Star Trek 08 Read online

  On their latest missions, Starship Enterprise and her crew journey to a glaciated wasteland where beautiful women rule; defeat the ferocious double of Captain Kirk on board the Starship; visit an eerie planet where it's always Halloween; and even dare to go beyond the edge of the galaxy.

  BASED ON THE EXCITING

  NEW NBC-TV SERIES CREATED

  BY GENE RODENBERRY

  A NATIONAL GENERAL COMPANY

  STAR TREK 8

  A Bantam Book / published August 1972

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1972 by Bantam Books, Inc.

  Copyright © 1972 by Paramount Pictues Corporation.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

  by mimeograph or any other means,

  without permission in writing.

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  ISBN-13: 978-0553127317

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a subsidiary of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 271 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  SPOCK'S BRAIN

  THE ENEMY WITHIN

  CATSPAW

  WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE

  WOLF IN THE FOLD

  FOR THE WORLD IS HOLLOW AND I HAVE TOUCHED THE SKY

  SPOCK'S BRAIN

  (Lee Cronin)

  * * *

  The curiously elegant spaceship depicted on the Enterprise screen had failed to respond to any hailing frequency or to approved interstellar symbols.

  Nor was its shape familiar. Scanning it, Spock said, "Design unidentified. Ion propulsion, neutron conversion of a unique technology."

  Kirk said, "Magnification Ten, Mr. Chekov."

  But the close-up revealed the ship as mysterious as before—a long, slender, needle-thin splinter of glow against the blackness of space.

  "Well, Scotty?"

  "It beats me, Captain. I've never seen anything like it. But isn't she a beauty?" He whistled in awed admiration. "And ion propulsion at that. Whoever they are, they could show us a thing or two."

  "Life form readings, Mr. Spock?"

  "One, sir. Humanoid or similar. Low level of activity. Life support systems functioning. Interior atmosphere conventional nitrogen oxygen." He peered more closely at his scanner. "Just a minute, Captain . . ."

  "Yes, Mr. Spock?"

  "Instruments indicate a transferal beam emanating from the humanoid life form."

  "Directed to where?"

  "To here sir—the bridge of the Enterprise."

  People moved uneasily at their stations. Kirk spoke into the intercom. "Security guard! To the bridge!"

  But even as he issued the order, a figure had begun to take shape among them. It gathered substance. A superbly beautiful woman stood in the precise center of the bridge. She was clad in a short, flowing, iridescent tunic, a human woman in all aspects save in her extraordinary loveliness. On her arm she wore a bracelet, studded with varicolored cabochon jewels or buttons. She was smiling faintly.

  Her appearance, no Transporter Room materialization, was as mysterious as the ship.

  Kirk spoke. "I am Captain James T. Kirk. This is the Starship Enterprise."

  She pressed a button on the bracelet. There was a humming sound. The bridge lights dimmed, brightened, dimmed again; and with the look of amazement still on their faces, Kirk, Spock and Scott went stiff, paralyzed. Then they crumpled to the floor. The humming sound passed out into the corridor. Again, lights flickered. Three running security guards stumbled—and fell. The humming grew louder. It moved into Sickbay where McCoy and Nurse Chapel were examining a patient. Once more, lights faded. When they brightened, McCoy, the nurse and the patient had slumped into unconsciousness.

  Silence flowed in on the Enterprise.

  Still smiling, the beautiful intruder glanced down at Kirk. She stepped over him to examine Scott's face. Then she left him to approach Spock. The smile grew in radiance as she stooped over him.

  Nobody was ever to estimate accurately the duration of their tranced state. Gradually, as awareness returned to Kirk, he saw that other heads around him had recovered the power to lift themselves.

  "What—where—" he asked disconnectedly.

  Sulu put the question. "What happened?"

  Kirk pulled himself back up into his command chair.

  "Status, Mr. Sulu?"

  Mechanically Sulu checked his board. "No change from the last reading, sir."

  "Mr. Spock?"

