SURVIVAL

 

[Prologue-Chapter 3 ] [Chapters 8-11 ] [Chapters 12-15] [Chapter 16-Epilogue]

 

Chapter Four


Kirk woke up early and rolled off his bunk. He walked lazily into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. The sensation was so pleasant he splashed again, and decided to take a shower. He turned on the water, enjoying the sloshing sounds in the stall, the humid smell that filled the little room. He realized suddenly that he was thirsty. Leaving the shower running so he could listen to it he took a glass off the shelf over the sink, ran water into it from the tap, drank deeply. Delicious and refreshing--he filled the glass again, drank again. Oddly, this time the water seemed to make him thirsty. He gulped more water, wanting relief from this suddenly insistent thirst. The water did not help. Frantically, he drank and drank, and all the while from the shower stall came the sound of running water . . .

         

         

         

Swallowing convulsively, he woke to draining, suffocating heat, conscious only of desperate thirst. He was already reaching for the drinking tube when he remembered that the pouch was dry.


He had slept during the worst of the third day's heat in a tiny cave he had discovered by nearly falling into it as he descended yet another in the unending succession of rocky slopes. By anchoring the square cloth at the entrance he had been able to shut out much of the sun's heat and light; relative to the oven outside, the cave felt almost cool. He squirmed out, stretching his body its full length for the first time in hours. He freed the cloth and rewrapped it around his arm and torso, needing three tries to get it right. He stood stiffly, his balance uncertain, found northeast again and continued down the slope. The rock was littered with patches of gravel impossible to avoid and occasionally he found himself sliding on his backside, scraping and bruising his right side as he tried to protect the left arm. For the most part he succeeded in keeping his feet, but every downhill step jarred his body, especially his pounding head. Finally he reached the bottom, tripping and sliding the last meter or two on his knees.

         

He lay there for several minutes, resting, wanting only to remain. Why did he keep punishing himself? Why not just lie down and be as comfortable as possible while he waited for the inevitable?

         

The treacherous thought propelled him up off the ground. It was the first time he had wanted to quit fighting and it terrified him. He could not stop again, could not sleep, could not allow himself to relax and give in to defeat. Never give up, he said aloud, but he could not hear his voice. Never give up.

         

Something moved to his left and he turned and saw a landing party at an oasis. Gray-green shrubs and trees sheltered a little spring. He turned from his course and started toward them, calling to his crewmen. They didn't hear him so he called louder and walked faster. They began to get into their shuttlecraft, still unaware of him. He broke into a stumbling run but could not seem to get any nearer. He stopped, gasping for breath, knowing then that it was illusion. He watched the shuttlecraft take off and fly away, his chest contracting in a dry, tearless sob. He stared after the craft until it disappeared in the distance, then let his gaze drop back to the illusion of the oasis. He knew it was not real, knew it was a trick, but still he could not tear himself away. He took a tentative step toward it, then another, and another. It shimmered, but remained. He gathered all his will around him like armor, and turned his back on the water and the trees and the imprint of the shuttlecraft in the sand.


A few minutes later, or maybe hours--he did not know, and had not the energy to care--a breeze lifted his hair. He was glad to feel it. It was the first stirring of the still air he had felt. Refreshed, he took a little interest in his surroundings and saw that the terrain had changed. He walked now on a flat of desert pavement--a plain from which all loose sand and gravel had been washed and blown away, leaving only smooth small rocks embedded in the desert floor. The resulting cobblestone-like surface made for difficult and uncomfortable walking; he became aware of aching feet and ankles.

         

The breeze seemed to be gaining strength. He threw back the hood of the softsuit, letting the wind dry the sweat in his hair and on his neck, reveling in the cooling effect. But after only seconds his scalp was baking in the afternoon sun and he replaced the hood. Without warning a great gust of wind flung him to the ground, knocking the breath from him and skinning his face. Stunned, he rolled over and sat up to look behind him, and something inside him shrank in the face of what he saw. A massive cloud of sand, dark and churning, pursued him from the south. Petrified, he stared helpless for precious seconds, and then he was moving, running with pitiful slowness before the howling wall, stumbling on the broken ground. He turned, and already he could no longer see distant slopes that had been visible only moments before. He had no hope of reaching the plateau he could see far ahead and possible shelter before the storm was upon him. Clumsy with fear and fatigue, he halted and unfastened the square cloth from his arm. Lying down with his back to the storm he wrapped himself in the cloth with his right arm protecting his head, and waited, hoping that the several layers of cloth would be adequate protection. Desert sandstorms could pit windows, sandblast paint, and strip the skin from exposed flesh.


When he felt the first sharp pain he knew that the storm drove not only sand before it. The same sort of wind that kept this area clear of loose sand and gravel was pelting him with the debris it had cleared this time. A few pellets were sharp or heavy enough to cause him real discomfort even through the tough cloth, but nothing of any size hit him in the head and for this small relief he was grateful. Then the storm gathered strength, feeding on itself, its fury growing. Screaming gusts whirled around him, their banshee wails unnerving. Audible beneath the screams was the incessant rasp of sand scraping stone. For five or ten eternal minutes the turbulence shoved his body over the hard, lumpy desert floor until, bruised and blind in his cocoon, he was completely disoriented and no longer knew whether he was moving or not.

        

Finally the buffeting ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and there was silence. Kirk cautiously unrolled himself from the cloth--and almost wished that he had not. A pall of dust hung in the air, so thick that he could not see the far plateau and was unsure of direction. Uncertain what to do, he stayed where he was for some minutes, but, afraid to wait too long, he soon started walking. The softsuit's goggles protected his eyes from the swirling dust, though the dark lenses made it difficult to see in the murky light. He fashioned a sort of burnoose from the cloth to keep the choking haze from his nose and mouth. Eventually the dust would clear and he could find his course again.

         

He could not see the rough, stony ground on which he walked, and placed his feet with infinite care. His natural agility had long ago succumbed to exhaustion; he was heavy-footed and continually in danger of tripping. He had fallen so often already that his knees ached constantly. His right arm and shoulder that had borne the brunt of so many falls were stiff and strained, his hand and wrist swollen; he must not lose effective use of that arm, too.

         

So gradually that for a while he was not fully aware of it, the clouds of dust began to settle. He was able to see the sun, blood red through the haze, and found that he was not far off course. He reoriented himself and continued on through the failing light, toward blurred shapes in the distance. Before the dust cleared completely, night fell and the stars appeared, the individual points of light diffused by the tinted goggles and the dust until they formed a milky white cloud punctuated by a fuzzy yellow moon.

         

After a while he realized that the dust had finally dispersed, and he removed the goggles and turned the burnoose back into a sling. He couldn't remember the period of time between sunset and now, but he knew he must have continued walking since he didn't recognize the hard-edged shapes around him. It worried him that he drifted in and out of awareness, but since he had not strayed from his course perhaps his body was simply conserving energy.

         

When he was lucid he thought constantly, compulsively, of water, of how it would feel to drink it, to splash in it, to dive deeply and let it surround him. In the starlight he saw rivers, lakes, waterfalls. But he steeled his resolve against the temptations and walked by them all, saying you can't fool me, I know you are not real. Always a part of him would want to stop a while to rest, to sleep. But he was obsessed with walking, with movement; he was terrified that if he stopped now he would never go on.

         

         

         

         

Some time later, he saw a figure in the near distance. It did not move. He kept going. He came to the figure. It was familiar. Blue shirt, black hair, upswept brows and ears.

         

Spock, you're here, he said joyfully. You came for me. He knew his mouth could produce no sound, but Spock would hear him.

         

The Vulcan said nothing.

         

You're here to take me home, aren't you, Spock?

         

The slim figure was silent.

         

Then he knew. Spock was dead. Had already died on the searing plain. His Vulcan was here to guide him to the same fate. He gazed into the depths of the coal-black eyes. No, Spock. Not even for you.

         

He staggered on. And through the long night, the silent Vulcan walked beside him.

         

         

         

         

When Spock left him he did not know. On some level he felt encouraged by the Vulcan shade's disappearance. Spock had given up trying to take him. He was not finished. And yet, he missed Spock. Even the silent form was company, and during his whole ordeal he had not been as lonely as he was now.

         

He drifted in and out of delirium, uncertain whether what he saw and heard was dream or reality. Sometimes he thought he knew, only to be fooled at the last minute. Once he was climbing a mountain that had a lake at the top. He tried and tried to climb it but the handholds kept moving. Then the mountain disappeared and he was lying on the ground, feebly pulling himself along. Another time there was a door and he knew it led to the transporter platform where Scotty could beam him up home. But every time he started toward it a voice called to him and distracted him, and when he looked back for the door it was gone. He vowed that the next time it appeared he would go straight to it and ignore the voice, but the voice always sounded like Spock or McCoy and he could not help turning at the sound. Sunrise found him dousing himself with water from a small pool, but then he was kneeling next to a low dune covering himself with sand.

         

He trudged on, his stride shortened with fatigue. Every fall jarred him to his senses, so that whenever he was fully aware of his situation he was on hand and knees. He did not know how much ground, if any, he covered between falls. He wondered bleakly if he would be lucid enough to recognize real water if he saw it. That would be the ultimate agony, to come to a river and walk right through or beside it, thinking it false.

         

Eyes on the ground, watching his footing, he saw a small shadow cross his path. Knowing it was a trick, and proud that he retained enough sense to realize it, he did not look up. He pressed on, taking one short step after another. Somewhere in the distance he heard the cry of a bird, the first animal sound he had heard. A thought demanded attention. Something about birds. He couldn't remember. It didn't matter anyway. A hallucination was not worth such intense mental effort. But when another shadow crossed his path he could not resist looking up, and saw three small birds high above him flying almost due north. Birds. Something about birds.

         

They had to have water.


His numbed brain could not be aroused by even this all-important thought. Another thought insisted that he listen. What is it, he thought impatiently. The thought continued on its own, ignoring his bad temper. Desert creatures tend to be nocturnal, it said. If these birds have been out hunting they are probably returning to water.


He considered this, and found that the thought of changing course distressed him. To travel toward the northeast was habit now. He had returned to his direction after many deflections and distractions, and to abandon it now seemed too much to ask from his exhausted body and spirit.

         

No, he said to the thought, no.

         

Four dun-colored birds flew over, cawing loudly, and he followed them. They were soon out of sight but he found a landmark on the horizon and plodded on with slow, weary steps, resigned now to his choice.

         

Later--hours, he thought; the sun was high in the sky now--he came to what seemed the edge of the world. In his semi-aware state he might have stepped off the hundred-meter-high mesa but he stopped in time. The brush with disaster brought him to his senses and he stared vaguely about, remembering only dimly how he had arrived at the precipice. His first thought was refusal to attempt even one more slope, even though instinct knew that to say I can't was death. Then he looked out instead of down, and saw, many kilometers away, brilliant light reflecting off a river that wound through a valley carved into multi-colored stone. There was a second flash from something on the riverbank--something metallic, he thought. He rubbed his eyes, wondering how he would decide if this were real or illusion. He remembered that at first he had believed all the other hallucinations to be real. Perhaps the simple fact that he questioned this sight meant that it was real.

         

There was, in the end, only one way to find out. He paced the rim of the mesa, searching for an easier way down. Unable to find a gentler incline, he stepped carefully off the edge. For a few seconds he actually managed to stay upright. But days of unceasing effort, of pushing his body to its limits and beyond, had taken their toll. Legs weak and shaky, balance precarious, at last, inevitably, he lost his footing and pitched headlong down the slope.


