"I—Captain Spock—I … apologize for my outburst." But it hurt to apologize when it shouldn't have. Spock was different—"If you don't intend to discharge me, I'd like to stay where I am." He waited, listening to the pounding of his own heart.

Spock studied him coolly for a very long time. "I have already denied your discharge request, Ensign," he reminded Kirk. "And since you will not tell me who is responsible for your injuries, you leave me no alternative but to transfer you to other accommodations and alter your work-assignments as well." He paused briefly. "Despite what you may have heard about Starfleet duty or about me personally"— halfbreed!—"you will discover that your life here can be rewarding—if you permit it to be." And in the event any of us survive beyond the next week. . . .He waited and, as expected, received no response other than a closing of the ensign's eyes in defeat. For an illogical moment, he found himself thinking of the future—with Kirk at his side. . . . Somehow, he told himself, he would find a way around S't'kal's orders. Somehow … they would live. "In the meantime," he said, drawing himself back to the problem at hand, "you are to report to Sickbay to have the full extent of your injuries determined and treated."

Hardened hazel eyes looked up at last. "I'd prefer not to, sir," he said in a voice which might have been defiant, might have been pleading.

"That is precisely why I am making it an order rather than a request, Ensign Kirk," Spock replied, using the authority which felt alien and unnatural. He turned away. "Dismissed."

For a long time, there was no sound. Then, after what seemed like empty hours, footsteps retreated. Carefully, the Vulcan glanced out the corner of one eye to watch the human go; and a thought crept into his mind which might have come from a dream he'd had a very long time ago.

I'd make one hell of a lousy ensign, Spock.

And though he'd never personally met Kirk before, he was certain of one thing: The voice in his mind precisely matched that of the man who had just left his quarters.

He glanced at the chronometer. Sooner or later, the human would come around. He only hoped it wouldn't be too late. . . .

In the Psychology Lab, Leonard McCoy bounced nervously on his toes, waiting for the results of the day's last vid-scan. The young man on the table was unknown to the doctor personally, yet McCoy couldn't help feeling for him. The vid-scan, despite the fact that it was completely painless, was nonetheless an extremely personal thing. And though McCoy had always subscribed to the doctrine that anything an individual chose to keep sacred within the mind should be honored, he now began to fully appreciate the technology behind the instrument which had once been considered a potential chamber of psychiatric horrors.

On the screen above the patient's head, images were being recorded—precise video images of whatever stray thoughts and subconscious dreams or nightmares were traveling through the mind. In this case, McCoy thought, as with the majority of the other two hundred volunteers who had confessed to "mind slippage," it wasn't difficult to see the pattern. Mentally, McCoy sighed in relief; Lieutenant Christensen was the last. And with a sampling of over half the crew, the results should at least help in formulating a hypothesis.

Stored in the central medical computer were sample vid-scans of the crew—required by FleetCom as a prerequisite for any crewmember ranked yeoman or above. McCoy smiled to himself. In the "old days," it has been required of allFleet personnel. But that was before humans had become standard operating equipment on vessels such as the ShiKahr, McCoy reflected, nonetheless thankful that the procedure was still practiced on a voluntary basis. And those records were now proving invaluable—as a control factor for the experiment if for nothing else. Compare and contrast.

He glanced at the man on the table. "Well, Christensen," he said with a grin, "the images you're generating on a consciouslevel are perfectly standard issue for a young man your age." He winked when the lieutenant laughed somewhat nervously.

"Nothing too heavy for you, Doc, I hope," Christensen replied, taking a deep breath and relaxing.

McCoy shook his head, thankful that the screen was always turned away from the patient's range of vision. If Christensen wanted to review his tape later, there would be no objections; but during the actual experiment, the doctor had learned that permitting the patient to watch the images while they were being recorded was vaguely akin to having a partner view a holotape while making love. Too many distractions to get the correct results.

He moved over to the diagnostic bed, resting his hand on the man's shoulder reassuringly. "I'm going to give you a shot of coenthal now, Dane," he explained. "It'll drop you down to an alpha level of sleep and give us a look at what's going on in the deeper levels of your mind. Okay with you?"

Christensen shrugged. "You're the doc, Doc," he agreed. "All I know is that if you people can find a cure for melancholy, I'm willing to do just about anything." He shuddered dramatically. "I think I'd much rather be phasered at point-blank range than go through another episode like yesterday." Warm brown eyes blinked at the memory. "Like … like falling through a hole into another version of a Lewis Carroll story—another whole world or something." He shuddered again. "Dark …"

McCoy smiled gently, then turned to prepare the hypo. "From what I've been hearing, you'd have to stand in line just to get a chance at the firing squad, kid." Reassurance, the doctor thought. If they all know they're not the only one, maybe it'll slow the process. Safety in numbers… At least it was a hopeful thought—one of the few he'd had in two days.

After a moment, he pressed the instrument against the man's arm and waited for the drug to take effect. Within thirty seconds the brown eyes drifted shut, and the readings slowly dropped. McCoy turned back to S'Parva, nodding. "Activate the monitor," he instructed. "If he starts getting in too deep, let me know and I'll bring him out of it."

S'Parva nodded, following the doctor's instructions. For a few moments, the screen over Christensen's head showed the usual images of resistance to drug-induced sleep. Subconscious figures representing the lieutenant and Sleep warred on a foggy battlefield. Sleep, a neuter magician, was clothed in black robes. He had no face, but a long sword dripping blood swung freely from his right arm. Christensen, nude and without a weapon, soon fell in battle.

Darkness filled the screen.

"Doctor McCoy?" S'Parva called, adjusting the controls for the widest possible scan.

McCoy turned in the Katellan's direction. He'd learned to recognize worry in the yeoman's tone. "Another negative scan, S'Parva?" he asked wearily.

S'Parva nodded, still gazing at the blank screen. "Nothing at all, Doctor," she responded. "All possible compensation already computed and implemented. Continuing negative response."

McCoy glanced at Christensen's sleeping form, then shook his head in dismay. Of the two hundred volunteers, thirteen had manufactured negative vid-scans under coenthal. The rest … varied. Images of an altered ShiKahr.A somewhat different FleetCom. And a golden-haired, golden-eyed captain. And though the images had always varied slightly there was no mistaking the definite similarities. It was a matter of interpretation, but the results were damned obvious. He looked at Christensen one last time, then quickly administered the drug which would restore the man to consciousness.