Title: This Deadly Innocence, or The End of the 
Hurt/Comfort Syndrome
Author: Leslie Fish (no email addy; feedback to ASC/EM, 
please)
Series: TOS
Rating: [PG-13]
Codes: K/S, FSP, h/c
Part: 1/
Summary: Doctor McCoy has detected a dangerous syndrome 
in two of his patients. He prescribes a novel treatment.

"This Deadly Innocence" was originally published in NAKED 
TIMES 3. A post giving some historical background is
appearing along with this story. Anyone who remembers 
reading the story in its early years and who has 
information, insights, or reminiscences to offer, please
post them; or send your comments to Doctor Science (mecurtin@alumni.princeton.edu) and I'll collate them for 
posting.

This story is being posted as part of the "Foresmutters 
Project", an anarchic effort to make some of the older 
zine-published Star Trek fanfiction available online. No 
work will be posted without the express consent of the 
author or hir estate.

Disclaimer & Copyright notice: Copyright 1979 by Leslie 
Fish and Pon Farr Press. Star Trek is the property of
Paramount/Viacom. This is a work of noncommercial amateur 
fan fiction; it is not published for profit or material 
gain. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe 
any intellectual property rights held by the owners of 
existing copyrights in Star Trek or its derivative works. 
Pon Farr Press owns the right to first publication of this 
story. The author retains copyright to this work.

Acknowledgements: Ellen Lewis (arachnae@webtv.com) was the
Prime Mover for this story: she contacted Leslie Fish's
agent, got permission to post the story, and began the
typing. Vanasati (vanasati@aol.com) did most of the typing.
Juls (juls@texas.net) proofed the copy, and Doctor Science
(mecurtin@alumni.princeton.edu) double-checked, kibbitzed,
collated, and stapled.

This Deadly Innocence, or The End of the Hurt/Comfort 
Syndrome 
by Leslie Fish (1979)

"Jim, I don't know if he's going to make it."

The words had circled silently in Kirk's mind for the 
last three hours and more while he sat motionless 
beside the intensive care unit bed. Spock lay there, 
equally motionless, deep in the healing trance, life-
support machines covering most of his body. Kirk kept 
watch, remembering all the times he'd seen this sight 
before, or seen it played over himself. *So many times 
we've cheated death...* He took one limp hand between 
his own, marveling once more at the fineness of bone 
and tendon, the long supple fingers, more-than-human 
heat, so familiar and so treasured. *We can cheat the 
Reaper one more time. There's a chance, Spock. Take it. 
Fight. Win. We'll make it...*

He refused to think of what losing would mean. That 
thought was a shadowy horror, breathing cold wind on 
the back of his neck, and if he didn't turn to look at 
it, it couldn't gain on him, couldn't catch Spock. 
*Don't look. Win. Fifty-fifty. We've beaten worse odds. 
You can do it. Hours and hours of fighting, and we 
can't lose now. Please, Spock. Come through alive. 
Alive and whole. Healing trance, all McCoy's skill, all 
my... hope... Oh, please, Spock... please...*

The lean hand twitched ever so faintly. Kirk clutched 
it hard, afraid to move. *I'm here, Spock! Here!* 
Another twitch, stronger. *Oh, please--* Quicker 
breathing. *Spock--* Eyelids fluttered, but didn't 
rise. A faint, barely audible word.

"...Jim?"

"Yes!" Kirk whispered, leaning close. "I'm here, with 
you."

"Jim... strike me... waken..."

"Hit you?!" *Get him out of the trance. But I don't 
want to hurt him! Never, never hurt him...*

"...please..."

"All right." *I _hate_ this!* Kirk slapped the Vulcan's 
cheek.

"Harder."

Biting his lip, Kirk slapped again. Harder.

"Again!"

Kirk did as he was told, struggling to keep his aim 
through threatening tears. Again. And again. Three 
times. Four. Spock's head rocked on the pillow. His 
eyes snapped open. "Thank you, Jim. That is 
sufficient."

"You're alive!" Kirk almost sobbed with relief. He 
leaned over Spock, impulsively wrapping his arms around 
him. "Oh, you're alive..."

"That... should be self-evident." Spock's mouth 
twitched faintly in his Vulcan equivalent of a smile. 
He raised one hand, still trembling with weakness, and 
gently brushed that willful little lock of hair off 
Kirk's forehead. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Half the night," Kirk murmured, running his fingers 
softly over the growing bruise on Spock's cheek, as if 
trying to soothe the mark away. The skin felt velvety, 
warm, dry.

"I regret having... kept you from your rest." Spock's 
voice was tired, infinitely tired, but the faint note 
of warmth was unmistakable. He let his hand slip down 
until it covered Kirk's.

"It's all right. Just so long as you're alive and 
well..." Gratitude choked off his shaking voice. Kirk 
bent lower and gently pressed his lips to the green 
bruise. *Safe and well... oh, I can't tell you...*

Spock smiled drowsily, drifting in a quiet haze of 
well-being. He turned his head slightly and returned 
the gesture, intrigued by the smooth textures, feeling 
wrapped in soft layers of peace and contentment. His 
eyes slid shut and his breathing stretched into the 
deep rhythms of normal sleep.

Kirk held his hand a moment longer, then gently set it 
back on the blanket and quietly stood up. He lowered 
the area lights to dusk level, studied Spock's sleeping 
face one last time, and turned to go.

That was when he saw McCoy standing in the doorway.

The doctor was leaning against the door frame, arms 
crossed, as if he'd been standing there for a long 
time. His expression was unreadable. He said nothing, 
only waved Kirk toward him with an imperious finger. 
Kirk followed, hitching one shoulder higher than the 
other, wondering why he felt vaguely embarrassed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

"Sit down," said McCoy, locking the office door.

Kirk sat. "Spock shouldn't have been left alone like 
that," he began defensively. "What if there'd been 
nobody there to wake him at the right time?"

"He wasn't left alone." McCoy took the chair on the 
other side of the desk. "I was watching for a good 
twenty minutes before he woke."

"Oh." Kirk settled back in his chair, fighting down an 
unexplained sense of outraged privacy. "Well, uh... No 
problem, then."

"Oh, yes there is." McCoy pinned him with a hard blue 
stare. "I observed a medical condition which is, in my 
best scientific opinion, extremely dangerous."

"What?! What condition? Isn't Spock all right?"

"For now." McCoy leaned back, not taking his eyes off 
Kirk. "Until next time."

"What do you mean: 'next time?'"

"I mean the next time you deliberately take unnecessary 
risks-- or he does," McCoy snapped. "This is the sixth 
time this year that I've had to patch up one or the 
other of you for injuries acquired not in the line of 
duty, but because of stupid, heroic, show-off stunts. 
I'm getting more than tired of it!"

"Look, Bones," Kirk displayed his most engaging grin. 
"We're in a dangerous line of work. You know I have to 
go down on all the landing parties; you can't lead from 
behind the lines. The risks come with the-"

"Shut up," McCoy cut him off tiredly. "Stop giving me 
the same old excuses and listen to what I'm saying. I 
told you, *unnecessary* risks. That's exactly what I 
meant. Do you want details?"

"I don't understand what you mean by *unnecessary ,*" 
Kirk glowered.

"All right, I'll draw pictures! How did Spock get hurt 
this time?"

"You know that already." Kirk looked down at his hands. 
"Protecting me from a landslide."

"Right. And that landslide never would have happened if 
you hadn't strolled right up to the edge of that cliff! 
You knew it was soft earth, not solid rock; a 
kindergarten child would have known it couldn't hold 
your weight. Spock could have told you. He was, after 
all, standing right by your shoulder. Very convenient!"

"I was careless!" Kirk almost shouted. "I was tired, 
and I got careless. Don't you think I've been kicking 
myself over that?"

"Not in the right place. This isn't an isolated 
incident; remember the last time you got hurt?"

"God, yes! That giant tarantula-thing on V'Dikka. 
Brrr!"

"The natives call it a snolligoster. They gave us 
plenty of warning about it: a usually harmless beast, 
but very territorial, so keep away from its private 
territory. And what did Spock do? Deliberately poke his 
head in a snolligoster hole!  Of course the damn thing 
grabbed him-- and of course you went running in with a 
drawn phaser, and of course you ran up and kicked the 
snolligoster instead of stunning it, so of course it 
turned on *you.* Took me two days to pump the poisons 
out of your bloodstream."

"I didn't know what setting would stun it, and I 
couldn't shoot at a higher setting for fear of killing 
Spock. What was I supposed to do?"

"You could have fired past Spock. The snolligoster was 
as big as a truck." 

"I-- It was dark. Couldn't be sure..." Kirk realized he 
was actually squirming.

"Umm hmmm. And before that you provoked that 
carnivorous plant on Venca 5, and Spock got the 
thorns."

"It looked harmless!" *Why am I shouting?*

"Not quite fatal, you mean-- and you've been a starship 
captain too long to be so careless. Now before that it 
was the forest fire on Earth, where Spock could have 
gotten out safely by himself, but you went plunging in 
to help and caught that falling conifer across your 
back. Before that it was the hypnotic flame-creature 
that jack-lighted you and bit Spock when he hauled you 
away from it. And before *that* it was the treacherous 
tide on Kyngai-- and what possessed Spock to try 
swimming, anyway? Of course you saved him-- damn near 
killing yourself with exhaustion in the process-- but 
he normally stays away from water, hates to swim. 
That's what first started me wondering."

"He said he needed the practice," Kirk snapped. "What's 
this all about, Bones? What's the point?" The instant 
the words were out of his mouth, Kirk got an ominous 
feeling that he shouldn't have asked.

"Oh, come on! Do you mean you really can't see the 
pattern?" McCoy studied him for a moment, then reached 
into the lower desk drawer for the reliable bottle and 
glasses. "You've been taking turns."

"At what?" Kirk picked up a glass, avoiding McCoy's 
eye.

"Arranging accidents for yourselves, that's what." 
McCoy filled the glass for him. "You've gotten it down 
to a science-- or maybe an art-form: a ritual danger, 
rescue, worry and relief. Formal and stately as a 
pavane. A classic case. Cheers."

Kirk drained half the glass in one gulp, waited until 
he could feel the liquid heat spread evenly through his 
body, then took a deep breath and ventured to the next 
step. "A classic case of what, Bones?"

"Conversion Hysteria." McCoy took a leisurely sip from 
his own glass. "Specifically, a case of Hurt/Comfort 
Syndrome. In layman's terms, that means you both want 
something very badly, but don't dare take it-- or even 
think about it-- directly. Instead, you've invented a 
substitute, an indirect approach, this ritualized 
smokescreen, all to give yourselves a bare  taste of 
what you really want, without letting anyone know you 
want it-- least of all yourselves. It's a dangerous 
game, Jim, and ultimately self-destructive."

"'Conversion"..." --*hysteria.* The implications of the 
word annoyed Kirk enough to make him charge ahead. "All 
right, you say we've got this-- this-- uh, problem. 
You're the doctor, and I'll take your word for it. So 
why are we doing it? Do you have any theories? What is 
it that we're unconsciously, covering up?"

"Love, Jim."

"Huhhh?" Kirk almost dropped his glass. "...Us?"

"Yes, you. You know damn well that Spock's your best 
friend, and you love him dearly. He loves you, just as 
much-- though of course he can't admit it. Neither can 
you. That's the problem."

"Wha-- But of course I can..." Kirk fumbled. "I mean, 
of course I feel... uh, a lot for him, but you can't 
just say-- I mean... Dammit, he's a Vulcan!" *Why the 
hell is my heart pounding like this?*

"Right. He's a Vulcan, and can't admit to feelings. He 
can't even act out what he can't say, except in very 
limited ways-- such as jumping between you and danger." 
McCoy grinned wryly over the edge of his glass. "You, 
on the other hand, are human. A starship captain, with 
tons of responsibility on your shoulders, obliged to 
set an example of calm, cool, clear-headed efficiency-- 
no matter what you're feeling. The result is, you don't 
know how to express love, either."

"Now wait a minute! I've got a girl in every port. I've 
never had any trouble--"

"Seducing women? Of course not." McCoy's smile softened 
a bit. "You've got that down to a science, too. The 
whole courtship procedure: charming smile and charming 
words, candy and flowers, drinks and dinner, 
entertainment and a ride home, in the door and a few 
words more, off with the clothes and on with the 
action. You're very good at it."

"You make it sound awfully cold and mechanical," Kirk 
grumbled, wondering if he were blushing.

"'Ritualized', to be precise. There's nothing wrong 
with that in itself, so long as you keep enough 
flexibility to deal with individual circumstances. 
Trouble is, that's the only procedure you know-- and 
you certainly can't apply it to Spock."

Kirk snapped his head up, blushing furiously. "So just 
what do you want me to do?" he bellowed. "Send flowers 
and valentines?!" *Imagine how Spock would react to 
that!*

"It wouldn't be very effective, but it'd be a damn 
sight safer!" McCoy roared right back at him. "Don't 
you realize how dangerous your current game is? You 
could get killed this way!"

"I-- Game?! Migod, you think we deliberately got caught 
in a landslide? For *love*?"

"Yes!" McCoy slammed his hand down on the desk. "Love 
is the payoff. Can't you see it yet? The only way you 
two know how to express love for each other is to show 
concern when one of you is hurt!"

"What? No! I mean--"

"Come off it, Jim. That's what you were doing in the 
intensive care unit just now: showing love the only way 
you can. I know a love scene when I see one, and that's 
exactly what I saw."

"Damn you," Kirk whispered, gritting his teeth. He 
wrenched his gaze away from McCoy and onto his shot-
glass. Steady ripples were spreading through the gold 
liquid. *Stop that!* he thought, horrified.

"That's why you do it, both of you: setting each other 
up, putting yourselves in danger, letting the other 
come to the rescue and get hurt, waiting in Sickbay 
until the crisis passes-- all for that one little 
moment when the rescuer first wakes up and the rescuee 
gets to comfort him. That's the payoff, Jim! That one 
moment when you can express the love you feel. That's 
why you do it."

Kirk didn't say anything. He stared at the glass, 
watching the ripples, turning hot and cold by turns.

"That's the whole point of the game," McCoy bored on 
relentlessly. "Days-- maybe weeks-- of unconscious 
planning, hours of pain and fearful waiting, all that 
useless risk and injury, just for a few seconds' 
payoff. Dammit, that's too high a price! And too little 
return! Do you realize that Spock broke nearly every 
bone in his body, just for one hug and kiss? Migod, 
what price will he pay for a necking session?!"

"Bones, stop it!" Kirk squeezed his eyes shut. *No, no, 
not tears!*

"Jim, *you* have to stop it. Both of you." McCoy 
gripped Kirk's shoulder and shook him urgently. "The 
game isn't worth it. One of these days you're going to 
smash yourselves worse than I can repair, and that will 
raid the game for good. What will the survivor do 
then?"

