Star Trek - Log 8 Read online

  "Our cage has been resurrected again, Bones." No reply. He turned. "Bones?"

  McCoy was absorbed in a detailed examination of the ground, but he glanced up at Kirk's second query. There was a hint of genuine surprise in his tone.

  "This is real grass, Jim. Real Earth-type common grass. Real soil, too. Though I wouldn't bet on how deep it goes."

  "Exactly," agreed Spock from nearby, where he was engaged in cursory study of a rosebush. "This area has been laboriously prepared for human types."

  "How's that again, Spock?" McCoy prompted, struggling to classify what looked like an Earth-type weed.

  "We are now apparently exhibits in this zoo."

  "Zoo? Exhibits?" McCoy straightened, botany temporarily forgotten. "Well, I'm no exhibit."

  "Keeper-animal relationships have always been fluid, Bones," observed Kirk, "even on Earth. We have one category for ourselves and one for most other animals. But then there are the primates and the cetaceans. Intelligent behavior is often a question of artificially applied standards. Maybe the dolphins consider us part of their zoo. On this world I think we ought to be flattered if they've put us into the latter category. In any case, they've taken the precaution of putting us behind bars."

  "Perhaps we can find out something from our fellow specimens," Spock observed. "I do not believe they could erect this elaborate habitat for us in such an incredibly brief period, despite their technology. They are not gods."

  "Fellow specimens?" McCoy echoed in confusion. Then he looked in the direction Spock indicated.

  A uniformed man and woman were coming toward them from the farthest of the cottages, walking quickly, the excitement plain on their faces.

  "Hello!" the man called as they drew close. "I'm Lieutenant Commander Louis Markel. This is our primary biologist, Lieutenant Randy Bryce. We're darned happy to see you, whoever you are."

  "James Kirk, captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise. My first officer, Mr. Spock, and chief physician, Dr. McCoy."

  "Pleasure beyond words, Captain," Bryce said, her voice high, almost birdlike. "We received your communicator call and acknowledged as best we could."

  "Which wasn't as thorough as it should have been," admonished McCoy, taking in their surroundings with a wave of one arm. "Why didn't you warn us, at least to say you'd encountered intelligent life?"

  Bryce looked at once resentful and dejected. "We didn't have time to warn you." She sighed. "Every now and then they'll let us have this or that piece of equipment to play with. We can use it, under their special supervision, of course. Our hosts may look clumsy, but they can move with astonishing speed when they want to.

  "We're kept under constant mental supervision. There may not be any of them in sight, but you can't escape the feeling of being studied. Everything they give us is operational . . . except our phasers, of course. We never know which bit of equipment they'll give us next, or when they'll take it back. When we think we can conceal our true intentions from them, by thinking nonsense thoughts for a while, we work on ways to produce an effective weapon using cannibalized components from scientific equipment—tricorders and so on.

  "We were just lucky enough to have a communicator when your call came in, and we decided to answer immediately. We didn't know if you'd be able to receive us again, or how long they'd let us keep the communicator."

  "The reason we replied with a directional distress signal instead of with an elaborate warning," Markel put in, "was because we felt a nonverbal communication had a better chance of being ignored." He shook his head. "These creatures are far too perceptive for that. They knew what we were thinking, despite our best efforts to mask our thoughts. Or perhaps our unconcealable excitement worried them, or made them nervous. Anyhow, the communicator was taken away immediately and deactivated."

  "You mentioned, Commander, that they provide you with certain items of scientific equipment from time to time," Spock said. "I could certainly use my tricorder."

  Markel shook his head and smiled apologetically. "Not a chance, sir. They're kept on a special exhibit table beyond the force wall. We get awfully nervous when a new bunch of patrons or scientists or whatever our visitors are show up and start playing with them. We don't know if we're ever going to see them again in one piece."

  Kirk had scanned the cottages earlier from their position by the roadway. Now he lowered his tone as he spoke to Markel.