         

         

         

When he regained consciousness he lay at the bottom of a high, steep embankment. He shook his head stupidly, as a wounded animal might, trying to clear his thoughts. He sat up, and after a moment stood, legs wide apart for balance, wishing the world would stop spinning. He was bleeding from his nose and ears; the blood dripped onto the softsuit and blended with the days-old stains already there. He had fallen. That much he knew, and he was supposed to be going somewhere, but he could not remember where, or why he was going. Confused, he looked around for a clue, but saw nothing that helped him decide. But he must walk, must go somewhere. He chose a direction at random and staggered forward.

         

He walked and walked and it seemed to him that he had been doing this forever. He was beginning to feel cramps in his legs and abdomen, and he knew this was bad but could not remember why. Occasionally he had to double over, pressing hard on his middle for relief, and once he had to stop to massage a cramp from his right thigh, but when he could he kept walking. The sun was high overhead and he thought perhaps he should shelter from the heat. But the very idea of halting was upsetting so he kept walking even when he was no longer consciously aware that he was doing so. He often ran into rocks that blocked his way; instead of going around he would start off in an entirely new direction. The fall had pushed the hood off his head; he did not think to replace it and his eyes, unprotected now, burned from the brightness of the sun and the sand blown about by the desert breezes.

         

In his wandering he lost all perception of time and did not know how long he had been walking when he saw the river. Sunlight beamed off the little ribbon of water with such force, as if to demand his notice, that he had to avert his eyes. When he looked again it was still there. He started toward it, but just like all the other times it withdrew from him. He thought he ran toward it, but in reality he only shuffled forward a little faster. Farther and farther from him it receded until he stopped, and then it stopped, too. He tried to turn from it, disgusted with himself for giving in to illusion after being fooled so many times, but something in him would not let him walk away. He looked back, and the river now seemed very near, no more than a body length away. It really was very pretty, and its gurgling soothed him.


Quite deliberately he sat down on the ground to watch it, but once he allowed his body to relax even slightly, he slept.

         

         

         

         

Flashes of light. Dancing inside his eyelids.

         

He fought to open his eyes. The lids were blistered, swollen. He was astonished to see that the river was still there. Sunlight dancing on water. Flares pricking his vision. He watched, fascinated.

         

Illusion. But beautiful.

         

He seemed to be lying at the water's edge. The ripples reached almost to the fingertips of his outstretched hand.

         

Beautiful illusion. His last vision a nightmare of loveliness. His eyes closed.



 


Something brushed his cheek.

         

He opened his eyes, angry and petulant. Why couldn't he sleep? Why did he have to awaken again and again to the tormenting sight?


Suddenly, though, he wanted to see it again, on some level finding comfort in its reappearance. But he could not see clearly--something was in the way. He would have to bring his hand, still outstretched toward the image, to his face to clear it away. The hand in front of him moved nearer. Torn and raw, it did not look like his hand, but it obeyed his commands.

         

His hand moved the leafy branch from his face.

         

Branch? Leaves?

         

The hand groped forward. He tried to stop it, stop it from destroying the illusion. He was afraid of the torturous dreams that might come in its place. The good illusion seemed so real. So would the bad.

         

Still his hand moved desperately forward. The fingers stretched. Touched. Felt wetness.


It was real.

 

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

 

Chapter Five

 

Stars everywhere, horizon to horizon. Sulu leaned back against rock still warm from the day's scorching heat and looked skyward. He had fallen into the stargazing habit, and spent some time each evening out under the canopy. The thousands of winking lights seemed warm and friendly, and he even thought he might have located the one point of light that was Enterprise.


Once the initial beamdown target had been relocated the landing party had set up their base camp with the equipment Sulu and Chay had brought down on their first trip. Two large, portable tents of heat-reflecting plastisheen stood near the riverbank. One housed the geologists and their equipment and was a combination laboratory and communal bedroom. The search personnel based here bunked in the other tent with the supplies, and the arrival of the archaeologists had made the second tent rather cramped quarters.


Everyone except Sulu was inside, the geological team hurrying to put their data in order for Spock's assistants, the archaeologists engaged in intense discussion of the day's discoveries. Usually Sulu joined in, finding their enthusiasm catching though he did not share Danny Chay's genuine interest in the field, but he seemed of a one-track mind tonight and found it difficult to push gloomy thoughts aside.


He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him and saw Martha Franklin coming toward him bearing two mugs of something very cold, judging by the condensation dripping from them. Franklin and her partner Bob Hooks flew the third-shift search; they went out after midnight and flew into the early morning. She handed Sulu a mug, nodding at his thanks, and sat down next to him.


"I just love camping, don't you?" She waved her mug. "I mean, really. Ice water, air-conditioned tents, synthesized food. Whatever happened to roughing it--getting back to nature?" She gave an exaggerated sigh.


"On this planet, nature will kill you," Sulu pointed out seriously, at first resisting her lighthearted effort. But after a moment his natural good humor asserted itself and he teased, "Besides, didn't I hear someone begging to come along on the supply trip so she could grab a real shower instead of a sponge bath?"


She giggled. "Touché. And I wouldn't trade that ice machine for all the campfires in the world. Bob's coming up for a shower, too. All us tough security people are the first to beg for mercy."


"Yeah, helmsmen are tough like that, too," Sulu said with a grin. If it had been Franklin's intention to cheer him up she'd succeeded. He enjoyed as well the cold water cooling him from inside. Closer readings and samples analysis had confirmed that the water on Cinnus was indeed safe to drink, at least from this river. But the metallic flavor was a little much for his taste, and he welcomed the portable synthesizer as much as Franklin did.


"You realize, of course," Franklin said, "that you are missing a scintillating discussion in there. You sure you want to sit out here and sweat?"


"Nope." Sulu pushed up off his rock. "Let's go scintillate."


They found the discussion still in full swing. Several geologists had crowded into the second tent as well and the result was a scientific free-for-all, theories about Cinnus and its former inhabitants flying back and forth. Three more cities had been discovered during the last two days. "If we find any more cities even Jones is going to have to come down here," Robbs had joked, referring to Enterprise's head of Archaeology. "It's a standing joke in the whole department that he hates field work--give him a library any day."


Two of the cities, to which three-member archaeological teams had also been assigned, were in the same pristine condition as Sulu and Chay's find. The other, however, offered mute testimony to the power of desert forces. The tape of the flyover, made by a searchcraft based farther east, was running on the portable viewscreen in the tent. Larger than the others found so far, the city was only partially visible. Desert sands encroaching from the southwest had consumed nearly half of the total area; of some of the buildings only rooftops could be seen.


"It's a good bet what happened to this civilization," Jameson said softly.


Outside the sound of approaching engines announced the arrival of shuttlecraft Galileo from the westernmost search sector, and Sulu and Robbs went out to meet it. The craft landed smoothly and security officers Connors and Holmes hopped out, Connors carrying a small box full of data tapes. "Sorry we're late. We found another city this afternoon and that put us behind schedule." Distracted for a second by Robbs' sudden snicker, she decided it was an inside joke and continued, "These are today's tapes; the one on top has the flyover of the city if you want to make a copy."


Robbs accepted the box and disappeared into the tent, and Sulu asked, "Did you see anything promising out your way?"


Holmes shook his head, trading a sober glace with his partner. "No, same as always. Just--" He searched for description, then chose a word that matched the expression on all their faces. "--emptiness."


Sulu had nothing hopeful or confident to say in return, for his day had been the same. "Well, thanks for bringing the tapes. We'll get them upstairs."


Connors and Holmes reboarded Galileo and the craft took off, the heat of its engines hardly noticeable in the hot night air. Sulu went in to collect everyone and everything going along with him, and found the archaeologists in lively spirits. "That settles it," Robbs was saying, exchanging impish grins with Chammu and Jameson. "Jones'll have to come down now."


"All aboard!" Sulu called. "Has everybody checked over the shopping list?" A chorus of affirmatives answered him, and soon he, Hooks, and Franklin had climbed into Challenger and taken off into the desert night.


They flew in companionable silence for a while, the taciturn Hooks dozing in a rear seat. Then Sulu turned to Franklin, who was gazing absently into the inky black. "Martha, thanks for corning out to cheer me up. I appreciate it."


She shifted in her seat, embarrassed. "Well, you know, you're always so--sunny. We're not used to seeing you so quiet." Understanding filled her soft voice. "I think it's harder for you--and anyone on the bridge crew--than it is for us. I mean--there's a little more distance between the captain and the rest of us. You know him in a personal sense."


"Everyone's pretty quick to write him off." Hooks' lazy voice from the back startled them.


Sulu glanced over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"


Hooks shrugged. "I grew up in country like that. On Iring IV. It's rough and unfriendly, but not uninhabitable. If he made it to water, he'll be all right, even if he does have to wait a long time to be rescued."


Franklin frowned. "That's a big 'if,' Bob. But you're right--even in the desert it's at least possible to find enough food if you don't poison yourself in the process. But to have to wait all alone--no one to talk to, nothing to read. I think I'd go crazy." And then she voiced the fear they all shared. "But if he didn't make it through the transporter, we might never know--" Her voice trailed off, and Hooks' unconcerned expression slipped badly.


Up ahead a tiny point of light was beginning to take a familiar shape. Sulu made a small course correction and headed Challenger toward home. "I'm just hoping we find something, anything. It'll be awfully hard to leave without--" He stopped, unable to say without finding his body. "Without knowing."





Uhura sat in the nearly deserted mess on deck five. It was a little late for dinner and only three crew members besides herself were in the room. She looked up at the swish of the doors and was surprised to see Pavel Chekov head for the synthesizers along the opposite wall. When he turned around, tray in hand, she waved at him and he came to join her. He sat down heavily, his brown hair falling across his forehead, and simply stared at the tray for a moment as if he was too tired even to eat.


"I'm glad to see you got through at a decent hour for a change," she said, but her cheery tone could not mask her obvious concern.


He looked at her with eyes dull and red with fatigue. "This is just a dinner break. I hev an hour."


Uhura was instantly infuriated. "Damn Mr. Spock!" Shocked, Chekov quickly looked around to make sure the others hadn't heard. "Duty and all that only go so far, Pav. You need some rest!"


"Fine!" he hissed, trying to keep his own voice down. "You tell that to Mr. Spock. I vill come along and vatch." He jammed a forkful of goulash into his mouth and glared at her.


Uhura forced herself to calm down. "Okay," she conceded uncomfortably. "Point taken."


Chekov swallowed and gulped down some coffee. "I'm sorry, Nyota, I didn't mean to snap. I'm bad-tempered when I'm tired." He ate another mouthful and then said, "You know, Mr. Spock has not slept at all since this started. He knows I can't do that. But if he's going to push himself that hard I must at least do what I can."


"But how can you be sure you're doing your best when you're so tired?" She said it gently, so he wouldn't feel insulted, but he didn't have the energy to take offense.


"Mr. Spock double-checks my readings anyway. He hasn't found any mistakes."


"Well, if he double-checks your readings anyway," Uhura said, fuming more quietly this time, "then why doesn't he just take the readings himself?"


"That's not fair and you know it. He can't do everything at the same time. Recalibrating the sensors didn't vork so he has to find another vay to solve the problem."


"Can he?"


"Eventually, yes. But in time? I don't know." He sighed and pushed the tray away, weariness making him look older than his twenty-two years. "I keep asking myself--if ve can miss a whole town, a civilization, how can ve possibly find one man? If only I had found the transporter trail . . ." He said the last so softly that she was sure he didn't know he'd said it aloud.


