The End of the Beginning

Part 2 of 4

Shortly, the meal was over. Father and son, facing one another across the table, continued the conversation they had begun earlier, each nursing a mild liqueur synthesized for the sole purpose of aiding the Vulcan digestive process without affecting the nervous system. Amanda, whose nervous system was unable to tolerate the drink, sat with her elbows resting lightly on the table and her eyes cast down, sipping a cup of coffee that would have rendered her husband semi-comatose and her son profoundly disoriented after the first swallow.

Noting the downcast eyes, Spock absently calculated how long his mother would be able to maintain her air of objectivity, even as he admired her for trying.

"The matter is settled, then," Sarek said quietly--although it seemed to Spock that there was a note of doubt in his father's voice. The statement had an interrogative quality about it although Sarek had not used the interrogative form of the Vulcan verb.

"It shall be as it has always been, Father." It was a ritual idiom, one that Spock had used only once before in his life. That had been on the day they had given him the flatfax--the likeness of a grave little girl that he had carried for decades only to burn it, his face expressionless as he watched the edges curl to ashes. This time, there would be no fax, for T'Marla had been teaching Vulcan at the Federation Multiversity in the Centaurus Colonies since before Selvor died with the Intrepid, and Selvor's picture of the child T'Marla had been lost as well.

At Spock's words, Amanda sighed and Sarek's eyebrows rose. Their son was immediately aware that the two were reacting to two entirely different aspects of his answer. There was nothing new in that; it had been going on all his life. Amanda's sigh had been in response to his consent to the bonding with a young woman he had never met. Sarek's raised eyebrows had emphasized the fact that Spock had given a ritual answer to a statement made in conversation.

Resigned, Spock mentally tabled his mother's sigh, hoped that she would permit the matter to remain tabled until they were alone together, and addressed himself to first things first.

"I regret that I responded inappropriately," he began. Then, realizing that he was speaking English, he went on in Vulcan: "I am gratified that you have undertaken to implement my wishes in this matter." The Vulcan my wishes echoed briefly in his mind. In English, the literal translation would have been the obligations of this person. "When our mission to the Tara colony is complete, the Enterprise will proceed on course for Alpha Centauri. The probability that the ship will be permitted to divert briefly is high--94.8 percent." He spoke carefully now, making sure to use the Vulcan name for Alpha Centauri.

"Good." Sarek's gaze lingered on his son's, and Spock wondered why he felt vaguely uneasy. It was all settled now--or almost all settled. Soon he would again be bonded, and his future assured. Unless....

"Kal-i-fee!"

Before he could control the movement, Spock shifted his gaze away from his father's. In the silence that followed, he controlled his emotional reaction to the memory, banished a suddenly remembered line from a twentieth century Terran poet (Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice), and calculated the low probability that his world would end in the same way twice. No matter. The next time, no male who meant anything to him would be within one light year. He would see to it personally. Beyond that, he would deal with life as it came.

And yet....

Somewhere in the depths of his being, a voice cried out: This time, I want to do the choosing.

His father was leaving the room, going directly outside. At the garden door, Sarek paused, and his eyes met his wife's briefly. Some sort of reassurance--Spock was sure of it. Amanda smiled a little and nodded once, and Sarek moved out into the garden, leaving the door open although the heat of the day had not fully dissipated. Spock recognized that an invitation had been extended to him, but knew also that his father would take no offense if he did not accept it. Had Sarek wanted Spock to join him for a specific reason, he would have stated his preference, and probably his reason as well. Spock knew that he would accept that unspoken invitation once he had given his mother a chance to speak her mind.

All his life he had been taught to control his emotions, but also to mitigate their destructive effects by being totally aware of their existence. In this last he had not always succeeded; denial had often been much easier than control. But now he did not deny. The joy of being no longer estranged from his father made this brief time together during his leave too precious to be wasted. For eighteen years it had been as though he had no father, and the fact that this tragic situation had been his own doing made the renewal of his relationship with Sarek all the more significant to him.

For a moment, his disciplined mind relaxed, and drifted into the past.

Once, on the planet Excalbia, he had remarked that the father-image had much meaning for Vulcans. Later he had regretted that remark, for he knew that it had probably been the cause of one more human misapprehension about Vulcans. To humans, a father-image was an image of what a father should be. From watching the Tri-D while he was at Starfleet Academy, he had gleaned that, at least among civilized Terrans, fathering had something to do with going fishing early in the morning. The Vulcan part of him was unable to grasp the connection, and his humanity lacked the experiential data to make the necessary leap of faith. By analogy, he theorized that humans were probably unable to grasp the fact that the Vulcan father-image had nothing to do with fishing, or even with psychic fathering as humans understood it. The Vulcan father-image was a culture-image--the living, breathing epitome of what a Vulcan should be. The most binding obligation of a Vulcan parent, male or female, was to preserve the culture-image at all costs.

