Star Trek - Log 8 Read online

  The pair of Lactrans had not moved from their resting place. They stayed there, squatting and staring at the house, only occasionally turning front ends to face each other. Kirk knew they were conversing as surely as if they had been shouting in Federation English.

  "We haven't seen another Lactran since we arrived except these two," he declared. "Is this standard procedure, Commander Markel? Do these two have a function—are they scientists, or what?"

  "It's our joint opinion that they're guards, sir," Markel told him. "Or keepers—the terminology depends on your mood of the moment. Sometimes there are three instead of two, but always at least a couple hovering around somewhere, except when large groups of them appear. They're probably there to see we don't damage ourselves, or each other."

  McCoy grunted again. "Very thoughtful of them. I suppose we should feel flattered."

  "You mentioned regular meals," Kirk went on. "Do they feed you or supply game so you can fend for yourselves?"

  Markel shook his head. "They bring us a large case of various edibles once a week. The stuff is funny-looking, but it tastes okay. I think they synthesized our emergency rations." He smiled at a sudden thought. "If I'd known, we would have beamed down with steak and seafood instead of concentrates."

  "How do they get it to you?"

  "I'm not certain. We've never been able to tell if they shut the force wall down completely or just at the point where the food is sent in."

  "The point?" Kirk perked up. "They always bring it to the same place?"

  "Always," Bryce admitted, nodding. "Near the display case."

  "Display case . . . what display case?"

  "Behind this house," she continued. "Commander Markel mentioned the table our equipment was kept on. It's set up there, outside the force wall. They have all our toys in there, our digging stones and pointed sticks. That's only appropriate, isn't it?" She turned a worried, tired gaze down to the feverish navigator. "It's all part of the main exhibit—us."

  "Phasers, communicators, medical supplies, tricorders, and packs—everything we brought down with us," Markel finished.

  "That means my medikit should be there, too," McCoy surmised. "We've got to get it back somehow."

  "Possibly we can persuade them to give it to us, Captain," Spock suggested. "It is certain that they are aware of the potential of each device. That is shown by their refusal to return the phasers at any time."

  "But the medical equipment wouldn't be harmful," McCoy noted. Spock shook his head, once.

  "We have already commented on the possibility of voluntary injury to a despondent captive," the first officer commented, ignoring the sensibilities around him in favor of cold reason. "That explains their reluctance to turn such material over to their captives."

  "Even at the expense of losing one of those valuable specimens," McCoy snarled, staring helplessly at the recumbent figure of Lieutenant Randolph. His arms were held stiffly at his sides, the hands curled tightly into fists.

  "A strong emotional projection, Doctor."

  "What of it?" a belligerent McCoy objected.

  "Possibly nothing, but continue with it. Reinforce it, concentrate on it to the exclusion of all else."

  McCoy started to say something, hesitated, then nodded as understanding of Spock's intention dawned on him. He let the rage and frustration flow freely over him, dwelt masochistically on the image of a twisted, emaciated Randolph writhing on the couch in her death throes. His face contorted and wrinkled, and he fairly vibrated with the tension. McCoy was almost a parody of concentration.

  Parody or not, it seemed to have some effect. Spock was staring out the front window as McCoy concentrated. As he watched, one of the two Lactrans abruptly turned and scurried off out of view.

  "One of the aliens has just left his companion, Captain," he reported.

  "Keep it up, Bones."

  "I'm . . . trying, Jim . . ." McCoy's face was a portrait of exaggerated yet honest concern.

  "A little bit longer. Give them a chance and we'll see what happens . . ."

  They waited. Markel suddenly broke the silence. He was staring out one of the back windows and called excitedly to the others.

  "Back here, Captain!"

  His concentration broken by the interruption, McCoy turned and left the house through the back door, along with Spock, Markel, and Bryce. They were just in time to see the Lactran who had left, or possibly another one, withdrawing its multiple-ended tail from the force-field boundary. At a corresponding point inside was a pile of exotic but nourishing-looking fruit and vegetables.