  There was no Mr. Spock at The Vulcan's station to reply. Perplexed, Kirk looked at Scott. "The girl," Scott said dazedly, "she's gone, too."

  "Yes," Kirk said, "that girl . . ."

  His intercom buzzed. "Jim! Jim! Get down here to Sickbay! Right now! Jim, hurry!"

  McCoy's voice had an urgency that was threaded with horror. In Sickbay the Enterprise's physician was trying to force himself to look at his own handiwork. Within its life function chamber, he had encased Spock's motionless body with a transparent bubble device. There was a small wrapping about the upper part of the cranium. Frenziedly working at his adjustment levers, he said, "Now?"

  Nurse Chapel, at her small panel, nodded. She threw a switch that set lights to blinking. "It's functioning," she said, her voice weak with relief.

  "Thank God."

  McCoy was leaning back against the table as Kirk burst through the door.

  "Bones, what in the name of—" Kirk broke off. He had seen through the transparency of the bubble. "Spock!" He glanced swiftly at the life indicator. It showed a very low level. "Well?" he demanded harshly.

  It was Nurse Chapel who answered him. "I found him lying on the table when I recovered consciousness."

  "Like this?"

  "No," McCoy said. "Not like this."

  "Well, what happened?"

  "I don't know!" McCoy shouted.

  "You've got him under complete life support at total levels. Was he dead?"

  McCoy raised himself by a hand pushed down on the table. "It starts there," he said.

  "Damn you, Bones, talk!"

  "He was worse than dead."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Jim—" McCoy spoke pleadingly as though he were appealing for mercy from his own sense of helplessness. "Jim—his brain is gone."

  "Go ahead."

  "Technically, the greatest job I ever saw. Every nerve ending of the brain neatly sealed. Nothing torn, nothing ripped. No bleeding. A surgical miracle."

  "Spock's brain—" Kirk said, fighting for control.

  "Gone." McCoy had given up on professional composure. His voice broke. "Spock—his incredible Vulcan physique survived until I could get the support system to take over. The body lives—but it has no mind."

  "The girl," Kirk said.

  "What girl?"

  "She took it. I don't know where—or why. But she took Spock's brain."

  "Jim . . ."

  "How long can you keep the body functioning?"

  "Several days at the most. And I can't guarantee that."

  "That's not good enough, Bones."

  "If it had happened to any of us, I could say indefinitely. But Vulcan physiology limits what I can do. Spock's body is much more dependent than ours on that tremendous brain of his for life support."

  "I ask you—how long, Dr. McCoy. I have to know."

  Wearily, McCoy reached for the chart. "He suffered a loss of cerebral spinal fluid in the operation. Reserves are minimal. Spock's T-Negative blood supply—two total exchanges." He looked up fro
m the chart. "Three days—no more."

  Kirk moved over to the bubble. He could feel his heart cringe at the sight of the paper-white face inside it. Spock, the friend, the dear companion through a thousand hazards—Spock, the always reliable thinker, the reasonable one, the always reasonable and loyal one.

  "All right, then—I've got three days."

  At the naked anguish in his face, McCoy motioned the nurse to leave them alone.

  "Jim, are you hoping to restore him his brain? How are you going to find it? Where are you going to look? Through the entire galaxy?"

  "I'll find it."

  "Even if you do find it, a brain can't be replaced with present surgical techniques."

  "If it was taken, it can be put back. Obviously, there are techniques."

  "I don't know them!" The cry was wrenched from McCoy.

  "The thief who took it has the knowledge. I'll force it out of her! So help me, I'll get it out of her!"

  It was Sulu who located the ion trail of the mystery ship.

  "Look, Mr. Scott. I've got it again!"

  Scott was jotting numbers down on the board in his hand. "Aye, an ion trail. It's from that ship of hers all right."

  "Where does it lead, Mr. Chekov?" Kirk asked.

  Chekov studied the panel at Spock's library computer. "It leads to system Sigma Draconis, sir."

  "Lock on," Kirk said. "Maximum speed without losing the trail, Mr. Sulu."

