FULL CIRCLE: Vulcan

Part 2 of 3

"Good evening, Commander. It's nice to meet the rest of the family after all this time."

"Zoe Keller," Sarah said faintly. "Zoe, this is Spock."

Zoe nodded, mute now, and Spock inclined his head without speaking. Then Zoe turned and moved almost blindly toward Sarah, obviously intending to continue on past her until she was as far away as possible. Her shields slipped momentarily as Sarah had hoped they would, and in that moment, she sent as hard as she could.

Class act, Keller.

Zoe's face was colorless, her eyes wide. What she sent back was emphasized by the slight, silent movement of her lips.

JeSUS!

"Zoe." Sarah had no idea what was acceptable in these circumstances, since these exact circumstances were probably unprecedented in Vulcan/human interaction. But there was no alternative in her mind. She knew that Zoe was shielding both of them out again, and so she sent quickly, apologetically, Forgive me. I must do this for her. Grasping Zoe gently by the arms, she went on quietly, aloud. "I won't be in for a while, but we'll need to talk as soon as I get back. Don't worry in the meantime. About anything. Please?"

"Okay." It was only a whisper, and still distraught, Zoe tried to pull away.

"Promise." Refusing to let go, Sarah shook her gently. "Promise you won't worry. Trust me. Will you promise?" Zoe stared, and Sarah hugged her tight. "You'll be fine," she whispered. "It's not what you're thinking. Promise me."

"I promise," Zoe whispered back. "Enjoy your vaca--I mean--oh, shit!" And she was off down the aisle between the isolettes, not looking back.

A balancing act.

Watching him as he moved around her office, which he had not seen before, she tried to analyze why that phrase had come to her mind. They had managed to reduce the link to a minimal level once more, and in doing so had eliminated all verbal telepathic rapport. And so she could think her way through this without his being aware of what she was thinking.

Always before, the Vulcan in him had been dominant, at least to outward appearance. But when she touched her fingers to his, she had immediately perceived that a new tension had replaced the one with which she had become so familiar even in their brief times together. A balancing act. It was as though he were walking a tightrope, making conscious choices moment by moment as to what the appropriate response was. Something--she could not tell what--had jolted him into the realization that there was a lack, an emptiness, in the way he had looked at life and responded to it before.... Before what? Before his meeting with the alien machine? But how could that have changed him so profoundly?

And profoundly changed he was. Much as he wanted to maintain his composure as long as possible, she knew that the need to put his arms around her and hold her close had almost overwhelmed him as soon as they were alone together. The last Time, he had been totally absorbed in fighting the fever and its accompanying effects; there had been virtually nothing else on his mind until he had no mind left. But now....

Now he stood with his back to her, fighting something else. Could he still be wanting to hold her? But no, that was a dangerous idea even for her. God, she thought irrationally, I wish he hadn't come home so soon. This is unbearable. When do I get to make my own ground rules with somebody?

"Are you angry about what I said to Zoe?"

He turned slowly, and she expected a raised eyebrow. Angry? Who? Me? Spock? But none came. "No." He looked at her speculatively. "It was most...interesting." He paused, and again she had the impression that he was balancing alternatives, playing them off against one another. That's not the way, my love, she thought in despair. How long can you keep on thinking about every word you say and every move you make? "Is she your friend?" he asked finally.

"Yes. For a long time. She took care of T'Ara when she was a baby."

"But--that is not why she is your friend."

"No. We work together, and--well, Zoe doesn't go over too well with most of the people on staff. She's superb at her job, but Vulcans tend not to approve of her...language, mostly."

"Indeed." Now the eyebrow cocked. "She speaks aloud as you occasionally speak in your mind." For a moment there was intimacy, even laughter in his gaze. But then he looked away. He was not trying to be Vulcan, she realized. He was trying not to be Vulcan. If intimacy grew too strong, the plak tow could overtake him in an instant. "Sarah," he went on, almost as though he were aware of her thoughts, "please be patient. Were it my choice, I should not have come home in this condition at this particular time."

"Why? You said you'd tell me about what happened to you."

"I cannot. Not now." Frustration. Even a touch of anger. "Now, it is like a dream. I feel--I feel as though the gift I was given has been immolated." Human frustration. Human anger. Human bitterness?

"This isn't like you!" And then she remembered: He's in transition, between what and what I don't know. "I'm sorry. It'll pass. This doesn't last forever. You'll be--yourself in just a few days." Talk about something else. Anything else. "Is Jim on leave yet?"

"He will be tomorrow."

"Jill has been counting the hours." She was rewarded with a faint smile. "Did he tell you he's going to ask her if she wants to take his name legally?" He nodded, still smiling. "He's worried about you, you know. He didn't tell me exactly what happened, but--" Oh my God.