  "There were six of you on the survey roster."

  Bryce swallowed and stared at the unattainable blue sky to their left. "We didn't beam down in time to save the others." Kirk eyed her questioningly, and she shook her head in response to his unasked question.

  "No, we don't think the Lactrans had anything to do with it. They've been too solicitous of our own welfare." She looked up at him. "You've encountered some of the other inhabitants of this zoo?"

  Kirk nodded slowly.

  "Well, the only reason we're alive and here to talk to you now is because the Lactrans got to us before some of their exhibits did." She shrugged helplessly. "The others weren't as lucky."

  "Or unlucky," Markel corrected philosophically, "if you consider our chances of getting out of this place."

  "Don't be so pessimistic, Commander," Kirk urged. "Eventually, my people may locate us. Considering the technology we've seen so far, I'm not sure a forcible attempt at rescue would be a wise idea. I'm hoping we can find another way out before Engineer Scott becomes impatient with our continued silence."

  Markel's expression eloquently indicated how he felt about that possibility.

  "There should be one other member of your group, then," commented Spock.

  "Oh, Lieutenant Randolph's in the end house," Bryce told them. "She's running a high fever, and we can't seem to bring it down. The Lactrans don't take any notice of our entreaties—shouted, written, or otherwise. I suspect they don't consider her illness severe enough. And while we're well-supplied with food, they give us nothing in the way of medical supplies."

  "I'll check her out," McCoy said reassuringly. "It would be ironic if our captors didn't help because they were afraid of wrongly treating a valuable specimen." He looked grim. "Or maybe they're afraid you might try suicide. A quick dose of some medicine could kill you before they could interfere. Has anyone . . .?"

  Bryce looked back at him steadily. "I'd be a liar if I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind."

  McCoy nodded, his expression carefully neutral. "Maybe I can at least diagnose what's wrong with her, but I can't do anything else. Not without my medical kit."

  Kirk spoke to Markel as Lieutenant Bryce led McCoy toward the house the three survivors had moved into. "What have you learned about the Lactrans, Commander? You've had a lot more time to study them than we have. All we've been able to determine is that they run this zoo, are telepathic, and possess a very high level of technology. How high we've no way of estimating."

  Markel looked disappointed. "I'm afraid we haven't learned much we can add to that, sir. It's difficult to study another culture from behind bars. Particularly when you're being studied yourself. We're not fond of the switch. Also, we were captured and brought here at night.

  "But we did see enough to know that this zoo"—and he made encompassing motions with both hands—"is so enormous as to be unbelievable. The only boundaries we saw before we were brought to this place were manufactured ones. There's plenty to hint that the majority of the city is built underground."

  Spock made a Vulcan sound indicative of surprise.

  "That implies a metropolis of truly gargantuan extent, Commander Markel. On what do you base such an assumption?"

  "On what we saw before we were brought here, and on the fact that despite these creatures being obviously diurnal, there were many days when we traveled through the city without seeing a single one besides our hosts."

  "And I don't see any now," admitted Kirk, looking around. "That means that if we could slip clear of this force field, we'd have a certain amount of freedom and a good chance of regaini
ng our communicators and phasers. That's a considerable 'if,' however. Have you made any attempts to escape?"

  Markel made a muffled sound. "Oh sure." He scooped up a handful of pebbles and spoke as he chucked them into the air. They traveled only a short distance before coming up against the force field and dropping vertically to the ground. "A dozen different ways, a few of them bordering on the insane.

  "For example, we tried using one of our communicators, when they allowed us one, to cause a disruption in the field. You can imagine how well we did with that one. We tried the inevitable tunnel." He half smiled, but there was bitterness in it. "I suppose we ought to have guessed that wouldn't work when they permitted us to continue. We couldn't very well hide the work.