  "Food—different food, and it's not feeding time," a puzzled Markel observed.

  "I think I understand," began Kirk. "They must have sensed Dr. McCoy's projection of want, of need, and interpreted it as a desire for food. The strength of the projection might explain the new offerings. Possibly they feel we require a different diet than you, at least at the beginning of our captivity." He considered the pile of edibles carefully.

  "That means that their telepathic sense is less than perfect, or they would have given us the medical supplies. I'm sorry they didn't, but at the same time it would be foolish to say I'm not glad to see a hint or two of imperfection on our captors' part."

  "It's nice to have confirmation of that fact, Jim," agreed McCoy tiredly, "but I could have told you that already. And while you might think me a reactionary anthropomorphist, I can also assure you that they're not pretty." He wiped perspiration from his brow. The steady concentration had exhausted him, though in a fashion different from the way such strains affected Spock.

  Logic ordered no rest, however, as Spock suggested, "I believe we should all concentrate on the need for Dr. McCoy's medikit, emphasizing our intention to use it only to help preserve one of our members."

  Markel shrugged. "Worth a try."

  All five of them went silent, some with eyes closed, others staring hard at the slowly retreating Lactran, each using the method which seemed most effective to him.

  The subject of this concentration responded with satisfying suddenness. It turned to regard them quietly, then sidled over to the oddly curved display table.

  Wavering over the metal, the tail hesitated over several objects before picking up . . . the captain's phaser! For a wild moment Kirk thought that one of their weapons might be returned to them. Similar thoughts occurred to several of the others.

  Either because of their thoughts or because of the Lactran's own knowledge, the bulky alien immediately put the weapon down. Kirk cursed himself for giving in so childishly to the offensive image his mind must have conjured up. He resumed concentrating twice as hard on McCoy's medikit.

  The Lactran's next choice was more assured. It picked up the necessary container. Handling it as delicately as if it were the prize glass sculpture of a master, it moved toward them and set the kit on the lawn behind the house.

  Kirk watched the entire procedure intensely, but there was nothing to indicate any button depressed or lever moved to deactivate that section of the force field.

  Still, someone somewhere must have done exactly that. He couldn't believe that the Lactrans possessed the physiological ability to walk through their own restraining field with impunity.

  He mused on the problem while the others made a run for the precious medikit, lest the alien change its mind and return to snatch it from them.

  "No telling when they'll decide we've had it long enough," Markel explained as they ran toward it. "We've been permitted to keep other equipment anywhere from a few hours to a week."

  As McCoy anxiously examined the kit and the others crowded around him, Kirk walked on past to study the section of force wall the Lactran had inserted it through.

  "It's all here—no damage and nothing altered," declared McCoy finally. "They haven't removed any of the emergency ampoules, either."

  "Unfortunately, nothing's changed here, either," Kirk replied. "The field's back on." He stared outward, looking longingly at the table laden with phasers
and other equipment, their own as well as that brought by the survey team.

  "So near and yet so far," he murmured sadly.

  Behind him, McCoy was heading for the house. "Have to see to my patient," he muttered in satisfaction. Doctor, patient, and medical supplies—the tripartite components of his Aesculapian universe were once more complete.

  Kirk watched them walk toward the house. He bestowed a final, concentrated thought on the retreating Lactran, pleading desperately for a simple, harmless toy—his communicator.

  The Lactran ignored him completely.

  IV

  Meanwhile others were striving to pierce the isolation which had swallowed up the captain, first officer, and chief physician of the Enterprise.

  "Are you raising anything yet?" an anxious Scott inquired of Lieutenant M'ress. He stood near the communications console and stared at the squiggles and lines which appeared on various readouts, in the hope that one of them might spell out an answer in plain English.

  No explanation was forthcoming from those dispassionate, uncaring instruments, plain or otherwise.