He simply looked at her, no longer smiling.

"Yes, I taped to him. After--after--" What the hell did they call the thing? "After V'ger. You seemed so changed. I was scared to death--"

"Why didn't you ask me what you wanted to know?"

"Because you said wouldn't tell me until you got home. You know I used to tape to him all the time when Jill was little."

"This has nothing to do with Jill."

"What are you thinking? You can't believe that either of us would ever--"

"When that subject came up once before," he said calmly, "I told Jim that I did not believe he would ever need me to function as his conscience." Not controlling. Calm. Dangerously calm. "That situation has not changed."

If other factors are influencing him--if he's under tension from some other source.... But she could not stop herself. "You don't trust me. You trust him."

"You have appetites that are not being satisfied." Get you where you live when he's angry. Or hurting. Or both. "It is logical that you might consider alternatives."

The muted red and gold of T'Loreth's desert-tone decor seemed to blur in her vision, and for a moment she thought she would not be able to draw her next breath. She began to back away from him, eyes narrowed, knowing how a mortally wounded animal must feel when it crawls away to hide. But there was nowhere to hide in here. If she could get out. If she could just get out....

His arms were around her even before she could turn away, and her own need to hold him and be held was far stronger than her need to hide. At first she thought that he had acted on impulse, and dreaded his reaction when he realized what he had done to himself; already the fever that he had always fought so despairingly was racing through him like a flash fire. But he was as aware of it as she was, and he didn't care. That realization almost took her breath away a second time. He simply didn't care. Filling his mind, which she could now clearly perceive, was a cry: Why do humans say things they don't mean? And aloud, as he pressed his face against the side of hers, he whispered over and over, "No, Sarah, no, no, no, no...."

And then they both realized that they would never make it home if they did not start immediately. Or even sooner, if that could be arranged.

"It's all right." Stupid thing to say, she thought, and then realized that she had been speaking to herself, with joy. Pulling away a little, she took his hands in hers. "You're panicking, my love. No--Spock, listen to me. We can stay here if we have to. We can set the privacy lock." He shook his head, then pressed his forehead against hers, then began to push her away even though it tore at him to do it. "That won't help now," she said steadily, put her arms around him again and pulled him close. "You know this is as bad as it's going to get until we're actually--" A shudder passed through him. "You're panicking," she repeated softly, beginning to stroke his hair. "It's not that far. Think. Think how far it is. Think. You can still think, as long as you don't panic. How far is it? How long does it take to get home from here? Ten minutes? Eleven? Ten point five? Tell me. Ten point--one four one six plus minutes?" She giggled, and felt him shiver with something other than the fever.

"Eleven point two five," he said thickly, on the verge of both laughter and tears.

"That's good. That's wonderful. We can count it off if you want to."

"No," he said softly. "That will not be necessary."

"All right. Then we won't count." Gently she pulled away from him, wondering if it would better to keep him talking or not. "Let's go home, then." And, still thinking about whether it was better to keep him talking, she moved quickly away from him toward the door.

In an instant he was beside her, his hand grasping her wrist so tightly that she almost cried out with the pain. "Don't run from me!"

"I'm not!" But looking into his eyes and into his mind, she saw that the response she had almost triggered was neither rational nor human.

He looked down then, down at the hand grasping her wrist. At first she thought that he did not want to look her in the eye, but then she realized that he was gradually loosening his grip. Slowly, slowly, almost one finger at a time, he forced his hand open. But he did not withdraw it. Instead, he moved it slowly until they were palm to palm. Then slowly still, almost one finger at a time, he interlaced his fingers with hers and closed his hand--neither gently nor painfully, but strongly enough to press their palms together. She too closed her fingers around his hand, and then looked up at him in awe.

"Do you have any idea how different you are this Time?"

He was exhausted from his efforts at control. He looked gaunt, drained, almost colorless. Yet she saw the faintest hint of a smile deep in his eyes.

"My wife, if it pleases you, may we go home now?" One eyebrow rose, if only fractionally. "Slowly?"

"You look sixteen," her mother had said, knowing that this would be the supreme compliment. "Maybe even seventeen." The compliment had had its desired effect, and she had expected something of the sort from J.T. But he had just smiled a little--a little nervously, she thought, and asked her if she made the dress herself. It was not a put-down, she knew. He didn't do that anymore, and besides, she knew that the dress fit right and was becoming to her. Mother wouldn't have let her wear it to the Officers' Club if it wasn't right. But there was something about the way she looked that made J.T. nervous anyway.

Over their appetizers, she asked, "Do I get to hear the bad news now, or do we get to fight about it first?"

