Star Trek - Log 8 (7 page)

"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. Frightening 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.

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.