So that was it. He was blaming himself for the lost chance at the beginning, pushing himself so hard out of guilt. Uhura donned her best superior-officer manner. "Ensign, you can't do this to yourself. If the instruments are inefficient, they're inefficient. It isn't your fault!"


She had no chance to find out if her lecture had any effect. Just then Scott entered the mess, programmed his dinner and a pot of coffee and joined them. They talked of nothing important while Scott and Chekov finished their meals, reluctant to sour the all-too-brief taste of normal routine. Scotty was in a surprisingly good mood and Uhura hoped that meant the end of their troubles was in sight, but he didn't volunteer any information and she didn't ask.


Chekov was just about to leave when Sulu, his hair still damp from his shower, walked in and saw them, grabbed a cup and headed over. He had not even reached the table before Scott asked, "Did y' bring up some more tapes, lad?"


"Yes, sir," Sulu said, sitting down and pouring some coffee. "I left them in the science labs. They said they'd call you if they found something."


Scott pushed back his chair and stood. "I think I'll just save them the trouble." He deposited his tray in the disposal chute and disappeared through the doors.


"I think he's on to something," Uhura informed Sulu, "but he didn't give us any particulars."


"Maybe he'll finish soon, then. These back-and-forth trips are getting old," Sulu said with a weary smile. "How's it going up here?"


Uhura looked sideways at Chekov, who said, "No change. Ve're still depending on vat you bring."


"You're lucky to be on the surface, really able to help," Uhura added.


Sulu dropped his eyes. "I don't know. I thought I was smart to get down there where I could do something, instead of just sit in the ship and wait like everyone else. But now I'm not so sure. It's harder and harder to think positively when I have to look all day at what he's facing." Unwillingly he added, "If he's out there."


Uhura said grimly, "There are quite a few who think he isn't."


"I know. I fly with one of them," Sulu said without bitterness, his tone saying, and I can't really blame him.


Hooks and Franklin, also freshly scrubbed, found Sulu and reported that the supplies were loaded. They left immediately, Sulu taking his coffee; Hooks and Franklin needed to get back with Challenger to begin their search shift.


Chekov took a last gulp from his own cup. "I must get back to vork."


Uhura stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You'll think about what I said?"


His eyes met hers but he made her no promises. "I'm all right." He managed a tired little smile. "Thanks for vorrying."


She sat for some minutes after he left, thinking hard. She had to find a way to stop him from overworking to make up for an error that existed only in his imagination.





Long hours later, Chekov stumbled into his cabin and collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to undress. He closed his eyes, but still he could see colored squiggles on a black background, still hear bleeps and chirps. His eyes were bloodshot from scrutinizing readouts for the tiniest flaw, the minutest jump that could be a communicator, a phaser power pak, a man.


Better than any of them he knew the futility of the sensor search. For all their limited area, those on the ground had a better chance of finding the captain than he did. He and Spock had wasted two days on the recalibration that had proved useless. He was constantly aware of how much area he was missing--at least half of the total area he searched--but he tried to minimize the loss by searching in as narrow a band as possible. And narrow band searches were blindingly difficult. They would not find Kirk this way. If they found him at all.


He slept fitfully, and little squiggles haunted his dreams.





Spock stepped into the quiet darkness of his cabin. It was after midnight, but the great starship still bustled with activity. He had only just dismissed Ensign Chekov, who was quite fatigued when he went off to bed. Spock tried to guard against his tendency to push his human subordinates too hard; he realized that Chekov was overextending himself but under present circumstances could do nothing to alleviate the situation. Indeed, after four days with no sleep and little food his own perceptions were beginning to dull. He had reluctantly borrowed Lieutenant Sorensen from the transporter crew to monitor sensor readings while he and Chekov took some time for rest. Unlike Chekov, Spock did not need sleep, but he must take time to meditate, to renew his body's flagging energies, or risk inaccuracy in his own work.


The message light on his desk computer was glowing. He turned up the cabin lights and sat down at the terminal, calling up the now-familiar list of reports. Data gathered and catalogued by Biology, Botany, Archaeology, Geology--summaries, hypotheses, speculations from the science departments working overtime. Every night he spent a few hours perusing the information, familiarizing himself with the general nature of the reports and trying to find a clue to the solution to the sensor problems.


He should meditate before he read the files tonight, however; his mnemonic skills would be sharpened by the mental exercise. But one file demanded his immediate attention. Giotto's report on the search for Kirk was, as always, negative, but he read it through, disturbed as always by the excruciatingly slow progress. He suppressed the urgent desire to leave his quarters and return immediately to work on the sensors; he would work much faster and more efficiently after meditation. It was unlikely, he knew, that even sensors functioning optimally could locate one man in the vast area they must search in the limited time the ship would remain in orbit. He and Giotto had already developed a plan to leave security teams behind when Enterprise departed to continue the search until a Federation mining vessel arrived. Though less than forty percent complete, the geological survey had gathered so much promising data that Spock was certain a ship would be assigned to Cinnus without delay. Of course, a mining vessel's sensors would be no more useful than those of the Enterprise if he and Scott could not find a way to counteract the distortion.


He closed the Security file and dimmed the lights in the cabin. Kneeling on his meditation stone, he began the mental recitation, the ritual that would free his mind from external distractions; he must concentrate on maintaining a clear and logical perception of events. He had not tried to meditate since Kirk's disappearance; he had been so preoccupied with external responsibilities that he had not had the time to prepare himself to withstand the inevitable emotional reaction. He had simply shut out the emotion, ignoring it--always a mistake--instead of letting it exist in its own right and then subsuming it to his will.


Now as he tried to accept the emotions within and conquer them he was assailed by all that he had ignored during the last four days. The only outward sign of his struggle was a slight frown, a tightness about his mouth, an occasional tremor of his hands, held before him in the ritual clasp. Inside, his mind and spirit were raging, assaulted by anguish, worry, fear, and the beginnings of grief. Unable to restrain himself he succumbed to inescapable desperation and reached out, groping futilely through time and space for some thread of contact. Part of him stood by and shamed him. You are a fool even to try this. You know beyond doubt that you will fail, and yet you try. How human to do this. Yes, he cried, reaching, how human.


And from below there was only silence.





McCoy woke from troubled sleep and stared blearily at the chronometer beside his bed. Not even 0500. Another restless night. If this kept up he was going to have to take a couple of the little red pills he kept on hand for Jim. And why did he have to think of Jim the second he woke up? A few minutes respite would have been nice.


He knew from bitter experience that trying to get back to sleep was a waste of time, so he climbed out of bed, showered, and dressed. What he needed to do was find out what the hell was going on. He'd been working obsessively the last few days, trying not to think or worry, but suddenly he felt the need to get back in the loop. He went looking for Spock, and to his surprise found him just around the corner from his quarters, heading for the turbolift at the end of the corridor. Spock turned at McCoy's call; he looked as if he had had a bad night, too, and the sight of Spock showing any fatigue whatsoever so astonished McCoy that he momentarily forgot his impatient questions.


"Spock, you look awful. Are you all right?"


"I am fine, Doctor. You wanted something?"


The Vulcan's chilly tone told McCoy that yes, something was bothering him, and no, it wasn't any of McCoy's business. That was all the information on Spock's health he was going to get unless he really pushed, and he was in no mood to try to outwit Spock's habitual reticence. He shifted gears and returned to his original purpose. "I wanted to get a progress report." He was struck with the painful realization that the reason he was out of touch was because Jim had not been around to come down to Sickbay to discuss events, and with Jim gone McCoy had no real reason to go up to the bridge. "I've–been so busy I haven't kept up," he said lamely, knowing it was not the Vulcan he was trying to fool.


"I cannot stop now," Spock replied. "I have just received a summons from Mr. Scott. If you would care to accompany me I will brief you on the way."


McCoy needed no further invitation. While the Vulcan updated him on the activities of the last four days, McCoy realized that he had not even seen Spock since he had come to Sickbay to report the results of the tests with the homing transmitters. Are we so distant we can't even say hello now and then? he wondered.


At first neither of them knew what to make of the sight that greeted them as they turned into the main transporter room. The floor was littered with large and small pieces of plastic, metal, wiring, tubing, tools. They heard someone cursing. As the doors swished shut behind them a muffled voice called out, "Careful where y' step!"


The source of the cursing was head down and end up on--or in--the transporter platform. "Mr. Scott?"


Scott extricated himself to sit on his heels, and greeted them with a red face and a broad smile. "Top o' the mornin' to you, Mr. Spock, Doctor! How would you gentlemen like some good news?" His unexpected cheer belied the dark circles around his eyes.


"It'd be a nice change," McCoy replied tentatively.


Spock's control was admirable; McCoy, standing right beside him, could barely hear his quick intake of breath. "Do I take it, Mr. Scott, that you have found the source of our difficulty?"


"Aye, sir." Scott flourished a pencil-laser and gave a half-bow from the waist. "That I have." He sobered quickly. "And a good thing it is, too. It troubled me tha' we might have had to use the transporters again without knowing if they were trustworthy. We've a lot o' people down there now--too many for the shuttlecraft t' bring off in an emergency."


"Agreed." Spock studied the platform, from which all the debris on the floor seemed to originate. "The problem is here then, in the platform circuitry?"


"Yes and no." Spock's right eyebrow twitched. "The problem, as we suspected from the system check, is a power transfer instability. We had no warning of it because as far as the transporter sensors and bridge sensors were concerned everything was working properly."


McCoy broke in. "You mean the sensors didn't know they were faulty?"


"Exactly. I had t' find the cause of the undependable readin's first, before I started on repairs. It takes operating sensors to test the repair work. It's a damn vicious circle is what it is."


"And the cause is?" Spock prompted, impatient with the roundabout explanation.


"Intermittent low-level gravity fluctuations, frequent and unpredictable. Ordinarily the transporter sensors could read even tiny ones like these with no trouble and compensate, but the mineral readings masked the fluctuations from up here so the fluctuations played havoc with the transporter, making it use too little power or too much. We needed the more accurate ground readings to identify the problem."


"Can you fix it, Scotty?"


"O' course I can fix it," Scott retorted, mildly outraged by McCoy's question. "Once I knew all that all I had to do was rebalance the power input from Transporter Control and figure out the best way to reconfigure the transfer circuitry so that it automatically compensates for the fluctuations."


"And the best way is to make adjustments in the platforms," Spock concluded.


"Aye."


"Do you have a repair estimate?"


"Well, we've go' the rebalancing and reconfiguring ahead of us. It's delicate work but it shouldn't take too long--I'd say by afternoon we'll be through."


"Well done, Mr. Scott. Using your research our repair of the main sensors should not take even that long."


Scott nodded in agreement. "I've routed our procedures t' your station."


"Good." Spock stepped carefully over to the console and activated the 'com unit. "Mr. Chekov."


After several seconds a young sleepy voice answered, "Yes, Mr. Spock." McCoy was frowning already. "Meet me on the bridge--"


McCoy interrupted furiously, "Spock, it's not even five-thirty in the morning. When did you let him go to bed?"


Spock considered a moment and decided it would perhaps be advisable to allow Chekov a bit more sleep; his work would be more efficient. "--in one hour, Ensign." McCoy rolled his eyes.


"Aye, ser," the sleepy voice answered. "I vill be there."


"Spock out."


"Very generous of you," McCoy commented sarcastically, but Spock ignored him.


"I'll be on the bridge." He threaded his way neatly through the parts strewn over the floor and left the room.