He looked up from his plate, directly at her, and grinned a little. She had decided long ago that in this uniform, he wasn't just handsome. He was beautiful. She had been really glad they hadn't given up the gray and white dress uniforms when they trashed the dust covers.

"You don't exactly look like a little kid anymore," he said wryly, and his gazed flicked briefly toward a pair of his fellow officers three or four tables away.

They had all entered the dining room at the same time, and he had introduced her simply as Jill Halsted, just as he always did. They had discussed it at length before she went to PREPDIV, and she had made it clear that she did not want everybody to think that she was there because he got her in. They had almost had an argument about it, but she had stuck it out and won in the end; it was bad enough that everybody knew her mother was married to Commander Spock. And some of her instructors knew J.T. was her father anyway. He didn't give up easy. But it was nice to think that he meant it when he said he was proud of her.

"We went to the club at Starfleet six months ago," she began, and then stopped.

"That was six months ago."

"Oh." Abruptly, she put her hand to her mouth to smother the giggle that she could not totally suppress. She was too happy to get mad at him, and as long as she wasn't mad....

"What the devil is so funny?" he asked irritably. As though he didn't know.

"You mean you all sit around here in your beautiful uniforms and wonder who's kinky and who isn't?"

"Well--" He frowned, sat back in his chair, and rubbed his chin as though he were considering it. "As a matter of fact--" He glanced over at her, and she could see that she wasn't the only one who was having trouble not laughing. He was still rubbing his chin, but he had his hand over his mouth now. "Dammit, Jill--!"

"You shouldn't swear in front of the crew, Captain," she informed him, deadpan. "It's in The Book." Then she lost it and cracked up. He was not far behind.

When he was through coughing, he asked, "Do you want to leave?"

"No. Do you?"

"No."

"Can I have waffles?"

"Waf-- ? Jill, this is the--"

"So? I haven't had waffles in three months. With your permission, sir?"

The waffles had to be made to order, from scratch. But he was good at giving orders, and not very good at taking no for an answer.

She was still wiping her fingers and thinking about a chocolate malt when he asked her about taking his name.

Tears came to her eyes before she could stop them. "Damn," she said softly, and then, "I'm sorry. No, don't. My hands are all sticky." But that didn't seem to bother him at all.

"Let me help."

"I can't be Jill Kirk in Starfleet, J.T. You know why."

"No," he said gently. "I don't know why. Suppose you tell me."

"Can I blow my nose first?" While she did that, she thought about what she should say. But nothing would convince him except what was really happening. "Three of my teachers know who I am. That you're my father. One of them teaches just to me, as though I'm the only one in the class. You know what I mean?" He nodded slowly. "Another one curves the test grades, and I always get an A. Last time there were six A's in a class of fifteen." She blew her nose again and put the handkerchief away in her purse. "Some curve."

"And the third one?" he asked softly.

"Oh, he's easy. He doesn't like you." As quickly as the tears had come a moment before, the grin came now. "The first week of the term, I was daydreaming one time, and he asked a question and then called my name. You know how a teacher can do that, so you don't hear the question? Well, he got me that time, but--" She tried to feel guilty. She had been trying to feel guilty all term, but not succeeding. "I'd pretend I wasn't paying attention, and when he'd ask me a question, I'd look like I didn't know the answer and then I'd answer it." Incredulity that was almost awe overcame her. "He never learns, J.T. I've pulled that on him three or four times, and he never learns!"

He stared at her, utterly delighted. She could not remember ever having seen him so delighted. "I didn't know Cameron was down in PREPDIV now."

"How did you--That's why he doesn't like you!"

Now he was trying to look guilty and not succeeding. "He'll flunk you if he can."

"I'm watching him."

"How many times did he get you?"

"Just that once." Now it was her turn to be delighted. "How many times did he get you?"

"Once. And you're right. He never learns. If you don't want to be Jill Kirk in Starfleet, you better start watching yourself." He was still grinning, but wistfully. "Okay, you made your point. I'll go along with it because of something you don't know. Can you keep a secret? No, I mean it. Even Spock doesn't know yet." Now, suddenly, he was frowning a little.

"What is it?"

"I received new orders the morning after Spock went on leave. I've been reassigned to HQ. I've got three more months aboard the Enterprise. Then I'll be chief honcho at the Academy."

She knew that "chief honcho" was supposed to be a private joke, just like "Can you keep a secret?" But she could not smile. All she could think was You're not going to let them do that to you again! Not again!

"Is having me around that hard to take?"

"No! Oh, no. I--" Selfish, she thought. Feeling like this is selfish. But she could not help smiling now. "We can go sailing again."

