gray eyes were skeptical.

         

Sulu looked out over the beautiful, desolate land. "He's had the same survival training as everybody else. There's enough vegetation down there to suggest some water. And the captain's pretty tough, you know."

         

"But Hooks and Franklin said they flew over kilometers of solid rock, not even any sand. What do you do in country like that?"

         

Sulu's tone was flat, grim. "Pray."

         

A cracked, parched plain passed beneath them, dotted infrequently with dull green tufts of hardy plants that might spread their roots in a twenty-meter radius, or thrust a taproot sixty meters down into the earth in search of water. They flew over a dry riverbed, one of many.


Chay said abruptly, "I don't think he's out there."

         

Sulu's optimism, too, had withered under the onslaught of hour after endless hour of searching the desiccated land. "Well," he began without much conviction, "I admit it's a pretty slim chance, but--"

         

"If he's out there why haven't we heard from him? Even Mr. Spock can't figure out how he could have materialized and his communicator didn't."

         

Sulu's cheerful features creased into an uncharacteristic frown. "You know, I'm having enough trouble thinking positive thoughts without you wearing me down."

         

Chay was stung by his partner's rebuke, but after thinking about it a moment he gave a nod. "Sorry. You're right. For one thing, if the searchers start losing hope we probably won't be as effective." He studied the desert before them with renewed intensity, but as his eyes dropped again to the scanner readings he added softly, "But it's hard."

         

Sulu sighed and began a turn. "Yeah, I know."

         

         

         

         

"Message from below, sir," Uhura said, breaking into the silence on the bridge. "It's Sulu, on B."

         

Spock looked up from the sensors, where he and Chekov were about to complete the recalibration. The second day of Kirk's disappearance was drawing to a close. "Spock here. What is it, Mr. Sulu?" There was hope in the Vulcan's voice. Uhura held her breath.

         

But Sulu did not have the news they wished to hear. Sounding puzzled, he said, "Mr. Spock, I thought you said there had never been any civilizations on this planet."

         

"You heard correctly, Mr. Sulu." Spock's familiar dry tone had returned. "Drone probe readings gave no indication of any civilization, past or present. You have found something that indicates otherwise?"

         

"Yes, sir. We're flying over what looks like the remains of a city."

         

"Relay visual." Uhura's hands moved over her board, sending Sulu and Chay's signal to the main viewscreen.

         

Sulu flew over slowly, north to south and back again. The city covered an area about a kilometer square and was located on an island in a dry riverbed. The buildings were long, one-story units; the material used appeared to be native stone, so perfectly did it blend in color and texture with the surrounding terrain. In fact, the city seemed hardly to have disturbed the land on which it was built: the ground was not obviously leveled artificially; there were no paved roads; the buildings were placed randomly, not symmetrically. The first impression was one of natural, not imposed, order. Sulu turned and flew east to west, and now those watching could see wide overhangs shading a number of doors in each unit. The streets were broad, allowing good airflow between the buildings, and the roofs were white, perhaps plastered or whitewashed, suggesting that their one-time inhabitants possessed at least a basic understanding of passive solar architecture.

         

"This place is sure full of surprises," Uhura commented wryly.

         

"An accurate, if somewhat colloquial, assessment, Lieutenant," Spock replied, and Uhura took it as a compliment. "Mr. Sulu, record the location of the city and return to the ship. We will transport an archaeological team for further investigation."

         

"Yes, sir. On our way."

         

"Spock out." He turned to Uhura. "Lieutenant, relay a tape of Mr. Sulu's flyover to Commander Jones in Archaeology. Have him assign three specialists and tell them to await Challenger outside the hangar deck."


"Yes, sir. It sounds as if that wasn't a very reliable probe Starfleet sent out."


"Very likely it was affected by the same distortions as our sensors," Spock pointed out. "And a drone probe cannot carry as sophisticated a sensor array as a starship can. It merely surveys and recommends further investigation. And that, of course, is why we are here." He paused, considering. "Where there have been past civilizations there might also be present ones. Inform search-and-rescue teams of our discovery and tell them to be on the alert for any other signs of possible inhabitants."

         

"Yes, sir." She got to work.

         

Spock returned his attention to the sensor station, where Chekov stood scowling at the board. "Ser, I vas scanning the area of Mr. Sulu's flyover. There vas no indication of a town."