"No!" Kirk remembered the shadow that had waited at his 
back all through the long night in Sickbay. *If Spock 
dies... No, no, I can't lose him! Not for some neurotic 
game! I can't let him go on like this, torturing 
himself for me. I can't... it hurts... Oh, Spock... 
no...*

"It has to stop now." McCoy leaned back and finished 
his brandy, giving Kirk time to regain his precious 
self-control. "I can't tell you what to do instead; 
that's up to you. I do know that there are countless 
safe ways of expressing love, and you'll just have to 
experiment until you find one that satisfies both of 
you. All I can do is give you time and an opportunity." 
He reached over to the desk's viewscreen, punched a few 
buttons and studied the readout. "Hmmm. Yes, that'll do 
nicely. Look, the *Enterprise* is heading for Starbase 
Six for an overhaul and a long R&R for the crew. On the 
way there, in four days or so, we'll pass JL471-4-- 
also known as Lilliput: a quiet, safe, comfortable 
planet with no inhabitants but a few scientists 
studying the wildlife. We'll drop you and Spock off 
there and pick you up on the way back. That'll give you 
nearly four weeks to work out some sort of 
arrangement."

"Four weeks! I can't possibly take that much time. 
Besides, Starbase Six has some of the best night spots 
this side of--"

"Medical orders!" McCoy roared at him. "There are lives 
at stake here! I'm sending you off to find a solution 
for a serious personal problem, not to go carousing 
through clip-joints while Spock hides in the computer. 
You two are taking medical leave on Lilliput, starting 
in four days, or I'll exercise medical authority and 
turn you in. I'm not bluffing, Jim."

"All right," Kirk surrendered. He drained the last of 
his drink and stood up. "I'll do it, Bones. I'll find a 
way, somehow, to get through that Vulcan shell." He 
threw McCoy a vague salute and walked out.

*It isn't just Spock!* McCoy wanted to yell after him. 
Instead, he only sighed. *Hell, it was hard enough 
getting him to accept this much. And now I've got to 
convince Spock, too. Oh, headache!*

Part 2

It took McCoy nearly three days to come up with a 
tight, logical, foolproof argument. It took another 
half-day to phrase the argument in stiffly proper 
terminology. Spock woke on the fourth morning with his 
mind clear and sharp as ever, but McCoy was ready for 
him.

"You're progressing well, Spock," he began, glancing 
from his handful of papers to the diagnostic panel. "At 
this rate, you should be able to walk again in another 
two weeks or less."

"I can manage at present with crutches," Spock noted.

"Not for long periods of time. I'm prescribing medical 
leave on Lilliput, which we'll be passing this 
afternoon. The *Enterprise* will pick you up when it 
returns from Starbase Six. Of course, I'll send someone 
along with you." McCoy tried to sound nonchalant while 
waiting for the reaction.

It wasn't long in coming. Spock's eyebrows winged up to 
his bangs. "Lilliput?" he almost gulped. "I was not 
aware that JL471-4 possessed medical facilities 
superior to those of the ship, much less those of the 
Starbase."

"It doesn't," McCoy continued smoothly, "but the 
research team there should be quite capable of 
rendering any assistance necessary." McCoy waited 
again, suppressing a grin.

"Then may I ask why you require me to take medical 
leave on Lilliput?" Spock sounded ever-so-faintly 
exasperated.

"You may ask." McCoy decided not to tease any further. 
He put on his best professional face and recited: 
"There is a serious socio-psychological problem 
requiring your undivided attention, which you could 
best apply far from the distractions of the ship or the 
Starbase, on a quiet world like Lilliput."

"What is the nature of the problem?" Spock actually 
looked intrigued.

*Must be eaten up with curiosity,* McCoy judged. "It 
concerns the unusual and self-destructive behavior of 
two officers on this ship. They have, without spoken 
agreement or even conscious decision, entered into a 
dangerous private ritual as a substitute for emotional 
communication. Of course, we can't allow this to 
continue."

"Indeed," Spock enthused. "I have often noticed that, 
for creatures who place such high value on their 
emotions, humans are often remarkably incapable of 
expressing them efficiently. What is the nature of the 
ritual?"

"Alternately, one or the other will expose himself to 
danger-- just barely within the other's capacity to 
survive-- thus obliging the other to rescue him at the 
expense of personal injury. While the rescuer is 
recuperating, the rescued party waits for him to 
recover, making a special point of being present when 
the other first awakens. That's when the emotional 
exchange takes place. It usually lasts for only a 
minute or two, but for the sake of that brief exchange, 
they're willing to go through all the rest of it. I've 
observed them doing this no less than six times in the 
past year." It wasn't easy to keep his face straight, 
or even his voice, but McCoy managed.

"Fascinating," Spock commented. "I assume that you 
would not require my assistance if you were able to 
persuade them to forego this dangerous ceremony. 
Therefore, the emotional satisfaction involved must be 
extremely important to them."

"It is." *Now we get to it!* "It seems to be the only 
method they know of to express their feelings for each 
other."

"Remarkable. And the emotions involved are too strong 
to be effectively suppressed?"

"Much too strong," McCoy firmly agreed. "In fact, 
previous suppression is one cause of the problem. It's 
like trying to pen up the Colorado River in a dam 
without a floodgate. The water backs up, the pressure 
increases, and sooner or later the river finds a way 
out: over the top, or spilling out at the sides, or 
seeping through the surrounding land, or by breaking 
the dam. In any case, the uncontrolled leaks are 
dangerous. Strengthening possible leakage sites doesn't 
work: there's enough volume and pressure there for the 
water-- in this case, the feelings-- to go through some 
of the damnedest contortions in order to find a way 
out."

"A critical situation, then," Spock concurred, bemused 
by the striking analogy. "It is imperative that a safe 
outlet be found, and quickly. I assume that you cannot 
think of any yourself?"

"True," McCoy admitted. "It's gotten so intense between 
those two, so fiercely personal, that I honestly don't 
know what to suggest to them. Simple generalizations 
won't work. They have to be made aware of the problem 
so they can find a suitable outlet for themselves."

"Safety may present a problem," Spock considered. "I 
assume, from the nature of the bizarre temporary 
solution, that the emotions involved are negative: 
hostility, hatred, jealousy perhaps."

"Oh, no," McCoy corrected. "Quite the contrary. The 
only emotion involved is a very positive one. Love."

"Love?!" For an instant, Spock looked downright pole-
axed. "But... exposing each other to danger, injury..."

"-- has nothing to do with the nature of the emotion 
itself. It's simply the only outlet available. They get 
themselves hurt so they can comfort each other. See?"

"Astonishing." Spock shook his head thoughtfully. 
"Truly astonishing. The illogical convolutions of human 
emotion never cease to amaze me."

McCoy almost exploded at that, but managed to hold his 
reaction down to a choked snicker. It sounded like a 
cough, and Spock took it for a sign of polite 
impatience.

"In that case, since only the safety of the 
participants is involved, they must be removed from all 
exposure to danger. Certainly, they must be sent off 
the ship, as well as made aware of the problem, as 
quickly as possible. Perhaps the best procedure would 
be to place them together in a safe and unstimulating 
environment, under medical orders, to discover a more 
direct and efficient way of expressing their, uhm, 
affection. To facilitate such efforts, they should be 
isolated from other social contacts which might inhibit 
or distract them."

"Agreed." McCoy smiled and dropped the bomb. "Then I'll 
send Jim down to Lilliput with you and 1630 today."

It took Spock a few seconds to put that together. When 
he did, the expression on his face was, in McCoy's 
estimation, sufficient payoff for the last four days' 
work.

 * * *

The isolation McCoy had hoped for didn't happen 
immediately; regulations required medical checkups for 
the planetary research station's personnel, and that 
gave Spock and Kirk legitimate reason to spend the 
first day visiting the scientists.

McCoy glowered at both of them as they met in the 
transporter room. Kirk, carrying a suitcase and 
unobtrusively supporting Spock, sheepishly studied his 
feet. Spock, perched uncomfortably on a pair of 
crutches, looked at the ceiling. McCoy wasn't fooled.

"Open that suitcase, Jim," he snapped. "Show me what 
you're taking."

Kirk started to complain, caught McCoy's look, and 
meekly opened the suitcase. McCoy prodded through it 
meticulously as a customs inspector. "Umm Hmm. Three 
books. No way; one's plenty." Kirk glumly picked out 
two volumes and handed them to Scott. McCoy looked 
further. "Nope, not the portable chess set either. Take 
this back, too, Scotty."

"Aw, come on, Bones," Kirk protested. "We always play 
chess after dinner. It's an old tradition."

"It's a substitute for communication! That's not what 
you're here for. Hmm, the rest looks harmless." He 
closed the case with a snap. "Now let's go."

"Yes, Doctor," Kirk sighed. "Beam us down, Scotty."

Scott grinned and complied.

The little party materialized outside the main dome of 
the research station. The door opened and a dozen 
scientists trotted out, casually dressed, shouting 
assorted welcomes, inviting the visitors inside, 
jostling each other in their eagerness to swap 
introductions and tell the Starfleet officers about 
their research. It was obvious that the medical 
examination wouldn't be conducted right away.

Kirk accepted the hospitality, including cups of local 
herb tea liberally laced with brandy, and settled 
himself unobtrusively in a corner. McCoy was chatting 
happily with the scientists and Spock was bent eagerly 
over a tape reader screen, both looking relaxed and 
quite at home. Spock actually seemed to be enjoying 
himself.

*...Hope so,* Kirk thought. *Always knew there was a 
passionate soul hidden somewhere under that Vulcan 
armor... But I never expected it to surface like-- * He 
glanced at Spock's bandaged legs. *--Like that! No, not 
like that, not again, my friend... * he thought, 
studying the elegant point of an ear, the gleaming 
smoothness of sleek ebony hair. *My best friend, None 
better anywhere. Yes, Bones. Communication. Find a 
way... No matter what embarrassment it costs him, or 
what pain it costs me. I can't lose him. Not for Vulcan 
pride or my reticence or anything else.*

"... priceless opportunity to see civilization just 
beginning," the chief xenoanthropologist was saying. 
"The killer whales were nomadic hunters until just six 
generations ago, when they stumbled on this lagoon. The 
single entrance made it easy for them to trap a large 
school of the neo-carp-- we call them goldfish-- which 
assured a steady food supply."

"Killer whales?" Kirk yawned, intrigued despite 
himself. "They can live on goldfish?"

"Ah, those are our pet-names for them," Doctor Brown 
smiled, happy to elaborate on his specialty. "The fish 
strongly resemble goldfish, despite the size 
difference, and the intelligent sea mammals Earth 
killer whales. Come have a look."

Kirk got up and came over to gaze at the tape viewer 
screen. Spock hitched his chair aside to make room. 
Sure enough, the screen displayed a view of a school of 
glittering golden fish, their tails and fins elongated 
into transparent veils. They were accompanied by sleek 
blue killer whales, no more than twice the size of 
their golden charges, wearing belts of coarse rope. As 
Kirk watched, two killer whales drove a particular 
goldfish out of the school, actually bound it with 
their belts and dragged it away.

"Like shepherds, or cowboys," Kirk commented, "cutting 
a steer out of the herd. Is that one earmarked for the 
day's dinner?"

"Eventually," said the scientist. "They do something 
odd with it first. Also, the killer whales are 
technically farmers more than herders. In that wide 
patch of seaweed behind them, you'll note a group of 
killer whales pulling out certain weeds and planting 
bits of others. They know that the goldfish prefer the 
second sort of weed, and they've learned how to 
encourage its growth."

"This reveals excellent powers of observation," Spock 
noted.

"Oh, true, true. They figured out agriculture in just 
four generations of settled living. Ah, now we come to 
the interesting part. Look at that remarkable mosaic on 
the lagoon floor."

Kirk looked, and saw a pattern drawn in the white sand. 
It was filled with rows of bright pebbles and shells, 
and did look remarkably like a picture of a killer 
whale. Just ahead of the mosaic was a donut-shaped 
stone. A third killer whale, apparently quite old to 
judge from its faded colors, swam up and inspected the 
tied goldfish, then nodded once in what seemed to be 
approval. The other two killer whales dragged the 
goldfish onto the stone and held it still. The third 
killer whale nodded solemnly twice, then set its jaws 
just behind the goldfish's head and bit hard. The 
goldfish jerked once, then lay still.

Spock looked away.

The other two killer whales pulled off the rope-belts 
and began, with surprising neatness, to gut and skin 
the carcass. The old killer whale took the goldfish's 
severed head, laid it carefully on the sand just in 
front of the "face" of the mosaic, bowed three times 
and backed off, out of range of the camera.

"Damned if that doesn't look like a sacrificial 
offering!" said Kirk. "Is that mosaic a-- an idol to 
some sort of killer whale god?"

"Goddess," Doctor Brown corrected. "It has the markings 
of a female. That's the only theory that covers all the 
bases, and if it's correct, that pretty lady is some 
sort of fertility goddess. Here--" He changed the tape, 
showing an overhead view of the killer whales dancing 
in a complex pattern that centered on the mosaic. 
"That's their spring mating festival. Killer whales are 
generally monogamous and they usually dance with their 
mates during the first warm tide of spring; but nowhere 
else do we find a whole community of them dancing 
together in a group pattern. Apparently, they've 
changed their dance to honor the Lady there."

"So she's a love goddess," Kirk laughed. "Ha! 'Foam-
born Aphrodite!"

Spock looked away again, unaccountably embarrassed.

On the screen, all the killer whales leaped into the 
air together, gleaming in the sun, and dived gracefully 
back into the water.

"Beautiful," Kirk murmured.

"Mrrrowr," echoed a voice from the floor.

Kirk looked down to see a small sandy-brown cat twining 
affectionately around his ankles. He bent down to pet 
it. It purred and leaned against his hand. "Pretty 
cat," he commented, picking it up. "Did you bring it 
from Earth with you?"

"No," Doctor Brown laughed, "she's a native. We found 
her as an abandoned cub and raised her ourselves. By 
the time she was big enough to survive out in the 
woods, she'd made up her mind that she wanted to stay 
with us. We just couldn't make her leave."

"Oh, yes, cats are like that," Kirk chuckled, tickling 
the cat's chin. "What do you call her?"

"'Leo giganticus', though it hardly fits this 
particular girl. She may have started out as a lion, 
but she's ended up as a pussycat."

"'Leo... giganticus?'" Kirk stared at the little cat, 
who responded by licking his nose. "The 'Giant Lion'?"

"That's right. Second biggest land-going predator on 
the planet. The Tiny Tyrannosaurus is somewhat taller, 
and the Anchovy Whale out in the big sea is nearly five 
feet long, but this little darling is right up there in 
the heavy-weight class."

"Those killer whales we observed vary in length from 
six to eight inches long," Spock added, noting Kirk's 
dropped jaw. "The goldfish are of approximately Earth-
normal size."

