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  Back up the gully, down and around the bend to the overhang. Into the tube went sulfur, saltpeter. Covering the end, he shook the tube until a little of the mixture poured out into his palm showed an even color, though certainly not the color it should have been.

  A stone point penetrated the bamboo at the base, though it was hard work. A bit of torn tunic for a patch, and ram it all home with a stick. Then the egg-shaped diamond; then another patch, and ram again. Finally, a piece of flint; it did not have to be large, not any more.

  "Captain," the translator at his belt said. He did not answer.

  "Captain, be reasonable," the translator said. "Hiding will do you no good. If it is a matter of competitive starvation, I think my endurance is greater than yours. Why not come out, and die like a warrior?"

  Kirk ignored it. Shredding another piece of cloth from the tunic, he began to strike the piece of flint over it, using the translator—at last it had a use!—as the steel. Sparks flew, but the cloth would not catch. If it was non-inflammable.

  "You cannot destroy me," the translator said. "Let us be done with it. I shall be merciful and quick."

  "Like you were at Cestus Three?" Kirk said.

  "You were intruding," the translator said. "You established an outpost in our space. Naturally we destroyed it"

  Kirk did not stop striking sparks, but he was at the same time thoughtful. What the Gorn said was perhaps reasonable, from its point of view. Very little was known about that arm of the galaxy; perhaps the Gorn had a right to regard it as theirs—and to be alarmed at the setting up of a base there, and by the advent of a ship the size of the Enterprise. Nevertheless . . .

  Smoke rose from the shredded cloth. He raised it to his lips, blowing gently. It was catching.

  "All right, Gorn," he told the translator. "Come and get me if you think you can. I'm under the overhang just past where you set your snare."

  There was a sharp hiss, and then the clear sound of the Gorn's claws, coming at a run up the gully. Kirk had miscalculated. The creature was closer than he had thought—and faster. Frantically he struggled to align the clumsy bamboo tube.

  The Gorn leapt into view, its obsidian knife raised. Kirk slapped the burning piece of clothes against the touchhole, and the makeshift cannon went off with a splintering roar. The concussion knocked Kirk down; the semicave was filled with acrid smoke.

  He groped to his feet again. As the smoke cleared, he saw the Gorn, slumped against the other wall of the gully. The diamond egg had smashed its right shoulder; but it was bleeding from half a dozen other places too, where diamond chips had flown out of the cannon instead of igniting.

  The knife lay between them. Leaping forward, Kirk snatched it up, hurled himself on the downed alien. The knife's point found one of the wounds.

  "Now," Kirk said hoarsely, "now let's see how tough your hide is!"

  The Gorn did not answer. Though conscious, it seemed to be in shock. It was all over. All Kirk had to do was shove.

  He could not do it. He rose, slowly.

  "No," he said. "We're in the same pickle. You're trying to save your ship, the same as I am. I won't kill, you for that."

  Suddenly furious, Kirk looked up at the greenish, overcast sky.

  "Do you hear?" he shouted. "I won't kill him! You'll have to get your entertainment someplace else!"

  There was a long pause. Kirk stared down at the wounded alien; the Gorn stared back. Its translator had been shattered by the impact; it could not know what Kirk had said. But it did not seem to be afraid.

  Then it vanished.

  Kirk sat down, dejected and suddenly, utterly weary. Right or wrong, he had lost his opportunity now. The Metron had snatched the Gorn away.

  Then there was a humming, much like that he had heard so long ago aboard ship, when the screen had been scrambled. He turned.

  A figure was materializing under the overhang. It was not very formidable—certainly nothing so ominous, so awe-inspiring as its voice had suggested. Also, it was very beautiful. It looked like a boy of perhaps eighteen.

  "You're a Metron," Kirk said listlessly.

  "True," said the figure. "And you have surprised us, Captain."

  "How?" Kirk said, not much interested. "By winning?"

  "No. We had no preconceptions as to which of you would win. You surprised us by refusing to kill, although you had pursued the Gorn craft into our space with the intention of destroying it."