He nodded, smiling too. "But that's not what you thought about when I first told you."

"You didn't think it was all that great at HQ before," she said carefully.

"I've been given an assignment, Jill. You've been in Starfleet two years. That's plenty long enough to know the difference between assigned duties and what you might think is 'great.'" He was not angry at her, she knew. And yet, somehow, he sounded angry. "The party's over, and the Old Man's going ashore to stay this time." She didn't like the way he said that, but she couldn't think why. Not fast enough to answer him anyway. "Shall we go walk off the waffles?"

She thought briefly of the chocolate malt, but this didn't seem like the time to mention it.

As they walked home, he talked about the things he wanted to do when he got to the Academy, changes he thought it was time for. He asked her opinion, and she gave it; he argued with her, and she argued back. There had been a time, not too long ago, when she had been afraid that he would always treat her like a little kid. But lately he seemed to think of her more like Mother did, as though she were--not grown up, but growing up. You could almost talk to him about anything....

They stood at the foot of the garden, looking back over ShiKahr. Not so many lights as San Francisco, and the sky looked red even at night.

A different world....

You could almost talk to him about anything. Even something you couldn't talk to Mother about.

"J.T., what's wrong with Mother and Spock?"

He had turned to look at her when she began to ask the question, and for a moment she thought he was going to look away again. But he didn't.

"Too much Starfleet," he answered quietly. "In the ten years since we picked you up from Tara, they've probably been together less than ten days."

Out loud, she thought. You say it out loud, and then it doesn't scare you so much. "Why do they last?" It was only a whisper.

"Because they want to." He put his arm around her shoulders, and they began to climb up the hill toward the dark house. "It's as old as the military. They're together just long enough to find out what their problems are, but not long enough to solve them. And that's when they're on the same world. Stir in a few thousand light years, and the mix gets pretty thick." When she did not answer, he tightened his arm. "They'll last. Don't second-guess. Nobody second-guesses Spock. Not for long, anyway."

"You could take him with you." He glanced at her questioningly. "Spock. With you. To the Academy. Then you wouldn't have to worry about him, and if there's a ConClass going near this sector when we have a break, he could be home in four or five days. Or maybe...maybe he and Sarek could fix it so the Surak would come and get him. That would be even faster."

He stopped walking and dropped his arm, stood there just looking at her. "My father used to have a saying," he said finally. "'We get so soon old, and so late smart.' How'd you get smart so soon?"

"Blame it on the gene pool."

He laughed, put his arm around her again, and they went on up the hill. He seemed to be thinking hard, and she wondered whether this was a good time to ask something else about the gene pool. It's wasn't exactly a taboo subject, but you never knew whether he'd talk or just clam up. She thought about it for a few more steps, and decided to take a chance.

"How old is David now?"

As she had expected, he turned his head sharply to look at her. "Why are you so curious about him?"

Well, she'd asked for it. "Wouldn't you be if you were me?"

He sighed. "I suppose."

They had entered the courtyard, and their steps slowed; he was staying with Sarek and Amanda this time. This Time. Oh, well. Whatever.

"He'll be twenty-two this fall," J.T. went on, dropping his arm and moving away from her. "His mother has a Federation grant to do some work offworld." So, pace, she thought. Last time we were on the boat and you couldn't pace, so this has got to be a better deal. "The team leaves Earth in three or four months, and he's on it."

"You've seen them?" she asked, startled.

"I've seen the proposal." He didn't actually pace, but moved away from her and then turned, absently snapping his fingers. "I told you why I never see them." Snap, snap. "Why do you keep asking me about him? And don't tell me 'curious.'" Snap, snap. "All right. What the devil to you think I should have done? Kidnap him? Sneak around and see him on the sly without his mother's consent? Grow up, will you?"

Slowly she walked to him until they faced one another squarely. "That's what he's been doing for twenty-two years. Without you."

"Eighteen," he answered wryly. "I told you. My guess is it's good riddance. If he remembers me at all."

"Was it that bad?" Maybe she was going to get the story this time. If she didn't screw up and say the wrong thing.

"Worse. There was a rainstorm. Typical San Francisco downpour." She nodded. She knew. "The three of us were shut in together all afternoon. He and I...." He tried to smile, but it was more like a grimace. "We distinguished ourselves. There just wasn't enough room for both of us in the whole godda-- in the universe. Did you ever have a tantrum?" he demanded abruptly, almost accusingly. "The kind where you kick the floor?"

"I don't think so," she said faintly. "Did you?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Nothing." Maybe nothing.