The cost to Sarek had been prohibitive.

At the age of seven, his only son had made his life decision--to live as a Vulcan. Yet at the age of eighteen that same son had behaved as only a human adolescent could behave, had left for Starfleet Academy while his father was offworld, and had made no attempt to explain, logically or otherwise, why he was going. Sometimes, during those first years at the Academy, Spock had permitted himself to imagine Sarek's feelings when, on his return to Vulcan he found his son gone, and without explanation. But the emotional anguish these excursions into empathy had caused him served no constructive purpose, and so he had taught himself to abandon them. He knew that, to Sarek, that experience had been equivalent to that of a human father who discovers his only son an apparent suicide. Given the evidence, Sarek could only conclude that Spock had repudiated his life decision.

Having realized this, Spock had resigned himself to the fact that he and his father would be isolated from one another indefinitely--not by Sarek's choice or his own, but because in placing an almost unbearable emotional burden on his father, he had made it impossible for Sarek to be certain that he could maintain the Vulcan culture-image in Spock's presence.

"You do understand that he's not angry with you," Amanda had pleaded on the occasion of Spock's most recent home leave, shortly before Jim Kirk took over the Enterprise from Christopher Pike.

"Yes, Mother--I understand." But Spock had thought: It is you who do not understand, and tried to control the pain of not one but two parents' suffering because he had once behaved like the half human adolescent he was.

"He wants to believe me. Oh, Spock--I've told him over and over that you haven't repudiated your decision, and he wants so much to believe it. But he can't trust himself to see for himself."

He can't trust himself.

Yes, Spock had understood. Even when Sarek had turned away from him at that nightmarish moment of their first meeting in eighteen years, he had understood. "I should prefer another guide." Kirk and McCoy had seen only rejection in that encounter, but Spock had seen the truth: his Vulcan parent unable to permit contact for fear the emotional pressures of that contact would cause him to default on his parental obligation. And his human parent, eyes downcast, silently rejoicing that fate had seen fit to bring father and son face to face at last--permitting Sarek to see for himself that his son was, if anything, more Vulcan than ever. She alone had understood the wrenching inner conflict that had caused Spock to leave Vulcan, although she had never condoned the manner of his leaving. Perhaps she alone understood what it had cost him to greet his father without a flicker of emotion. But she had also understood, Spock knew, what that emotionless Vulcan greeting had meant to Sarek.

Later, in the engine room, Spock had also understood the true meaning of Sarek's "I gave Spock his first lesson in computers." It was an acknowledgment of kinship so long denied, and a statement of hope: perhaps it would be all right after all. Perhaps they could begin again to be father and son without fear that the Vulcan father-image could not be maintained.

But if the cost of their estrangement had been prohibitive emotionally for Sarek, the hope of their reunion had exacted an even greater price. For Spock knew that there was a high probability that the tension of that meeting aboard the Enterprise had almost cost Sarek his life.

The Vulcan part of Spock saw no irony in the fact that he had finally proved himself Vulcan to his father by being ready to let Sarek die. The values inherent in that decision were as obvious to Sarek as they were to Spock, though Kirk, McCoy, and even Amanda had remained unable to see them. Later, when Amanda had repeated in Spock's and Sarek's presence her accusation that Spock's action (or lack of it) had been "not human," Sarek had answered serenely, "Indeed." And there the matter had ended.

But Spock's humanity--the part of him that his mother had believed she failed to reach--still occasionally surfaced in the emotional equivalent of a cold sweat, remembering what might have been had his captain not taken matters into his own hands.

He realized that his mother was speaking to him, and that only a moment had passed since his father had left the dining room.

"It's silly," she was saying softly. "He's in perfect health now, but sometimes when I see him go off alone like that--" And Spock began to understand the silent message of reassurance that Sarek had sent her.

The words But your worry is illogical came to his lips. But he did not speak them aloud, knowing that they would serve no purpose. Then he frowned slightly. As recently as a year ago, he would have said them anyway. Turning that thought in his mind, he was completely unprepared for his mother's next words, spoken with quiet intensity.

"Spock, argue with him. It's your life that's being taken out of your hands. When you were seven, I accepted it because all Vulcan children are bonded. But you're an adult now."