  "That was different," Kirk said. "That was necessary."

  "Perhaps it was. It is a new thought. Under the circumstances, it is only fair to tell you that we lied to you."

  "In what way?"

  "We said that the ship of the loser of this personal combat would be destroyed," said the Metron. "After all, it would be the winner—the stronger, the more resourceful race—who would pose the greatest threat to us. It was the winner we planned to destroy."

  Kirk lurched to his feet. "Not my ship," he said dangerously.

  "No, Captain. We have changed our minds. By sparing your helpless enemy—who would surely have killed you in like circumstances—you demonstrated the advanced trait of mercy. This we hardly expected—and it leaves us with no clear winner."

  "What did you do with the Gorn, then?"

  "We sent him back to his ship. And in your case, we misinterpreted your motives. You sincerely believed that you would be destroying the Gorn ship to keep the peace, not break it. If you like, we shall destroy it for you."

  "No!" Kirk said hastily. "That's not necessary. It was a . . . a misunderstanding. Now that we've made contact, we'll be able to talk to the Gorn—reach an agreement."

  "Very good," said the Metron. "Perhaps we too shall meet again—in a few thousand years. In any event, there is hope for you."

  And abruptly, the Enterprise sprang into being around Kirk.

  Turmoil broke out on the bridge. Ship's Surgeon McCoy was the first to reach Kirk's side.

  "Jim! Are you all right?"

  "To be quite honest with you," Kirk said dazedly, "I don't know. I just wish the world would stop popping in and out at me."

  "I gather you won," Spock said. "How did you do it?"

  "Yes . . . I guess so. I'm not quite sure. I thought I did it by reinventing gunpowder—with diamond dust for charcoal. But the Metrons say I won by being a sucker. I don't know which explanation is truer. All the Metrons would tell me is that we're a most promising species—as predators go."

  "I could not have put the matter more neatly myself," Spock said. "But, Captain, I would be interested to know what it is you're talking about—when you feel ready, of course."

  "Yes, indeed," Kirk said. "In the meantime, posts, everybody. It's time we got back down to business. And, Mr. Spock, about that explanation . . ."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "I suggest you raise the question again, in, say, a few thousand years."

  "Yes, sir."

  And the odd thing about Spock, the captain reflected, was that he would wait that long too, if only he could figure out a way to live through it—and when the time had all passed, Spock would remember to ask the question again.

  Kirk hoped he would have an answer.

  A TASTE OF ARMAGEDDON

  (Robert Hamner and Gene L. Coon)

  * * *

  Ambassador Fox was something of a cross to Captain Kirk, and to most of his officers, for that matter. In addition to having a very high regard for his own importance—which is not necessarily a handicap in a man, provided he also has a sense of humor—he had a remarkably short temper for a career diplomat.

  But the mission was his, and he had to be put up with. There was no question about the importance of that. Eminiar VII was by all accounts the most advanced planet of its star cluster, NGC 321, having had space flight for hundreds of years. Nevertheless, as of fifty years ago they had never ventured beyond their own solar system, and for a very good reason: They had been at war with their nearest neighbor. The vessel making the report, the USS Valiant, was
listed as missing—presumably as a product of the hostilities. It was Fox's job to establish diplomatic relations with them.

  It evidently was not going to be easy. At first contact with the Enterprise, Eminiar VII sent Code 710—a warning not to approach the planet under any circumstances. Kirk was more than willing to comply; after all, it was their planet, and he intensely disliked gunboat diplomacy. But Ambassador Fox insisted, and he had command power if he wanted to exercise it. He frequently did.

  Kirk beamed down to the planet with Mr. Spock, Yeoman Manning and two security guards, leaving Scott, his engineer, in charge of the ship. In view of the warning, they all carried number-one phasers, in addition to a tricorder, of which Yeoman Manning was in charge.