  "Not a thing, sirr," M'ress replied. She had answered the same query from Scott with the same information every five minutes since she had taken over for Lieutenant Uhura.

  Scott responded with the same order. "Keep at it. They're down there somewhere."

  Furiously, he turned over the same old possibilities in his mind. It was highly unlikely that all three officers had experienced a simultaneous breakdown of their communicators, regardless of what might have happened to those carried down by the survey crew.

  That left three possibilities.

  One, they were unable to use their communicators, for what reason Scott couldn't imagine. Two, their communicators had been rendered inoperative by outside forces. Three . . .

  He refused to consider Three. As long as he denied the possibility, it could never come about.

  Scottish reasoning can be notoriously perverse, and this was one instance in which Scott utilized its roundabout methodology to the fullest. Spock could say that Scott thought in pretzels all he wanted to . . . as long as the absurd first officer was all right.

  As long, the Enterprise's chief engineer thought furiously, as he was all right . . .

  The little knot of humans left McCoy to his doctoring, aware that their presence could only hinder his ministrations. Lieutenant Bryce lingered the longest, but eventually she, too, left the couch and its tired occupant to join the others in gazing out the front window.

  Both guards stood, or sat, where one had been moments before. They regarded the inhabitants of the house with identical but featureless stares. The inhabitants stared back with somewhat more animation.

  "Let's sum things up, Commander," Kirk started firmly. "Based on everything that's happened to you since you've been trapped on this world, what's your evaluation of the situation?"

  Markel considered for a moment and ticked off his observations on the fingers of one hand. "The Lactrans treat us quite well. They want us alive and healthy and are willing to go to some inconvenience to insure that we remain so . . . though they do make occasional mistakes—underestimating the severity of Lieutenant Randolph's condition, for example. Most importantly, they want to keep us right where we are."

  "A natural reaction for the curators of a zoo," Spock observed drily.

  "We've managed to keep from going crazy," continued Markel, "only just. Part of the time we make studious analyses of our guards, trying to discern differences between them . . . with little result. The rest of the time we occupy by plotting absurd escape schemes and executing them, and by making observations of this world not connected with our captors. For example, we've worked out a calendar according to the movements of the Lactran sun and moon. It's a close duplicate of our own, which helps us a little. Oh, and every nine days we draw quite a crowd."

  "Undoubtedly the local equivalent of a periodic rest time," commented Spock.

  Markel was silent for a while as attention was divided between the guards and the couch, where McCoy made steady, assured motions with his hands and paraphernalia. Then he turned a concerned, unwinking gaze on Kirk.

  "Sir, do you think there's any chance of getting out?" It wasn't the sort of statement the leader of a survey crew ought to make, but then, Markel didn't feel much like a leader at the moment. He felt like a laboratory rat crouched at the far corner of its cage, regarding a monstrous hand moving inexorably toward it.

  "As long as they keep us alive, there's a chance," Kirk replied, properly encouraging. His private thoughts went unvoiced. "Sometimes the strongest force fields can be negated by the simplest procedures. Tonight we'll try to find a frequency commonality using Dr. McCoy's instrumentation, slightly rearranged, of course."

  "I'd say there was no commonality, Captain."

  "Not very encouraging, Mr. Spock."

  "I am not one for fanciful dreams, sir, as you well know," the first officer replied evenly.

  "I never met a Vulcan who was." Markel did not look across at Spock.

  "I hope," the target of that barb said carefully, "that was meant to connote the value of being a Vulcan."

  "I'm sure it was," Kirk said hastily.

  Spock was well in control of himself, but Kirk saw that the survey commander was being pushed by Spock's constant coolness. Spock could only be Spock, however, and he continued relentlessly. His mind could not make room for childishly optimistic speculation where no grounds for such existed.