Doctor Brown shrugged at his guest's ignorance. "The 
planet's constant tectonic activity results in shallow 
seas, numerous low mountains, tiny valleys, and 
literally millions of ponds and streams. Except for a 
few trees, all lifeforms are small. There's no 
percentage in being big."

"What's the matter, Jim?" McCoy grinned at Kirk's pole-
axed look. "Didn't you do your homework? This world 
isn't called Lilliput for nothing."

Uh uh..." Kirk replied. *Safe as a playground.* "And we 
have four weeks to play Gulliver, eh?" Kirk hoped his 
expression showed none of the sudden, irrational anger 
he felt. *It's not as if we were suicidal, dammit! ... 
But... what if Spock is? Migod, has it gotten that 
bad?!*

Kirk spent the rest of the evening keeping and eye on 
Spock, no way reassured by seeing nothing out of the 
ordinary in the Vulcan's behavior. Long after they'd 
retired for the night, Kirk lay awake in his sleeping 
bag, anxiously watching Spock's ribs rise and fall in 
the slow rhythms of sleep. It seemed to him that he'd 
never before seen his friend look so fragile, so 
vulnerable, or so dear. When sleep finally came, it was 
laced with disturbing dreams of falling rocks and 
threatening monsters, the only path to safety being a 
tangled trail where kitten-sized lions and tiny 
dinosaurs led the way.

Part 3

Early in the morning, they transported to the 
surveyor's cabin, two thousand miles north of the main 
station. Kirk took a deep breath of the resin-scented 
air and looked about him, approving of what he saw. The 
small field-stone cabin nestled among low conifers that 
resembled white pines, a small garden of mixed flowers 
and vegetables half-circling its long side, a mossy 
path leading from its front door to a large-pond/small-
lake some fifty yards away. Warm yellow sunlight lay 
like spilled honey over the scene and gleamed like fire 
from the huge solar window on the south side of the 
cabin's roof. The light wind carried countless soft 
sounds of wildlife from the surrounding forest.

"Lovely place," Kirk decreed. "I can't think of  a 
better shore leave spot. Let's go in and set up 
housekeeping." He headed up the path discreetly slow, 
letting Spock keep pace without too much effort.

Spock said nothing, his mind busy with managing the 
awkward crutches, observing details of the local 
ecosystem, and covertly watching Kirk. The captain 
appeared relaxed and comfortable in these surroundings, 
revealing no symptoms of his unhealthy desire for 
physical danger, though Spock knew this could be 
misleading. Even the safest of environments could 
contain hazards, if one labored diligently enough at 
finding them.

*...Which he will doubtless do,* Spock considered 
gloomily. *I must endeavor to stay near him at all 
times, recognize potential dangers before he can, and 
inconspicuously, steer him away from them. 
Difficult...* Spock studied the cheerful expression on 
Kirk's face, the exuberant vitality displayed in the 
smooth motions, the easy strength and deep sensuality 
evident in the otherwise-well-cared-for body, and he 
cringed to think of all that health and beauty poisoned 
by a single psychological error. *It must be corrected! 
I must deter him from indulging in this destructive 
ritual. Unforgivable that I have ignorantly assisted 
him for so long! ...My responsibility, then. I must 
diligently encourage him toward safer expressions of 
his ... affection ... for myself. My own 
proprieties/preferences are irrelevant. I will do 
whatever is necessary ... to save him...*

The cabin was unlocked. They stepped inside, canvassing 
the interior easily in the light from the great solar 
window. The main room was furnished with a wide bed, 
several bookshelves and sample cases along the walls, a 
broad table and chair with a small self-powered study 
lamp, a clothes rack and chest of drawers in the 
corner, and a huge stone fireplace with a shaggy 
fireproof hearth-rug. To either side of the fireplace 
stood a door. The first lead to the bathroom which 
boasted a well-stocked medicine cabinet, a small basin 
with no water source except a presently-empty bucket, 
and earth-toilet, a plain ceramic bathtub with a pump 
connected to the solar-window/water-collector, and 
nothing else. The kitchen possessed another basin and 
bucket, another wooden table, a small cabinet full of 
pots, pans, dishes and utensils, a few food storage 
cabinets, and no modern conveniences except an overhead 
light and a cold-box. Kirk conducted the inspection 
tour, commenting happily about how primitive and 
unspoiled everything was, while Spock hitched his way 
over to the bed and sat down on it. He stood the 
crutches against the footboard and glowered at them 
while he rubbed his sore armpits. The crutches  were at 
least half an inch too long, and using them for any 
length of time was annoyingly painful. He wondered how 
McCoy could have made such an error; for all his human 
failings, the doctor was normally quite meticulous 
about his work.

"The larder isn't very well stocked," Kirk reported, 
coming back from the kitchen with a small box of herb 
tea and a jar of pickled sardine-like fish. "But 
there's  a guide book to the local foods. Let's go out 
and -- Uhm, no, you stay here. I'll go out to the 
garden and pick breakfast."

Spock nodded agreement, silently biting back the words 
'be careful.' He didn't think Kirk could get into too 
much trouble in the vegetable garden, at least not this 
soon. Nonetheless, he monitored Kirk's progress by 
following the captain's off-key whistling of "Red River 
Valley" as he picked his way through the plants. 
Nothing untoward happened, and Spock felt both relieved 
and a bit sheepish when Kirk came back in with an 
armload of salad greens and mushrooms.

Kirk dropped his garden-plunder on the table, looked 
around for a moment, then slapped his head in 
exasperation. "Damn! I forgot -- no running water. I 
guess we're supposed to fetch it in from the pond, or 
maybe the stream."  He went back to the kitchen and 
came out with the bucket. "I'll only be gone a few 
minutes. Be careful while I'm gone."

*Me be careful?* Spock thought that over while Kirk 
trotted out the door, leaving it open behind him as if 
to keep a clear view of the interior. *Just what does 
he think I would do? One might think that _I_ were the 
one displaying self-destructive tendencies! I must 
consider the significance of this symptom ...* He 
stretched out on the bed, relaxed, and settled into 
light meditation.

There was a soft scratching sound at the door. Spock 
snapped his eyes open and turned to look. Peering 
around the door-jamb was an animal the size of a small 
squirrel, shaped and colored like a fangless Vulcan 
sehlat or a fat Earth brown bear. Spock watched, 
bemused, as the little beast sniffed and looked and 
listened. Eventually, it toddled across the threshold, 
followed by another tiny bear, then a third, then half 
a dozen more. Spock pondered the possibility that they 
were social animals. pack hunters, while the little 
scouting party reconnoitered the front part of the 
room, noses atwitch, converging on the table. It wasn't 
until they began shinnying efficiently up the table 
legs that Spock realized they were after the food.

"Be gone!" he commanded, sitting up. "Shoo!" The little 
bears paused, watching him, but didn't retreat. "Go 
away!" He waved his arms at them.

The bears, guessing that Spock wasn't mobile, kept a 
cautious eye on him as they resumed their assault on 
breakfast. Spock paused in his ignored exhortations to 
consider that the bears were familiar with people, and 
with the cabin. They could even recognize food inside a 
glass container. Then the bears rolled the jar off the 
table. It smashed on the floor with an enormous noise 
and mess. The little beasts on the floor converged on 
the ruins, dug out the fish, and gobbled them up with 
notable speed. The bears on the table turned their 
attention to the vegetables.

Part 4

*Sterner measures required.* Spock lifted one foot -- 
an uncomfortable maneuver in his condition -- pulled 
off one boot and threw it. It whizzed a scant inch over 
the heads of the fuzzy freeloaders. They only crouched 
lower and ate faster.

*Shameless little thieves!* Spock realized he would 
have to intervene personally, and soon. He made a grab 
for the crutches and missed. The perverse prosthetics 
fell over, bounced once, and slithered out of reach. He 
pawed uselessly after them, hearing the bears chomp 
their way through the mushrooms. When he looked up, 
half the vegetables were gone. Even if he rolled off 
the bed and crawled, he'd never reach the food in time 
to save it. Exasperated beyond endurance, Spock 
employed the only tactic available. He leaned back and 
yelled for help.

"Jim! Come quickly!"

Down by the brook, Kirk sat bolt upright, dropping the 
nearly-filled bucket.

"Jim! *Help!* BEARS!!!"

Old habits snapped into place. Kirk forgot everything 
he'd been told about the planet's harmlessness and the 
size of the wildlife. He jumped to his feet, whipped 
out his hand phaser and went thundering back up the 
slope to the cabin.

Spock was on the point of swearing in ancient lowland 
Vulcanian when Kirk burst through the door, phaser 
first, ready to do battle with something at least twice 
the size of a grizzly. What struck Spock most was 
Kirk's expression. He could describe it only as 
'ecstatic martyrdom.' All he could think was that this 
proved everything McCoy had told him. He was perfectly 
horrified.

Kirk skidded to a halt, saw Spock unharmed but upset, 
noted no sign of any large dangerous animals, and 
wondered if the bears were in the kitchen or on the 
roof. "Where are they?" he panted.

Spock pointed.

Kirk looked. He did a classic double-take. His phaser 
hand dropped and so did his jaw. "...Bears?" he 
repeated, staring.

The fuzzy burglars looked up, squeaked in alarm, and 
fled the table as fast as they could waddle.

"They have," Spock pointed out, "completely devoured 
our breakfast."

Kirk burst out laughing. He stuffed the phaser back on 
his belt, ducked into the kitchen, returned with a 
broom and gently swatted the last of the miniature 
bandits out the door. He was still chuckling when he 
turned to survey the mess the little beasts had left.

"I fail to see anything amusing in the theft of our 
food," Spock grumbled. "We shall have to start over, 
from the beginning."

"Yes, but ... Heh! Bears!" Kirk laughed as he swept up 
the broken jar and the remaining scraps of greens. 
"When I heard you call, I thought ... Oh, hell, I 
imagined a pack of grizzlies trying to have *you* for 
breakfast."

Spock recalled that, among humans, the emotion of love 
often manifested itself as protectiveness. *Of course, 
that is part of the problem.* ... "I was in no danger, 
I assure you. I was merely... exasperated at my 
inability to deal with the animals."

Kirk glanced at him, noting the fallen crutches and 
missing boot. *Actually confessing to 'exasperation?' 
Must have been furious... and helpless...* "Well, I 
must've looked pretty silly myself, running in here 
ready for... Ha! Loaded for bear!" He brought the other 
boot and helped Spock into it. "Come on, let's go hunt 
up some more food."

Spock winced at the thought of using those miserable 
crutches again. "I... may be unable to assist you. I 
find these particular pair of prosthetics most ill-
suited to my size."

"Odd. McCoy's usually more careful than that." 
*Complaints? Must really hurt.* "No problem: you can 
lean on me." Kirk pulled Spock's arm across his 
shoulders and hauled him upright. Unfortunately, Spock, 
being the taller by several inches, his feet still 
dragged on the ground. "Hmmm, looks like I'll have to 
carry you..." *Did McCoy set this up deliberately?!* 
Kirk slid his arms under Spock's shoulders and knees, 
and managed to pick him up without too much effort. 
Spock made no comment, kept perfectly still, and Kirk 
carried him out into the garden.

They spent the rest of the morning picking vegetables 
in companionable silence. Kirk retrieved the bucket, 
noted a number of the small sardine-like fish swimming 
in it, and found he could make a good-sized catch in a 
few minutes by using a large handkerchief for a 
fishnet. With the aid of the guidebook, Spick managed 
to collect a good assortment of wild nuts, fruit and 
edible fungi that Kirk had overlooked earlier. Kirk 
brought the food in first, then carried Spock back into 
the cabin and set him to building the cook-fire while 
he set the table. Lunch consisted of a large mixed 
salad, fresh mushrooms, fried fish and herb tea, with 
plenty left over for dinner. They ate ravenously and 
enjoyed it hugely.

Part 5

"Damn, that was good," said Kirk, leaning back and 
surveying his emptied plate. "Can't remember when I've 
had a better meal."

"'Hunger is the best sauce,'" Spock quoted.

"True..." Kirk couldn't think of anything else to say. 
In fact, for the first time in ages, he couldn't think 
what to do next. The silence stretched. Strangely 
anxious, he looked around for ideas. All that met his 
eyes were the dirty dishes. He took them into the 
kitchen and used the last of the water to wash them. 
That led to re-filling the buckets. After that, there 
was firewood to find and bring in. Kirk managed to keep 
busy for three more hours before he ran out of chores.

Spock, meanwhile, busied himself with tending the fire 
and reading the kitchen guidebook, which contained 
instructions for finding, gathering-or-catching, 
cleaning, and cooking every edible life-form in the 
area. He skipped the section on animals and read the 
section on plant life. When he finished it, he went 
back to the beginning and read it over. He was going 
through it for the third time when Kirk came over to 
the fire and sat down beside him on the hearthrug, 
giving a curiously resigned sigh.

Spock pretended to continue reading. Kirk looked at the 
fire, looked at the windowed ceiling, looked at his 
hands, fidgeted, and finally turned to look at Spock.

"Hmm, you know, Spock..." he began, "we're here for... 
more than just a few weeks' rest."

"I know." Spock closed the book.

"It's because we have a... sort of a... communications 
problem."

"Indeed."

Spock glanced up at him. Their eyes met for a moment, 
then darted away. Kirk chewed his lip, studied the 
fire, and tried again.

"Look, did McCoy talk to you about... uhm..."

"Yes." Spock squirmed slightly, tossed another twig 
into the fire, and picked at imaginary lint on his 
sleeve.

"Well, there's a... barrier, and it's causing trouble. 
Serious trouble." Kirk laced and unlaced his fingers. 
"We have to -- to *talk* to each other, get through 
that barrier somehow, really... communicate."

"True."

"It won't be easy. I really don't know where to start, 
or how, or... anything."

"Likewise."

"Well..." *This is like feeling around for hairline 
cracks in a solid steel bulkhead* "Damn."

Kirk grabbed a local-version pinecone and hurled it 
into the fire, scattering sparks. Spock flinched, 
startled and disturbed. He had read that frustrated 
communication among humans often manifested itself in 
violent action, but he had never personally seen such a 
graphic example before. *Indeed, McCoy was right. The 
problem is serious!"

Kirk took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into 
cold water. "Look, Spock, we're just going to have to 
talk to each other -- about anything, everything, 
thoughts and ... feelings, no matter how difficult it 
is -- for either of us."

"Agreed."

"All right." Kirk sighed again and lay back on the 
hearthrug, wishing to high heaven that McCoy had let 
him bring the chess set. It was hard to talk directly 
to Spock without that little screen of game-figures 
between them. *Maybe Bones was right. It is a barrier, 
a prop... But, dammit, I need a prop! Crutches...* 
"Say, do your arms still hurt from those things?"

