Chapter Fourteen

“It should be possible to proceed without me now,” said Spock to the chief engineer.

“Aye, we can manage from here.” His Highlands burr showed a twist of annoyance. “But we’ll miss the sound of your sweet laughter.” Spock ignored this as completely as he had the engineer’s outstretched hand two hours ago. Scott fought back an impulse to hurl some earthy obscenity after the departing Vulcan.

Damn Spock! Montgomery Scott was not accustomed to being ignored—especially not here in his own domain. But what a fine engineer the Vulcan would have made. That should indeed have been his calling. No one expects pleasant temperament of an engineer!

Accustomed as he was to Spock’s powers of logic, Scott had been deeply impressed this time. After an hour at the engineering console, Spock shut down the computers which had been providing him with simulator formulas and engine data. Then the Vulcan had seemed to look into nothingness for a dozen long minutes. Finally, without a flicker of expression, he had proposed an intermix formula which computer tests had shown to be within a hair of perfect! All that was left was to confirm it in the simulator runs which were under way.

Just past Scott’s console, the great intermix chamber was showing the almost blinding flash patterns which meant that the engine antimatter bleeders were beginning to work smoothly and properly.

Scott knew that this rumble of power could now be felt on the bridge, too. His status monitors showed him that every division and department on the great starship was tightening down for another attempt into warp speed.

Spock made his way to the extreme forward area of the engineering hull. It was here that a labyrinth of forcefield generators and spider-webbed hull supports provided a maze of odd-shaped cubicles which some architect-psychologist had designed into comfortable and private alcoves, each with its individual view of the stars. This was in some ways the most pleasant area of the starship, being as it was a casual design afterthought and without the purposeful efficiency of the rest of the vessel. It was popular as a place for the many pleasures which a crew member might find in solitude or in new friendships.

As he entered, Spock’s ears caught the sounds of humans at love, which told him that privacy was still respected in this area of the ship. He moved quickly on, wishing his hearing was not so acute at times like this—it was the beginning of coupling he had heard and it distracted him. Odd, this human need to continually rub this and that part of their bodies together, particularly since humans conducted it while fully rational, sometimes even intermixing it with conversation, which was certainly far from any definition of passion by Vulcan standards.

He passed two hatches bearing the infinity symbol which reserved them exclusively for meditation, but both were in use. Good. Even in this crisis, human frailty had to be kept in mind. Strange how the Earth species needed regular relief from even the mildest of stress situations—the result, of course, of the energy they continually and foolishly wasted on emotional trivialities.

Excellent! Here, not in use, was an alcove with one of the wide, circular observation ports. He closed the hatch behind him, and in the darkness touched the control which spiraled open the protective iris of the circular port. It was like opening the pupil of a great eye onto the splendor of space. He kneeled Vulcan-fashion, composing his physical body so that he could exclude his six animal senses from his consciousness.

It helped to look out into the stars. It was satisfying to feel the vastness out there and to know that he was not only a small part of that, but the All of it, too. His seventh sense¹ had long ago assured him of this, just as it was doing again now, that this relationship of consciousness and universe was the only reality which actually existed. The Masters at Gol, of course, spent much of their lives seeking to unravel the puzzle of how a living consciousness could at every moment be both part and All. Spock tried to imagine some form of mathematics which might express this—and as hopeless as he knew it was to apply finite symbols to infinite puzzles, the exercise slowly cleared his mind, and his meditative state deepened.

Spock did not achieve the Kohlinahr level of meditation which he sought. He suspected that it was never to be his again. Had he achieved Kohlinahr, all remembrance of this life and these people would have become patterned logic without overtones of either pain or pleasure. Even having failed in Gol, he had hoped that the long study and disciplines would at least extirpate the emotions this vessel and its humans had once evoked in him. It was not to be—on arriving here, the mere sight of the Enterprise had increased his heart rhythms noticeably. The other physiological changes which beset him on entering the bridge were so shocking that they made him scorn himself.

There was much to be put out of his mind. Why was it difficult to forget Chekov’s astonished delight which greeted him at the command airlock when he boarded? And on the bridge—Kirk! The mere name made Spock groan inwardly as he remembered what it had cost him to turn away from that welcome. T’hy’la! And there had been McCoy, so humanly human—and, yes, of course, Chapel with her bizarre and impossible fantasies of one day pleasuring him. Sulu the romanticist, Uhura of the lovely star songs . . .

Spock’s mind opened. It was there! He waited.

Then, it touched his mind! The same awesome consciousness he had felt on Vulcan, and that had drawn him here! A cascade of patterns of logic almost geometrical in their breathtaking perfection!

He had no doubt now but that it issued from the strange cloud-like shape rushing toward Earth, and he tried quickly to analyze it. Was it one mind . . . or many minds all working in unity? He thought very probably the latter, since he could sense myriads of thoughts passing in overwhelming profusion and rapidity.

Then it was gone. Yet, this time Spock sensed some part of that consciousness lingering out on the fringes of his thoughts. Was it monitoring, waiting? Waiting for what?

Spock turned to his memory, forcing it to slowly, very slowly, replay this last encounter. Yes! Spock was startled with the sudden clarity of the answer; in all those tumults of thought and consciousness there had been a sense of puzzlement—and a strange hint of desperation in that puzzlement.

For a second time, he had sensed not only logic, but awesome knowledge. What was there that could still puzzle knowledge and logic of that greatness? What could all that be seeking, almost desperately? Spock was certain that he had not erred in searching for his own answer here. Was it possible that this immensity could have some need which might be fulfilled by an insignificance called Spock?