"I called him 'mister.'" He shook his head incredulously. "'Shape up, mister.' I still dream about it sometimes. And his mother--turns out she let me in because she thought I'd changed my mind. When she found out she was wrong...." He raised one arm and let it drop, and she thought, That's about the only time you ever lost one, isn't it.

"I bet she never told him it was her idea."

"What difference does it make?"

"If he knew why you stayed away," she said with absolute certainty, "he'd have tried to find you by now."

"Jill--" He put his hands on her shoulders, and then hugged her. Tight. "That's what you would have done."

"So would you." Smiling against his shoulder, she thought, And so would he. But she was not quite as sure as she had been a moment before.

How could you be sure about someone you didn't even know?

Well, maybe you could find out. Some Saturday afternoon at PREPDIV, maybe you could just find out.

Waking, Sarah lay with her eyes closed, knowing without looking that Spock still slept beside her. He was not dreaming now. During the Time, he did not sleep long enough to dream.

Do you have any idea how different you are?

On Tara, she had ended their first Time together with greenish-black stains under her fingernails, and he with reddish-brown stains under his. Cutting the nails to the quick beforehand had mitigated the problem the last Time, but it had also exacerbated the overwhelming instinctive compulsion to knead one another like a couple of nursing kittens as they mated. This Time, although the compulsion was there, both of them seemed well able to suppress it, and since her need was telepathically generated, she knew that the change originated with him. And more than one instinctive component had been suppressed. In the retrospective aftermath of other Times, the expression "fighting tooth and nail" had inevitably come to her mind....

He was awake. Reluctantly, as always. And through the chaos already pounding in his mind, she could perceive two thoughts, neither of which had ever been present before during pon farr. The one had been with him intermittently since they began-- a despairing cry : Is this all that I am? Is there nothing more? She knew its source, for she now shared in retrospect all that he had experienced during his contact with the alien. But the other was a new thought for him, although not for her.

You think I'm using this as an excuse.

There was no accusation in it, but rather something else just barely perceivable. Something very like...self-doubt?

Firmly repressing an irreverent grin, she turned her head to look at him. "At the moment, I couldn't care less." Slowly she raised herself on one elbow, knowing that the conversation could not last much longer, and determined that this time the last word would be hers. Now lying across his chest, she touched two extended fingers to the pulse pounding visibly in his throat. "Can you forgive me?"

That was indeed the end of the conversation. But in hoping to get the last word, she had underestimated the abilities of Spock of Vulcan. As the fever once again consumed them, she was still able to perceive his answer, sparkling faintly in the midst of chaos.

I might.

Jim Kirk had heard it said that some people have a natural talent for being on vacation, and that others can never learn it. If that was true, then he was definitely in the latter group.

He had encouraged Jill to attend an afternoon party at her old school, where he knew she would see many of her former classmates. It was obvious that she wanted to go, and he had pointed out that they would be seeing a lot of each other once he was at the Academy. But as soon as she was gone, he regretted that he had agreed so easily.

The house was dead quiet and hot as hell, and it was even hotter outside; he thought briefly about taking a 'car down to the club, but he did not really want to go anywhere that he didn't have to go in the daytime. He wore the typical Vulcan leisurewear--lightweight trousers, lighterweight collarless tunic, and sandals--cycled for size but absentmindedly styled, judging by the results. He had been informed that the outfit was "suitable" for hot weather, but Spock had cautioned him privately against going outside before sunset.

He was alone. His host and hostess were off to their jobs, neither of them having realized that Jill would be out for the afternoon. And Spock and Sarah were...otherwise occupied.

Wandering through the wing that Sarek and Amanda lived in, he marveled once again at the attitude of the entire family toward the Time of Mating. The last Time, he had been uneasy about being a house guest; being as honest as he could with himself, he had expected to be embarrassed or titillated or both, and he did not look forward to either. But with everybody else acting as though nothing at all unusual were going on, it was surprisingly easy to forget all about what was. Strangely enough, it was as though the absent ones were there and yet not there; he had heard Amanda tell T'Ara: "You'll have to ask your mother about that," as though Sarah were simply at the hospital or even in the next room. It is the Vulcan way, he thought, and shook his head. Vulcan, yes. But Amanda and Jill were as unconcerned about the whole bizarre event as were Sarek and T'Ara.

He read for a while; Amanda had a whole library full of real, bound books which he had often wished he had time to investigate. But now that he had the necessary time, his mind would not allow him the necessary peace.

He would have to rename the boat. Again.

Or maybe just give it the same old name.

Or maybe just call it Nevermore and be done with it.