  "I think we should face our situation realistically, Captain. We are specimens in a zoo. We have been taken captive by an alien race of unusual technological accomplishments and unpredictable psychology. To them, we are caged for life. These facts, coupled with the Lactrans' undeniable demonstrations of superior intelligence, do not add up to a very convincing set of factors for eventual escape. And, while not very encouraging, Captain, that is my reasoned assessment of our present situation."

  "Thank you, Mr. Spock," Kirk replied. "And mine is, let's sleep on it."

  Randolph was a new person the following morning, thanks to McCoy's skilled treatment. New, but not her old self, not yet. Her system would need plenty of time and rest to return to normal strength. So she remained on the couch under doctor's orders as the other five officers left the house.

  Kirk was the first one out, and he pulled up short, staring around in surprise. The others followed and displayed varied expressions of equal amazement.

  "We seem," Spock observed mildly, "to be drawing quite a crowd."

  Indeed, where only the presence of two guards had marred the broad horizon the previous day, there now milled a thickly packed throng of Lactrans. The only visible differences between individuals were slight variations in color and somewhat greater ones in size.

  "This is that ninth day I mentioned," Markel informed Kirk, unnecessarily.

  "I'll be hanged if I'm going to do tricks for them," grumbled McCoy.

  "We can move about as we wish, Doctor," agreed Spock, "but we cannot evade their mental vision. I suggest we attempt to ignore them and make ourselves comfortable."

  They moved around to the side of the house, Lieutenant Bryce going inside briefly to inform Randolph of what was going on. The recreational section outside boasted a number of comfortable chairs, and it was into these that the members of the trapped group settled themselves.

  Bryce returned, indicating the pool and surrounding equipment. "As you can see, they've given us extensive facilities for enjoying ourselves—and for making sure we stay healthy." She snapped out the words. "A very comfortable wheel, only the rats aren't in the mood to climb in and run in place.

  "They feed us," she continued as she relaxed into a free-form of orange plastic, "and apparently think this is all we want. To run, eat, sleep, and"—she paused only slightly—"play."

  "Exactly what we would expect from the animals we have in our own zoos," Spock commented. His tone was almost approving. Almost.

  "Well, I am not
an animal," McCoy muttered disconsolately.

  "Scientifically speaking, we all are," Kirk reminded him, then turned to each in sequence. "Instead of learning about us, a subject we're pretty familiar with, why don't we follow Commander Markel's suggestion and try to learn something about them."

  Markel looked resigned. "I don't see what more there is we can learn, Captain, unless we can either penetrate their minds or convince them of our intelligence."

  "Known fact: They are purely telepathic," Kirk began, restating the obvious. "Mr. Spock is, like all Vulcans, peripherally so, but as yet has not been able to make successful contact with them."

  "Their intelligence is so different that I can find no common basis for an exchange of information, let alone for complicated visualizations," Spock added.

  "Exactly what did you learn yesterday?" Markel wondered.

  "That the thoughts and expressions of adults are incomprehensible to a six-year-old infant," the first officer declaimed, "and that the infant's babblings are regarded with equal incomprehension by adults." He did not have to place his companions into one of the two categories.

  "I think we're missing something, Spock," the doctor said.

  The first officer turned an interested gaze on McCoy. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, we're assuming this extraordinary, impenetrable intelligence level is uniform throughout the population. In any civilization there are the gifted, the norm, and the slow." He nodded once toward the smoothly shifting crowd. "Maybe there are less highly developed minds out there today. It's only natural to expect the keepers to be reasonably advanced. That's not necessarily so of those who come to gawk. Try them. At least we'll have the general public's impression of us, if we're lucky."

  "A fine suggestion, Doctor." Spock turned his stare outward, concentrating without exerting the maximum effort of the previous day.

  "It is only a vague generalization," he finally murmured softly. "I could be completely wrong, but we appear to frighten some of them—at least the smaller ones. Probably juveniles. The others have mixed feelings: Some are indifferent, some curious, a few find us rather ugly." He blinked. "It is a sign of their advanced civilization that none projected any hint of antagonism toward us."