McCoy could not remain angry, however, in the face of Scott's welcome news. "You did it, Scotty," he said, his voice hoarse with grateful joy.


Scott smiled. "Aye, we're almost there. But, Doctor," he added gravely, "it's still a big planet," and some of the hopeful light in McCoy's eyes died.





It was just before lunch when Chammu found the Rosetta Stone. He had recorded so many slabs and scrolls that he did not really study them anymore as he worked, concentrating rather on recording as many as possible; as no plans had yet been made for long-term archaeological study on Cinnus, he was forced to make every minute in the library count. During the day he had no time to savor the delicacy of the script or to try to decipher some of the texts; he spent much of his evenings studying the tapes he had made during the day.


He had already recorded the scroll and had begun to roll it up when he stopped and stared. There were pictures on the page. With a word beside each drawing. River, sun, tree, spear, door, window--all with runic letters beside them. Could it be . . .? He quickly withdrew several more scrolls from the same shelf and found dozens, hundreds, of the illustrated entries. It was a dictionary of some kind, perhaps even meant to teach children a basic vocabulary. It was the one find which could have excited him even more than his discovery of the library itself. Jubilantly he called Robbs and Jameson and when they had joined him set them to work recording, too. The linguistics banks of the ship's main computer had been working on translating the material he had already recorded, but with no success. Once this primer was fed into the data file, finally some real progress in translation could be made.





When Chammu's ecstatic call came in, Sulu and Chay were dispatched at once to deliver the new recordings to the ship; Spock wanted a look at them immediately. They landed Challenger in the avenue far enough away from the library to avoid sending clouds of dust into the building. They both got out, Chay especially anxious to see the document that hopefully would do for the runic script of Cinnus what the Rosetta Stone had done for Egyptian hieroglyphics: provide the key to translation.


Inside the library the archaeologists heard them land and then heard their footsteps around the back of the building. What were they doing back there? Robbs wondered, but realized when Sulu and Chay walked in from the front that ricocheting sound waves had played a trick on her ears. She had just finished recording what seemed to be the last illustrated scroll. Chay ran his fingers gently over the rough paper. This page seemed to concentrate on the animals of Cinnus, with exquisitely detailed renderings of a dozen or so species.


"It's possible, isn't it, that they left this for us--for someone--to find?" he asked, a wistful look on his face.


"Romantic," teased Jameson. She shook her head. "Not likely. That presupposes an awareness of the cosmos that these people almost certainly didn't possess. Sorry, but it's probably just a children's dictionary," she finished pragmatically.


"It's a nice thought, though, Danny," Sulu said, patting him on the shoulder. "Come on, we'd better get these to the ship." His smile was wry. "Sulu and Chay's delivery service." Collecting the data tapes from the others he followed Chay to the entry.


Chay took one step out the front door and stopped dead.


"What is it--?" Sulu stared.


There were over twenty of them. They were natives, armed, and they stood between the landing party and the shuttlecraft.

 

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

 

Chapter Six

 

All of them, native and human, were frozen for several seconds. Then, moving his hand very slowly, Sulu took out his communicator. The natives watched him curiously but seemed to have no objections; their obsidian-headed spears pointed harmlessly skyward. He held the communicator behind the door jamb where the natives couldn't see that he spoke into and listened to it; one never knew how primitive peoples would react to talking boxes.


"Sulu to Enterprise," he said softly, directing his voice down to the communicator but never taking his eyes off his observers. He was very much aware that while four of his party were at least partially screened from the natives by the library walls, Danny Chay stood alone on the wide porch, completely exposed. "Mr. Spock?"


"Spock here, Mr. Sulu."


The natives did not visibly react to the disembodied voice. Sulu kept his voice quiet, even, almost uninflected. "Sir, this planet is inhabited. The proof is standing right in front of us. Twenty humanoids, pre-industrial--tribal, maybe. They're armed--crossbows and spears."


"Is anyone hurt?"


"No, sir. They haven't made a move toward us. They don't seem hostile, only curious. They're just watching--and waiting."


"Then you, too, will wait," Spock said with reassuring calm. "Stand by, Mr. Sulu." He left the channel open and Sulu could hear rapid discussion on the bridge.


From behind him, Chammu was scanning the natives with his tricorder. They were not tall people, the tallest of the group not quite Sulu's height. Their clothing was similar to the humans' softsuits in design, but made of a lighter-weight, softer material. Some of the creamy-white suits were edged at the wrists and ankles with bright, geometric embroidery, and almost all the natives wore jewelry, mostly of metal, some of ceramic. The knives at their woven belts were to be expected in country like this and were not necessarily anything more than tools, but the spears and crossbows that they carried were potentially more alarming. The hoods of their garments were pulled forward so their faces were in shadow--probably just protection from the heat, Sulu realized, but all the same it bothered him that he could not see their expressions very well. He was conscious of being under intense scrutiny, and wondered whose move it was.


One of the natives, a little taller and heavier than the rest, stepped forward. Sulu tensed involuntarily and sensed the others do the same, and the figure stood still again. Suddenly the native seemed to realize the effect of the hood and reached up and pulled it back from his face, then stepped forward once again. His skin was dark bronze with a reddish tone, his eyes a deep, rich blue. His other features were more subtle than a human's: thin lips almost the same color as his skin, his nose hardly more than a bump, having no pronounced bridge. A breeze lifted his thick hair and exposed small, round ears. His look was intense and unsmiling, but somehow not threatening. He motioned the landing party forward.


"Mr. Spock?" Sulu tried to keep the tension from his voice. "They seem to want us to go with them."


"Mr. Scott estimates another two hours until the transporters are repaired, Lieutenant," Spock relayed. "Your evaluation?"


As senior officer of the group, Sulu was in charge. He hesitated, then said slowly, "Even if the transporters were fixed, we couldn't just beam up in front of these people. They haven't so much as waved a weapon at us, sir. I think we should go with them for now. Maybe we can buy some time and get out gracefully later."


"Agreed. Keep your communicators open. If they continue to let you speak, convey all of your impressions. Try to get them to talk to you, and we shall attempt to decode their language. We must know more about them before we decide our course of action."


A chorus of soft "yes, sir"s responded. Sulu took a deep breath and looked at his companions. The delay had allowed time for some of their apprehension to ease, and their desire as starship personnel to encounter the unknown combined with their thorough training made them put their consternation aside. "Well," he said to them softly, "this is what we joined up for."  He stepped past Chay out into the bright sunlight.

 

Several of the natives had followed the leader's example and thrown back their hoods, and when Robbs, Chammu, and Jameson, clad in their coolsuits, appeared on the porch, Sulu watched for reaction. For the most part the natives' faces were as inscrutable as Spock's. He saw a few raised eyebrows and some hurried whispered discussions, but no fear. If anything, he sensed excitement. Several of them looked back and forth between the suited crewmen and Sulu and Chay, who wore only softsuits, as if trying to figure out the difference between them. And what did the natives think of the variations in coloring of their visitors? They themselves, with individual minor deviation, were all bronze-skinned with either reddish-brown or sandy-brown hair and richly colored eyes. In contrast, their visitors were, however unintentionally, a textbook representation of the wonderful variety of humanity: Sulu, Asian and on the short side; Chay, blond, gray-eyed, tall and thin; Chammu, built like a wrestler, dark-skinned like the natives but with black hair and eyes; tall, willowy Jameson standing next to petite Robbs, whose fair skin and freckles were the ultimate contrast to Jameson's dark brown skin.


They all started off through the square, the leader of the native group choosing direction. Still no one behaved threateningly; accompanying them seemed more a request than an order. As there was no objection from their escort the landing party continued to scan them and report their readings to the ship; the natives did not seem to mind their comments. Sulu thought some of them glanced repeatedly at his group, especially at the exotic, clear-helmeted coolsuits, but their curiosity took no overt form and they said little among themselves.


Sulu suddenly realized where they were headed. "They're taking us to the shuttlecraft, sir," he reported to Spock. "Any suggestions?"


"Reveal only what is necessary, Mr. Sulu, bearing regulations in mind. We are gathering a contact team in the briefing room to advise you until they have an opportunity to join you."


Sulu was glad to hear it. Anyone who served on a starship knew the basics of contact procedure, but it was always preferable to let the experts handle it if possible. And even the experts usually had time to do a little homework before the actual encounter. "Until then, Mr. Sulu," Spock added, "humans have a saying."


"Yes, sir?"


"Play it by ear."


Sulu could not see Spock's cocked eyebrow but he could imagine it. "Understood, sir." When Spock did employ a colloquialism it was usually apt.


The group of natives, the five humans in their midst, approached the boxy shuttlecraft. Sulu was astounded to watch them walk right up to it, completely unafraid. He noted also that as the two groups neared the shuttlecraft they split apart so that they faced each other, the natives no longer surrounding the humans. It was hardly a menacing arrangement, but Sulu withheld judgment.


The leader came forward and pointed at Challenger. "Ínat bas túnot paríta?" His voice was low, resonant, calm. It was the first time any of the natives had spoken directly to the landing party.


Well, here was the first move and Sulu wasn't quite sure what to do with it. What was the man asking--what is this metal box? did you put it here? do you live in it? if it is yours, why is it in our street? Give me something more to go on, he pleaded silently. In a contact situation it was so easy to make the wrong move, and the wrong move could be deadly. Trying to keep his expression open and friendly, he made no response, knowing he risked giving offense with that choice as well.


Again the man seemed to sense the problem. He repeated his question, this time pointing to the shuttlecraft and then to the sky, and passing his hand palm downward in front of his face. He's asking if it flies! Sulu thought with astonishment. How should he respond? Not wanting to admit the truth, since these people were obviously not at the technological level that produced flight, yet not wanting his first conversation with a native of this world to begin with a lie, he again said nothing, and waited for a better cue.


"Párita bas akt," the man said. He pointed to the craft, then to his eyes, then made the same flying gesture. I saw it fly, Sulu deduced. He heard Robbs relaying the probable translation to the listeners in the briefing room.


So much for protecting them from the truth. Deciding then that there was no harm in admitting what the man already knew or at least suspected, and curious to see his reaction, Sulu nodded and said, "Yes, it flies." He mimicked the other's gestures.


The man took a deep breath and looked long at the shuttlecraft with a wistful, almost reverent expression. Tentatively he reached toward the hull of the craft, but before his fingers touched it he seemed to recollect himself and looked inquiringly at Sulu as if to ask permission. Sulu nodded and made a go-ahead gesture. The native placed his hand on the dusty white hull. The metal must have been scorching hot but his hand remained. His eyes traveled over the shuttle in wonder, his evident delight at being permitted to touch it endearing him to Sulu. Careful, Sulu told himself sternly. Keep your guard up.


The native removed his hand from the shuttle's hull and seemed amused by the print that remained in the orange dust, perhaps enjoying the idea that he had left something of himself on this box that flew. He then took a step forward, and from his hesitant attitude Sulu got the impression that he was going to say something very important. He realized later that he should have expected what came next, but he simply was not accustomed to seemingly primitive peoples so serenely accepting revolutionary events in their lives.


The native had to ask his question twice before Sulu managed to report to Spock, "Sir--he wants to go for a ride."


"Fascinating," the Vulcan said softly. "--But that, of course, cannot be allowed."


A woman's voice followed Spock's. "Lieutenant, this is Andros, Xenopsychology. Try to get them away from the shuttlecraft. As long as they're intrigued by it we won't learn much else."