"Mother," he said gently, "what you suggest is not possible."

"But it is!" She gazed at him in silent pleading, and he gazed back, adamant. "You were relieved that T'Marla isn't on Vulcan now." No reaction. "Your father isn't unreasonable. Tell him how you feel."

"This has nothing to do with Sarek's ability to reason," Spock answered mildly. "It is the Vulcan way."

"Must it always come to that?" They were silent for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night's beginning that drifted in through the open door. Then Amanda went on quietly: "I get the feeling that you and I have nothing to say to each other anymore, and that frightens me." Her voice wavered on the last words, and then she went on more steadily, her eyes fixed on the coffee cup she still held. "Are you angry with me?"

"Angry? No. Why should I be?"

She looked up, utterly disbelieving. "The last time we met, I struck you in the face. Have you forgotten?"

"No." Only a few moments ago, his humanity had been clamoring to be heard, pleading for a choice. But now he could not find that humanity; there seemed to be nothing in his nature that could help him understand how anyone could stay angry for a year. And yet he knew that in his mother's human frame of reference, the idea was not at all bizarre. "Mother--" He hesitated, and then spoke with more evident tenderness than he had intended. "Neither of us can change our natures. We are what we are."

Her eyes misted at that, and she managed a weak smile. "You know," she said unsteadily, "only a Vulcan could say something like that without the slightest intent to hurt." Then, when he averted his eyes, momentarily too moved to answer, she went on softly: "Yes, my dear. I meant that as a compliment."

Spock and his father walked together for a long time that evening, speaking seldom, but savoring the depth and texture of their relationship. For soon, perhaps before Spock again returned to his home world, that relationship might be forever changed. As soon as Spock himself became a parent, the deep and intense bond between him and his only Vulcan parent--between him and the "father-image"--would be broken forever. For not even a Vulcan could sustain such a totally involving relationship both as a parent and as a child. As a parent, Spock would come of age as a Vulcan, and his own father would become simply a respected and revered fellow adult.

His Vulcan nature found the prospect challenging, accepting his coming change in status as he accepted the necessity of bonding to a young woman he had never met. But his human nature suffered that night a bittersweet longing to remain--not a child, but his father's son.

"Spock, why is it that you do not want to be bonded to T'Marla?" Sarek's question, in English, interrupted his thoughts.

Spock managed to control a start of surprise, but his eyebrows rose perceptibly. If his memory served him as well as it always had, this was the first time in his life that his father had ever questioned him about what he wanted. And in English?

"Want?" he repeated, confused.

"I wish to understand," Sarek answered, still in English. His voice was expressionless, but the statement carried a certain emphasis, and the word understand hung in the air as though the sentence were unfinished. As though Sarek were tempted to add you.

"Try to understand your son, Sarek of Vulcan."

"A strange request, but I will honor it."

Already alert to the fact that something unusual was happening, Spock was able to control the surge of mingled gratitude and affection that was his initial response to his father's words--and to the others they brought to mind. Was it possible, he wondered, that on some deep level of consciousness, Sarek had re-experienced his contact with "Selek" even as Spock was replaying that role so recently? But grateful as he was, there was no way he could help his father understand him now. For how could any Vulcan understand why his half human son would want to choose his own mate? "It is of no consequence," he answered quietly and without expression. Sarek glanced at him briefly, but did not press him, and they walked in silence once more.

The Science Academy's Concourse of Evolution was deserted, and lit only by floodlights that played on the fountains outside. Yet the building was not locked, for no public building on Vulcan was ever locked, day or night.

Spock knew where they were heading, and why. Were his companion human, he would have suspected that he was being deliberately steered there. But he knew that this was not the case. Both he and his father were now being drawn to the same spot by a memory that was not theirs alone, but shared by every male of their race since the dawn of recorded time.

Eventually they paused together before a life-sized diorama in which two black male felinoids--prehensile, pointed-eared, and criss-crossed with gashes oozing green blood--were depicted in mortal combat. A female watched them--detached, passive, waiting to become the spoils of the victor. In the half-light that shimmered off the murmuring fountains just outside, the males' glassy eyes glowed red.

Father and son stood together for some time, gazing into the past that was present and future as well. In Spock's mind, T'Pau's words to Jim Kirk echoed and re-echoed: "This is the Vulcan heart. This is the Vulcan soul. This is our way."

Finally Sarek spoke--in Vulcan, barely above a whisper.

"Ours is not a heritage of choice, my son. One must be prepared, or risk being taken unaware."