He flung the book aside and began to pace, then stopped pacing. You're on vacation, Jim. Vacate. Sitting down on the couch that looked like leather but did not stick to your backside, he rubbed his eyes and picked up a deck of cards that Jill and T'Ara used to play a game that boggled his mind. But they were Terran playing cards, and there was only one thing to do with Terran playing cards when you were bored out of your skull and not particularly interested in constructive thinking. Or destructive thinking, as the case might be.

He had played for several minutes when he realized that he was not alone in the house after all.

She had come like the shadow that Jill called her, come to stand at a short distance from him, looking over his shoulder at the cards on the coffee table. Was it "Saturday" in ShiKahr, he wondered. Or didn't the kids go to school all "week"?

He turned, thought about saying "Hi" and decided against it, thought about smiling, decided against it, decided for it, and smiled without saying anything. She did not smile in return.

"What is the purpose of this activity?"

Not stiff, he thought. Not ultra-controlled, as he had seen Spock be from time to time. But no expression on her face at all.

"It's a game called solitaire."

Two delicate eyebrows rose. "One plays games with oneself?"

For just an instant, he held his breath. Could she possibly know...? Then he breathed again. The question was obviously about solitaire. "Too often, I'm afraid," he said wryly.

T'Ara stared.

Ball one, Jim. Nowhere near the zone. "Here," he said. "I'll show you how." Strike. The magic words were I'll show you how. "Or--or better still...." He swept up the cards and shuffled them. "Let's try a game for two."

Fascinated, she went to her knees on the other side of the coffee table.

"This is a face card. Jack of diamonds, right? Face cards count ten, all the others take their face value except the ace can be one or eleven." Abruptly, he realized that he was doing his new-ensign number, explaining too fast just to see if he could rattle the kid. But she hadn't even blinked. "The object of the game...." Small stab of conscience. The hell with it. The devil made me do it, Spock. "The object of the game is to get as close to twenty-one as possible."

After two or three rounds, she was bored to death. And it was more than clear why.

"Ah, T'Ara--" He rubbed his nose, tying to think how to say it diplomatically. "What you're doing--most humans can't do it. You'd be accused of trying to cheat the house."

"Is it not the purpose of this game to--cheat the house?"

He realized that she had never heard the word "cheat" before, and put that realization aside to ponder at length. "Not exactly. You're supposed to guess what the next card is."

The eyebrows again. Unlike her father, T'Ara seemed unable to work one at a time. "That is most illogical."

"Mmm. But it's a game of chance." Ball two. "You play the...odds." He paused, and grinned. "You calculate the probabilities."

To his delight, T'Ara smiled. It wasn't much of a smile by human standards. But it would more than do for openers.

As he anticipated, she learned the game quickly, but he had the impression that her mind wasn't on it. Not challenging enough, probably. He was trying to think what other card game he might teach her when she began to question him, hesitantly at first, about the recent missions of the Enterprise. Becoming more certain by the moment that she had had more than solitaire on her mind when she approached him, he described two alien worlds and a near-disastrous ion storm without eliciting more than a few polite questions. What in the universe could the kid be after?

"Is the first officer ever a member of the landing party?" she asked finally, almost reluctantly.

Gotcha. "Yes. Often." Wryly: "He's also been known to go off on his own." Mistake? he wondered belatedly. But the child's eyes were round.

"Why?"

"Well--" He explained about V'ger's probe and their unsuccessful attempts to gain information from it. "Your father realized that we didn't really have time to wait for--for Captain Decker to gain the probe's confidence. So he took a thruster suit and went for a walk. That's an expression we use. He went outside the ship...." The game forgotten, he told the story to a pair of the most fascinated green eyes he had ever seen.

"Was he injured by the mind meld?" she whispered finally.

"Yes. But it was transitory." For the first time, he realized that he was talking to her almost as though she were another adult. "He got a great deal of information, and--some insights as well." Not my story to tell, he thought. "The experience taught your father a lot about his humanity. You might ask him to tell you about it."

He had no idea whether it was the word "humanity" or the suggestion that she ask Spock to relate his experience that was the cause of her withdrawal. But withdrawal there was. She did not move, but her gaze dropped from his. And he thought, Already?

"What's the matter, T'Ara?"  he asked gently. "Is 'humanity' such a frightening word to you?" No answer. "Does Jill's humanity frighten you?" She looked up then, searching his eyes for he knew not what. "Then why should yours? Hide it if you have to. Deny it if you must. But don't ever be afraid of it. That would be about as logical as being afraid of Jill."

She smiled once again, thoughtfully this time, and nodded. But she had reached her limit, and looked down at the cards once more. "You may strike me again."

Trying to keep a straight face, he coached: "'Hit me again.'" Then he too looked at the cards. "You have twenty showing."

Raised eyebrows, expressionless face. "Hit me again."

He shrugged and dealt the next card. It was an ace.