Spock blinked, bewildered by the sudden change of 
subject. "No, I am quite recovered. I only regret that 
my mobility is severely curtailed without them."

"I don't mind carrying you. Or does that hurt, too?"

"Oh, no, not at all."

"Fine. How are your legs doing?"

"Recovering rapidly. The unavoidable swelling curtails 
movement, but the tissues are effectively regenerated."

Kirk smiled. *Same old Spock. Ask 'how are you?' and 
get a medical treatise* "I mean, is there much pain?"

"There is some slight discomfort," Spock admitted.

"In other words, it hurts." Kirk sat up. "It so happens 
that I can do something about that. McCoy gave me 
instructions: rub the stiffness out, twice a day. I 
should have done it this morning, in fact. Get out of 
those clothes."

"I -- I find the atmosphere somewhat chill..." Spock 
demurred, unaccountably embarrassed.

"Just a minute." Kirk got up, put another log on the 
fire and closed all the windows. Then he went into the 
bathroom and opened the bathtub spigot. The water 
poured into the tub, draining the solar collector; 
unchecked sunlight streamed in through the overhead 
window, and the cabin began to warm up rapidly. 
"There," Kirk said, coming back to the fire. "Now 
there's a hot bath waiting."

"You may indulge, if you wish," Spock replied, 
resignedly slipping off his boots, socks, uniform 
trousers and shirt. "I have never been attracted to the 
idea of submerging myself in water."

*Then why did you go swimming on Kynygai?! Oh, it's 
bad!* "I suppose I can always pump the water back up." 
Kirk sighed, thinking of the effort it would take to 
fill the collector again. *Life in the raw, all right! 
... Don't complain. It's necessary.* "Lie down on your 
stomach."

Spock stretched out on the hearthrug, glumly observing 
the fire. As far as he could tell, they had managed a 
personal communications exchange of only sixteen 
sentences: ten from Kirk, six from him. His 
contributions had consisted, almost entirely, of one 
word apiece. *Shamefully insufficient,* he judged. *I 
am dealing incompetently with the problem! No Vulcan 
should perform so poorly! (Shame!) Jim is attempting to 
deal with the situation, and I have been considerably 
less than helpful. (And I must help him!) ... But what 
could I say? What should I do? I am most 
(deliberately?) inexperienced in this area...*

Kirk sat down behind Spock, paused for a moment to 
remember how he was supposed to do this, then took one 
narrow foot in his lap and began kneading it gently. 
Spock noted the light pressure, felt the small pains in 
his foot beginning to dissipate, concluded that Kirk 
was proficient at this task, and turned his attention 
back to the primary problem.

Part 4

*Crisis situation,* he considered. *I must learn to 
handle it, and quickly. Emotional communication... (A 
Vulcan would sooner learn techniques of assassination.) 
Wait! Anomaly: Vulcans do learn techniques of... (Tal 
Shaya. The lirpa. The ahn-woon. Others...) Logical 
inconsistency! We suppress emotion because it clouds 
logic and leads to violence, which ends in destruction. 
Destruction is always undesirable. 'Reverence for 
life.' Surak's primary construct. Yet... we learn 
techniques of destruction. Why? Analyze!*

Kirk set down the relaxed foot and took up the other 
one. They were, he considered, very interesting feet: 
sharp-tendoned, long-toed, high-arched. The outer edge 
of the foot barely touched the ground; most of the 
calluses were on the heel and the roots of the toes. He 
wondered if the soles were ticklish, but decided not to 
experiment just now. It wouldn't help unkink those 
cramped muscles.

*What was I taught?* Spock pondered. *'There are rare 
circumstances under which logic dictates no other 
course.' So: violence motivated by logic is acceptable, 
but violence motivated by emotions is not. That appears 
consistent (Appears? Be sure.) ... Wait. If the effect 
is the same, why should the motivation make any 
difference? ...But certainly, it makes a difference! 
Emotional violence is uncontrolled, blind, irrational, 
while logically-motivated violence is... logical... No, 
one can't do that. Circular reasoning: illegitimate. 
Try again.*

The heat in the cabin was uncomfortably high for a 
human. Kirk paused to strip down to his briefs, then 
resumed work on Spock's legs. The calves and shins now, 
one at a time: even relaxed, the muscles felt as hard 
as pine wood.

*One simply cannot say,* Spock gnawed over the knotted 
problem, *that logic is right and emotion wrong. 
(Though I was taught that as a child. The reasons --
rationalizations? -- came later...) One must show why. 
(Show cause! So much misery and effort -- there had to 
be a reason for it!) Logic is... orderly and 
predictable. Emotion is not. (Is it? Does not anger 
reliably make one wish to do harm, while love makes one 
wish to protect, to be kind, to make one's beloved 
happy?) If that were always true, we would not be 
here! (No, the problem here is love denied its direct 
expression.) Indeed! Protection -- and relief at my 
eventual safety -- those are the only he knows. (What 
of the others?) I... do not allow others. How can he 
show kindness to me when I do not acknowledge kindness? 
How can he attempt to make me happy when I refuse to 
feel happiness? (Own fault, then.) Yes...*

Spock laced his fingers together and pressed the 
knuckles against his mouth. Kirk's hands, climbing his 
left thigh, had reached the site of some serious 
cramps. The pressure was not noticeably painful, but 
the relief afterward more than made up for the pain

*I do not even know how to feel happiness!* Spock 
berated himself. *Only not-sad, not-in-pain, not-
frustrated... (All negative states.) True, nothing 
positive. Thus I allow Jim no positive expression of 
his feeling -- only these costly rescues from pain... 
(Is this where logic has brought us?) Surely, it was 
meant to do better than this!*

Kirk's hands shifted to the other thigh, and promptly 
struck a knot of swollen muscle. The sudden, 
distracting pain made Spock grunt with surprise. Kirk 
snatched his hands away as if burned.

"Am I hurting you?"

"Yes, but it is necessary." Spock was too preoccupied 
to phrase his words carefully. "Please continue."

"Okay, but... that doesn't seem right." Kirk resumed 
the pressure, very cautiously, very gently. It took a 
long time to make the cramp yield.

*Examine premises,* Spock deliberated. *One's logic is 
no better than its basic premises. Vulcan adopted the 
philosophy of logic and emotional suppression in order 
to survive. Survival is the only purpose our logic 
serves. So there. (And what is survival?) Non-
extinction. (No more?) Surely more! A stone is not 
dead; neither is it alive. Life is... an organic 
process. There. (Nothing more? Plants live, and 
animals; do we only imitate them?) Certainly not! We... 
think. Yes, and strive to think well. Intelligence, 
then. (But computers think, and are not alive.) Of 
course, if one could develop an organic computer... (Is 
that what we are supposed to be?) This is a horrible 
idea!

Spock snapped his head up, his back taut, fingers 
digging into the hearthrug. All those old human jokes, 
half-serious accusations, distant insults, had finally 
struck home.

Kirk pulled his hands away, certain that this reaction 
was his doing. "What happened, Spock? Did I hit a raw 
nerve?"

Spock didn't answer. He stared into the fire, jaw 
muscles working.

"Spock?" Seriously worried, Kirk edged away from him. 
"What did I do? What's wrong?"    

Spock blinked, remembering his presence, and turned to
look at him. His expression was unreadable, but it 
certainly wasn't his usual impassivity. "I," he 
enunciated carefully, "am not an organic computer."

"I -- I never thought you were."

"No..." Spock relaxed slowly. "Not you. Vulcan. But... 
surely there is more..." He looked down at his hands. 
"I do not think we were meant to stop there. I do not 
think even my father would have been satisfied with an 
organic computer. I think I... have made a basic 
error."

Part 7

"What error?" Kirk edged closer. "Can I help?"

Spock looked at him. *For his sake, I must not 
refuse...* "Perhaps you can. Certainly, I have no idea 
where to begin. I must..." He looked away, self-
conscious again. "After all these years of pursuing too 
narrow an ideal, I must find what there is to life -- 
my own, specifically -- beyond mere existence and 
logical function." *McCoy would be outrageously pleased 
to hear that... How fortunate that we are alone!*

Kirk dutifully applied himself to the problem. The only 
answer he could think of was a ridiculously simple one. 
"Would you believe me if I said: 'feelings?'"

"I think that is too general a term." Spock gave him a 
faint, sardonic smile. "Need I remind you that some 
'feelings' are hazardous to one's health?"

"Uhm, no..." *That means he understands his danger!* 
Kirk thought. *Maybe this -- this 'philosophical' 
approach is the only way he can deal with it. Help 
him!* He looked about for some answer, and noticed the 
color of the light streaming through the windows. "How 
about, uhm, 'aesthetic appreciation?'"

"Indeed." *I had forgotten that. Vulcans are allowed to 
appreciate beauty in art... perhaps also in Nature. 
This area looks promising.* "What would you suggest 
that I appreciate?"

Kirk grinned and tossed Spock's clothes at him. "Get 
into these, and then let's go out and watch the 
sunset."

Spock complied without comment. Kirk pulled his 
trousers on, picked Spock up, carried him out of the 
cabin and down to the lake shore. They sat on the grass 
and watched the sun setting over the edge of the hills, 
the changing light turning the water to multi-colored 
fire.

Just as the last of the solar disk disappeared, there 
came a faint rustling among the low bushes and a troop 
of little horse-shaped animals emerged. The two held 
perfectly still, and after a moment the shy creatures 
ventured down to the water's edge to drink.

"Look," Kirk whispered. "They're unicorns."

Spock shook his head slightly. The tiny equines 
actually possessed two horns, though they were very 
closely set and tightly spiraled together. Nor were the 
beasts the snowy color of legend; their coats were a 
remarkable dark green, spotted with pale blue. 
*Camouflage,* Spock guessed. *They could hide readily 
under those blue-flowered bushes...*

At that moment, one of the neo-unicorns turned to look 
at them, ears pricked forward, nostrils flared. Kirk 
did his best to imitate a tree stump. Cautiously, the 
little creature stepped forward to investigate them. 
*Doubtless our scent is different from that of local 
predators,* Spock thought. *Still, its fearlessness is 
surprising.*

The unicorn came closer, sniffed Spock's knee, poked 
him experimentally with its horn, decided he was 
harmless, and amiably rested its chin on his thigh. 
Intrigued, Spock stretched out a slow and careful hand. 
The unicorn sniffed his fingers and flicked wary ears, 
but didn't withdraw. Very gently, Spock reached down 
and stroked the silky coat. His hand covered the little 
unicorn's back. The tiny creature leaned against the 
stroking hand clearly enjoying itself.

"I don't believe it," Kirk whispered, not meaning to be 
overheard.

Spock did hear that. He looked up in surprise. The 
unicorn snorted softly, pulled away, and trotted back 
to its herd. "Believe what, Jim?"

"Ah, I was just thinking out loud, that's all," Kirk 
evaded, furiously embarrassed and hoping it didn't 
show. "Nothing important, really."

*Encourage communication!* "We did agree to share 
our... thoughts," Spock reminded, "no matter how 
unimportant."

"Well, this is, ah, embarrassing," Kirk squirmed. 
"Something I really have no right to ask about..."

"We agreed not to allow embarrassment to inhibit 
communication."

"Uh, true..." Kirk gnawed his lip. "I was just thinking 
of the, er, legend of the unicorn. It's an obscure bit 
of Earth mythology."

"Indeed. I have not heard of it. What is this legend?"

"Oh, just that..." Kirk realized he was blushing. 
"Well, the unicorn is supposed to be a symbol of 
purity, and very shy of people. The only kind of person 
a unicorn will come to, voluntarily, is a  -- a virgin. 
Of course, that doesn't apply to real unicorns. It's 
just a legend."

Spock blinked, tightly controlling his physiological  
reactions. *I did insist. He did warn me. We did 
agree... Communicate.* "Yes," he said stiffly, looking 
away. "The legend is correct in that particular."

"What?!" Kirk gaped at him. "You mean you -- Not ever? 
Not once? Not even with -- Uh, I'm sorry. I have no 
right to ask. Please forget I said anything."

*Communicate! Regardless of personal... sensibilities.* 
"You may ask, Jim." Spock's voice was a marvel of 
serenity. "The answer to your question is no."

'But..." Kirk stared at him, face printed with lines of 
concern, sympathy and bewilderment. "Leila. You said 
she made you happy."

Spock blinked at that. He had never really understood 
the emotional effects of human sexuality. To link 
completed mating with the relief of tension he could 
comprehend, but to equate it with the positive quality 
of 'happiness' was beyond him. Perhaps the progression 
was automatic for humans. *Or for Vulcans? How should I 
know? I have never completed...* "We did not advance 
beyond the ... courtship behavior. For their own 
preservation, the spores discouraged violent emotions. 
You recall the extreme efforts you were obliged to make 
in order to, as you put it, 'get under that thick 
Vulcan hide' of mine."

"Yes. I'm still sorry about that, Spock. You know I 
didn't mean any of those things."

"I know. Only the spores made it necessary. They also 
prevented us from attaining an effective level of... 
excitement." He paused, trying to think of an exact 
description. "It was very strange, very pleasant, 
vague... but incomplete. I suspect that most of my 
enjoyment was due to the spores. They kept me in a 
constant euphoric haze." The bitterness in his own 
voice surprised him.

"But you were happy." Kirk sighed. "And I took that 
away from you."

"I do not wish to purchase happiness at such a price."

"I understand." Kirk looked away.

*I should not have said that.* Spock kicked himself 
mentally. *He might easily assume that a better price 
would be his life!* "I mean... I do not wish to give up 
my mind..." *Badly phrased!*

"Of course not." Kirk pulled up a few blades of grass 
and rolled then in his fingers. "You mean you've never 
been happy when you weren't somehow... mentally 
incapacitated?"

Spock thought a long time over that. "I don't know," he 
finally admitted. 'Ignoring my emotions has been second 
nature to me for so long... I may have been happy 
without knowing it.."

"It's possible, then."

"It is not impossible."

"That's a beginning." *-- and I'm a damned fool! Kirk 
thought. *He doesn't know how to be happy, and all I do 
is ask if he's ever gotten laid! Some help you are, 
James T.!* "Ah well, the last light's gone. Let's go to 
dinner."

He stood, stretched, carefully lifted Spock carried him 
back to the cabin.

Part 8

The lunch leftovers were sufficient for dinner. The two 
spoke little over the food, and afterwards, Kirk left 
Spock to build up the fire for the night while he went 
to see if the bath-water was still warm. It wasn't, but 
he used it anyway. When he came out, wrapped in a towel 
and shivering a little, Spock had a respectable blaze 
going in the fireplace. Kirk watched a moment, yawned 
enormously, and remembered the time.

"Decision, Spock. Do you want the bed or the sleeping 
bag near the fire?"

"I prefer the temperature here, if that would not be an 
inconvenience to you."

"Fine with me." Kirk dug out a sleeping bag and spread 
it on the hearthrug.