So he had understood all along.

Again Spock felt gratitude, and love--but gently, too gently for him to feel required to control them.

He did not answer. For he knew that no answer was required, or expected.

The main dining room of the Officers' Club was unusual in that only the drinks were served by autowaiter. Starfleet officers on leave invariably had had their fill of meals served by computer; being able to punch up any gourmet delicacy one desired tended to lose its novelty after several years in space. The waiters, like the personnel of most Federation institutions, were human. They were also male, since the human idea that male waiters gave an establishment dignity still prevailed. The menu consisted of a list of intragalactic delicacies that seldom varied but were always prepared faultlessly to order. As a result, dinner at the Officers' Club was a most leisurely affair. Yet Sarah Halsted politely declined to have a drink.

"Oh ye of little faith," Kirk commented wryly, and was rewarded by a spontaneous, genuinely amused smile. "Mind if I have one?"

"Why should I mind?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," he answered drily, dialing his choice on the autowaiter in their booth. A chilled glass half filled with ice appeared and began to fill slowly. "You are a delightful enigma, Doctor. If I didn't know better, I'd say you aren't really human."

"I'm not," she said, still smiling.

Not taking her seriously, he returned the smile and raised his glass. "Here's to inhumanity."

"I'm not," she repeated. "At least not all human. You might appreciate this, Captain. My grandmother was a stowaway on a spaceship to Earth when she was fourteen."

His eyes on hers, Kirk took a thoughtful swallow. "You don't say."

"I'm serious."

"Your grandmother?"

"The women in my family are quite enterprising." They stared at each other for a moment, and then Sarah said softly, "Oh, no," and they both quietly cracked up.

"You did that on purpose," he said finally, but she shook her head as the waiter approached.

"Wine with your dinner, sir?" he asked eventually.

"Well--" Kirk hesitated. "I think the lady--"

"Wine would be very nice, thank you," Sarah said demurely.

"I give up. The lady," Kirk informed the waiter, "is a believer after all." The waiter stared. "The wine list, please," Kirk went on blandly. When their order was complete and the waiter was gone, he turned expectantly to his companion. "Now let's hear that sea story of yours. No--let me guess. Your grandmother stowed away and became a cabin-boy."

"Wrong."

"Sorry. Cabin-girl."

"Wrong again. When she was a small child, her parents got involved in planetary politics." Sarah frowned slightly, trying to remember. "She used to say they chose their kinsmen unwisely, whatever that means."

"Didn't she tell you?"

"I never met her. She died before I was born. My grandfather used to tell me about her. He used to say I looked like her. Anyway, some dictator came to power and disposed of everybody he didn't like. My grandmother's parents just disappeared. She was never told what happened to them--only that they were sent away. Separately. And that they could never come back. My grandfather thought they might have been spirited off-planet somehow, but that doesn't seem likely."

"Expl--I mean, why not?"

"Well, the story I got was that my grandmother's people never had space travel, and that offworld vessels never landed there until she was about eight or nine--long after her parents disappeared. The whole planet panicked at first, I guess. There'd been speculations for centuries about life on other planets, and they had a rather advanced technology in some ways. But-- well, I got all this third-hand, of course. From my grandfather."

"And he was human."

"Yes. So were my mother's parents."

"Go on." Kirk sat back, his drink forgotten. "How did she get to Earth?"

"She never felt safe because of the dictator. Her foster parents were always suspect because they took her in. So she stowed away on a cargo shuttle that was about to return to a neverlander in orbit. By the time she was discovered, they were halfway to Earth. I guess she almost starved to death in the meantime."

"She must have looked human, if you look like her. What planet did she come from?"

"It doesn't exist anymore," Sarah said with obvious regret. "I always wanted to visit there someday, but the sun went nova several months ago."

"What sun?"

"My grandfather always called it 'her star.' He used to show it to me with a telescope." For a moment she was silent, lost in some tender memory. In the soft lighting of the restaurant, her blue eyes were dream-filled, and her hair, now falling to her shoulders, again shone here and there as though laced with gold. "Beta Niobi," she said finally. "That was it. The planet was its only satellite. It was called--"

"Sarpeidon," Kirk said automatically. Then, incredulously: "Sarpeidon?"

The club's dinner was excellent, as usual. But neither of them was particularly aware of the food, so intent were they on their conversation.

"It was just like seventeenth-century England," Kirk was saying as they finished their desert. They even talked...Sarah?"