  "Aye, Captain. Warp six."

  "Mr. Chekov, a complete readout on Sigma Draconis."

  Sulu turned to Kirk. "Arrival, seven terrestrial hours, twenty-five minutes at warp six, sir."

  "No mistake about the trail, Scotty?"

  "No mistake, Captain."

  Chekov called from Spock's station. "Coming into scanning range of the Sigma Draconis system, sir."

  Alarm rang in Sulu's voice. "Captain, I've lost the trail!"

  Kirk leaped from his chair. "You've lost the trail to Spock?"

  "It's gone, sir. At warp six there was a sudden deactioned shift."

  "No excuses, if you please," Kirk said. "All right, her trail is gone. But she was heading into this star system. She must be somewhere in it." He moved to Chekov. "Put a schematic of Sigma Draconis on the viewing screen."

  The nine planets comprising the system took shape and position on the screen. "Readout, Mr. Chekov," Kirk said.

  "Sun, spectral type, G9. Three Class M planets showing sapient life. First planet rated number 5 on the industrial scale. Second Class M planet rated number 6."

  "Earth equivalent, approximately 2030," Kirk estimated.

  Scott broke in. "But that ship, Captain. Either it was thousands of years ahead of us—or the most incredible design fluke in history."

  "Third Class M planet, Mr. Chekov?"

  "Aye, sir. No signs of industrial development. Rated number 2 on the industrial scale of 20. At last report in a glacial age. Sapient life plentiful but on a most primitive level." Chekov turned around to face Kirk. "Of course, sir, in none of these cases has a detailed Federation survey been made. All the information is the result of long-range scanning and preliminary contact reports. We don't know how accurate it is."

  "Understood, Mr. Chekov. There are three Class M planets, not one of which owns the capability of launching an interstellar flight. Yet one of them has obviously accomplished it."

  Chekov, who had been punching up reports on the whirring computer, was too puzzled by the last one to note Kirk's irony. He compared it with what he saw on the screen before he said, "Captain, its odd. I'm picking up high-energy generation on Planet 7."

  "That's the primitive glaciated one, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir,"

  "Its source, Mr. Chekov?"

  "It could be natural—volcanic activity, steam, any of a dozen sources, sir. But the pulsations are very regular."

  "Surface readings again?"

  "No signs of organized civilization. Primitive humanoids in small groups. Apparently a routine hunter-predator stage of social development."

  "With very regular pulsations of generated energy?"

  "I can't explain it, Captain."

  Kirk turned to address all members of the bridge crew. "This time," he said, "there is no time for mistakes. We've got to pick the right planet, go there—and get what we came for. Mr. Chekov, your recommendation."

  "Planet 3, sir. It's closest and the heaviest population."

  Scott said, "With a technological rating of 5, it couldn't have put that ship we saw into space."

  "None of these planets could," Chekov said.

  "You've got to put your money where the odds are," Scott retorted. "Captain, my guess is Planet 4. Technologically it's ahead of 3."

  "Yes," Kirk said. "But ion propulsion is beyond even our technology. Can you really credit theirs with its development?"

  Uhura spoke up. "And what would they want with Mr. Spock's brain?"

  "What?" Kirk said.

  "I said what would they want with Mr. Spock's brain? What use could they make of it? Why should they want it?"

  Kirk stared at her. "A very interesting question, Lieutenant. Why indeed should they want it? Planet 7. It's glaciated, you say, Mr. Chekov?"

  "Yes, sir. For several thousand years at least. Only the tropical zone is ice-free—and that would be bitterly cold. Humanoids exist on it; but only under very trying conditions."

  "But the energy, Mr. Chekov. It's there."

  "Yes, sir. It doesn't make sense—but it's there."

  Kirk sat back in his chair. Three days—and Spock's body would be a dead one. Choice. Choice again. Decision again—command decision. He made it.

  "I'm taking a landing party down to Planet 7," he said.

  Scott stirred uncomfortably.