         

Spock was not surprised. "I believe this should indicate to us the extent of the disruption of our sensor readings." He frowned. "I am beginning to suspect that more than mineral deposits may be involved. Heavy mineral concentrations should not be this troublesome."

         

The young Russian's sigh seemed to come up from his toes. "Then that means our sensors are useless, even vith recalibration."

         

Spock tried unsuccessfully to sound confident. "Not necessarily useless, Ensign, merely untrustworthy. Once we have personnel on the ground in the city we can perhaps determine the cause of this particular difficulty. But for now it seems we must rely even more on our ground search. Carry on, Ensign. You have the conn, Ms. Uhura. I shall be with Mr. Scott in Transporter Control."




 


Scott's eyes widened as Spock related the news of Sulu and Chay's discovery. "Then you think there might be people here."

         

"It is unlikely, I realize, but there might be. There might also be other--surprises--awaiting us. I would feel more comfortable if our landing parties had a faster means of retreat than the shuttlecraft provide. Are you making any progress on the transporter repair?"

         

"Well, yes and no," Scott began, the sort of ambiguous answer that always made the Vulcan's eyebrows come to life.

         

Scott, too, was beginning to believe that there was more to their problems than simply an abnormally dense concentration of minerals. "Transporters use sensors, too, o' course," he said as he and Spock studied the insistently normal readings of the machinery that channeled power from the great starship's engines into the individual transporter consoles. "They're more specialized than the Enterprise's whole sensor array, but they work on the same principle. We've encountered heavy mineral readings before--no' this heavy, I'll admit, but heavy enough to be a challenge. And we've never had any trouble. This is something that can fool the finest sensing equipment available."

         

"There is a particularly high concentration of dilithium on this planet," Spock commented. "The very properties that make dilithium essential to our warp-drive technology also make it occasionally play havoc with equipment set to find it. But," he continued, arguing with himself, "our sensors should be capable of handling that kind of distortion."

         

"That's what makes me think it's probably a combination o' things," Scott agreed. "Certain characteristics of this planet that by themselves wouldna gum up the works, but put together are just complicated enough to cause trouble. I'm almost certain it's a power transfer problem but I don't know where, and until I know that I canna repair it even if I do find out the cause." He gave a little sheepish shrug. "That's no' much of a report."

         

"I am afraid, Mr. Scott," Spock replied in that very dry tone that indicated annoyance, "that my own efforts at improving sensor performance have been equally unimpressive."

         

The two officers shared a moment of companionable frustration, then Scott mused, "I wonder if the geological survey has turned up anythin' helpful."

         

"I have reviewed the data summaries prepared by the department. Though the surface instruments are gathering reasonably accurate information and analysis of the samples brought aboard adds to it, nothing has suggested an answer to our difficulties."

         

Scott's eyes narrowed. "Maybe no one's asked the right questions yet."

         


         

         

Optimism was a wonderful thing, Christine Chapel reflected, good for the body and good for the soul--and good for helping one to bear up in difficult circumstances. She had no idea what Spock had said to McCoy the previous morning, but whatever it was, it had worked. Since then the doctor had been a dynamo, spurring Life Sciences and the medical labs to get caught up with their various research projects. He was supervising the analysis of air and water samples from Cinnus, running some of the tests himself. He had let Chapel have a few hours off to start writing up the results of a long-term experiment on the pharmaceutical applications of Virgulisian marsh algae, a pet project she'd been running down in the bio lab for the past eight months. And he had even begun to catch up on his reports.

         

She'd have bet a month's salary that Spock, for all his undeniable virtues, was incapable of a pep talk, but evidently she'd been wrong. Bless him. If only she could tell him how grateful she was . . .

         

She looked up from her desk as McCoy approached. "Christine, I need your help out here--Banks has messed up that elbow again." He did not wait for her, but headed off toward the treatment room, where she could hear him haranguing the ensign. "Banks, an elbow is not a rubber band--you can't just bend it every which way and expect it to continue to function--"

         

Chapel followed him out, wondering if McCoy was still fully aware that Kirk had been alone on a waterless world for nearly forty-eight hours.

         



         

"Archaeological team reports on the ground and ready, Mr. Spock," Uhura relayed from communications.


Spock and Chekov were both at the sensor station, ready to test the completed recalibration. "Lieutenant Jameson, you and your team may begin moving about in various directions. Close communications except for standard homing signals. We will attempt to track you."


"Yes, sir." She signed off.