What do I tell him? Sulu wondered. "Uh, no, I'm sorry, we can't--" he stammered, then shook his head sadly.


The native seemed to understand some common human body language. He was obviously disappointed and seemed almost embarrassed, as if perhaps he was afraid his request had been impertinent or in poor taste. Again Sulu had to warn himself against reading too much into facial expressions and attitudes. Though body language and facial expressions were often similar among humanoid cultures, they were by no means universal. He could get his landing party into a great deal of trouble by assuming incorrectly.


He decided to take the initiative. He touched his own chest and said, "Sulu," then introduced the rest of the landing party in the same way. He indicated all five of them with a sweep of his arm and said, "Humans." He then gestured to the native to return the favor.


The man nodded eagerly, round-eyed; he touched his chest and said, "Chacol." He crossed his arms over his chest, hands on his shoulders, and bowed slightly, then motioned to his companions to do the same. One by one they stepped forward, those who had not already done so removing their hoods, and introduced themselves, some shyly and some with more confidence. Their hair was cut in varying lengths, and many, male and female, wore earrings or hair ornaments. Now that Sulu could get a good look at their faces, all but Chacol seemed very young, perhaps adolescent; Chacol alone seemed to be an adult. He copied Sulu's gesture encompassing the entire group and said, "Ishanne."


He looked at Sulu a long moment, and then his expression changed. His thin lips stretched and his eyes wrinkled up in a restrained but unmistakable smile. Sulu returned the smile, hoping it was the right response, and on impulse stuck out his hand. Chacol stared at it a moment, confused, and Sulu indicated that he should do the same. Chacol did so and Sulu clasped the dry, leathery hand in his own. "Friends," he said warmly.


"Friends," Chacol repeated, and Sulu and his shipmates breathed a collective sigh of relief.


"Bravo, Mr. Sulu," said a new voice from the communicator when Robbs described what had just occurred. "This is Denison, from Sociology. You took a chance touching him, but your instincts are obviously good. Keep trusting them."


"Thank you, sir," Sulu replied, almost breathless. His hand still tingled from Chacol's firm grip. So far so good. "Chacol is talking to his group again. Are the computers getting anywhere with translation?"


Another advisor answered him. "Jahns, Linguistics. Since you don't have a translator with you we can't read the neural patterns of the natives. When the transporters are fixed we can beam translators down to you. But we're still going to need spoken dialogue to relate to the patterns, so all this conversation isn't useless. Keep them talking."


"I'll do my best, sir. He's coming back now." Chacol squatted down in front of Sulu and Sulu followed suit. This time Chacol accompanied his words and gestures with a sketch in the sand and Sulu understood that he wanted to take the landing party to his village. Sulu hid his uneasiness behind a nod and a smile, fully aware that leaving the shuttlecraft behind placed him and his shipmates in a grave situation if all this friendliness was a misunderstanding. As they started off upstream at a leisurely pace, again surrounded by the Ishanne, he could not help wondering what Chacol would have done if he had said no.





McCoy walked into the briefing room just as Chekov called to inform Spock exuberantly that he had completed the reconfiguring of the sensor panel that he and Spock had begun earlier and the instruments were now delivering trustworthy readings. Spock took the news as he took all news, with his customary evenness of temper, but everyone else in the room shared the young navigator's ebullience.


McCoy sat down between Spock and Denison, speaking softly so as not to disturb the conversation between the landing party and the contact advisors.


"Well, I've got Sickbay ready," he reported, "though I hope we don't need it."


"I share your sentiment, Doctor, but we must be prepared in the event Mr. Sulu's encounter with the native group should become less amicable."


"It's going well, then?"


"So far. The natives are escorting our landing party to their village or town. I am anxious for our contact specialists to join them. Mr. Sulu is handling the current situation very well, but he and the members of his party are not experienced enough to make the evaluations necessary once they arrive in the village."


"What's the hurry, Spock? Seems to me the longer this takes, the better. The sensors are repaired so we can search effectively, and now a whole civilization has appeared for us to study. Even a few extra days might make all the difference."


"They might," Spock agreed, "but we might not have them. When Starfleet Command receives our report of contact with a previously unknown race, they will very likely call off the geological survey, since we can hardly establish a mining colony on an inhabited planet."


"But they can't! I mean, won't they at least let us keep searching?"


"Starfleet Security will institute a search from orbit as soon as possible, but we are able to search only because of the geo-survey. Once it is complete--or aborted--we will receive new orders." Spock's tone betrayed no emotion.


McCoy's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't seem to bother you very much, Mr. Spock," he said, completely forgetting Spock's earlier concern.


Spock ignored McCoy's quick and irrational anger. "Whether it bothers me or not, Doctor, will have no effect on the arrival of those orders," he said reasonably.


"Well, there has to be something we can do. Damn it, Spock, you're not even trying!"  His outburst had no visible effect on the Vulcan's infuriating calm, though everyone else shifted uncomfortably in their seats. "What about mining rights? They can't be using very much of their planet or we'd have found them before now. Maybe we can negotiate."


"Unfortunately," Spock said evenly, "the Federation is not sanguine about contact in any form with primitive cultures. We cannot tell them who and what we are, and any fiction is awkward and difficult to maintain. And to argue that we should stay and study them would be futile," he added as McCoy was opening his mouth to do just that. "Too many times we have found that our very presence, no matter how discreet, so drastically disrupts the life of the society under scrutiny that observers cannot gain an accurate impression. There have also been incidents of harm coming to Federation representatives.


"But those are minor concerns. Primitive societies are likely to consider beings who appear and disappear and travel through space to be gods. And that degree of impact on a society must be avoided at all costs. For these reasons the Federation generally enforces a policy of complete avoidance."


"Spock, I know all that," McCoy said impatiently. "But generally is not always. We have to find a way to get around policy. You can't just let them order us off, not when we finally have a real chance of finding Jim!"


Spock was silent a moment, considering. "There is one possible tactic," he mused. "Protected status might apply here, Mr. Denison."


Denison, head of Sociology, had taken part in dozens of contact missions in his thirty-odd years in Starfleet. He gave a thoughtful nod, then said, "I think it's all we have, but it's difficult to invoke."


"Agreed. And we must know a great deal more about these people before we can determine their suitability. They must have some awareness of the scientific possibility of life on other planets--extremely unlikely in a pre-industrial society."


"What is protected status?" McCoy broke in. "I never heard of it."


Spock steepled his fingers. "Protected status is a rarely used classification of primitive cultures. Years ago sensors and monitoring devices were less accurate than they are now and accidental contact with non-industrial societies occurred with greater frequency. Contact with such societies was usually disastrous, and when it was not the common course of action was to invent some vague explanation and withdraw. Protected status was created in response to the infrequent situations in which contact occurred with a non-industrial but non-primitive culture. There are a few such worlds in the Federation with whom relations are maintained through protected status. These societies are not freely accessible; they are protected by Federation law from excess contamination and manipulation, and can be visited only by Federation representatives. This situation has not occurred in many years because our monitoring technology has improved and non-industrial societies are simply never contacted."


"So you think protected status could apply here?" McCoy asked Denison, hope springing to life again.


"I don't know," the sociologist replied. "We'd have to be able to prove they aren't as primitive as they look."


"Well, that city might be old but it it's hardly primitive," McCoy said. "And all those records!"


"We have no way of knowing whether the natives in question ever lived in that city, Doctor," Spock countered, ignoring McCoy's frustrated frown. "They could be visitors like ourselves."


"Maybe," Denison said dubiously. "But the fact is that they didn't bolt when they saw the shuttlecraft, the coolsuits, the tricorders, people who look so different from themselves. They aren't afraid. Nor were they angry that our people were exploring their city and looking through their records; in other words, they don't seem to possess a belligerent territoriality. I can't help but be encouraged. I'm afraid, though," he added, deflating McCoy's rising optimism, "that Starfleet will take one look at those spears and crossbows and tell us to get out. We might have trouble even leaving search parties until a ship arrives from Starbase 15. It's going to take some powerful evidence to sway their opinion."


"Agreed," Spock said. "But we cannot beam your team down until we are able to explain your arrival to the natives. Until we can converse with them, Mr. Denison, your team will have to evaluate from a distance, and wait."


His shoulders sagging, McCoy muttered, "We seem to be doing a lot of that on this mission."





Sulu and Chay, trudging along in the midst of the Ishanne, envied the archaeologists their coolsuits. Though they carried their own in the shuttlecraft at all times in case of emergency, they'd had no opportunity to retrieve them. The other three still had to contend with the higher gravity, but at least they were breathing cool air containing the proper amount of oxygen. During the long afternoon walk, however, the Ishanne had kept to whatever shade was provided by overhanging rock along the riverbank, and the softsuits and the water they contained had saved Sulu and Chay from any real danger from the heat.


Chekov, ecstatic over his functioning sensors, had informed them that they were heading for a village about twenty kilometers away, and that there were more villages farther to the north along most of the major rivers. The locations of the newly plotted villages, widely scattered and often just north of where a river vanished, were evidence supporting Jameson's theory that the inhabitants of the city they had discovered had been forced to move because of a diminishing water supply.


Despite the draining heat Sulu managed to participate in the landing party's discussion of the group around them. It seemed most likely that Chacol was a teacher of some kind and the younger people his students. Conversation between the natives and the humans was limited, for sign language was awkward while walking. Chammu tore a strip of thin printout paper from his tricorder and drew small pictures on it, learning some basic vocabulary from an outgoing, much-ornamented girl called Limini. Jahns and his linguistic computer were able to make an educated guess that the language spoken by Chacol and his group and that recorded in the centuries-old library were related, but only the translators would be able to determine if the two languages were in fact the same.


As the dramatic sunset was fading and Sulu and Chay were beginning to think they could not take another step, the group came to an earthen dam in the dry riverbed supported with stone bracing. The trail rose sharply for ten or fifteen meters beside the dam, and when the group reached the top they were there. The villagers had captured the precious river water and formed a large pond, but the water level was low. Jameson pointed out the dry, cracked wood of the spillways of the dam; clearly they had not seen use in years. Beyond the pond stretched irrigated crops along both riverbanks; long, low buildings like those in the old city lined two wide streets; and farther upriver were buildings of rather blockier design, perhaps for storage or manufacture.


Chacol brought the group to a halt next to the pond. The wetter earth here supported a little stand of trees, small like most desert trees but leafy enough to provide welcome shade. He spoke to his group and they scattered, but with none of the rowdiness of human children let out of school. Sulu and his party traded glances. If Chacol was at all afraid he would not have left himself alone with them. He motioned for them to sit down under the trees, indicating with gestures that he was leaving them for a short while and they were to wait. They nodded, sinking wearily and gratefully to the ground, and Chacol walked away.


Wanting only to cool off and rest in the shade, or better yet in the pond, Sulu had to force his mind back to business. He stretched out his legs and massaged his aching thighs. "We're alone, Mr. Spock, but not for long. Is there any word on the transporters?"


"The transporters are repaired," Spock replied with his usual calm, unaware of the relieved smiles that sprang to the faces of the landing party. "We will beam down the translators at the first opportunity. What are your impressions now?"


Listening and observing during the long walk, Sulu had come to a decision. "They haven't searched us, taken our equipment, tied us up, or done anything else that seems hostile or suspicious, and they're not afraid of us at all," he summarized. "I'd say we're guests." His shipmates voiced their agreement.


"We concur," Spock said, and Sulu was pleased that his group's assessment matched the experts'. "But be careful that you do not overestimate their warmheartedness."