"I'm sorry. I'm listening." But her expression was thoughtful and her voice subdued. "That might have been how the dictator separated my grandmother's parents. The--Atavachron?" Kirk nodded. "How awful," she went on quietly. "Two young people with a small child, and they never saw each other again. The one thing my grandmother was told was that her parents weren't sent away together. He could have sent them anywhere. Any time."

Kirk nodded again. "My first officer and my chief medical officer almost froze to death in the ice age before we got it all straightened out." He paused, frowning a little, turning his wine glass absently.

"Was one of them injured?"

"Not injured. My first officer had a bad experience, though."

"That's the Vulcan."

"Yes."

Sarah watched him in silence for a few moments, again remembering his manner with Simon. Then she said gently, "He's not just a first officer to you, is he."

"No," he answered lightly. "He's my conscience. Half of it, that is. Between them, Spock and McCoy--"

"Spock? The ambassador's son?"

"You know him?"

"No. No, I've never met him. Except in my textbooks."

Kirk stared. "In your what?

"Textbooks. The pediatric journal literature at the time, actually. Your first officer was the first Vulcan/human hybrid to survive infancy. The entire sub-specialty was originally based on his case history. Everybody on the planet knows who he is."

After a moment, Kirk said grimly, "Almost a legend."

"Someone said that?"

"Someone. I didn't hear it. I was...otherwise occupied at the time, but McCoy....Sarah, what you're saying is that he grew up in a goldfish bowl?" He appeared to find the idea appalling.

"Oh, no. Quite the contrary. For the first six months or so, it was the Vulcan equivalent of a media circus. But then somebody pulled the plug. Somebody with clout. There hasn't been a thing written on him since."

To her relief, Kirk grinned. "I wonder who that could have been."

"T'Loreth thinks it was his father. His mother wasn't a luminary then."

"Is she now?"

"So I understand."

"What's her field?"

"Art history. Pre-twenty-first-century Terran music, to be exact. I hear she's a very good teacher, and she writes lucid papers. That's why she's so well known."

"I'll bet she does."

"You've met her?"

"I met both of them about a year go. It was...an experience and a half. Tell me, on Vulcan how does one--er--spend the evening and keep the faith at the same time?"

She gave him a speculative look. "Have you ever heard a bunch of Vulcans playing Bach?"

"Vulcans? Bach?"

"Are you game?"

"Just let me take care of the check." Kirk produced his Starfleet I.D. and quickly transacted business with the autowaiter. "Lead on, Doctor. This I gotta see--uh--hear?"

The outdoor concert lasted most of the night. It was one of a series sponsored by the Vulcan Academy of Music and given every ten days in a large parklike area on the Science Academy campus. The series had included entire programs devoted to the works of Talo of Deneb III and a twenty-first century Orion sound panoramist whose name Sarah could not remember.

For Jim Kirk, hearing "a bunch of Vulcans playing Bach" was what his first officer would have called interesting. He had expected metronomic precision and was pleasantly surprised at the amount of restrained emotion that the musicians permitted themselves. But the sounds of Vulcan instruments were alien; Kirk had the feeling that the Sixth Brandenburg had been rendered by highly sophisticated looms. "It sounds woolly," he confided to Sarah in an undertone, and went on to remark that Spock's harp had an entirely different, almost Earthly quality about its sound. He then learned that Vulcans used two entirely different instrument systems for public concerts and private recreation.

As the night wore on, they continued to converse in low tones, lying prone on the grass, propped on their elbows, surrounded by silent, attentive Vulcans in lotus position, almost in an attitude of meditation, obviously undisturbed by the two whispering humans. By the time dawn turned the sky briefly to copper, Kirk was a minor expert in Vulcan/human hybrid obstetrics, and Sarah had more than a cursory idea of how the Enterprise had spent the last few years. It was Sarah's day off, and she insisted she was not tired.

"Then he said we might meet again in a few thousand years, and that there might be hope for the human race after all," Kirk was saying when Sarah finally sat up, stretching her cramped arms in front of her but still listening attentively. "The next thing I knew I was back on the bridge."

"Just like that?"

"Just." He sighed and sat up himself.

"'The advanced trait of mercy,'" she repeated thoughtfully, and then suddenly yawned. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's the hour --"

"--Not the company." Grinning, Kirk rose and pulled her to her feet. "Look, I just realized you've been up since yesterday morning, Vulcan time. I'm sorry."

"Well, Captain--"

"Oh, come on!"

"Jim, I'm really more hungry than tired." She gave him another of her speculative what-have-we-here looks. "Anybody for breakfast? My treat this time."