They looked at one another, and it was his turn to raise his eyebrows.

"There was a probability of 88.37 percent," she explained patiently, "that the next card would be an ace. Is that not playing the odds?" He nodded, still trying to keep a straight face and failing miserably. "What is this game called?"

"Blackjack," said an all too familar voice from the doorway. And Jim Kirk silently closed his eyes, wondered briefly how The devil made me do it would cut it with his host, and decided he didn't really want to find out.

"It is a game of chance, Grandfather," said T'Ara, who had obviously been aware of Sarek's presence for some time. "One calculates probabilities. Ascertaining the value of the next card by other means is called cheating the house."

"Indeed." There was not a hint of annoyance, or of any other emotion, in Sarek's voice. "Interesting." Kirk raised his eyes, but Sarek was looking at his granddaughter. He said something to her in Vulcan--gently, obviously not reprimanding or in any other way upsetting her. She rose, smiled shyly at the corrupter of her innocence, and departed on whatever errand her grandfather had developed for that purpose.

Kirk rose to his feet. "Mr. Ambassador, I regret that I took advantage of your hospitality. I--it was a stupid thing to--"

"It is I," Sarek interrupted quietly, "who should apologize to you, Captain." When Kirk simply stared, his mouth slightly open, Sarek went on in the same tone. "I deliberately eavesdropped on your conversation with T'Ara about her father. Being your host does not give me that right. But I cannot regret that I did it." There was a warmth in those dark eyes that Kirk had never seen there before, and perhaps even a hint of a smile. "I accept your gift of self, James Kirk. For her."

The last shall be first, and the first, last.

It seemed to Spock that his mind played increasingly often of late with phrases not in his native tongue. This morning, finally free of the plak tow, he rose, meditated, and prepared himself for the day while Sarah still slept, the biblical phrase turning slowly in his mind like a windmill on a day with almost no wind. The last shall be first.... This was the last day of his leave, and the first of the time after the Time. Once, very recently, it had seemed to him that this day would never come. But, like all days, it had arrived and would take its leave. And his leave with it.

Curious concept, that.

But the probabilities were high that this would be one of the better days of his life. It had always been so. The day or two following the Time seemed to be the only opportunity for him and Sarah to interact peacefully, free of the tension that would soon gradually overtake them again if he remained with her longer than that. It was past Time to be Vulcan, and human physiology being as it is, it was too soon to be troubled by one's humanity.

A small piece of peace.

He smiled faintly to himself, wondering if his mind were really as clear as it seemed to be.

It was still barely dawn, and Sarah slept without moving--prone, her hair partially covering her face. She would probably sleep until midday, and he would return before that from his errands--first with Jill, and then with Jim. Even if Sarah woke before then, she would understand why he was gone, for both errands were her idea.

Looking down at her while she slept as he had so often done in the past, he felt a moment's bitter pride as yet another phrase entered his mind.

Not a mark on her.

This Time.

He closed his eyes briefly, fighting the self-disgust that was purposeless and therefore illogical. Even for a half human. Totally illogical. And yet it seemed that his very soul cried out: Oh, Sarah, if we should begin to love each other as you so deeply desire, how can we bear the next Time?

Think. You can still think, as long as you don't panic.

My Sarah, on Vulcan there is time for everything. Even for us.

But the first shall be last....

He sighed deeply, leaned over, and drew the sheet gently over her bare shoulders against the lingering chill of the desert dawn, and left her to her own little piece of peace.

He had seen his father from the window, leaving the courtyard to walk in the garden at first light. There was a conversation that must take place today, whether he liked it or not. Although he had not spoken with Sarek since his leave began, he had learned as much of Sarah during the Time as she had of him. So it was clear that the conversation must take place, and what it would be about.

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.

Indeed.

At his approach, his father turned away, gazing out toward the dawn across the wall at the bottom of the garden.

Call him "Sarek" said the ironic voice of his humanity. Let yourself off the hook this time. You have the right. Most illogical. And not particularly efficient either. "Speak, Father."

Sarek turned, and Spock had the momentary impression that his father was surprised. What did you think? he wondered sadly, silently, knowing that his father would not probe his mind even under these circumstances. Did you think I'd run away again? How little you know me still, and how easily you judge me still.

"Have you agreed to Sarah's trip to Earth with T'Ara?" Sarek asked in Vulcan.

"I have not. But I shall."

"I do not believe," Sarek said expressionlessly, "that your motives are totally logical."

The old resentment rose in him so quickly that he repressed it rather than controlled it. "It is Sarah's wish--" Then he thought of the Shadow's first act as a separate entity, and repressed his shame.