"It might also be wise to refill the solar collector."

"Right." Kirk went back to the bathroom and worked the 
pump until the indicator registered full. It was slow 
and tiresome work, and when he'd finished, he was more 
than ready for bed. He came back to the main room to 
find Spock wrapped in the sleeping bag with only his 
face showing.

"Sure you'll be comfortable there?"

"Quite sure. I wish you a satisfying rest period."

"Sweet dreams to you, too." Kirk felt his way back to 
the shadowed bed, shed his towel and slid under the 
blankets. He glanced at Spock again, reassuringly 
visible in the firelight, and breathed a silent prayer 
for understanding. *Please be happy,* he thought. *Find 
a way...*

Spock lay awake behind closed eyes, listening to Kirk's 
breathing amid the small sounds of the house, and 
reviewing the day's events. *We have," he concluded, 
*not begun badly. Communication established, though as 
yet only on irrelevant (not to mention indelicate) 
topics... No matter. If it facilitates his recovery, I 
will discuss anything from techniques of cannibalism to 
the history of the Vulcan toilet design... (Or my own 
philosophical problem.) Yes, I might benefit there from 
his assistance. (Need assistance! How can I help him 
until I solve that problem?) Besides, he desires to 
help. (And isn't that the secondary cause of _his_ 
problem? By all means, channel it into something 
harmless, even beneficial.) Yes, mutual benefit in 
pursuing this line of study. We should make more 
progress tomorrow.*

That decided, he rolled on his back and blanked his 
mind and dutifully went to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Kirk awoke to the soft sunlight in his face, feeling 
more relaxed than he'd been in ages. There was no need 
to get up right away; no duties, no pressing business, 
no reason not to lie in bed awhile and enjoy the warmth 
and quiet. He snuggled deeper into the pillow. Then his 
stomach growled. *Well, that's one good reason...* He 
sighed, stretched and got out of bed.

Spock was apparently still asleep, bundled up in the 
sleeping bag like a caterpillar in its cocoon. Perhaps 
he was cold; the fire was out, baked down to a pile of 
ashes and few miniscule coals. Kirk sidled carefully 
around the sleeping Vulcan, positioned some more wood 
in the fireplace and blew on the coals until a steady 
flame appeared. Satisfied that the fire would last, he 
padded off to the kitchen. There was almost no food 
left -- only some tea and a few handfuls of nuts and 
mushrooms -- enough for a light breakfast, but no more. 
*That decides the next order of business,* he thought, 
pouring the food into two bowls.

When he came back to the main room, he saw that Spock 
was awake -- or at least lying on his back with his 
eyes open. Belatedly remembering his own nudity, Kirk 
set down the bowls, put the kettle on the fire and went 
to fetch his clothes. He dressed slowly, but Spock 
still hadn't gotten up by the time he was done. Kirk 
shrugged, set the bowls near the fireplace and threw in 
some more wood. When the teakettle whistled noisily and 
Spock still hadn't moved, Kirk began to worry.

"Breakfast's ready," he offered, pulling the kettle 
aside and throwing in the tea-ball. "Aren't you getting 
up today?"

Spock stirred a little in the sleeping bag, then 
stopped. "I... appear to have miscalculated," he 
admitted. "Despite my proximity to the fire, I find 
myself... immobilized by cramps."

"So much for sleeping on the floor!" Kirk opened the 
sleeping bag and rolled Spock onto his stomach. 
"Tonight you get the bed." He sat down at Spock's feet 
and began massaging him briskly.

The Vulcan shivered in the chill air, flinched a few 
times as Kirk's diligent hands found sore spots, and 
patiently resigned himself to the necessary discomfort. 
After a few moments though, as the sunlight made 
progress through the solar collector and the fire got 
to the larger logs, the temperature ceased to bother 
him. The sore muscles took longer, but in time that 
discomfort faded, too. In fact, the relief was 
noticeably enjoyable. *Danger here,* Spock considered, 
idly rubbing his cheek against the satiny lining of the 
sleeping bag. *To enjoy relief from pain, one must 
first be in pain, (perhaps even seek it for that 
reason)... Yes, dangerously easy to fall into that 
pattern. (Beware the delights of subtle masochism.) It 
might almost deceive (seduce) me, too. Take care. I am 
here to lead him out of this error, not fall into it 
myself.*

Kirk eventually worked his way up to the shoulders, 
gave Spock's hair a playful riffling, then sat back and 
shook out his arms. "Is that better?"

"Quite sufficient." Spock reached for his clothes. He 
managed the shirts well enough, the trousers with some 
difficulty, and had serious trouble with his socks. 
Kirk came over and helped him into them, and both 
boots. Spock remembered to thank him.

"Least I could do." Kirk smiled, got up and fetched the 
bowls and cups.

They ate the meager breakfast in companionable silence. 
Afterwards, Kirk did the dishes while Spock hunted up a 
large food basket and the guidebook. Kirk came back 
from the kitchen to see Spock tottering across the room 
on the crutches, attempting to carry both book and 
basket, and shook his head. "No way you can manage like 
that," he decreed, firmly taking the crutches away and 
lifting the bemused Vulcan in his arms. "Oof. Besides, 
I need the exercise." To prove it, he lumbered out the 
door and off the path, up into the thick woods until 
the labored sound of his breathing grew alarmingly 
loud.

"Jim, please stop," Spock finally insisted. "There is 
no need to over-exert yourself in this manner."

Kirk stopped, letting Spock's feet slide to the ground, 
privately grateful Spock had called for a halt. For all 
his leanness, the Vulcan was heavy. "Thought you 
wanted... to see the wildlife," he panted, grinning.

"Not at the expense of your health." Spock delicately 
tested the amount of weight he could rest on his 
untrustworthy legs. "I assure you, there is abundant 
opportunity for observation, as well as food gathering, 
without prolonged-- oof!"

"Easy!" Kirk caught him under the arm and gently 
lowered him to the ground. "You're right. This is far 
enough."

He sat down and opened the guidebook on both their 
laps. They leaned over it, shoulders rubbing, studying 
the illustrations on the pages and looking around the 
glade for examples. Kirk identified some available 
mushrooms, berries, and a few fruit trees. Spock noted 
some edible leaves, roots and mosses. Kirk got up to do 
the gathering, framing a playful comment about rabbit 
food, then stopped in mid-motion.

A small troop of elephantoids entered the glade, saw 
the two intruders, and stopped short in a flurry of 
waving trunks and flapping ears. They were shaped 
exactly like terrestrial Indian elephants, save for 
their disproportionately large, artfully-curved tusks 
and their long, woolly, orange-brown hair. The largest 
of them stood no more than fourteen inches high.

"Mammoths!" Kirk whispered, entranced. "They're little 
woolly mammoths!"

"The term 'mammoth' does not seem to apply," Spock 
noted.

"'Minimoths', then. Aren't they cute?"

"I have observed that humans apply that term to 
creatures whose behavior would be undeniably dangerous 
if the subject were a hundred times larger."

The minimoths shuffled backward, looking for a path 
around the dangerously occupied glade. One young bull, 
unwilling to retreat without a show of strength, ran a 
few paces forward and trumpeted shrilly. An older cow 
came after him, took his tail firmly in her trunk, and 
imperiously pulled. The young bull retreated, 
grumbling.

Kirk burst out laughing. Startled, Spock looked up at 
him. Such joy seemed so easy, so natural, for humans, 
so harmless, even... almost logical.

Against the background of a white flowering tree, Kirk 
seemed to be made all of red, gold and dark bronze. 
Spock felt an odd pang of indefinable emotion. 
*Beautiful,* he thought. *You are beautiful in this 
moment... a phenomenon so fleeting, so ephemeral... yet 
I wish to keep it... (Illogical.) Beautiful.* He 
watched, silent and intent, as Kirk took the basket and 
strolled around the little clearing, picking various 
plants, moving in and out of the mote-filled bars of 
honey-colored sunlight. *Aesthetic appreciation is 
allowed,* he remembered. *I cannot recall ever seeing 
anything more beautiful... Oh, to think of that 
destroyed, ruined, damaged, only because of-- It must 
not be!*

Right then, as if his thoughts had summoned it, he saw 
this Eden's serpent. A lizard, actually: thick-tailed, 
dull black-scaled, balancing on its muscular hind legs, 
its disproportionately-huge head eighty percent massive 
jaws stuffed with bristling, sharp teeth. It stood no 
higher than Kirk's knee -- which it studied from its 
leafy ambush, less than a yard away -- with stupid, 
ill-tempered, tiny red eyes.

*'Tiny Tyrannosaurus.' Not cute. Not safe!* "Jim! Look 
to your right!" Spock lunged forward, sprawling full-
length on the thick moss. The impact jarred loose a 
thread of logic that whispered cold facts: the distance 
was too far, his pace too slow, and he would never 
cross the clearing in time. He ignored it and crawled 
forward.

Kirk turned and looked. It took him only a few seconds 
to spot the ugly upright lizard in the underbrush. He 
didn't draw his phaser, despite Spock's fervent hopes; 
he only stood still and looked. The tyrannosaurus 
looked back, red eyes briefly darkening in a slow 
blink. Kirk gave a dry laugh, reached down and picked 
up a handful of pebbles. The lizard arched its neck and 
dropped its lower jaw, plainly meaning to attack.

"Jim!" Spock pleaded, clawing his way through the grass 
clumps.

Kirk threw one of the pebbles. It his the tyrannosaurus 
neatly on the tip of its leathery nose. The lizard 
squawked like a rusty gate hinge, and bent to rub the 
sore spot with its tiny front paws. The next pebble 
smacked into the top of its bent head. The 
tyrannosaurus snapped its head up, too far back, and 
wobbled dizzily. The third pebble whapped into its 
exposed belly and knocked it over backward.

Spock stopped where he was, sagging with relief.

The lizard was extraordinarily helpless on its back; it 
squawked and rolled and paddled the air with its paws, 
either too stupid or too ill-coordinated to get easily 
back to its feet. Kirk studied it, laughed again, and 
turned away from it with no further thought.

"You could have used the phaser..." Spock whispered, 
staring at his hands until they stopped clutching the 
grass. "Unnecessary risk!"

"Spock, are you all right?" Kirk came over to him, 
trailing the loaded basket. "Did you crawl this far? 
Here, let me pick you up."

"Stop that!" Spock rolled over and fiercely clutched 
Kirk's arm. "You should have used your phaser the 
moment you saw it!"

Part 9

"Uha-- For a little lizard like that? Why, a kick 
would've killed it. Why waste a stun charge when a 
handful of pebbles--"

"It could be dangerous! It might have poisonous fangs!"  
*--untrue.* "The risk was completely unnecessary, and 
you must stop that: Stop exposing yourself to danger 
for-- " *What am I saying?!* "--for such illogical... 
unnecessary..." *What is my face revealing?* Spock 
closed his mouth and looked away.

*...For only a lizard...* Kirk thought, staring at him. 
*So much... Don't lose it. Seize the time.* He sat down 
beside Spock and gently rubbed the Vulcan's stiff 
knees.

"Spock, it's all right. I..." *Why is it so hard to say 
those words?* "I love you, too."

Spock blinked, astonished. *Success!* one part of his 
mind cheered. The rest reverberated strangely. He could 
not stop to think of that now. *Communication-- at 
depth, at the heart of the problem. Do not lose the 
opportunity, or he may never again... (But what to 
say?)* "Jim, I..." *How can I say 'love' when I'm not 
sure what it means?*

"Is it so hard to say the words?"

"Yes. I am... so unsure..."

"I understand. You don't have to say it."

*But I must! For your sake! "I do... care... that you 
should not suffer..." *And more... (What more?)... I 
don't know. I have never fully examined my own... 
(Failings? Lapses? Indiscretions?) Only repressed. "I 
cannot explain further."

"Can you tell me..." Kirk didn't look at him. "What 
would make you happy? In your right mind, I mean-- 
not clouded with joy-flowers or time-changes or... 
anything, but... just as you are, right now."

*Good question,* Spock considered, looking up at the 
sky. *Concept never analyzed (or even fully defined). 
...Satisfaction of desire? Perhaps. (But desire for 
what? What do I desire from life?) Life itself, of 
course. Survival ... (But not just existence.) 
Intelligence also, and not to be in pain... nor to see 
him suffer. (Negatives! Negative values again.) This 
problem again... (What solutions did Jim offer?) 
'Aesthetic appreciation'... (of which Vulcan approves) 
and that shadowy (dangerous) realm of 'feelings' (of 
which Vulcan does not approve)...* He gave a very 
humanlike sigh. "I do not know, Jim. I honestly do not 
know."

"How can I help, then?" Kirk sounded defeated.

"Perhaps..." *That's it: I want to know--* He whipped 
his face around to look at Kirk. "I want to find the 
answer to my philosophical problem. I do not know if 
the solution would make me... happy, but there would be 
satisfaction, at least." *That, too, is part of the 
problem. 'Satisfaction' is merely the ending of a 
negative state; 'happiness' as humans define it, is 
something more... distinctly positive. I do not know if 
such positive states are even possible for a Vulcan.*

"Spock, I'm no philosopher."

"That is not what I need." *Indeed, Vulcan is full of 
philosophers, and I have never heard that any of them 
conclusively dealt with this problem...* He sighed 
again. *'When in doubt, observe'* "I need facts, data, 
observation. You have always been most efficient at 
providing opportunities for that."

"I have?" Kirk scratched his head, completely at sea. 
*'Observation?' What the hell is there to observe 
around here, except me and a lot of little animals...?* 
"Well, in that case... uhm... Come on, let's go look at 
some wildlife." He retrieved the guidebook and loaded 
basket, helped Spock to his feet, and half-carried him 
back down toward the lake.

They moved slowly, stopping often, and the unstartled 
wildlife showed itself in abundance. There was a little 
red predatory bird, halfway between an elf-owl and a 
sparrow-hawk, that Kirk nicknamed a Red Eagle. It sat 
on the highest point of a rose-like hedge, studying 
them with burnished golden eyes, and Kirk smiled at it 
with a child's delight. Spock feared that Kirk would 
reach out and try to pet it, or offer it a finger to 
perch on, and get nastily pecked for his trouble; but 
the bird sidled cautiously away and finally took to the 
air with three hard strokes of its superbly designed 
wings. Kirk's expression, watching it go, was every bit 
as arresting as the sight of the bird itself.

*He sees something that I do not,* Spock noted, 
suppressing a twinge of envy. *Some power of 
appreciation.. some ability that makes human art and 
music so highly prized, as even my father admits...*

And then there were the bee-snakes: yard-long vipers 
with temperature-regulating sailfins on their back, a 
mated pair that had set up housekeeping in a hollow 
tree not far from the lake. The male secreted wax from 
gill-like slits behind the jaws, and the female -- 
according to the guidebook -- secreted an excellent 
grade of honey. Kirk examined the tree, neatly avoiding 
the noisily threatening snakes, and estimated that the 
tree must be packed full of honeycombs.