The night had been so long and so pleasant that he barely remembered that a few hours before, an invitation to breakfast had been the last thing he wanted, and the last thing she would have offered.

Sarah's apartment was a Vulcan-style efficiency in which the age-old Murphy bed principle had been developed to a fine art. All furnishings, including cooking unit and combination sink and dishwasher, were capable of being stowed in the walls, floor, or ceiling at the touch of a button. The small adjacent bathroom and storage compartments were the only three-dimensional constants.

"The least efficient aspect of this place is the time it takes to learn how to use it efficiently," Sarah remarked as she began to prepare breakfast. "I'd never used a dishwasher until I came to Vulcan, but pollution is illogical, so no disposables. You can't buy them." But she had obviously mastered the techniques well enough, and because they were both hungry, the meal was disposed of in short order, the dishes washing themselves in the wall and a couch substituted for the dinette. The furniture was clean-lined and practical, but did not appear to be stamped from a press as did most Terran furniture of the era.

The couch was extremely comfortable after a night spent on the grass. As they sipped their coffee, it was Kirk's turn to stifle a yawn. "It's the hour," he began hastily, and they both laughed, a bit light-headed from lack of sleep.

Sarah leaned back against the cushions, still smiling. "You're a comfortable person to spend the night with, Jim Kirk."

And suddenly everything changed, and they both saw quite clearly where they had been heading all along. There was no need for questions or even for words, for he knew that for her as for him, two sleepy humans loving each other after breakfast in the fresh morning of an alien world would be as natural as it was beautiful.

He woke at sunset, telling himself that for once he had no idea what time it was on the Enterprise. It wasn't true. No matter where he was or what he was doing, he always knew precisely what time it was on the Enterprise.

It was the middle of the afternoon there. And here, it felt like morning.

He thought drowsily that his circadian rhythms must be shot to hell. That thought was utterly delightful.

He had slept all day on a narrow couch, with another human being half on top of him. He felt cramped and stiff, but unable to stretch without waking Sarah--apparently still asleep, with her head on his shoulder and one arm around him. He was hungry, and he wanted a shower. But the only thing he really wanted was....

"Sarah?"

She stirred, sighed, and murmured drowsily, "Will you stay to dinner, sir?"

"Seems like we just had breakfast." He buried his face in the softness of her hair and gathered her close until their bodies caressed each other once more. "You through hibernating?"

"Give me an alternative." He complied wordlessly, elaborating. "That," she said, still drowsy, "is a lovely alternative."

They made love together as the day ended and the darkness wrapped them in purple velvet. And it occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had been this close to anyone, and that he didn't really know what he meant by that thought.

Having slept all day, neither of them was tired now. They lay quiet in each other's arms for a few moments, and then Sarah kissed his ear and said softly, "Up, James."

"Why?"

"Up. That's an order." She smiled, anticipating the substance of his answer, and what she would do in response.

"I respectfully decline," he answered smugly, not moving.

"You do, do you." Her hands strayed down his sides, fingertips brushing lightly.

"Hey--no fair!" They were both laughing as he rolled off the edge of the couch and knelt beside her on the floor. But then he winced and groaned, rotating his shoulders. "Bad mistake. We should have pulled down the bed."

"Maybe. But you brought most of that with you." She slipped to her knees behind him and laid her hands on his shoulders where the muscles were still knotted. "Come on, sit. This is why I wanted you to get up." She began to knead the muscles expertly as he moved to a sitting position. "How long since your last leave?"

"Too long." He laid his arms across his drawn-up knees and rested his forehead on them. "My God--she cooks, she gives back rubs...."

"Enjoy it while you can," she said lightly. "She also has to go back to work tomorrow." He began to turn his head to look at her. "Relax. Don't twist around like that, all right?" After a moment he turned back. Again, she was sure she could anticipate what he would say next. But this time she did not smile.

"Could I talk you into taking some time off?"

"I can't," she answered gently. "I only have one more tenday on the job before I leave Vulcan. There are a lot of things I have to finish up, and the work day is ten hours here."

"Well," he said wryly, "at least we've progressed a little since 'No, Captain, I'm not.'" He was silent for a moment, and this time she did not anticipate him. "Sarah, do you still think this doesn't mean anything to me?"

"No." Abandoning her futile attempt to massage away his tension, she moved to sit beside him on the floor, and put her arms around him once again, holding him close. "I think this is what you were really looking for. And I think I was too." After a moment he nodded, and they held each other quietly, having made love too recently for her move or his response to lead to anything more. "But it's different for me."