"I do not speculate on the motives of your wife, Spock. But I should like to suggest that you examine your own motives."

He controlled the resentment this time, snuffing it out as though it were a candle flame. It was a conscious choice. In the prevailing circumstances, that particular emotion was not only inappropriate but dangerous.

Then he realized that his father was watching him, and it came to him that even without mental contact, Sarek knew exactly what was happening within his son, and why, and was watching him with approval.

"Do you understand Sarah's motivation?" Sarek asked quietly.

"Indeed." He knew that his father would not question him, that unlike most humans in similar circumstances, Sarek had been absolutely sincere when he said he would not speculate on the subject. And he felt intense relief that he did not attempt to control. She has permitted her child to be fostered by a non-human in a non-human culture. She has permitted her marriage to be dominated by non-human values. There was no way to express the rest of it without the idiom. Now she needs to win one for a change.

His father still watched him. But still he did not attempt mental contact. "Does she understand her own motivation?"

"Not at this time. But she will come to it." She always does.

One of Sarek's eyebrows rose perceptibly, and Spock resigned himself to the inevitable question: Is it logical? And to the answer he knew he must give.

"Is it necessary?" Sarek asked. In English.

Spock lowered his eyes, controlling, controlling. I ask forgiveness, he thought. It is I who have misjudged you. He knew that his mother was responsible for Sarek's perception of the meaning of necessary, and in that moment, he felt great love and gratitude toward both of them. But he controlled even that, knowing that an emotional display would destroy his rapport with his father, and that when he finally raised his eyes, they were serene.

"I believe that it is."

"T'Ara requires the Image." In Vulcan once more. Slight trace of agitation now.

"She needs her mother more," Spock answered in English. He did not know how he knew this. But he knew.

"She is a human child in many ways," Sarek said slowly. "But her powers are far greater than yours or mine. She is a healer."

"Six months from now, Sarek" Spock said gently, "she will be a healer still."

A human would have looked away, disconcerted by the change in his status. Sarek did not look away. Given the way the conversation was going, he had expected it. To do otherwise would have been totally illogical.

"Indeed," he said expressionlessly. And since they were two Vulcans with no more to say, they took leave of one another in silence.

His mother, Jill, and T'Ara were already in the kitchen of his parents' wing of the house. It appeared from the conversation that neither of the girls was a breakfast eater, but Amanda was not putting up with any nonsense. He stood silently in the kitchen doorway with his hands clasped behind his back, watching and listening, knowing that only his daughter knew he was there but unconcerned about eavesdropping on a conversation that was obviously not private. His chief concern at the moment was that T'Ara was ignoring his presence, even though she was aware of it.

When he had last seen her three years ago, he had known that his presence profoundly disturbed her even though she had given no outward indication that she was disturbed. Putting himself in her place as perhaps no one else could, he understood. Biologically, he was her father, deserving of respect as a very special adult. But experientially, he was nothing to her--less than nothing, since Sarek was her Vulcan Image, the adult from whom she was absorbing her Vulcan identity as she could never do from a father almost continuously absent. Even if Spock had been fully Vulcan, there would have been a certain "logical" ambiguity in their relationship. But he was part human even as she was. Remembering all too clearly his own problems at her age, he could not fail to comprehend the reason for her emotional reaction to him, a reaction he could only describe as acute anxiety.

At ten, Spock had had one Vulcan parent and one human parent. Conflict there was, but he had always known exactly what to expect from each of them, and exactly what each of them expected from him. But at nearly ten, T'Ara had no clear idea what to expect from her little-known Vulcan/human father, and felt considerable confusion as to what to expect of herself in his presence. Would he maintain control? And even more disturbing: could she?

In some ways the empathetic sensitivity between them was even stronger than that between him and Sarah, and so he knew without intentionally trying to reach T'Ara's mind that she was quite literally afraid of him--afraid of what an unexpected display of emotion on his part might do to her control. And at the time of his last brief visit, immediately before his sojourn in the desert of Gol, he had not done much to help matters between them.

He knew that she was unconscious of the fact that many of her mannerisms were Sarah's, and when she had quickly and expertly smoothed her hair behind her ears with both tiny hands, she had had no idea why his emotional response was so intense that even she could perceive it telepathically. Her green eyes had flicked toward him, incredulous and terrified. Why should this half human father of hers feel such intense love for her when a moment before they had simply been discussing differential equations? The minimal confidence she had in him was shattered at that moment. Not only was he an emotional human, but he felt deep emotions for no apparent reason.

Now, watching her from the doorway, he determined to begin again. Start from scratch, as Jim would say. It was the only logical course of action, and if one wanted something badly enough, one did whatever had to be done to achieve it. 

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