"I understand, sir. It would be an easy mistake to make with these people."


Chammu broke in. "Chacol's coming back."


Sulu was surprised to see that their host was still alone, having expected crowds of people, or at least the village leaders, to return with him. Maybe Chacol was the village leader. He motioned for the landing party to follow him, and led them down the wide avenue away from the pond. An older woman, the only other person about besides themselves, was moving through the swiftly deepening twilight, lighting a dozen torches on stands in what Sulu had begun to think of as the village common, a small expanse of smoothed earth partly shaded by the nearest buildings.

 

Chacol guided them toward a cheerful red door in the second dormitory-style building. "Maybe he's taking us to dinner," Robbs said hopefully, wondering that she felt safe enough to be concerned with her stomach. Chacol opened the door onto a large, sparsely furnished room, and Sulu and Chay were instantly more comfortable, the thick walls and the rooms on either side providing excellent insulation. Chacol introduced them to the dark-haired, amber-eyed woman who waited inside. Her name was Tenna, and from the way Chacol gazed at her with discreet but unmistakable affection it was evident that she was his wife. She, too, seemed unafraid and welcoming. Chacol made a sweeping gesture which took in the whole room, then pointed to himself and Tenna. Clearly this was their home.


Before Sulu could return the introductions, Chacol said something to Tenna, who stepped over to the door and indicated that one of them should follow her. "I'll go," Chay volunteered, and left with her. Sulu, despite his overall good feeling, could not help feeling uneasy at letting him go off alone.


Chacol pointed to five colorful hammocks hanging from the ceiling along the back of the room and an elaborately carved stone table piled with food, and indicated that his guests were to help themselves to a meal and a bed and that they would all talk again in the morning. Obviously his errand when he had left them was to prepare their accommodations for the night.


Tenna returned with Chay, who announced, "Tenna has just shown me the answer to my prayers. I now know where the latrines are." His four shipmates laughed, sharing his sentiment and not a little relief at his safe return. Chacol and Tenna smiled, understanding the mood if not the words.


Sulu walked with Chacol and Tenna to the door, testing them, but they made no move to stop him when he accompanied them onto the wide veranda. Coming back inside, he said to the others, "There's no one out except a few groups on the common. If they're early risers we'd better be prepared to do the same." He surveyed the table's bounty. "Did somebody mention dinner?"


"Be sure it's safe to eat."


McCoy's voice startled them. It was easy to forget that their conversations were continually monitored.


"Already checked, sir," Jameson said. "It's ok. And it looks wonderful."


Sulu kept an uneventful watch while the others ate, then Chammu spelled him and he sat down to his own meal. He wondered why Spock wasn't pushing them for discussion, and suspected that McCoy had something to do with the respite. The meal was delicious, consisting of dried fruit, bread, and smoked fish and shellfish, most of the selections tasting like their own familiar foods; but they made short work of it, their minds more on the job at hand.


Afterward, Chay passed around elaborately painted clay mugs of warm tea, and the five talked over their impressions with the contact team in the briefing room. The natives' cordial welcome understandably encouraged everyone to some degree, but again Spock warned against unguarded optimism. "We must not let our hopes cloud our judgment. It is probable that they are simply a very accepting people and no more ready for a relationship with the Federation than most pre-industrial cultures."


"Maybe they've seen others like us," Janek Vescu, the team's cultural anthropologist, suggested from the briefing room. "That could explain why they're not afraid."


"But out here visitors would probably be Klingons or Orions," Lynn Pakka-sa of Biology pointed out. "If they'd been here the Ishanne would probably be terrified of us. As far as we know neither of them has ever shown any respect for developing civilizations."


"Or developed ones, either," Chay put in.


"There's another possibility," Sulu said tentatively. "I know it isn't very likely, but--it's possible that they, or those in a neighboring village, have some news of Captain Kirk." His notion was met with momentary silence, but Sulu got the distinct impression from at least his companions that he was not alone in nursing the faint hope.


Not surprisingly, it was Spock who sounded the cautioning note. "I should not like to calculate the odds against it, Mr. Sulu, but it is of course a possibility. In any case, you have indirectly touched on our point of concern. Unless we find evidence of a sophistication beyond that which we have yet seen, Starfleet regulations will force us to place this planet under Prime Directive protection. That might seriously hamper, if not prohibit, our efforts to locate Captain Kirk."


The members of the landing party traded worried glances. They had been so occupied just getting through the day that they had not yet realized the further ramifications of their situation. "I understand, sir," Sulu said firmly. "We can beam down translators now, and when we can communicate with them hopefully we'll find out for sure."


"My thoughts exactly, Lieutenant." They heard him give an order to the transporter room, and five universal translators appeared on the table before them.


"They're partially programmed," Lieutenant Jahns informed them. "The dialogue you've recorded is more than enough, and the translators will be completely functional as soon as they're near enough to their subjects to read their neural patterns."


"It is unfortunate that we must introduce the Ishanne to our translators so abruptly, but I see no alternative," Spock commented. "Proceed cautiously." He paused and Sulu thought he was finished, but he then added, "I do not wish to denigrate the efforts and abilities of your party, Mr. Sulu, but the sooner the contact team can join you the better. You must be ready if an opportunity presents itself."


"Understood, sir," Sulu replied, not at all offended. The experts would be more than welcome.


"Until tomorrow, then. Since it appears that you are not to be disturbed during the night, we will disperse as well, and return to the briefing room by planet sunrise. But I will be monitoring your communications should anything develop before morning."


"Anything else we can send down, Lieutenant?" McCoy asked thoughtfully.


Sulu grinned. "How about a big jug of ice water?"





Those in the briefing room stood and stretched, stiff from hours of sitting. Before he left the room, McCoy turned back to Spock, who still sat thoughtfully at the table. "Spock, if you could get us just a few days--"


"Yes, perhaps Starfleet can be persuaded," the first officer said noncommittally.


After McCoy had left, not attempting to hide his annoyance at Spock's vague reply, Spock was alone in the room. He was disturbed by the progression of events on the surface, plagued as they were with frustrating irony. It was true that the Ishanne's apparent lack of fear and curiosity were positive indications, but that same lack of curiosity meant that the landing party would be left alone all night, losing the opportunity for hours of interaction. Starfleet would soon have his report, prepared quickly that afternoon, of the encounter with Cinnus' unexpected inhabitants, and unless he could add more tangible evidence of the Ishanne's readiness for contact, further opportunity for study and interaction might be denied them. He was so far inclined to view the natives of Cinnus in a positive light, but when Starfleet received his report--


He took a deep breath. When Starfleet received his report--


"Spock to Bridge."


"Bridge, Rivera." Second- and third-shift crew like Rivera were dealing directly with their senior officers more during this crisis than they had in a long time.


"Mr. Rivera, has my report been dispatched to Starfleet Command?"


"Checking, sir." Then: "Not yet. It's waiting for your signature."


Of course. How stupid of him to forget. Spock involuntarily took another deep breath, reflecting that perhaps his brain was muddled and starved for oxygen. That might explain the rash action he was about to take. He had immediately notified Commodore Elsenbrach at Starbase 15 of Kirk's disappearance; she would not expect Enterprise's next regular report for several days. "Mr. Rivera, do not dispatch any more reports just yet, and make a note of that on the duty board for your relief."


"Yes, sir." Rivera sounded puzzled, but refrained from pointing out that Spock's order was just a bit irregular. "How long should we hold them?"


Another deep breath. "Until further notice."

 

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

 

Chapter Seven

 

Kirk was astonished just to be alive. Though the test of his spirit had just begun, for now he was alive and he reveled in it. Every sensation was more intense, colors more vibrant, smells more pungent, sounds more resonant. The little trickle of water that had saved his life was only ankle-deep and so narrow he could have stepped across it, but it was life and renewal and to his eyes of breathtaking beauty. Once he was convinced of its reality he dragged himself to its edge and plunged his burning face into its wetness. His skin was so hot that the shallow, sun-warmed water felt cool. Lying full length on the ground he drank and drank, the harsh metallic taste of the water better than the sweetest nectar. He lay there for hours, aware of nothing more than a curious mixture of pain and joy. Night had fallen before he moved.


Finally in the cooler night air he revived enough to try to sit up. He could not do it. The abdominal cramps--the first symptom of severe dehydration and salt depletion--were gone now, but his muscles were tight threads that threatened to break with every move. After long, agonizing effort he managed to get his clothes off and crawl into the stream. He hadn't the strength to bathe; he simply lay under the bright desert night, letting the water play around his naked body, cooling him. There in the stream, his head safely pillowed on his arm, he drifted into sleep so deep it was like unconsciousness. The morning sun woke him and he thought vaguely that he should get dressed and find shelter. But so much effort was beyond him. All he could manage was to drink his fill and pull himself out of the stream; he slept naked on the bank the entire day, protected from the sun by the square cloth.


He woke again to the wild, swirling hues of sunset. At first the pink and orange-splashed blue seemed to press down on him, a solid mass of unearthly, riotous color, and he cringed from it. But then the disorientation of coming out of a deep sleep into a strange environment disappeared and he was fully awake. He felt a little stronger and sat up for the first time in a day and a half. He was dizzy for several minutes; it subsided but he did not yet try to stand. Bending over the stream he got his first good look at his appearance. He looked ghastly. His face and neck were burned and blistered, his lips dry and cracked, from too many hours of exposure to the merciless sun. Most of the blood from his head wounds had washed away, but some was still caked around his ears and in his hair where the water had not reached. The softsuit was dirty and bloodstained, but the resilient cloth, though scraped and roughened, especially at the knees, had not torn. He washed it as well as he could, scrubbing a little on the stream bottom, and managed to get it quite clean, the synthetic fibers easily releasing the dirt and blood. He washed his socks and shorts as well, and spread them out with the softsuit on the bank; they would dry soon, even at night, in the hot dry air.


Though the effort of washing his clothing had tired him, he slid back into the stream and began to wash himself. Never had he seen so many cuts, bruises, and scrapes. No wonder he hurt all over. His knees were black and blue and swollen, and little bruises from the wind-driven pebbles dotted his body. His feet were tired and sore but had suffered no blisters; the softsuit boots fit so well they did not rub. His left arm was still useless, but the swelling and discoloration seemed to have lessened. He could move it a little at the elbow and there was some sensation now in his fingers. He bathed as well as he could with one arm and without soap, hoping fervently that he was cleansing the cuts and scrapes well enough; with no medical facilities or even a first-aid kit the smallest wound could be dangerous. He felt reasonably sure of the water; an uninhabited planet would be free of any diseases caused by sewage in the streams and rivers, and preliminary sensor readings had shown no other harmful elements. Besides, he had already drunk so much from the stream that if the water carried anything really nasty he would not be alive now to worry about it.


He finished bathing and reluctantly crawled out of the stream, hating to lose the sensual feel of the water on his bare skin. But bathing had exhausted him and he wanted to sleep again. His constant desire for sleep was caused by his head injuries, he knew, and the need for his body to rest and begin to heal itself. He found that his shorts were dry and pulled them on gratefully, feeling much less exposed--though he admitted to himself that it was silly to be embarrassed when there was no one to see him. He took as a good sign the fact that he was concerned with dignity at all.


Again he slept through the night; it was the last peaceful sleep he would know for a long time. Toward morning he began to moan and stir restlessly; when he woke at sunrise it was with a feeling of such crushing loneliness that he knew that to be alive was no longer enough.