"Why?"

"You're not really here, Jim, and I don't believe you ever would be. I don't know what I mean by that. But I think you might." When he did not answer, she ran her open palm slowly over his shoulder and down his arm. "I don't know where my point of no return is, and I don't want to find out the hard way."

"That's why you won't take time off."

"That's why I wouldn't, even if I could. Don't frown. Be grateful." With both arms around his shoulders, she turned her head until her forehead rested against his. "I've spared you having to say something that begins with 'Let's just.' Or would it be 'Don't spoil'?"

He smiled a little, but he winced nevertheless. "Who started this conversation anyway?"

"You."

"Me?

"You were all for my starting to rearrange my life around yours, remember?"

He drew his head back a little, gazing at her speculatively, no longer smiling. "Was that what I was doing?"

"Wasn't it?"

"Depends on your point of view, I guess." Still the speculative look, but a wry smile was beginning to return. "Oh, to see ourselves as others see us."

"Enough." She kissed him lightly and rose. "I want to take a shower. You want to go first, or--" He was grinning broadly now. "Just full of ideas, aren't you, Captain."

"I'm supposed to take an evening stroll in this?" He wore his uniform trousers and boots, but was reluctant to put on the golden dress shirt he had worn to the Officers' Club the evening before.

After a moment's thought, Sarah retrieved a folded shirt from a bottom drawer. "You can wear this if you want to," she said slowly. "It was--left here by mistake. Some time ago."

It was light-colored, collarless, soft and loose. He took it from her with obvious hesitation. "Sure he won't mind?"

"Don't worry about it." Then, answering his unspoken question: "We were together for three years while we were in med school, and we came here to intern at Salk together. Then I went to the Academy, and he--didn't. That was about two years ago."

"Where is he now?"

She sighed, smiling faintly. "You had to ask that, didn't you. He's doing a Starfleet residency. On the Lexington."

"Oh, that's just...great." He pulled the shirt over his head. "If the shirt fits, wear it, huh?"

She shook her head. "It wasn't Starfleet. We were finished by the time he left. We just--grew apart. It was time for one of us to go, and he was never really...." Her voice trailed off.

"'Here'?" he asked softly.

She took his hand as they moved toward the door. "Don't put words in my mouth, Jim. I was going to say 'committed.' And no, they're not the same thing at all."

As they left the area in which she lived, she asked him about his family. When they reached the Academy grounds ten minutes later, he was still answering her question.

"...Letters. Would you believe? On paper. Sometimes it takes months for me to get them." An expression of wistful tenderness crossed his face. "Sometimes I wonder if he's still the same kid he was when he wrote them. They can change pretty fast at his age."

"You're like a second father to him?"

"Sam was his father," he said firmly. "That's one reason I want to keep in touch. He's living with his mother's relatives, and I don't want him ever to forget who his father was. It 's the least I can do for my brother--and for his son." He paused, looking up at the building they were approaching. "I remember this. It's an anthropological museum, isn't it?"

"I didn't know you'd ever been to the Academy before."

"It was an interplanetary tour. With Sam and my parents. I was just a kid--younger than Peter is now." A faint frown. "Is it open at this time of night?" They had spent some time in the shower and more over dinner, and the hour was late.

"There are no locked doors on Vulcan. Do you want to go in?"

"I--" The frown deepened. Watching him, she wondered what might be disturbing him. But then he drew himself together. "Do you mind? There's something....I want to see if it's really the way I remember it."

A few moments later, they stood close to the spot where Spock and his father had stood together a few hours before, and looked at the same re-creation of Vulcan historical anthropology.

He had dropped her hand as they approached the diorama, and now he began to pace, pausing to look at the display and then pacing again. Eventually he turned abruptly to face her.

"Do you know what this is about?" This was a side of him that she had not seen before.

Snappish, aren't you, Captain. "Yes. Do you?"

"Where did you get your information?"

"I deliver Vulcan babies, remember? T'Loreth thought it was necessary that I be completely informed about their reproductive cycle. How do you know--"

"I don't mean just that. This....Now, this is the Challenge. Kal-i-fee."

"How do you know that?"

"Just look at her." But he turned his back on the display, his manner no longer arrogantly demanding. "Sarah, I need some answers. But I can't give you any. Can you accept that?"

She hesitated briefly, and then nodded. "All right."

"The Challenge only happens when both males are...in danger of death, right?" He had obviously given the matter considerable thought. "That's why it's logical--because one of them has to die anyway." She nodded. "Then how the devil can they justify her choosing somebody else as her champion?"