  "The force wall extends as far below the surface as you're willing to dig. Then we all tried going on a hunger strike. All that brought about was a steady change in our meals. There was nothing to indicate that the Lactrans regarded it as anything like a voluntary protest by intelligent beings. We decided to give it up before we actually starved to death." He threw the final pebble, hard. "Nothing worked. I think we were getting a little crazy when we received your broadcast."

  "Have you tried to communicate?" wondered Spock.

  "Naturally, sir. Constantly, endlessly. We've tried talking to them, writing, thinking at them, rearranging the landscaping—everything. As far as we can tell, the only response we've been able to generate with our combined efforts is an occasional peculiar quivering movement on the front part of their bodies. I'm afraid I'm not much on quiver semantics."

  "They seem motionless enough now," Kirk informed them, nodding toward the roadway. "It looks like we've got company again, gentlemen."

  They turned to face the near section of field wall. Two Lactrans were approaching with that by now familiar eerie smoothness. They settled themselves opposite the captives and succeeded in conveying the impression of lavishing their undivided eyeless attention on the tiny group of bipeds.

  It produced, Kirk decided, a very cold feeling.

  Since the Lactrans appeared content to rest and watch, Kirk and the others decided to use the opportunity to study their captors in turn. They strolled over and stood at the edge of the force field.

  "They built this sealed environment for us shortly after we were captured," Markel murmured. "Fairly sprang up around us. That was one of the first solid indications we had that they were telepathic." He stared at the nearest alien, striving to penetrate whatever shield blocked the mind contained within that sluglike mass of protoplasm. "None of us was thinking consciously of anything like this layout," the commander continued, "when we were deposited here. Our thoughts were about as far from comfortable cottages and swimming pools as possible."

  "That would appear to indicate that they are capable of reaching into one's mind and withdrawing imagery from memory," Spock suggested. Markel nodded agreement.

  "I'd think that would also convince them of our intelligence," Kirk mused. "Still, we haven't even defined our own parameters of intelligence. We've no way of imagining what the standards are in Lactran." He glanced at his first officer.

  "You mentioned correctly, Spock, that where mental reception is concerned, you as a Vulcan are more sensitive than the rest of us. That goes for thought projection as well. Try. You may have more luck than Commander Markel and the others."

  "I will attempt it, Captain, but I am not optimistic."

  Standing still and silent, Spock closed his eyes and drifted rapidly into a trancelike state. Kirk and Markel continually shifted their attention from Spock to the two Lactrans near the field.

  Without apparent cause, the front ends of both aliens lifted slightly and twisted, puttylike, toward each other. Whether this action was the result of Spock's efforts was something only the first officer himself could answer.

  Spock kept up the effort for several long minutes, then slumped, visibly exhausted by the strain.

  "There are the same glimmerings of something supernally intelligent, Captain," he reported slowly. "Far different from anything I've ever encountered before. But again, the rapidity with which they process their thoughts defeats me. I cannot break through on their level. It does not help that they seem to be absorbed in conversation with each other. A two-way effort is required."

  "I see. And if one directed its thoughts at you, then it wouldn't matter because it could detect our intelligence on its own." He looked disgusted. "I hate cyclic problems." He brightened.

  "Perhaps we'll have more success with a technique I'm sure Commander Markel has tried. A combination of Vulcan thought projection and something graphic. Try writing something, Spock, and concentrating at the same time. Navigational computation, perhaps."

  Spock nodded. He broke a suitable dead branch from a nearby tree, then located a patch of ground where the grass cover was nearly nonexistent. The formula he scratched in the bare earth was complex enough to indicate mental powers beyond simple random doodling, yet basic enough to be readily recognizable to any creature with a working knowledge of elementary chemistry. At the same time his eyes glazed over, indicating he was striving to project his thoughts at the watching Lactrans.

  This time Kirk noticed a slight shaking, a rippling of the gray mantle that lined the front fringe of both aliens. This was accompanied by coordinated, extensive movements of the tail-tentacle.

  "You seem to be getting a response," Kirk murmured with repressed excitement.