For the first time he felt able to contemplate more than the urgent needs of water and sleep. His body had regained some strength, though when he stood and walked a few shaky steps he found it was a fragile energy that could not yet stand any real strain. He bathed again and dressed, and while the sun was still low and the morning temperature bearable he sat on a rock by the stream and considered his predicament.


There was no question in his mind that he would travel as soon as he could walk with acceptable stability. He remembered the view from the mesa with burning clarity, the curious flash that might or might not have been sunlight reflecting off metal. "Might be" was motivation enough. Without that possibility he would have been tempted to stay here and rest for several days, and concentrate his efforts on signaling. But the scarce brush in the terrain surrounding him would fuel only a small signal fire. Perhaps farther downriver the stream, which here cut its way through bedrock, flowed through gentler country where he might find enough greenery for a huge fire. That possibility, too, was another motivation for travel. But before he left he would make an arrow or an X of stones as he had done before. He clearly remembered making the arrow near the slope where his trail began. He thought perhaps he had made two or three more during his journey, but he could not be certain. Whether he had or not was of little importance now; by this time the searchers probably would be concentrating their efforts along the rivers, knowing that he could not have survived more than a day or two on the meager supply of water in the softsuit.


Thought of travel made him aware of yet another need: food. He could go perhaps two weeks without eating; after that he would begin to lose energy and stamina. Though it had already been five or six days since he had last eaten, he was not conscious of hunger at the moment, having been preoccupied with more urgent concerns. But once he began to expend more energy in travel food would rise in his list of priorities. The procurement of food, something to be done with great care in any wilderness, became even more complicated on an alien world. The biochemistries of class M planets were by definition compatible with human life, but that did not mean he could go about munching and tasting at will. If he found a bush that bore blueberry-like fruit, it might very well be similar to wild blueberries on Earth. On the other hand, it might more closely resemble the Regulan blueberry, a hallucinogen to most humanoid species and usually fatal to humans. He must test everything.


But the early morning was not the time for thinking when there was work to be done. He had survived the worst of the ordeal, but he could not just sit here and congratulate himself. He must set up a signal, then begin his journey downstream. Until he found or made a container in which he could boil water he would have to continue to drink unpurified stream water, but this did not worry him. He knew the water was not immediately harmful, and even if it posed long-term danger a day or two more would make very little difference.


He was surprised at how optimistic he seemed to be, at how calmly he could evaluate his situation. He felt none of the despair or panic of the first few days that had threatened to overwhelm his courage. Perhaps it was the difference between being almost wholly unprotected from the harsh land into which he had been thrown, and finally reaching the defense and solace of the stream. Not only had it restored life to his body's dehydrated tissues, it provided psychological benefit as well. He now had a fighting chance, and continued belief in that chance was critical to his eventual triumph. He knew that Spock would remain in orbit here as long as he possibly could, but even if he were forced to depart he had the authority and the obligation to leave at least one search vehicle. It was only a matter of time before the searchers found him. If he could hold on to sanity long enough he would get home.


And one way to stay sane was to stay busy and keep his mind away from negative thoughts. He would not sabotage his own efforts by wondering whether he would ever again see Spock or McCoy, whether he would ever again sit in the command chair which defined his self-image and symbolized his destiny, whether he would ever again walk the corridors of the Enterprise or see her white, graceful form against the starry night from a starbase observation port. He would not think of those things.


He spent the rest of the early morning walking unsteadily over the wide stone riverbank gathering brush for a fire and stones for a marker. He found many of dark orange or rust, and even several with a pronounced bluish tint, whose coloring contrasted well with the pale orange of the bank. He collected only one species of shrub, first breaking a leaf and rubbing its juices on his wrist. When there was no irritation after fifteen or twenty minutes he was certain it was not a contact poison and proceeded to gather several armfuls of its branches; smoke from a fire fueled by this species would not harm him. For his fire he chose dry and brittle brush; it would burn faster and make an easier job of fire-building. Other branches he put in the stream to soak to be used for a signal fire; clouds of smoke rising in the clear blue desert sky would be as good as a communicator if anyone was within visual range.


After two hours' sweaty work, broken by many short rests, he had constructed a large arrow and collected scrub enough for a fire, but he had found nothing in which to boil water. There were no trees from whose bark he could fashion some sort of bucket, no convenient large-leaved plants. Even such material could be used to make a cooking vessel; as long as it held water it would not burn. But there was nothing of the sort in sight. He decided to walk a little way downstream in search of a hollowed-out stone or useful vegetation. He would also use the short hike as a test of his strength. He walked slowly, stepping carefully, not completely trusting his legs to stay under him if he should slip on loose footing. After two days' rest his body was beginning to recover, but he could afford no setbacks.


He could see some distance in all directions in the startlingly clear air. The undulating red stone riverbank was broken only by the low gray-green scrub, whose seeds had managed to gain a hold in cracks in the rock where sand and moisture had collected. Here and there were isolated monoliths, pillars or mounds of rock, though nothing as massive as any of the formations in Earth's Monument Valley. The air he breathed had a faint metallic tang, less potent than the taste of the water, but noticeable. He remembered McCoy's warning that colonists on Cinnus might need to be equipped with air filters to avoid possible lung damage. Bones was talking about long-term damage, he told himself firmly. Long-term doesn't apply to me. He would have to guard against such gloomy thoughts. Think positively. He pictured the reunion aboard ship when he returned, but the image brought only wistful pain, and he ceased trying to think of anything specific. Just get on with the job.


He was about to turn back along the opposite bank when he came to a fork where a tiny branch of the stream trickled into a miniature canyon, so narrow that two people could not stand abreast. The stream bed in the canyon bottom did not look like stone. He made his cautious way down the knee-high waterfall at the mouth of the canyon; at its base he scooped up a handful of the peach-colored silt and found that it was clay. He smiled, looking at the raw material for his cooking pot. He unfastened his sling and used the cloth as a makeshift sack for several pounds of clay. Reluctantly leaving the delicious coolness of the canyon, he made his way back upstream.


Carrying the extra weight of the wet clay left him sweat-soaked and winded by the time he reached camp, and his right arm and shoulder ached. But the results of his test of his stamina were cheering. In the heavier gravity his exertions had been taxing, as if he wore ankle weights and walked constantly uphill, but really had not been as arduous as he had expected. He felt ready to begin a slow journey downstream. Just knowing he could get started that evening gave his spirits a boost.


While he rested, he broke bits of wood off the dry branches he had collected and made a little pile of kindling. He aimed the weak phaser at the twigs, hoping it had enough power to heat the wood to combustion; with his left arm and hand all but useless he would find it difficult to start a fire with sparks from stone, and probably impossible by rubbing two pieces of wood together. After a minute or so a few pieces of the kindling began to glow. He shut off the phaser and blew gently. As the kindling began to flame he added pieces of the dry wood and soon had a small but sturdy fire. He dragged the soggy scrub from the stream and added a burning branch to the pile. Soon tendrils of smoke began to drift skyward. The smoke was not as thick and dark as he had hoped, but it was a more visible signal than arrows on the ground and he was satisfied with his effort.


The burning scrub gave off a pungent odor not unlike mesquite and he was careful to sit upwind just in case too strong a dose of the fumes turned out to be soporific or worse. He unwrapped the clay, rinsed the dirt from the cloth, and spread it out to dry. Essentially working with one hand, the left good only for steadying the clay as he shaped it with his right, he formed the clay into a deep bowl large enough to hold about two liters of water. He gave it a flat bottom for stability and punched two holes into opposite sides of the rim with a twig. He had some clay left over which he fashioned into a small cylinder, also punching two holes in the rim. In this he could carry glowing coals from camp to camp and avoid using his phaser to start every fire. The phaser's power pak would not last forever; he must use its energy sparingly. Breaking a branch from a nearby shrub he used it to spread the burning branches apart so that they formed a ring. He placed the two containers on the exposed bedrock inside the ring, then gathered more stones from the riverbank and built a low wall around the small fire to contain some of its heat. The fire was hardly as good as a kiln, but it would give the pieces some added strength and with care they would do nicely.


The morning's exertions had left him tired and with a headache, but he was pleased that he had accomplished so much. He sat leaning against a large rock, leaving an opening in his cloth-and-pole tent so that he could watch the fires and tend them if necessary. Having slept so much during the past two days, he felt no real need for sleep, but in the hot afternoon he dozed fitfully. People came and threw water over his fires to put them out and when he cried please stop they smashed his containers and tried to take his tent away. He struggled to hold on to it, clutching one end while all of them pulled on the other. He woke up and found that he had slumped over to the ground and the cloth had fallen away from him. He saw with relief that his fires and his containers were intact. He went over to the stream and drank, and splashed water on his face to clear his sleep-muddled thoughts; he did not sleep again while he waited impatiently for the day's heat to ease.


Finally the afternoon began to wane toward evening and Kirk eagerly checked his containers, pleased that they seemed nearly dry. He used the phaser to cut a narrow strip from one edge of the square cloth, the synthetic fibers sealed by the beam so that neither piece would ravel. He threaded the strip through the holes and under the bottom of the large container so there would be less strain on the handles; he could carry it easily over his shoulder this way. He filled the small cylinder with glowing coals and bits of charred wood from his fire, set it inside the larger container and packed ashes and small branches around it for padding. He would have another use for the ashes later. The two fires he left burning; on bedrock they could not spread and damage other areas--though on second thought he realized that a widespread blaze would be a hell of a signal, if it didn't incinerate him along with the countryside. He hoped he would soon come to an area where vegetation grew in more abundance. For now he would leave this signal fire burning and light another one every time he stopped to rest, and maybe fate would smile on him later. He rewrapped his sling, this time reinforcing the splint with two sturdy branches, and started off downstream.


His spirits soared just by being on the move toward the object he might have seen. He could not help replaying the image again and again in his mind, convinced now that he had seen sunlight flash on metal. The objective, realistic part of his mind told him that his memory of the object was certain only because he wanted so badly for it to be there, but he ignored the voice of reason and pressed on. The brightness of the moon and stars allowed him to maintain a good pace when the terrain was relatively smooth and undemanding, and to pick his way accurately when the footing became more treacherous. Traveling through the desert night was not unpleasant, now that the agony of thirst did not torment him. Shadows no longer threatened, but intrigued. Red-yellow moonlight shimmered on the surface of the stream and at times it seemed as though he walked by a river of liquid light. He came upon no animal life, though he knew it was there. Sometimes in the moonlight he saw fresh paw and hoof tracks in the occasional patches of soft bank, and once or twice he heard a whisper of movement and wondered if he might have startled some small rodent away from its nightly drink. He walked all that night and well into the next morning, stopping only when the increasing heat began to worsen his ever-present headache. He hoped that soon he would be acclimated enough to the heat that his head would not pound all the time. Better still not to be around long enough for it to matter.


His new campsite was blessed with several large boulders that would provide shade, but he had much to do before he could rest. Before he even sat down he constructed an arrow and gathered brush for a fire, some of which he set in the stream to soak. He got a fire going with his coals from the previous campsite, then made a ring of small stones in the center and set the large pot, filled with water, on top of the improvised burner. The pot was thus surrounded by burning branches and quickly began to heat. In this way he boiled three potfuls of water, letting each cool a bit and then pouring it into the refill tube of the softsuit, which he had taken off for easier handling. He boiled one more potful for use while he was in camp, then dragged the wet branches in the stream to the fire and piled them on, watching as the column of smoke thickened and rose skyward. Maybe today . . . He stood and searched the sky a moment, as if someone might immediately see the smoke and come to investigate. But the clear blue remained empty. His eyes dropped again to the scene around him. He stared a moment, nursing the resentment that began to build. For a moment he had the urge to kick over the pot, put out the signal fire, rip open the water pouch. He felt as if he were just prolonging the inevitable.