"The challenging male must have been at some physical disadvantage."

"He sure didn't look it."

"Didn't he agree to the substitution?"

"Well--yes. Reluctantly." He was frowning again. "The one thing I haven't figured out is how he just happened to get that way right then. It seems like one hell of a coincidence."

"He must have been unbonded, and she must have set him off."

"Deliberately?"

"She could have."

"That she could," he said grimly.

"In most cases it's not deliberate. It just happens. An unbonded male is very vulnerable toward the end of his cycle."

"Only then?"

"Yes. Only then." She hesitated, and then went on quietly. "Jim, your friend is still something of an anomaly. If he's unbonded now for some reason, he and his father will be extra cautious."

"That's what I keep telling myself." He glanced at her uneasily. "You think I've been talking about him all along?"

"I don't see how you could be. In the situation you were questioning me about at first, one of them won her and the other one died."

His hand strayed to his throat, and then away again. "What if the winner didn't take her? Could he survive?"

"Unlikely. But it's a temporary hormonal imbalance. A severe shock of some kind might snap him out of it. There are a few undocumented cases. Very few."

"I see." He stood silent, lost in a memory. Then, suddenly, he smiled.

"Well," she said softly, "I'm glad you remembered that, whatever it was."

"It was--ah--something of an anomaly. Shall we go?" Still smiling, he cocked his head slightly to one side. "I suppose you have to have a good night's sleep before you go to work tomorrow?"

She did not answer, but simply walked to him and put her arm around his waist. They continued on out of the building together, his arm around her shoulders.

Two weeks later, the crew of the Enterprise had reassembled, tired but presumably happy after their first shore leave in six months. At 1600 that afternoon, their two passengers would beam aboard. And two hours later they would leave orbit.

When Leonard McCoy chanced to run into the captain as the latter was on his way to the bridge, he noted with some concern that Kirk, who had enjoyed his leave after a mysterious disappearance the first two nights ashore, nevertheless appeared a bit weary and somewhat preoccupied. He listened to McCoy's usual complaints about wearing full-dress uniforms to dinner that evening with a knowing half smile. "You'll forget about your neck soon enough, Bones. I guarantee it."

"Vulcan medics don't promise to be diverting dinner companions," McCoy answered sourly as they fell into step.

"Dr. Halsted isn't a Vulcan. You'll like her"

"Her?" McCoy expression abruptly changed to a grin, and Kirk chuckled. Then, still grinning, the doctor gave him a sly glance. "Ah, now I get it."

"What?"

"Where you were those first two nights. Your little pre-leave mission wasn't so hard to take after all, huh? Captain, I'd say you're still in top form."

"Shut up."

Astounded, McCoy stopped in his tracks while Kirk strode on and disappeared around a corner.

"Jim--"

But he was gone.

Trying to figure out what had happened, McCoy thoughtfully continued on toward Sickbay. Abrupt as Jim's reaction had been, he had not seemed angry. Impatient, maybe. And mildly disgusted.

Look who's playing holier-than-thou. But by the time the doctor reached Sickbay, another explanation of Kirk's behavior had occurred to him.

He found Spock inspecting the physical and psychological profiles of two new crew members assigned to the Science division while the rest of them had been on leave. His presence was not unexpected: the first officer invariably had the life history of every new member of his division committed to memory before he or she had been aboard very long. But Spock too was a shade preoccupied.

"Doctor," he asked finally, "were you with the captain while you were on leave?"

"Off and on. Why?"

"I find it difficult to understand why humans often appear to be more fatigued after shore leave than before. The captain does not appear rested to me."

"He played pretty hard this time." The word compulsively occurred to McCoy, and his hypothesis rapidly took shape. "Look, Spock--Jim, um, spent some time with one of our passengers. Dr. Halsted. She's a woman." Spock's eyebrows rose "He seems--somewhat involved. It could run its course, but it just might develop into something. I think we should keep hands off. He can handle it."

"Doctor, you have just used two metaphors and four euphemisms to describe a phenomenon with which we are both...." The first officer of the Enterprise permitted himself the smallest of sighs. "...Reasonably familiar." One eyebrow cocked. "Unusually lyrical even for you, if I may say so."

"You already have." McCoy scowled. "Leave didn't do you a bit o' good, did it." He turned away and finished grumpily, "Get out of here, Spock. I've got work to do."

"I am quite rested, thank you, Doctor."

"Out!"

"Very well." Spock drifted out, looking vaguely offended.

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