  But there was no overt hostility. They materialized in a corridor of a building that, judging by the traffic, was an official establishment of some kind, and were met solely by a very pretty girl who introduced herself as Mea Three and promptly offered to take them to the High Council. Her manner was cool, but correct.

  The High Council proved to consist of four pleasant-looking men seated at a table in a large room that had in it also a faint hum of machinery, though none was evident. As Kirk and his party entered, all four rose and smiled.

  "I am Anan Seven," said the one farthest to the left. "I am sorry to see you here. But you are here, and we must do everything possible to make you comfortable. Won't you sit down?"

  "I'm Captain Kirk, James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise, representing the United Federation of Planets. This is my first officer, Mr. Spock. Lieutenant Galloway. Lieutenant Osborne. Yeoman Manning."

  "Welcome to Eminiar," Anan said, making a formal little bow. Everyone sat, and there was a moment of silence as each party studied the other.

  "Well, Captain," Anan said at last, "since you chose to disregard our warning, I suppose we must proceed to the business at hand. What can we do for you?"

  "Our mission, sir, is to establish diplomatic relations between your people and mine. The Federation badly needs a treaty port in this cluster."

  "Impossible, I'm afraid," Anan said.

  "Oh? Would you mind telling me why?"

  "Because of the war."

  "You are still at war?" Kirk said.

  "We have been at war," Anan said, "for five hundred years."

  Kirk raised his eyebrows. "You conceal it well. Mr. Spock?"

  "Sir," Spock said to Anan, "we have completely scanned your planet. We find it highly advanced, prosperous in a material sense, comfortable for your people—and completely peaceful. Seemingly an ideal, flourishing, highly civilized culture, which obviously should have ties with our Federation. There is no evidence of war whatsoever."

  "Casualties among our civilian population," Anan said evenly, "total from one to three million dead each year, from direct enemy attack. This is why we warned you away, Captain. As long as your ship is orbiting this planet, it is in severe danger."

  "With whom are you at war?" Spock said.

  "Vendikar, the third planet in this system. Originally settled by our people, and as advanced as we are—and a ruthless enemy."

  "Nevertheless . . ." Spock began. He got no further than that word. Suddenly the room was clamoring with a shrill, whooping siren. Anan, his face stern, stood instantly, pressing a button.

  The result was astonishing. The siren stopped, but the entire rear wall of the Council room slid aside, revealing another room of the same size that harbored an installation of enormous intricacy. It was too big and too involved to take it all in at once; Kirk got a quick impression of a long bank of computers, a number of lighted graphs on the walls, a large illuminated grid that might have been a map.

  "You will have to excuse us," Anan said. "We are in fact under attack at this moment. Mea, care for our guests."

  All four of the council members took positions at the machinery, where several other operators were already at work. Kirk, baffled, looked first at Spock, who shrugged, and then at Mea.

  "It will not last long," the girl said.

  "Don't you take shelter?"

  "There is no shelter, Captain."

  "Are these attacks frequent?" Spock said.

  "Oh, yes. But we retaliate promptly."

  Beckoning to Spock, Kirk moved off into the newly revealed room—the war room, Kirk supposed. No attempt was made to stop them. At the large grid, an operator sat at a console. Flashes spattered over the grid, seemingly at random; at each flash, the operator pushed what was evidently a matching button. Kirk studied it, but it conveyed nothing to him; as he had expected, he could not read the mapping conventions of Eminiar. Beside Mm, however, Mea gasped suddenly.

  "A hit!" she said. "A hit in the city!"

  "Mr. Spock, hear any explosions?"

  "None. Yeoman Manning, are you getting any radiation readings or any other kind of disturbance on the tricorder?"

  "Not a thing."

  Kirk turned to Mea. "If this is an attack," he said, “would you mind telling me what weapons the enemy is using?"

  "Fusion bombs," she said. "Materialized by transporter over the targets. They are very accurate. My parents were killed in the last attack."

  Kirk flipped out his communicator and called the ship. "Mr. Scott, are you still scanning this planet's surface?"

