Bridge. Navigation. Navigation. Chekov here.
Mister Chekov, how late will we arrive for the ceremonies if we increase speed
to maximum and divert to Vulcan just long enough to drop off Mister Spock?
I don't understand, Captain. How far behind schedule will
diverting to Vulcan put us? We're on course for Vulcan,
Captain, as Mister Spock ordered. Thank you, Mister Chekov. Kirk, out.
Mister Spock.
Come with me, please.
Deck five. You've changed course for Vulcan, Mister Spock. Why?
Changed the course? Do you deny it?
No. No, by no means, Captain. It is quite possible.
Then why'd you do it? Captain, I accept on your word
that I did it, but I do not know why, nor do I remember doing it.
Captain, lock me away. I do not wish to be seen. I cannot. No Vulcan could explain further.
I'm trying to help you, Spock. Ask me no further questions. I will not answer.
I order you to report to the Sickbay. Sickbay?
Complete examination. McCoy's waiting.
Come in, Spock. I'm all ready for you.
My orders were to report to Sickbay, Doctor. I have done so. And now I'll go to my quarters.
My orders were to give you a thorough physical. In case you hadn't noticed,
I have to answer to the same commanding officer that you do.
Come on, Spock. Yield to the logic of the situation.
Examine me, for all the good it'll do either of us.
How do you figure it, Chekov? First we're going to Vulcan, then we're going to Altair,
then we're headed to Vulcan again, and now we're headed back to Altair.
I think I'm going to get space sick. Jim, you've got to get Spock to Vulcan.
Bones, I will, I will. As soon as this mission is No! Now. Right away. If you don't get him to
Vulcan within a week eight days at the outside, he'll die. He'll die, Jim.
Why must he die? Why within eight days? Explain.
I don't know. You keep saying
that. Are you a doctor, or aren't you? There's a growing imbalance of body functions,
as if in our bodies huge amounts of adrenalin were constantly being pumped into our bloodstreams.
Now, I can't trace it down in my biocomps. Spock won't tell me what it is.
But if it isn't stopped somehow, the physical and emotional pressures will simply kill him.
You say you're convinced he knows what it is? He does,
and he's as tightlipped about it as an Aldebaran Shellmouth. No use to ask him, Jim. He won't talk.