  "Well, Mr. Scott?"

  "Nothing, sir."

  "Very well. We'll transport down immediately."

  Kirk had seen some bleak landscapes in his time; but this one, he thought, would take the cake at any galactic fair.

  What vegetation there was scarcely deserved the name, sparse as it was, brown, crackling under the feet with hardened frost. No green, just rocks, black under the sprinkling of snow that clung to their harsh crags, their crannies. A constant icy wind blew. He shivered, hoping that the rest of his party—McCoy, Scott, Chekov and two security guards—were as grateful as he was for their lightweight, thermal cold-weather clothing.

  "Readings, Mr. Scott." His warm breath congealed in a mist as he spoke.

  "Scattered life forms, widely spaced. Humanoid all right. On the large side."

  "Watch out for them. They are primitives. Readout, please, Mr. Chekov."

  Chekov unslung his tricorder, and went to work on the rocky plateau where they had materialized. His explorations acquired a witness. Above him was an escarpment, broken by a gulch, sheltered by an overhang of stunted scrub. A fur-clad figure, armed with a crude knobbed club, had scrambled through the gulch; and was lying now, belly flat, at the edge of the cliff to peer through the overhang at what went on below.

  Chekov returned to his party. "No structures, Captain. No surface consumption of energy or generation of it. Atmosphere OK. Temperature—say a high maximum of forty. Livable."

  "If you've got a thick skin," McCoy said.

  The figure on the cliff had been joined by several other skin-clad creatures, their faces hidden by parkalike hoods. They moved, gathering, from rock to rock as though closing in. Most carried the heavy clubs. One bore a spear.

  "Captain!" Chekov cried. "There's someone—something up there. There—up on that cliff . . ."

  "Phasers on stun," Kirk ordered. "Fire only on my signal."

  Chekov looked up again from his tricorder. "I register six of them, sir. Humanoids. Big."

  "Remember, I want one of them conscious," Kirk said.

  As he spoke, a huge man, savagely bearded, rose up on the cliff; and swinging his club in an arc over his head, hurled it downward. It struck a security guard a glancing blow
. He yelled in surprise and alarm. The alarm in the yell brought the other five to their feet. They all clambered up to shower the Enterprise with rocks and clubs.

  Aiming his phaser at one of them, Kirk fired. The man fell and rolled down the cliffs slope, stunned. Shouting to each other, the rest disappeared.

  The prisoner belonged to a hardheaded lot. Consciousness returned to him with astonishing swiftness. He struggled to rise, but Scott seized him with a judo hold that suggested the reprisal of pain for struggle. The man (and he was a man) subsided. He looked up at Kirk, terror in his eyes. Extending his empty hands in a gesture of friendship, Kirk said, "We mean you no harm. We are not enemies. We want to be your friends."

  The terror in the eyes abated slightly. Kirk spoke again. "We will not hurt you. We only want to talk to you. Let him go, Mr. Scott."

  "Captain, he could twist your head off."

  "Let him go," Kirk repeated.

  The man said, "You are not The Others?"

  "No," Kirk said. "We are not The Others. We come from a far place."

  "You are small like The Others. I could break you in two."

  "But you won't," Kirk said. "We are men. Like you. Why did you attack us?"

  "When The Others come, we fight. We thought you were The Others."

  "Who are The Others?"

  "They are the givers of pain and delight."

  "Do they live here with you?"

  "They come."

  "Where do you see them when they come?"

  The man spread his arms wide. "Everywhere. On the hunt, when we eat, at the time of sleep."

  "The Others—where do they come from?"

  Kirk got a heavy stare. "Do they come from the sky?" he asked.

  "They are here. You will see. They will come for you. They come for all like us."

  "Jim, ask him about women," McCoy said. He spoke to the man himself. "Do The Others come for your women, too?"

  "Women?"

  "The females of our kind," Kirk said.

  The man shrugged. "Your words say nothing."

  Kirk tried again. "We are looking for a—lost friend."

  "If he is here, The Others have him."