"Far more than they need," he added, a hungry glint in 
his eye. "We could come back with a bucket, set the 
phaser on minimum stun, and get ourselves some 
dessert."

It took ten minutes of Spock's best arguing to make 
Kirk even postpone the raid. *What is so appealing 
about wild honey,* Spock wondered as Kirk carried him 
on down the trail, *that it could inspire him so? Such 
a wasteful expenditure of time and energy, not to 
mention unnecessary disturbance of the animals -- only 
for a 'dessert'... Is this simple territorial greed, 
claiming the land and everything on it as his property? 
Or is there some hidden meaning, personal or cultural, 
which adds importance to the goal?*

"My dad once took me and Sam with him to raid a honey 
tree," Kirk answered the unspoken question as if he'd 
heard it. "One of my happiest memories of him. He was 
so seldom home... Anyway, this tree was full of wild 
bees -- not just two snakes -- and we had to stun them 
with smoke, so dad built a fire..."

Spock listened, entranced, through the whole recital. 
He hadn't realized that humans made such a point of not 
killing the honey-producing animals. Smoke-stunning was 
a logical and humane method -- and also a risky one. 
Kirk was an excellent story-teller, and Spock could 
easily imagine the scene.

"... and we ate that honey for the next year," Kirk 
finished. "We put it on bread and muffins, and mom 
baked it in cakes and cookies, and preserved fruit in 
it: pears, apricots, cherries... I remember dad put 
some of the honeyed fruit in a jar with some really 
good bourbon, and we let it sit until the next time he 
came home. It made a drink you wouldn't believe! It was 
especially good over ice cream. We had that for dessert 
on his last night home..." Kirk frowned abstractly. 
"That was the last we ever saw of him. He never came 
home again."

"I grieve with thee," Spock said, startling himself.

"It's all right now. That was nearly thirty years ago."

*But the mark remains,* Spock marveled. *All those  
associations, and doubtless more, revolving about a 
tree of wild honey! Amazing... Is this the secret 
ability of humans? This breadth of association... a 
talent for holistic thinking. They can think sideways 
('sideways?') as well as directly ahead, from point to 
point... Of course, this can lead readily to prejudice, 
superstition, clouded logic, if the associations are 
inaccurate. Human history is full of such examples. 
(And yet... they are among the most vigorous, 
progressive and explorative species in the Federation.) 
...Unlike Vulcans.*

That thought jarred him. He scarcely noticed as Kirk 
set him down on a patch of long grass beside the lake 
and went off to inspect the miniature brontosauri 
feeding in the adjacent marsh. Spock lay back on the 
grass, stretched a protective arm over the food basket, 
and continued with his analytical meditation.

*Vulcan: declining population, culturally 
introspective, unmistakable signs of stagnation before 
Federation membership... (and after?)* He paused to 
consider how strange it was that he had never thought 
precisely of this before, though he had grown up with 
the facts in plain view all around him. The truth had 
always been visible, accepted as the weather, never 
really examined, not with this intensity. *'Can't see 
the woods for the trees.' ... 'None so blind as those 
who will not see.' (Human proverbs!) ... True, though. 
Perhaps living among humans gave me enough distance for 
perspective.*

He raised his head to look for Kirk, and saw him 
crouching precariously on a log in the marsh with one 
arm stretched out. A careful look revealed that he was 
holding out a handful of succulent weed, trying to 
entice the little brontos to come and eat it. The 
brontos, like most other animals on this planet, showed 
remarkably little fear of people. They were also 
excellent mimics; they copied Kirk's crooning tone 
almost perfectly.

A faint smile twitching the corners of his mouth, Spock 
ascertained that Kirk's only possible danger might be 
falling off the log into less than two feet water and 
mud; annoying, but not hazardous. He lay back on the 
grass, oddly touched by the little scene. *Humans,* he 
thought fondly, *attempting to 'make friends' wherever 
they go. Illog-- No, not illogical. Not at all. A 
'friend' is a person with whom one shares... affection. 
Affection precludes violence, harm or even discomfort, 
if possible... ("I'm still sorry about that, Spock... 
You know I didn't mean any of those things..." Yes, 
Jim. I understand.) One cannot do harm to a friend 
without hurting oneself worse. (I know.) That is an 
automatic reaction, reliable as instinct, in its own 
way as effective as logic... ...Perhaps even better.*

Spock sat up quickly, gasping at the sheer effrontery 
of that thought, but unable to deny it. He stared 
blankly at Kirk feeding the tiny dinosaurs, while the 
elegant heresy unfolded in his mind.

*What if... emotions are not irrational and chaotic, 
but have a hidden logic of their own? What if... one 
could purposefully use one's emotions, harness them, 
instead of just repressing them? What if... this is the 
secret of human vitality, a secret Vulcans lost long 
ago -- or perhaps never possessed? (What if... this were 
the reasons my father took a human wife?!) Is that why 
father so badly wanted me to go to the Vulcan Science 
Academy? Did he hope that I might inherit all those 
ill-understood human abilities, use them to rescue 
Vulcan from its dangerous stagnation, give our culture 
something better than negative goals? But I  didn't. I 
took my valuable genes (and brain) and ran off to 
space. Lost his hope for saving Vulcan-- No wonder he 
was so displeased! (Upset? Enraged?) Logical. (My 
father, a cultural radical!) It would explain 
everything...*

The idea galloped around and around in his memories, 
touching solid bases everywhere. He sat still and let 
it run, observing, matching up thousands of bits of 
relevant data, wishing to all the ancient gods of 
Vulcan that he had access to the Enterprise's Library 
computer at this moment. Data-matching in his own 
memory was so slow, he might take days, even weeks, 
sorting and testing...

"Spock, are you all right?" Kirk crouched beside the 
motionless Vulcan and waved one hand in front of his 
unseeing eyes. "Spock?"

Spock blinked, snapped back to awareness of his 
surroundings, and noted that Kirk was holding a 
dripping wet handkerchief that bulged with unknown 
cargo.

"I am quite well. What do you have there?"

"A hanky full of lake fish." Kirk opened the 
handkerchief, revealing his glittering prize. "Enough 
for two meals. The lake's full of them."

"Indeed?" *Test. Ask him-- * "Why did you bother to 
catch them, when you could easily have taken one of 
those miniature brontosauri?"

Kirk flinched back, eyes astonished and disbelieving. 
"Wha-- Take -- Kill one of the brontos? After I went to 
such trouble to make friends with them? Hell, no! I 
couldn't."

Spock nodded to himself, noting that test results 
confirmed a portion of his theory. "Then you are 
generally incapable of killing personal acquaintances, 
whether intelligent beings or not?"

"I... guess so." Kirk looked down at his double-handful 
of fish. He remembered last night's promise. "They have 
to be strangers, or..." He frowned, thinking. When he 
spoke again, his voice was much quieter. "There've been 
one or two people I knew -- knew fairly well -- that I 
really hated -- really wanted to kill. They'd earned it, 
believe me."

"Kodos?" Spock suggested.

"Yes." Kirk studied the kerchief-full of black and 
silver fish, noting that there were enough of them for 
two good meals. That much food would have been worth a 
human life, once. "Lord, how I hated that man! Yes, I 
wanted him dead -- wanted to do it myself, if I could. 
But when I finally caught up to him..." He shivered 
silently. "There was nothing there. Just a tired old 
man with a crazy daughter, nothing so big and dangerous 
as to be worth all that... that hating... At the end, I 
pitied him." Kirk shook himself, wrapped up the fish, 
and put the little bundle into the food basket.

"Remarkable." *Predictable: increased acquaintance 
increases probability of affection, thereby precluding 
violence, save for considerable cause. 
(Irreversibility?) ... Test.*

"Have there been any persons for whom you felt actual 
affection whom you later came to hate?"

"Yes." Kirk jabbed the collected food deeper into the 
basket. "Janice Lester." *I don't want to talk about 
her, about that... But we must... I promised... "I 
really did love her once. It didn't work out. We 
didn't... didn't fit each other. We parted with a lot 
of bad feeling, and I thought that was the last of it. 
It wasn't. After... what she did to me..." He sat back 
on his heels and clutched his arms, hard. "Yes, I 
wanted to kill her! I wanted to wring her vicious neck, 
smash her face in, break every bone in her... Damn!" He 
shuddered, appalled at how much hate he still felt.

Spock eyed him keenly. "Yet, when you had the 
opportunity, you did nothing of the sort."

"No..." Kirk looked down at his hands and carefully 
opened them. "When the... exchange snapped, when she 
howled that she'd lost, and then collapsed so 
completely... That was enough. The hatred changed, 
diffused, turned into a kind of... pity." He blinked, 
surprised. "Like with Kodos."

"Fascinating," murmured Spock. *It _is_ a logical 
pattern! Automatic checks on aggression: spectrum of 
acquaintance to affection, overcome with great 
difficulty and only for extreme cause, and even then 
the resultant hatred diffused by clear proof that one's 
'target' is reduced to complete helplessness. Quite 
logical. (Wisdom of Nature.) Instincts too are selected 
for survival value...*

"I don't quite understand it myself." Kirk put the 
basket aside and lay down on the grass by Spock. "I 
guess I wasn't cut out to be a philosopher... Sorry, 
Spock. I just don't know how to help you with that kind 
of problem."

"On the contrary, Jim; you have helped me much."

"Huh? How?"

"By feeding brontosauri -- and feeding upon fish."

"Huhh?"

"I believe it is time for lunch."

"Oh. Right." Kirk got up, helped Spock to his feet, 
handed him the basket, and half-carried him back to the 
cabin.


They were less than five meters from the door when they 
saw the new intruder perched on the doorstep. It was 
small, somewhat round, and completely covered with 
shaggy golden fur. For one horrible moment, Spock 
thought it was a tribble.

"What the hell?" said Kirk, stopping.

The noise drew the little beast's attention. It turned 
around, showing two beady eyes in a tangle of hair, 
squeaked with alarm, then went into what looked like a 
dancing fit. It stamped, bounced, whirled and cavorted, 
keeping up a constant cry of "Eek-eek-eek-eek!" The 
display was clearly meant to impress and frighten. All 
it did to Kirk was make him laugh.

"Hee--hee--'yuk'. I've heard of 'having a snit,' but I've 
never seen one before! Haw!"

"I believe that is a small rodent, similar to an Earth 
chipmunk," Spock elucidated, "but possessing unusually 
long fur. The scientific name is--"

"It's a Snit, that's what," Kirk chuckled, pulling 
Spock to one side off the trail. "Here, let's give it 
room to escape."

Seeing a chance, the Snit took it. With surprising 
speed, the small golden blur shot off the doorstep, 
down the path, and into a safe hidey-hole somewhere in 
the bushes. Kirk laughed again, watching it go.

"Moves like a chipmunk, anyway. Hmm... I recall that 
squirrel family makes good eating. Do you think that 
critter has any larger cousins around?"

"There is a related species, comparatively larger, but 
much slower and less intelligent. Why do you ask?" *... 
as if I couldn't guess.*

"It might make good eating, too." Kirk helped Spock to 
the table, and took the basket. "These fish are fine, 
but I imagine I'd get sick of them in short order if I 
didn't try something else now and again."

Spock shuddered delicately, but didn't comment. He 
could guess also that Kirk had no intention of hunting 
the Snit that had appeared on the doorstep. By making 
him laugh, the little creature had gained his 
acquaintance -- also a degree of affection -- and was 
therefore safe from him. *Is this a constant of human 
behavior?* Spock steepled his fingers and went back to 
correlating observed examples. Meanwhile, Kirk set 
about making lunch.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

After lunch, they went out to hunt unicorns. They 
didn't find any; only more birds, a few of the tiny 
bears, and a meadow full of wild flowers that Kirk 
insisted on rolling in. After that, he stretched out 
for a brief nap while Spock sat beside him and 
meditated.

The shadows lengthened. Spock sighed, shook a cramp out 
of his left arm, and leaned back on his elbows. He had 
run out of observed data in only a few hours, and the 
working hypothesis still worked. *Item,* he reviewed, 
*life involves more than just negative values (example: 
Vulcan, with its declining birth rate and cultural 
stagnation). Item: Humans appear to possess 
(unconsciously?) knowledge of positive values which 
Vulcans lack, and sorely need (which is quite possibly 
why I was born.) Item: Said knowledge includes the 
deliberate harnessing, manipulation and use (rather 
than repression) of emotions (observed example: 
affection). Addenda: Emotions not used properly in this 
fashion tend to turn on the possessor and cause 
destructive/self-destructive behavior (example: Jim).*

He turned to look at Kirk, noting the faint smile on 
the relaxed and sleeping face, the strong jaw and 
sensitive mouth, the amazingly long eyelashes, the 
thick bronze hair with a random wildflower tangled in 
it. *-- So beautiful! So infinitely valuable...* He 
carefully reached over and pulled a few strands of 
loose hair away from Kirk's forehead. Again, that pang 
of nameless feeling shot through him. He yearned to do 
something, but didn't know what it was. *Show me... I 
must learn something from you... these alien skills 
(Vulcan lacks) for the positive dimension. Aesthetic 
appreciation I know (you are beautiful). Perhaps I 
could learn human techniques of emotion management also 
(Shocking!) -- purely for scientific purposes, of 
course! (And for Jim...) ... But how? The only example 
I have seen is the use of affection ... (Jim's 
affection.) Perhaps... just as well. Since I must aid 
him in finding safe outlets for that emotion, I can 
also observe, learn, practice ... Indeed, the solution 
to both our problems. Parallel...*

A gold and black imitation butterfly perched on Kirk's 
nose. He sneezed it away, opened his eyes and rolled 
over. He saw Spock watching him as though he were the 
most fascinating sight in the galaxy.

"Are you okay?" he couldn't help asking.

"Certainly. Did you sleep well?"

"Umm hmm. Sweet dreams..." *Go on. Don't hold back 
anything.* "I dreamed about Earth -- lazy summers in 
Iowa, berry picking when I was little, a fishing trip 
with dad... Pity you don't fish. It's so relaxing... 
Hmm, and then I was back on the Enterprise, up on the 
bridge, watching you take sensor readings. Then I was 
here, with you, and it seemed like... a mixture of both 
worlds." Kirk smiled, almost shyly. "Then I woke up -- 
and it was true."

"Fascinating." *...That is insufficient response. Say 
more.* "You are pleased to be here, with only myself 
for company?"

"Oh yes, Spock." Kirk reached out a shy hand, squeezed 
the Vulcan's shoulder, shook it gently.

"I am ... most gratified."

"Well, I'm a bit hungry. Let's head back and get 
ourselves a good seat for watching the sunset, and then 
we'll have dinner." Kirk stood up and stretched. As he 
turned to reach for Spock, the slanting sunlight caught 
his hair and transformed it into a glowing halo.

