Chapter Twenty-Two

Captain’s log, stardate 7414.1. Now only 3.31 hours from Earth. If we fail, I bear the responsibility. Only some last-minute solution from Decker, or from Spock, can change this. Desperate to warn Earth, at least, of what little we have learned.

Uhura’s image had come onto Kirk’s viewer. “Sir! A very faint signal from Starfleet!”

Kirk had hurried to the bridge. Standing behind Uhura at her console, he could hear the faint hum of the resolver converting subspace signals into normal electromagnetics.

“What was the message?”

“It was a lunar report to Starfleet, sir. They have the Intruder on their outer monitors.”

“Nothing else? They must be making some attempt to reach us.”

“The lunar report referred to us as missing, sir. Probably destroyed.”

“You’ve boosted our signals?”

“As high as I dare, sir. But since Starfleet’s transmitters put out about ten times our signal strength . . . ”

“I want a booster put on our location beacon, too. Fast!”

Uhura suddenly understood. There was a hint of a professional compliment in the look she gave Kirk as she went to work.

The alien vessel’s powerfield was putting a wall of intense static between themselves and Starfleet’s transceivers. But Kirk had realized that a constantly repeating beacon signal might be detectable through that static long before Starfleet might recognize and understand any other kind of message from them. And once their ship’s beacon signal was recognized, it would bring all of Starfleet’s antennae aiming directly here, and Starfleet had experts who would know how to listen through that static—and they would then be able to hear Kirk’s report telling how completely he had failed Starfleet and Earth.

Although it was her duty to be here, Dr. Chapel felt uncomfortable in rummaging through Lieutenant Ilia’s cabin. It was much the same feeling Kirk had had while watching Decker with the probe on his cabin viewer. Technology would have long ago made privacy impossible, except that this had only made it more precious and desirable—and in the close confines of starship life, respect for another’s privacy had become a powerful tradition.

“This could be exactly what he needs,” said McCoy. He was inspecting a colorful little headband which Chapel had found. She had remembered Ilia once mentioning that head ornaments like this played some role in the life of a Deltan female. The headband was a delicately plaited thing which carried a rainbow of colors that shimmered like the plumage of an exotic tropical bird. McCoy had been surprised to see that it was made from dried leaves and remembered hearing of the incredible beauty of Ilia’s home planet.

“Where did you find that?!”

It was Will Decker, arriving in response to the message they had sent. As he brought the Ilia probe into the cabin, he was eyeing the headband with surprise.

“Dr. Chapel found it here. We’d thought that if you had some very personal item of Ilia’s to show the probe . . . ”

“That’s certainly what you’ve found, Doctor.” Decker seemed to be watching the Ilia-mechanism anxiously.

“Problems?” asked McCoy.

Decker watched the probe another moment, seeming relieved to see that it was ignoring the head ornament completely.

“They call it a loveband,” said Decker. “The act of a male touching it can sometimes trigger strong sexual urges in the Deltan female.”

Chapel was amused to see McCoy immediately drop the headband onto a tabletop. The ship’s doctor probably had no objections to exotic “triggering,” but he undoubtedly preferred choosing his own time and place.

“Wearing it in certain ways signifies that the Deltan woman is seeing a mate, or seeking mating . . . or some other sexual thing. Deltan sex customs are considerably different from human ones.”

“Decker,” said McCoy, “we’re not suggesting that you mate with the thing. . . .”

McCoy hesitated—was it wise to talk this openly in front of the probe? But it had shown no reaction at all to McCoy’s calling it a “thing,” nor to the talk of sex and mating.

“Look, Doctor, I’d mate with a photon warhead if it would help,” said Decker. “But sex won’t trigger any Ilia memory patterns, because she has no memories of making love with me. Obviously, if that had ever happened, I wouldn’t be here.”

Decker was reminding them that there were very practical reasons for requiring “celibacy oaths” of Deltans serving on Starfleet vessels. Part of the problem was that humans had difficulty settling for routine earthy sex afterward. Even more critical, however, was the fact that the long evolvement of the Deltan race had not only heightened their sensuality but had also resulted in the sex act becoming a complete union in which both body and mind were shared. Deltans, of course, found this natural and pleasant, but the experience of actually becoming part of another person’s mind almost always incapacitated the human partner.

“If you’d rather try something besides the headband . . . ” Chapel began.

“No, this could be the perfect way to learn how far its memory patterns go. It’s not only a very personal item; this particular band was also a gift from me.” He started to pick up the head ornament, but Chapel reached for it first.

“It still might be better if I held it,” she said, holding it out in front of the probes eyes. There was no reaction to it. Chapel moved the lovely band nearer to the Ilia-probe, turning it so that the shimmer of colors caught the probe’s attention. It eyed the ornament, puzzled and yet appearing to be drawn to it, too. Chapel placed it in the probe’s hand.

Decker watched, too, but his thoughts were racing ahead. Their present position could hardly be much more than three hours from Earth. With no word from Kirk of other progress, this probe was probably their last chance to contact or even learn anything helpful about the mysterious Intruders.

The Ilia-mechanism ran its fingers over the color shimmer on the ornament.

“Do you remember my giving that to you?” asked Decker.

When Decker had met Ilia on her home planet, he had no idea what the headbands symbolized. In his abysmal ignorance of Deltan customs, he had bought it for her, thinking it merely a pretty ornament. And she had accepted it, marking him as hers—and he would have been if he had not run.

The probe was turning toward the dressing table mirror and began tentatively to lift the ornament toward its head. Both McCoy and Chapel threw a quick look toward Decker, but he made no objection.

McCoy felt a wave of sympathy for the young man. Under other circumstances, they would all be remembering a dozen old jokes about exotically programmed androids and sex-starved spacemen. But Decker’s grief had left no doubt about the depth of his affection for the Deltan woman, and McCoy had no illusions about the agony which Decker must be feeling having to deal with such a perfect duplicate of her.

The probe placed the band on its head. Then, peering at its image, it adjusted it to what Decker knew was the proper place and angle.

“Ilia,” he made himself say, “do you remember when I gave you this?” He reached up and laid fingers against the headband.

The probe turned—it seemed to be looking at him with recognition! It reached out and touched his hand and ran its fingers over his.

Decker found himself suddenly in a swirl of sensual arousal—he could catch just the faintest scent that always accompanied the wild excitants that Ilia’s body could so mysteriously and wonderfully manufacture for him.

“Will, it’s a mechanism. . . .” said McCoy, concerned.

It was like Ilia coming alive in front of him. Spock had been right—it was so perfect a duplicate that even the thought patterns in Ilia’s brain had been reproduced. Could it possibly be even more than that?

“If it’s perfect in every other way, Doctor, it may be capable of mind-sharing, too. . . .” Decker let his hand caress past the band, touching lightly the head’s nakedness. . . . He could feel the probe’s body beginning to tremble.

“Do you understand what I said?” insisted McCoy. “It’s a mechanism. There’s no way it can have any consciousness to share with you.”

“I intend to find out, Doctor.”

“It was sent by the Intruders! Any consciousness in there would have to be theirs!”

“Then I’ll still be making contact with them. Isn’t that what we want?”

Hands which had ripped through a dura-steel door were caressing him now—or were they plucking the clothing from his body? He wasn’t aware when the two doctors left, but he knew he was alone with . . . with Ilia? Or are you Vejur? Which are you? What are you?