Never give up, something inside him said.


He sighed, stopped wanting to shout why me, and made himself get back to work. He was tired and sore; he would feel more confident and positive after some sleep. But first he had to bathe and do something about food. Finally his body had realized how long it had gone without eating, and hunger pangs gnawed at his stomach. He had put off preparing food because of the time and uncertainty involved in determining its safety, but he could no longer ignore the need.


The river, now wider and deeper than it had been before, would be a source of food as well as water. While he was bathing he found easy prey in the shadows under the bank, small mussels anchored to the bedrock bottom. Finishing his bath, he pried one of the little green mussels from its hold. Freshwater shellfish on class M worlds tended to be safe to eat, but some species were poisonous in varying degrees to humans. Filling the small cylinder with water, Kirk plopped the mussel into the cylinder and boiled it for about thirty minutes. With a twig he scooped the pink meat from the green shell and let that cook, then, as he had done with the mesquite-like bush, he rubbed the mussel along his wrist just in case it was a contact poison. It was not, at least not after cooking, and he prepared for the next step--the taste test. He scraped blackened bits from burnt branches and added them to the pile of charred wood from the previous day's fire. Activated charcoal was an antidote for every known food poison produced by class M biochemistries except mushrooms and the grain fungus ergot on Earth, and a few other uncommon and well-documented exceptions from other planets. He would keep a supply on hand as long as he was experimenting with strange foodstuffs. How did the old axiom go? The bravest person who ever lived was the first who'd eaten a mushroom. Kirk, contemplating the seemingly innocuous little pink mussel, could well believe it.


The classic edibility test was time-consuming but almost foolproof. He must first drink a bit of the broth in the cylinder. If after eight hours he experienced no ill effects he would chew a tiny piece of the meat, but swallow only the juices. After another eight hours he would chew and swallow a pea-sized portion, then a tablespoon, then a half cup, waiting eight hours between each step. If half a cup of cooked mussels did not make him ill then they were safe to eat. And while the test was in progress he would live with frightening uncertainty. During the academy survival course students were required to perform this test at least once. Kirk remembered the feeling of living on the edge, of stepping onto a tightrope each time he put an unknown substance into his mouth, the feeling he had now as, steeling himself, he swallowed a mouthful of the broth.


He piled more wet wood onto the fire and lay down under his tent to sleep, but sleep would not come. He was hyperaware of his body, of every sensation. He was sweating; was it the beginning of a toxic reaction, or was it just the heat? His stomach felt tight; was it the first hint of violent cramps to come, or just a hunger pang, his stomach's juices awakened by the nutrients in the broth? Was his fuzzy unawareness of the passage of time lightheadedness? Was he slipping into unconsciousness? Or was he just sleepy and fighting it? He came out of his tent in the late afternoon unrested and unrefreshed, knowing that he would have very little sleep until he reached the other end of the tightrope.





His days fell into a routine of travel, chores, and restless sleep. Each day when he stopped to make camp his first task was to light a smoky signal fire, to be left burning when he moved on. He could always see the columns of smoke behind him until nightfall, but he had never been able to see them after sunrise. The fires were a feeble effort, perhaps, since they did not last long, but they were better than no signal at all. They made him feel he was taking an active part in his own rescue and occupied him during the scorching daylight hours when he could not travel. He also boiled enough water to refill the pouch, washed all his clothes and bathed, and tried to sleep. He determined that the mussels were safe to eat and added one more chore to his daily list. He boiled and then dried as many mussels as he could on hot rocks in the fire so that he could carry them with him to eat as he walked. After drying they were rubbery but still had the characteristically sweet taste of most shellfish. He then began to test a small yellowish fruit that occurred frequently along the riverbank, beginning with its juice much diluted with river water. It looked like a kumquat but had a distinctive cinnamon taste, and was so naturally sweet that it was almost certainly not poisonous. But he tested it anyway, still walking the tightrope, the cylinder always full of fresh charcoal.


His arm improved steadily up to a point. He could not lift or carry, and all his manual dexterity was gone, but he could move the arm at the elbow more freely now and could use his hand to steady objects he worked on. Even such limited use made him feel less helpless than he had the first two or three days.


When he had determined that the yellow fruit was safe to eat he decided that he should try to add a vegetable of some kind. He would then have the beginnings of a balanced diet which he could follow while he was still trying to cover distance. If after a few weeks he was still on Cinnus waiting for search parties to find him after the Enterprise had left, or--worse yet--waiting for a survey ship or colonists to arrive, then he would gradually have to add a greater variety of foods to his diet to assure adequate vitamin and mineral intake. But testing for edibility took so much time and was so nerve-wracking that he would be satisfied for now with a limited cuisine. He had noticed a leafy green plant that grew in abundance at the riverbank; it looked rather like kale or spinach. It passed the contact test, so he boiled some of the leaves three times and swallowed a small mouthful of the resulting pale green broth. He continued downstream and for several hours felt fine, but in the dark hours of early morning the first cramps hit him. Immediately frightened, he filled the cylinder with water and drank down the charcoal mixture, completely unaware of its taste, trying to keep calm. An antidote for almost every known food poison, the manual said. Every known poison, his mind said.


He kept walking. The activity helped to keep down his fear and seemed to ease the pain a little. At first the cramps were intermittent and not serious, and he thought perhaps the charcoal had quickly taken effect, but after an hour or so something twisted his guts into knots and he doubled over in agony. He tried to straighten but could not. The muscles from his chest to his groin felt stitched together; they would rip if he stood straight. He stumbled to the river's edge and sank to his knees; putting another two handfuls of charcoal from his supply in the larger pot into the cylinder, he filled it with water and gulped it down. Every known food poison. He curled into a fetal position and hugged his knees to his body, hoping to relieve the stretching in his stomach and abdomen. Nothing helped. Drenched with sweat, the softsuit soaked, he waited in terrified misery.





Sun in his eyes woke him from a feverish half-sleep. He lay on his side at the river's edge. He still clutched his knees to his chest but he no longer felt the fire in his belly. Tentatively, he let go of his knees and stretched out his legs. The muscles along the whole front of his body were as taut as the tightrope that had snapped underneath him, but he was able to straighten to his full length and roll over on his stomach, stretching the muscles gently. He lay for a long while with his head pillowed on his arm, tears of delayed reaction soaking his sleeve. Finally, when he thought he could, he stood shakily. All his energy had poured with the rivers of perspiration from his body. He took a few steps, wobbling precariously. Except for feeling as though a good gust of wind would toss him to the ground he was fine, and dizzy all over again with relief. No more food testing, he swore to himself. Mussels and kumquats were feast enough.





He had come to realize with bitter disappointment that the flash of sunlight on metal had been illusion, or a reflection off a metallic ore, or merely a trick of light. He had walked for days now--ten? twelve? He did not know for certain--and though he had no way of knowing how far he traveled each night, surely by now he had reached the spot where the flash--whatever it was--had appeared.


As he walked he studied the riverbanks, and had found nothing to indicate the presence of any Enterprise personnel--no tracks, no disturbed ground where samples might have been taken. The river's course had led him into rougher terrain. The water itself, now knee-deep and wide enough that a walking stick would be a help if he should have to cross it, was still fairly quiet with occasional stretches of rapids, and carved its way through rock that no longer undulated smoothly like a sea of stone, but rather was fractured into hard-edged faults that were filled with the rubble of eons. Red rock had given way to pale gray, and the eerie contrast of the muted gray with the deep blue of the sky and the orange-red sun made him feel as if he walked through an oddly sunlit twilight. Cliffs loomed in the distance, with huge black markings that could be caves or deposits of something like slate or obsidian. He saw enormous crevices in the rock and the mouths of canyons, and remembered wistfully the small cracks that in days past had given him welcome relief from the unrelenting heat.


He could see such great distances in the barren land that he was always surprised when he looked around at sunrise and saw no flash of light, no shuttlecraft or base camp. But finally he had resigned himself to the fact that if he had seen a shuttlecraft or landing party from the mesa they had been on a one-time visit. Whatever he had seen it was not an established camp waiting for him to walk in and say, here I am.


As the days passed and neither his carefully constructed arrows nor his meager but determined signal fires drew any attention his way he found himself beginning to think in the long term. Hardly an admission of defeat, it was rather an acceptance of a challenge. How would he cope if he had to wait for rescue until mining colonists arrived? Besides eating a more varied diet--and after his recent experience the very thought of trying any new foodstuffs made him shiver uneasily--he would have to set up housekeeping somewhere. Every day he traveled increased the risk of serious injury; staying put and building some kind of shelter would decrease that risk. It would also give him time to construct a huge signal. But his main concern would be his mental health. After a year or more of absolute solitude, what would he be like--a man whose life revolved around and depended upon interaction with people? He had a sudden black-humored image of a grizzled old desert rat shuffling into a bar in the middle of a high-tech, spic-and-span mining colony and shouting, I'm Captain James T. Kirk! Where the hell have you been? He was pleased that his sense of humor had survived his ordeal; without it he had no chance at all. He could joke a bit with himself because he knew that he would get off this planet eventually. He had seen enough promising veins of ore in the small area he had traveled to feel certain that Spock's geological survey was yielding positive results. And a positive geo-survey would lead almost immediately to the dispatch of a mining vessel. By the time it arrived he would have his signal ready and they would see it from space. For him this plan was not hope; it was certainty. To feel anything less was to die.


He was so determined to think confidently of his stay on Cinnus that when he surveyed the terrain around him just after sunrise on the twelfth day, he could not at first accept the evidence of his eyes. In the near distance, only one or two kilometers away and as clear as life, a rectangular metallic object was parked by the river. Two tiny figures moved around it.


Kirk stared, disbelieving. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, even pinched himself. Took a deep breath to relax, closed his eyes, counted to ten, opened them. It was still there, shining in the sun.


Throwing aside his clay pots, he began to run, feeling as if he had wings. He had walked all night and five minutes before his legs had been lead, but now he was strong and lithe, dodging boulders, leaping narrow chasms, surefooted in the higher gravity as he had not been through his whole journey. He took his eyes off the shuttlecraft only to watch the ground. All his thoughts of the challenge of living here and the pride he would take in meeting it vanished so completely they might never have been. He knew now he had been fooling himself, trying to cope with his horror at being left here alone. Now he ran desperately, because on his speed depended his life and his sanity.


The bank fell into a depression. He followed it down, tormented by the fact that he could no longer see the shuttlecraft. What if they left? What if his next sight of them was as they flew away far overhead, like the shuttlecraft in the oasis illusion so long ago? All that would be left would be the imprint in the sand. He ran faster, somehow coaxing more effort from rubbery legs. He exulted when the ground began to rise again, even though the ascent tripped him up and made him grab onto rocks and half-pull, half-propel himself up the slope. This valley was all that was between him and the landing party. When he reached the crest of this hill he would call and they would hear him and he would be home.


Dragging air into his tortured lungs he reached the top, his arm raised in greeting and a joyful shout on his lips--


--and the earth came hard to meet him, crushing the wind from his chest as he threw himself flat, heart thundering and blood rushing in his ears. Head spinning, his thoughts a confused whirl, a low sob of despair escaped his lips.


They were Klingons.


And they had seen him.

 

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Continue to Chapters 8-11

 

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