  "Of course, sir," Scott's voice said promptly. "Per your orders."

  "Anything unusual?"

  "Nothing, sir. All quiet."

  As Kirk put the communicator away, something buzzed on the boards before them and one of the computers extruded a card from a slot. Anan took it and stared at it, his face grim. Then he handed it to the man next to him.

  "Just as it happened fifty years ago, Sar," he said.

  Sar nodded, his face sad. "We warned them."

  "Alert a security detachment. They may be needed."

  "Sir," Kirk said, "I have been in contact with my ship, which has this entire planet under surveillance. All the time this so-called attack has been in progress, we have been monitoring you. There has been no attack—no explosions, no radiation, no disturbances whatsoever. Now if this is just some sort of game . . ."

  "It is not a game," Anan said. "Half a million people have just been killed."

  "Entirely by computers," Spock said suddenly.

  "That's quite correct," Anan said. "Their deaths are registered. They are then given twenty-four hours to report to the disintegration chambers. Since the immediate danger appears to be over, I can explain at somewhat greater length. You must understand, Captain, that no two planets could carry on an all-out nuclear war for five hundred years. Such a war would not last five hundred hours. We were forced to find another solution."

  "In other words," Spock said, "Vendikar's attack was a theoretical one."

  "On the contrary, it was quite real. It is simply launched mathematically. If it is successful, the casualties are computed, identified, and ordered to report for disposition. Theoretical? I lost my wife in the last attack. It is sometimes hard—but our civilization lives. The people die, but the culture goes on."

  "Do you mean to tell me," Kirk said, "that your people just . . . walk into a disintegrator when they're told to?"

  "They do. They are at war and they know it."

  "I've heard of some cold-blooded arrangements," Kirk said, "but this one takes the prize."

  "It is cold-blooded," Spock agreed. "But it does have a certain logic about it."

  "I am glad you approve," Anan said.

  "I do not approve," Spock said coldly. "I understand, which is something else entirely."

  "Good," Anan said. "Then you will recall that we warned you not to come here. You chose to disregard my warning. Once in orbit around our planet, your ship became a legitimate target. It has been classified destroyed by an incoming missile."

  He made a quick gesture. Kirk spun around. There were four very large uniformed men behind the Enterprise party. All four held unfamiliar but quite lethal-looking weapons.

  "All
persons aboard your ship have twenty-four hours to report to our disintegration chambers. To insure their cooperation, I am ordering you and your party held in custody against their surrender. The same thing, by the way, happened to your ship the Valiant, fifty years ago. Killed to the last man."

  "You are not," Kirk said through his teeth, "going to harm my ship. Is that clear?"

  "If possible, we shall spare the ship," Anan said. "But its passengers and crew are already dead. Put them in class-one detention."

  "Class-one detention" proved to be comfortable—rather like a small, neat apartment, even to a well-stocked kitchen. This did not mollify anybody in the party in the slightest. They had not been there more than an hour when a guard let Mea in. The girl seemed subdued.

  "I have been sent to ask if you require anything," she said.

  "We require a great deal. I want to see Anan Seven."

  "He is busy coordinating the casualty lists."

  "If he won't talk to me," Kirk said, "he'll have more casualty lists than he knows what to do with."

  "Captain, you have your duty to your ship," the girl said quietly. "We have our duty to our planet."

  "Your duty doesn't include stepping into a disintegrator and disappearing!"

  "I'm afraid it does, Captain," she said, just as quietly as before. "I too have been declared a casualty. I must report to a disintegrator at noon tomorrow."

  Kirk stared at her. He still found the whole arrangement impossible to believe. "And you're going to do it? What could Anan and Sar and the others possibly do if you all just refused to show up?"

  "It's not a question of what the Council would do," Mea said. "If everybody refused to report, Vendikar would have no choice but to launch real weapons—and we would have to do the same. Within a week, there would be nothing left of either civilization. Both planets would be uninhabitable. Surely you can see that ours is the better way."