  Spock stirred, his discomfort apparent even through his muddled voice. "I have . . . have the vague impression that . . . they are laughing at me."

  That implied a general conception of what Spock was writing and at the same time contempt—it didn't make sense. It didn't add up.

  It was frustrating and infuriating.

  "But basic mathematics," Kirk almost shouted, "has been a universal language among every intelligent race the Federation has encountered."

  The first officer blinked and left his state of concentration. "That may be the problem, Captain. Our formulations may be too basic, though this equation is far from simple. It is possible that they are so far ahead of us mathematically that my attempt was comparable to a child's futile struggle to make words with letter blocks. Many creatures can scratch out imitative lines analogous to mathematical equations. Talent in mimicry does not imply the power of creative thought."

  "Try something else," Kirk ordered irritably.

  "Yes, Captain."

  Once more the trance of projection, again a new formula etched into the dirt. Kirk anxiously studied the Lactrans for the signs of recognition due their captive's intelligence. That they were paying attention to Spock seemed clear.

  There were definite reactions. The quivering increased and spread to other parts of the aliens' bodies. But, wish as he would, Kirk saw no indication of anything like shocked amazement, no sign of an attempt to contact him. Nor was there anything pressing at his mind.

  This line of attack was useless. There was no point in tiring his first officer needlessly. "It's no use, Spock, you may as well relax."

  Spock tossed the stick away and rubbed with both hands at his forehead and temple, like a runner massaging his thighs after a steeplechase.

  "At least we know they are capable of humor," he observed.

  Markel was not amused. "We haven't seen anything funny about this so far, Mr. Spock."

  Spock replied imperturbably, "Animals in a zoo rarely do."

  Kirk broke the rising tension between the two by turning away from the Lactrans and starting toward the occupied cottage.

  "Let's join the others. Right now I feel the need for a bit more human company, and a bit less alien." He wasn't sure whether the unbroken, eyeless stares of the Lactrans were making him angry or uneasy, or both.

  Letting either emotion overwhelm continued study of their predicament would not bring them closer to a solution, he reminded himself as they entered the house.

  The interior was frightening in its cheeriness. Fright
ening because the creatures that had constructed the wooden chairs, printed the bright wallpaper, were anything but human. Frightening because those paper and chair designs had been drawn unbidden from the minds of unknowing human beings.

  A tall, middle-aged woman was lying on the couch beneath the front window. Her expression and pose, even in that naturally relaxed position, hinted at far more than normal exhaustion. Sweat stood out on her forehead like quicksilver on a plastic sheet.

  Lieutenant Bryce stood nearby as Dr. McCoy continued his methodical, patient examination—limb by limb, joint by joint, pressing, feeling, laying on hands because of the absence of instruments of metal and plastic and ceramic. While less accurate, however, those hands were equally sensitive.

  Bryce turned at their approach, offering a wan smile.

  "Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock." She gestured at the prone form. "Lieutenant Nancy Randolph, our cartographer and navigator."

  Randolph managed a grin and limp handshakes all around, but even that slight effort clearly exhausted her. Kirk waited until McCoy had concluded his extensive examination, then drew him off toward the rear of the room.

  "How is she, and what's the matter with her?"

  "She's not well, Jim. As to what's affected her, it's almost impossible to make anything like an accurate diagnosis without proper instrumentation." He took a deep breath.

  "If I had to guess, though, I'd say she's picked up some kind of malarial-type infection from an insect bite. I can't tell for certain, of course, much less prescribe any kind of corrective treatment beyond applying cold compresses in hopes of keeping the fever from rising. Bryce has been doing that anyway." He grunted. "If she's not improving, at least she's not getting any worse. But her body can fight the infection only so long. I've got to have my medikit, Jim! Guesses make lousy medication."

  Kirk nodded, then turned to walk back to the large front window. The better to enable them to see out? he wondered—or to allow visitors to see in? Angrily, he shrugged the thought away.