Spock and Chekov peered at their board, Chekov noticeably tense, even Spock seeming more intent than usual. "I don't see them," Chekov said after only a few seconds.


"Patience, Ensign."


Then Chekov blurted, "There! Two readings--but gone again." His voice trailed off.


Several minutes of testing told them that mineral readings--or something--still masked life form readings from even the recalibrated sensors most of the time, at least in the areas of the heaviest deposits. But as the archaeologists moved through the city the sensors did register their presence intermittently--sometimes their bodies and sometimes their communicators. They still did not register the city itself.

         

"Possibly because the city is constructed of the very material which is distorting our readings," Spock surmised. "However," he added, with the unmistakable air of one searching for something positive to say, "I am encouraged by the fact that the sensors do register communicator and phaser power paks, if only faintly."


Chekov, suspecting that perhaps even Vulcans occasionally grasped at straws, said glumly, "Even after all our vork it vill be sheer luck if the sensors do any good."

         

Spock turned on him. "Do I take it, Ensign, that you would rather not bother with a sensor search?"

         

Stung, Chekov shot back, "No, ser! Of course not!"

         

Spock's tone softened quickly. "Then carry on, Ensign. I shall be in the science lab." He left Chekov and Uhura exchanging startled looks behind him, and retreated to his lab on deck two to get an update on the geological survey, then begin again on the sensor repair.

         

He chafed at the inescapable need to remain on board ship. He was, after all, Enterprise's science officer, and a major part of that job was the supervision of all scientific activity his departments undertook. He should be directly involved in the geological survey and at least be able to monitor Archaeology's progress on their new find, but the need to find a way to strengthen the sensors and make them of real aid in the search for Kirk consumed him.

         

He was also, however, Enterprise's commanding officer in the absence of her captain. He had always known that there would be difficulties in filling two roles, but never had his ability to juggle his many responsibilities been so severely tested. Once the transporters and sensors were repaired he could rejoin the science teams and lose himself in his work. In the event of trouble he would be only minutes from the bridge. But now, when it would take him nearly an hour to return to the ship from the surface, he must stay aboard, where the unceasing frustrations with the sensors were wearing on even his phenomenal patience.

         

He was too much aware that Kirk was running out of time.

         

         


         

After Spock and Chekov had concluded their tests, Jameson, Robbs, and Chammu toured the village rapidly but thoroughly, separating to pursue their individual areas of expertise. The city was very quiet, and the footsteps of the landing party echoed eerily down the empty streets. Their coolsuits, though lifesavers, made it difficult to move gracefully in the slightly heavier gravity, and they all stumbled occasionally. Robbs was aware of how alone they were; being unable to count on the transporters made her feel uncomfortably isolated. But all three archaeologists were well supplied with water, and Sulu and Chay, flying their search pattern, were never more than a few minutes away.

         

Kay Robbs' specialty was architecture and building science. She soon realized that the people who had built this two-thousand-year-old city were hardly primitive; the construction techniques were simple but efficient, and the obvious care with which materials were joined and finished was evidence of sophisticated craftsmanship. There was no wasted material, no sloppy workmanship--no gaps between the metal doors and window frames and the stone jambs and casings, even after all these years.

         

Closer inspection confirmed that the city's inhabitants had known how to build to avoid the worst of the region's heat. In addition to the ample overhangs on the buildings and the wide avenues between them, the floors were elevated a meter or more off the ground, where temperatures were as much as forty degrees cooler than at the superheated desert floor. The windows, though made of thick and uneven handmade glass, were triple-glazed, and the openings placed to take the best advantage of prevailing breezes; the doors were made of two bronze panels separated by an insulating layer of air; and the roofs, in addition to being painted white, were heavily textured so that the bumps and ridges of the plaster-like material cast miniature shadows and reduced the effect of the baking sun. The buildings themselves were double-built--essentially one building inside another--so that the internal structure was enveloped in a layer of circulating air. The careful attention to construction technique had paid off: outside, even in the shade of the overhang, the temperature was one hundred fifteen degrees; inside it was a mild eighty.