"Freeze," said Spock, enchanted with the image. "Hold 
that pose."

"Huh?" *Has he gone bananas?* "Er, like this?" Kirk 
held perfectly still.

"Yes, excellent." *How beautiful... 'Infinite Diversity 
in Infinite Combination creates forms of beauty... and 
meaning.' But what meaning?* He sat contemplating the 
image for several moments.

"Ah, Spock, my nose itches." *Are you sure you're all 
right?*

Spock remembered the other problem and snapped back to 
present time. "I regret having caused you discomfort. 
Let us go."

He held out his arms and Kirk gently pulled him to his 
feet. They walked back to the lake in silence.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

The little brontos recognized Kirk as he approached, 
and paddled near the shore whistling for his attention. 
"They learn fast," Kirk chuckled, setting Spock down on 
the short grass. "I wonder if they like berries?"

He hunted a berry bush, picked a handful of the fruit 
and strolled down to the marshy side of the lake. The 
brontos, seeing him come near, gave eager little cries 
that sounded remarkably like the Terran 'wolfwhistle'. 
Laughing, Kirk climbed out on the half-submerged log 
and fed the miniature dinosaurs one at a time, until 
all the berries were gone. Apparently satisfied, the 
brontos burped, chirped and went back to soaking 
themselves in the mud. Kirk hitched himself off the log 
and strode back to where Spock sat waiting. As he sat 
down, a flock of birds launched from a nearby tree and 
flew out over the lake, giving long melodious cries. 
The brontos raised their placid heads and whistled, 
imitating the birdcalls almost exactly.

"They are remarkable mimics," Spock pointed out.

"True, and they learn very fast -- at least, to 
recognize a good source of handouts. They loved the 
berries. I wonder why they don't come up on land and 
get their own."

"They are probably wary of the land predators." Spock 
sharply remembered the ugly tyrannosaurus. "I note that 
the appearance of the solar disk is changing."

"Sunset's beginning."

For the next forty minutes, the sun dropped through 
ribbons of high clouds, reddening as it fell, altering 
the colors of earth and cloud and sky. Dusk sounds 
accompanied the display; soft whinnies of the little 
unicorns, bird calls and bronto imitations, the yip and 
howl of something that sounded like a fox, and from 
somewhere in the wood the distant trumpeting of a 
minimoth.

*'Wild concert,'* Spock defined it, applying himself to 
Appreciation. *Beautiful. An aesthetic feast for the 
eyes and ears... (Strange. Why is the word 'beautiful' 
applied only to the use of those two senses?) Indeed, 
why not the other senses? Test. Touch, taste, smell...* 
Intrigued, he looked about for some proper test 
subject. *Flowers?* There were none handy. There was 
Kirk, however. To a predator-keen Vulcan nose, he 
presented a subtle concert of scents. Spock hitched 
closer, long nostrils flaring curiously.

At the first touch, Kirk almost jumped out of his skin. 
"What the hell? Spock?!"

"Please remain still. I am endeavoring to test... 
Hmmm..." Spock rested both hands firmly on Kirk's 
shoulders and nuzzled along his neck. Kirk sat 
obediently still, aside from his dropping jaw and 
rising goosebumps. "Yes," Spock murmured in his ear, 
"subtle but distinct differences." *...probably from 
varying occurrence of aprocrine glands. Hair differs 
from neck: cut-grass/fur versus musk/smoke/leather... 
Intriguing. Aesthetic evaluation: quite high.* "Yes," 
he concluded, pulling away. "The term does apply."

"...'Term'?" Kirk asked, carefully turning around to 
stare at his bland-faced friend. *He's out of his 
gourd! Snapped his sombrero!* "Ah, what term?"

"'Beauty'," Spock dutifully explained, "can indeed be 
applied to scents as well as sights and sounds."

"Oh." It took Kirk a few seconds to realize that that 
was a roundabout -- and unorthodox -- compliment. He 
blushed. "Uhm... Thanks. You smell nice, too."

"Do I?" Spock raised an elegant eyebrow. "I was not 
aware that humans possessed a notable sense of smell."

"Not notable, just sufficient." Kirk noticed the 
darkening sky and his quietly complaining stomach. 
"Come on, let's go eat." That was a good enough cause 
to postpone this meandering, weird and worrisome 
conversation. "Let's see if the 'term' applies to 
taste, too."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

The meal was excellent, also uneventful, though Spock 
did add taste to his list. Afterwards, there were 
dishes to wash, firewood to arrange, and an amiable 
argument over who should use the solar collector's 
supply of hot water.

"I assure you," Spock insisted, "that I do not share 
the human proclivity for paddling about in fluid."

"And I assure you," Kirk rejoined, "that there are no 
sonic showers available, and after a few days without 
baths, you will certainly stop smelling like a nice, 
sweet house cat and start smelling like a not-so-sweet 
polecat. Now I got it last night, and besides, I can 
always go swim in the lake, so tonight's your turn."

"Very well," Spock conceded stiffly.

"Besides, it'll be good for your legs."

Spock rolled his eyes mournfully as Kirk picked him up 
and carried him into the bathroom. He allowed Kirk to 
help him undress and settle in the tub, then open the 
tap from the solar collector. The water was pleasantly 
hot -- in fact, Kirk needed reassurances that it wasn't 
_too_ hot -- and Spock grudgingly admitted that it did 
indeed relax his legs and back. Kirk pulled off his 
shirt, leaned over the tub, and helpfully applied the 
soap and scrub brush. Spock let himself enjoy the 
sensations, almost to the point of purring shamelessly.

"You like that?" Kirk enthused. "Thought so. I know I 
have an itchy spot right between my shoulderblades 
where I can't scratch, just there." He circled the 
brush on Spock's back.

"If you will bend closer, I shall attempt to aid you," 
Spock offered.

"Huh? ... Uhm, okay." Kirk leaned forward. Spock 
reached up and scratched in an efficient circular 
pattern, noting in passing that the skin was quite 
smooth and the interplay of muscles was most 
intriguing. "Oh, yes," Kirk agreed, "right there. 
Mmmmmmm..."

"Fascinating," Spock marveled at Kirk's enjoyment. 
*Very little of this action is required to relieve 
irritation; I have continued beyond that point. 
Remarkable how relief (negative value) proceeds 
directly into pleasure (positive value) without 
noticeable interstice... For humans that is.. 
(Different for Vulcans?) Of course. ...I think...*

"Ah, that's enough, thanks." Kirk pulled away. "I'd 
better do something about these clothes."

*Also,* Spock considered, *there is the limiting factor 
of enervation: repeated stimuli causing exhaustion of 
involved nerves. One would have to vary the 
stimulation, or else apply it to other zones, to allow 
the nerve-cells time to recover...*

"Damn, what are we going to do about laundry? Hand-
wash, I suppose. Lots of work..." Kirk frowned, 
thinking that over. "You know, if the weather stays 
warm, it'd be easier just to go bare. For me anyway. 
You'd probably freeze your Vulcan b-- Er, well, I'll 
think of something."

Spock glanced at him, wondering -- for the thousandth 
time -- about the oddities of human tastes. *Still, if 
he has some psychological need for temporary nudity (in 
this chill climate?), I shall certainly not inhibit him 
by remaining clothed (brrr). "If the ambient 
temperature continues to rise at the perceived rate of 
the last fifty six hours," he offered, "I shall be 
quite comfortable without clothing in another two 
days." *--though I would prefer three...*

"Two days?" Kirk gulped, imagining Spock strolling 
though the meadows clad in nothing but his dignity. 
*But I brought it up... Or is this another symptom? 
...Then again, I don't know if Vulcans have any nudity 
taboos... Don't discourage him from anything harmless!* 
"All right, I guess I can wash clothes for two days. 
Let me go get the bed ready." Kirk picked up the 
clothes, and the remnants of his composure, and fled.

Spock didn't watch him leave; he was busy with the 
discovery that his knees could bend several degrees 
more than they did yesterday. There were, he conceded, 
some benefits to immersing oneself in hot water.

*...Wish the Enterprise were still in communicator 
range,* Kirk thought, spreading the sleeping bag on the 
hearthrug. *Ought to talk to McCoy. He'll never 
believe... 'Bones, Spock just suggested nudism, nuzzled 
my neck, and told me I'd helped with a philosophical 
problem by not eating a dinosaur. I think he's coming 
apart at the seams.' What answer? ... Probably, 'Keep 
him talking.' Right. Communicate. Express feelings. He 
doesn't know how to show love... for me...*

Kirk paused in mid-motion while pulling open the bed. 
*Omigod, is that what all this craziness means? Trying 
to find ways to say... trying things at random... and 
he has no idea how, or what the effect is...* He 
distinctly remembered that surprising action down by 
the lake, and felt the goosebumps return. *I ought to 
tell him,* he thought, scratching the back of his neck. 
*That gesture wasn't entirely harmless. It was... 
was... What?*

The thought slid out of reach, leaving him puzzled and 
faintly ashamed of himself. *No,* he decided, *it was 
harmless. Here, alone, just the two of us; no Vulcan, 
no Starfleet, no Earth (Iowa) to approve/disapprove of 
anything... anything that doesn't hurt him, risk him, 
make him risk himself. Yes, let him explore. We can fit 
the results to propriety later...* Kirk settled another 
log on the fire, stuffed the clothes into a duffel-bag, 
and went back to the bathroom.

Spock was nearly asleep in the water. He did no more 
than rise an eyebrow in welcome as Kirk leaned over the 
tub to drain out the water. He let Kirk help him out, 
dry him off, carry him out to the main room and settle 
him on the sleeping bag before the fire. He stretched 
comfortably while Kirk kneaded his legs, drowsing in 
the warmth and gentle fatigue as his mind toyed 
sleepily with Aesthetic Appreciation of the pattern of 
the fire. "It is possible..." he murmured.

"What is?" Kirk asked, carefully rubbing the muscles 
about Spock's left knee.

"It is possible to visualize recognizable shapes in the 
flames and glowing coals."

"Always knew it."

"Mmmm..." Spock let his eyes drift closed, sleepily 
considering the transition from relief to enjoyment 
might not be sharply defined for Vulcans, either. He 
had long since ceased to feel pain or even discomfort 
in his legs and back; in their place he felt a deep, 
vague, dreamy sense of well being, poised on the edge 
of sleep. An unnoticed purr rippled in his throat.

*Cat!* Kirk marveled, not interrupting the motion of 
his hands. *He's a cat! 'Felinoid descent'. Purring... 
Maybe I should scratch his ears.* He stretched out one 
hand and gently rubbed the soft skin behind those 
lovely Vulcan points. The purr deepened. *He likes it!* 
Kirk exulted. *Like any cat. Pet... Yes, yes, I've 
found something that makes him happy. As simple as 
that... and as harmless. Good, good. Keep him from 
risking, hurting himself, and worse... That means I'll 
have to keep on doing this, every night, from now on... 
And is that so difficult? So much of a burden? No. 
Cheap at the price. ...Besides, I... sort of... like it, 
myself...*

The soft purr died away into the slow breathing of 
sleep. Spock lay limp and immobile on the sleeping bag, 
the image of peace and innocence. *Pity to risk waking 
him,* Kirk thought, letting his hands drop, *but if he 
stays here he'll have cramps in the morning.* He sat 
down beside the sleeping Vulcan, idly running his 
fingers through the smooth, dark hair. *...Like 
silk...*

Right then, totally unexpected, came a vast wave of 
overwhelming tenderness, threatening to sweep Kirk away 
from his moorings to all common sense. He wanted to 
wrap Spock up in his arms, protect him from the whole 
fierce universe, beg him never to be hurt again... *My 
Lord, that's love! That's what Bones was trying to tell 
me! I don't know how to express love either! --At 
least, not to him... not in ways he can understand or 
accept... But I have to find them. For his sake... and 
maybe... even for mine.*

He shivered. *Cold in here,* he thought. *He'll feel 
it. Blankets. More firewood...* Very gently, he rolled 
Spock on his back, lifted him at the shoulders and 
knees, and carried him to the open bed. Spock stirred 
slightly, opening his eyes as his head settled on the 
pillow. "...Jim?"

"Yes," Kirk whispered, pulling up the blankets. "Go to  
sleep."

Spock blinked once and pronounced, softly but quite 
clearly, "The term does seem to apply to the sense of 
touch, too." His eyes closed.

"What?" *Did I really hear that?*

But Spock was asleep again.

Next day it rained. Kirk awoke to the unmistakable 
sound, swore quietly for a few moments, then got up and 
reached for his clothes. He noticed that the solar 
collector was overloaded and spilling. *Pity to waste 
all that rainwater...* He gathered up the laundry and 
went to the big tub in the bathroom.

Spock awoke to see Kirk, damp-haired and dressed in 
bluejeans, stringing a rope across the living room and 
hanging wet laundry on it. He thought he should offer 
to help, but the room temperature was painfully cold. 
He huddled deeper into the warm blankets, weighing the 
merits of risking cramps by huddling in the cold air 
while trying to build up the fire.

Kirk settled the question for him by building up the 
fire himself. Resinous brushwood flared up quickly, 
igniting the larger logs. The air soon warmed enough 
for Spock to poke his nose out. Kirk strode over, 
laughing, whipped of the covers, picked up the amused 
Vulcan and carried him to the hearthrug. Spock 
obligingly stretched out on his stomach and let Kirk 
knead his legs.

"We can't go out in this rain," Kirk reflected, working 
over a slightly stiff ankle. "We have enough food for 
the day, and the washing's done. Damned if I know how 
we'll keep from being bored silly."

"Let us consider it after breakfast."

"Agreed."

They lingered over the meal, took time over the 
subsequent washing, spent extra time adding more logs 
to the fire, and eventually wound up back on the 
hearthrug, wondering what to do next.

"I've got an idea," said Kirk, getting up. He rummaged 
briefly in his gear, and came back with the one book 
McCoy had let him bring: "The Ancient Future," a 
collection of classic 20th Century 'science fiction' 
stories. "This is something Sam and I used to do on 
rainy days," he said, stretching out beside Spock. 
"Let's choose a story and read it to each other. I'll 
read the first two pages, you read the next two, and so 
on. No fair turning the pages to peek ahead. Okay?"

[book titles are supposed to bo underlined. but it wasn't in the priginal text.]

"How intriguing," Spock concurred. *Not as efficient as 
each of us reading the entire piece silently... 
(Efficient for what?) Is this some obscure game, art-
form, means of communication? If so, encourage.*

"Fine." Kirk picked a story at random, coughed briefly, 
and read off the title and author: "'The Star', by 
Arthur C. Clarke."

Spock listened attentively, noting that Kirk had an 
excellent reading voice. The story was, as expected of 
human literature, too emotional in tone for Spock's 
tastes. However, it was quite smoothly and tightly 
written, and Spock could readily understand the central 
character's difficulty in dealing with a serious 
philosophical problem. The plot concerned an explorer-
ship's investigation of the last planet surviving a 
nova, seen from the point of view of a particularly 
religious crewman. The description of the investigation 
procedure was so clear, so accurate, so familiar that 
it was difficult to believe that the story had been 
written before the era of spaceflight. Spock wondered 
about human precognitive talent, particularly about the 
peculiar human ability known as 'imagination', while 
the story unfolded. He was eager to take his turn when 
Kirk handed the book to him, actually impatient at 
being obliged to read only as quickly as he could 
speak.

*...Voice like velvet,* Kirk thought, listening. He 
could easily picture the landing party exploring the 
nova-scoured planet, finding the remains of the great 
marker and the treasure that lay under it: vaults or 
recordings, made by the people who had once lived on 
the vanished inner worlds, records of their history, 
art, science, philosophy, all that they'd ever known or 
done. He smiled as he heard Spock's voice slowing, 
fascinated, over the descriptions of the vanished 
people. The writer's considerable skill painted a 
glowing image of them: beautiful, kind, just, wise, 
skilled -- and tragically lacking in any spaceflight 
technology that could have saved them.

Once in the description, Spock paused to glance up at 
him. "Yes," Kirk answered the unspoken question, 
"humans have often tried to imagine people better than 
ourselves. That's a pretty good example of idealized 
aliens."

Spock nodded once, digesting that, and went back to 
reading.

The heart of the philosophical problem, forecast in the 
first part of the story, appeared soon after Spock 
returned the book. The exploration team's 
astrophysicists finally determined the year in which 
the system's sun had exploded, and learned when the 
nova's brilliance would have been visible to the naked 
eye on Earth. Kirk began to guess what was coming; 
Spock could tell from the narrowing of his eyebrows and 
the tension in his voice. In the last few sentences, 
the dilemma became clear.

"'How can I now believe that God is just or merciful?'" 
he finished. "'Why were these beautiful people thrown 
into fire, only to make the star that shown over 
Bethlehem?'" The words ended. Kirk quietly closed the 
book.

*Unfortunate choice of story,* Spock thought. *It 
appears to have depressed him... Change his train of 
thought. At once.* "This is a lamentably ethnocentric 
attitude," he ventured. "The star exploded for reasons 
of its own, which had nothing to do with events on 
Earth that were later considered important."

"True." Kirk dutifully tried to cheer up. "It's just 
that from the viewpoint of the person telling the 
story, it's rough to find out that one of the major 
symbols of one's faith was rooted in a terrible 
cruelty."

*True for more than humans!* "At least, in this 
character's case, it was only the symbol - not one of 
the basic tenets."

"I don't know..." Kirk shivered, hitching a little 
closer for warmth. "That 'basic tenet' that the 
universe is run, created, whatever, by some -- some mind 
that's basically... good... That's hard to hold on to 
when you've seen some of the blind cruelties and 
injustices that happen -- just happen -- to people..." He 
put his chin on his hands and brooded at the fire.

"I see." Spock set the book aside and stretched out 
beside Kirk, close enough that a slight shift of weight 
would press their shoulders together. "An interesting 
dilemma: if some supreme being is indeed responsible 
for all events which occur in the universe, then he, or 
it, must be either cruel or indifferent."

"Not 'good'," Kirk concluded. "Nothing to believe in."

"Perhaps some form of Prime Directive is in force."

"Then there would be some exceptions, wouldn't there?" 
Kirk grinned fleetingly. "Rescue missions, for example. 
Beta Niobe ..." *You never told me exactly what 
happened to you and McCoy there...*

"Those people were capable of saving themselves." *With 
a few exceptions.* "They escaped through time, rather 
than space -- as we learned with some difficulty."

"But there've been other cases. The Enterprise alone 
has had I-don't-know-how-many missions to save people 
from plagues, famines, geological upheavals, novas, 
monsters drifting in from deep space..." He sighed. 
"What's the sense of worshipping something that's 
crueler than you are?"

*Indeed!* Spock's eyebrows climbed. "A... logical 
attitude... assuming that survival-based values are 
universally applicable... Of course, beings who do not 
base their values on survival do not tend to survive." 
He glanced nervously at Kirk.

"I guess I just don't like gods..." Kirk's expression 
was unmistakably grim -- and lonely. "Whether it's a 
super- powered alien lording it over helpless people, 
or some supposed ultimate keeper-of-everything who 
doesn't lift a finger to keep innocent people from 
getting blown to atoms -- I can't just smile and accept 
and believe. Better to believe there's nothing out 
there but other people: bigger, wiser, more powerful 
maybe -- but just people."

"Astonishing!" Spock reared up on his elbows. "We 
appear to have come to the same conclusions by totally 
different lines of reasoning! Vulcans find it illogical 
to base anything as important as behavior or ethics on 
unproven theory, whereas you begin with the effect of 
belief/disbelief and work... hmmm, backwards. Both 
methods are equally valid."

"Are you telling me I can sometimes think as well as a 
Vulcan?" Kirk laughed. "You're flattering me, Spock."

"Jim?" Spock did a double-take. "I assure you, I have 
never claimed that humans cannot think as well as 
Vulcans -- only that their methods are different." 
*...Wait. That is true. (True!) My conclusions, 
Vulcan's dangerous insufficiency...* "You know something 
that we do not."

"What's that?"

"How to use your emotions, rather than merely 
repressing them or being used by them."

"Oh. ...Well, we're not always successful at that."

"Indeed, but your success do outweigh your failures." 
*Had you truly believed --* "Jim, have I ever given you 
cause to be ... ashamed of being human?"

For an instant, Kirk looked shocked. "No, Spock, you 
haven't. You've only, uhm, occasionally made me aware 
of personal shortcomings. That's not the same thing."

"I was not certain; humans sometimes have difficulty 
seeing that difference. For a Vulcan it would be 
obvious, but..." *Wait. Not necessarily true. So many 
times I have seen...* "But then, I am not entirely 
Vulcan."

"You mean, Vulcans have made you ashamed of being even 
partly human?"

"Spock only blinked as the words hit. *How could he 
know?! I never told him about-- Good guess? 'Human 
intuition'...that strange human ability to think 
backwards and sideways... Imagination -- so 
illogically, often right!* "Yes... Yes, they have. Many 
times."

It is impossible, of course, for human eyes to actually 
'soften' or 'glow', but Kirk's gave a remarkable 
impression thereof. He reached up one hand and gripped 
Spock's arm. "That wasn't fair -- much less right."

*Interesting differentiation,* Spock thought, as an 
undefined feeling ached. *Communicate. Reply.* 
Awkwardly, he slipped his hand over Kirk's and faintly 
returned the pressure. "It appears that Vulcan society 
is lacking in several respects: unable to reliably 
attain its own standards, which are of themselves... 
insufficient." He gave a very human sigh. "Indeed, 
Vulcan does not have all the answers. We are not 
justified in considering ourselves generally superior 
to humans."

"I'm sorry."

"For what, Jim?"

"For taking that away from you."

"Illusions are not to be mourned. Better cause for 
distress that I believed in them for so long, despite 
the clear evidence... In fact, Doctor McCoy has been 
trying, for years to tell me that."

"All his teasing?"

"'The unchallenged blade grows dull.' I should thank 
him for it."

"We have a lot to thank him for." * --like sending you 
here to work out this -- this 'philosophical problem' in 
safety, instead of...* The overwhelming protectiveness 
rose again, impossible to ignore. Impulsively, Kirk 
flowed with it. He gripped Spock in a sudden bear-hug 
that made the Vulcan grunt with surprise. "Spock, 
you've got to stop risking yourself so much! Stop 
throwing yourself into danger for no good reason! You 
don't have to do that; there are better ways to -- 
to..."

"Me!?" Spock's eyebrows climbed to his bangs. "You 
think that _I_..."

"Yes! Yes! Scrambling halfway across a clearing after 
that damned lizard when you couldn't walk! Getting 
yourself into that landslide in the first place! Poking 
your head into that snolligoster's lair! And before 
that--"

"But you--" Spock squirmed around in Kirk's grip until 
he could look him in the face. "It is _you_ who take 
the risks!"

"*Only_*me!?"

For a long moment, they stared at each other. "Spock," 
Kirk ventured, "I think it's... both of us."

*No! Impossible! (...Impossible?) No...* Spock sat 
still for a long time, thinking that over, remembering 
certain undeniable facts. "Perhaps..." He sank back 
down on the hearthrug, fitting the new information into 
his computations, appalled at how well it fit.

Kirk, not knowing what to say, maneuvered more wood 
into the fire. He considered making some more herb tea, 
but decided against getting up and going to the kitchen 
for the needed items. He knew without analyzing it 
that, in this moment, he dared not put any distance 
between Spock and himself.

"'It is illogical to deny one's nature.'" Spock's voice 
was so quiet that Kirk wasn't sure he'd meant that to 
be heard. "Necessary, critical, to understand these 
positive human capacities. Yes the only one I seem to 
possess is... that one emotion. How to use it? ... No 
idea. And my ignorance allows..." He steepled his 
fingers and pressed his mouth against them.

Kirk didn't know if he should try to answer that. He 
wanted very badly to say, 'Let me help.' Instead, he 
tried something mild and noncommittal. "Should I make 
more tea?"

"Spock glanced up without moving his head, and slid his 
interlaced fingers beneath his chin. "Yes, I should 
like that."

*'Like'? Not 'it would be logical'?* Kirk wondered. 
*Some sign of... Oh, crumbs! Crumbs... But that's 
something.* "I'll get it. --Oh, damn! We used up the 
water on breakfast. Hell, I'll got get some more." He 
pulled off his boots and tossed them aside. "No point 
getting these wet. I'll be right back." He picked up 
the bucket and trotted out into the rain.

Spock sat up, worried. Probably Kirk couldn't get into 
any danger so close to the cabin, but it wouldn't hurt 
to watch. He'd conveniently left the door open. *For my 
viewing? Or his?* To get a clear view, Spock took one 
of the crutches and limped to the other side of the 
laundry line. He settled gingerly on the bed before his 
legs could buckle under him. From here he could see 
Kirk jogging through the rain, bucket bouncing on his 
arm, quite unharmed by the steady rain. Spock shivered 
in sympathy, wondering how it must feel to endure all 
that cold water on one's skin. He glanced gratefully 
toward the crackling fire.

Then his eyes fell on Kirk's boots, lying nearby. *Why 
did he not wish to get them wet?* Curious, Spock raked 
one close with the crutch, picked it up and examined 
it. *Not regular issue...* Ordinary Starfleet boots 
were made of neutral plastic, both for low expense and 
to avoid various cultural taboos; they were easily 
replaced, if not very durable. These, however, were 
made of leather -- black Andorian teegh-skin to be 
precise -- very supple and durable, capable of taking a 
high polish. They also had a slightly-higher-than-
average heel. Inside were built-in arch supports. They 
were also surprisingly small.

*...Such little feet?* Spock wondered, trying 
unsuccessfully to fit his whole hand into the boot-
foot. *Of course he would require special arch 
supports, carrying so big a body on such small feet... 
But then, why the heels? Such do not provide extra 
support. Quite the contrary. Why should he...*

At that point it occurred to Spock that his friend was 
not a tall man. In all these years, he had never quite 
noticed before. *-- Of course I tower over him 
naturally, being Vulcan)...[ think Leslie wanted a third dot after beieng Vulcan] but then ... So does 
[one space before McCoy] McCoy! And Scott. And... half the crew...* Random 
facts, duly recorded but never before correlated, 
popped into place. *He is barely of average height for 
a human male! No one seems to notice (not even myself! 
What else have I missed?) -- because he gives such an 
impression of... Size? Grandeur? Command? ...But he's 
really... compared to myself... Test. Be certain.*

The brontos were wolf-whistling again. Through the 
curtain of rain, Spock could see that Kirk had stopped 
to pick berries, no doubt to feed to the importunate 
little beasts. The bucket stood nearby, filled and 
spilling over now with added rainwater. Spock 
suppressed a smile, levered himself to his feet, and 
limped slowly to the door.

Eventually, the greedy brontos stopped whistling. Kirk 
picked up the sloshing bucket and came back to the 
cabin, thoroughly soaked. As he entered, Spock measured 
against him at the doorframe.

*Tiny!*

"Wha- Spock, what are you doing here?"

*I could rest my chin on the top of his head!* "I have 
discovered that I can walk short distances, with 
support."

"That's great. Here, let me help you back."

"Yes." *--so little, so fragile... How could I ever 
let him risk himself so?* A nameless emotion welled up, 
too swift for control: a deep yearning to protect, to 
enfold. As Kirk set the bucket down and turned back to 
him, Spock pulled away from the doorframe, reached for 
Kirk and wrapped both arm around him.

Kirk gasped at the sudden pressure, frozen with 
surprise. *This can't mean what I think -- No, of 
course not! He's just lost his balance. Hold him up.* 
"There, now. Easy. Let me turn. Get an arm around my 
shoulders. That's it. Now, one foot after the other. 
Don't worry, I won't let you fall..." He half-carried 
Spock back to the hearthrug and set him down on it as 
if nothing had happened. Then he went to the kitchen to 
make the tea.

*Astonishing!* Spock lay back on the rug, head reeling. 
*Why did I do that? (Impulse. Emotion.) What did it 
mean? (Protection, of course. Concern.) So fierce? So 
sweeping?* He closed his eyes. *Is that... ("both of 
us") ... affection? (Friendship? ... Love?) ... If so, 
it is very powerful. (Of course: to prevent aggression 
in a very aggressive species.) I understand so poorly! 
(Is it possible for Vulcans? Does father really --) 
More data needed. Communicate. (...But how? I do not 
even know the right questions to ask!) Observe...*

Kirk came back with the kettle and two cups. He was 
still wet.

"You should dry yourself," Spock cautioned. "Prolonged 
immersion in cold fluid effectively lowers the body 
temperature."

"Right, right." Kirk dug out a dry pair of pants and 
went off to the bathroom. He returned in a few moments, 
skin and hair toweled to merely damp, wearing the dry 
trousers and holding the wrung-out jeans. He hung the 
wet pants on the laundry line and returned to the fire. 
Spock looked up at him, clearly expectant.

*Say something, dammit!* Kirk berated himself. *He was 
wrestling with the real problem before, and I 
interrupted him. Stupid. I should have encouraged, 
helped... Now I don't know how to get back.* He sat 
down on the rug. "Spock, I... Oh, hell, I don't know 
what to say, how to help, anything."

"Neither do I," Spock admitted.

"Impasse?"

"Only for the moment."

They sat side by side, watching the fire for several 
minutes, still troubled but growing more calm.

"Right now I wish Bones had let us bring the chess 
set," Kirk said. "Keeping that back was a mistake." *So 
were those overlong crutches