         

Everywhere was evidence of a simple, practical people. But the buildings, though plain in design, were not undecorated. The plaster facings around every door and window had been carved with an intricacy that rivaled the great Moorish craftsmen of old Earth, the delicate designs sometimes floral, sometimes geometric, sometimes abstract. The posts supporting the overhangs were carved or painted or both, and friezes ran along the fascia of most of the buildings. There were very few plain posts; those that were unadorned were newer than the others, perhaps replacements. Robbs was fascinated by the blend of the plain and the decorated, the simple and the complex. She began to record all of the artwork, hoping to come across relief sculpture or painting depicting something of the history of the former inhabitants of this city.

         

Teresa Jameson had been searching for physical evidence of another kind. Industrial artifacts would tell her something about the level of technological development the people of Cinnus had reached, what industries had supported their economy, what manufacturing processes they had used. She searched for tools, weapons, ornaments, crockery--things of everyday use--as well as evidence of the methods of production. Finally, at the far end of town near the western riverbank, she came into what seemed to be an industrial district; there were small factories for the manufacture of glass, pottery, and metal implements of various sorts. But the absence of individual artifacts--glass jars, ceramic vases, discarded bits of iron or copper--led her to the deduction that whatever had happened to this city had not happened overnight. The inhabitants had had time to take with them everything that could be easily transported, even scrap metal. But why had they left?

         

She stepped back outside and found herself facing the deep dry riverbed and a water-powered mill--and the answer to her question. She walked over to the great wheel and looked up and downstream at the bare riverbanks, which must once have been a ribbon of green in the surrounding barren terrain. How long, she wondered, had these people lived on a river that inexorably year by year dropped in its channel? How many years had they waited for rains that never came? How long was the great wheel idle, the water in the river channel too low to turn it, before the inhabitants of this city gave up and left? And where had they gone?

 

Sajayit Chammu's first task at a new archaeological site was always to try to find a library, a temple or church, a museum, city hall--anywhere that the inhabitants might have kept records. Once a people reached the cultural level characterized by the building of cities they usually made some attempt to record the achievements of their civilization, and the inhabitants of this ancient city were no exception. In the building approximately in the center of town Chammu found what he was looking for.


What he saw when he stepped inside took his breath away. He stood at one end of a room that stretched the entire fifty-meter length of the building. It contained case upon case of library-style shelving holding thousands of clay slabs and papyrus-like scrolls. Chammu stared, transfixed, at the incredible find. At last he stepped forward through two rows of stone tables--for researchers?--and very carefully withdrew one of the scrolls and unrolled it. Dark brown ink in a delicate runic script filled the fibrous sheet. He replaced it gently and pulled out one of the thin clay slabs. It was no more than a few millimeters thick, covered with the same runic script and baked hard, and protected with a clear sealant of some kind. Chammu stood quietly a moment holding the past in his hands, feeling an affinity with the people who had shared his passion for history, for knowledge. He set up his tricorder on the nearest table and began to make a visual record of each slab and scroll, wondering how long it had been since anyone had worked with these materials. How many people had sat at these very tables and studied their past as he was doing now? Surrounded by their accumulated memories he did not even notice when the light began to fade.

         

         


         

The pitch of Challenger's engines changed as Sulu throttled down, landing on low power to keep the swirl of dust and sand to a minimum. He signaled the archaeologists that their ride to camp had arrived. Danny Chay stood and stretched. "I'm gonna take a walk and see if they've found anything interesting. Want to come?"

         

Sulu shook his head. "Not this time, thanks. You like archaeology?"

         

"I studied it a little in high school. But I liked flying too much to stay with it." He grinned, knowing Sulu shared the feeling. "Be right back."


Sulu stepped out, too, glad of a chance to stretch his legs. Sweating already, he walked around to the other side of the shuttlecraft toward the desert, drawn toward an oddly shaped boulder twenty meters or so away. When he reached the massive orange rock he found that if he took a few steps to his left the boulder was large enough to block the city and the shuttlecraft from his field of vision. He turned his back on them and stood there for a long moment, letting his eyes travel over the lonely, rocky terrain, shadowy now in the slanting light of the setting sun. Chay was right. Gorgeous and depressing. And disheartening. For a fleeting moment Sulu had an inkling of what it might feel like to be alone in country like that. Unceasingly hostile, silent, empty--Cinnus' terrible beauty. He remembered that he had been horrified at the thought of Kirk dying in the transporter beam or in space. He wondered if perhaps that death might have been preferable to the death he saw before him now.

         

Far behind him he heard the laughing approach of Chay and the archaeologists. He went to meet them, feeling the need of their company.

 

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Continue to Chapters 4-7

 

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