The intermission was in full swing, the room merry with laughter and animated conversation. At the far end of the hall, near the anteroom, a small crowd had gathered around Kirk and Spock, who were happily debating the merits of the Vulcan harp versus the concert harp. T'Anna could hear Spock playing the occasional note on each instrument in demonstration of something—variances in pitch, perhaps, or timbre. Near the front door, she herself was conversing with the ship's helmsman and navigator.
"I've always wondered what it would be like to live in France," Sulu was saying. "Come to think of it, Mr. Spock called me D'Artagnan once, or so I'm told."
"He must have been joking!" a startled Chekov replied. "You're not even French!"
To which she knew that—Mr.—Spock would respond with something like, "Mr. Sulu is well aware of both his nationality and his ethnicity, Mr. Chekov." She smiled gently at her two companions.
"Pavel," countered Sulu, "Mr. Spock doesn't make jokes."
T'Anna interposed. "According to the Vulcan logic in which both Mr. Spock and I were trained, it is impossible to prove the truth of a negative assertion. Shall we try some positive thinking instead?" She smiled from one junior officer to the other, softening what was already a very mild reproof.
"To use a fencing term," said Sulu, "touché! I concede this battle of wits to Vulcan's superior logic!" He bowed with a theatrical flourish.
She returned the gesture with apparent gravity, but her eyes twinkled. "Many thanks, Mr. Sulu, for your kind compliment to my homeworld. I shall derive much pleasure from relaying it in due course." She turned to the navigator. "And you, Mr. Chekov? Where would you live, given the choice?"
"In Russia. Always Russia."
Her expression softened. "You must love her very much."
"I do," Chekov said simply. "She is my home."
T'Anna was charmed.
Suddenly, ice coiled within her, sending its cold premonitory fingers down her spine. "Excuse me," she whispered to Sulu and Chekov. She transected the long diagonal of the music room as quickly as she dared. Hurrying through the anteroom to the lavatory beyond, she gasped, tasting fire, reaching the basin barely in time.
No! Not tonight of all nights! She closed her eyes to shut out the dizziness that tilted and jarred her world on its axis, but her effort was to no avail, for her vision filled with stars that spun even more sickeningly. At length it was over. I must rest, if only for a moment. If I am fortunate, my absence will be brief enough to escape notice. She looked up, observing for the first time that someone had put washcloths in the small mirrored cabinet above the basin. Washcloths, yes, and a towel rod from which to hang them. Her eyes filled with tears. Such kindness, such attentiveness. Clearly, someone aboard the Enterprise—and she had a very good idea as to who that someone might be—lived his life very much as she attempted to live her own, so that the considerate details, the subtle kindnesses, the small gentlenesses added up to something substantial. Thank you, she thought. Thank you.She saturated the washcloth under the cool-water tap, squeezed the excess water from the cloth, and bathed her face with it. That done, she folded it neatly over the towel rod. I cannot be seen looking like this, feeling like this. I must recover my voice—
My voice. Oh, dear. She rinsed her mouth, scanned the small cabinet again, and was relieved to find a tin of breath mints—another thoughtful gesture. She hazarded one of the mints and was grateful to discover that it soothed her stomach. She waited a few moments for safety's sake. The world seemed steadier beneath her feet. That much was good, but experience had taught her that a moment of rest was now imperative lest she begin the cycle of illness all over again. She took another mint and returned without haste to the anteroom, where she now noticed two chairs: one upholstered in peach brocade, the other in blue silk, both identical to those she had observed in the main hall. The hall's other leitmotifs were present here also: the sky-blue walls, the tall windows, the ornate crown molding, the warm overhead lighting, the electric sconces whose light danced in all-but-living flame. Essentially, the rooms were of a piece, albeit on a different scale, and she found this knowledge comforting. Seating herself in the peach-covered chair, she closed her eyes as the fog of weariness descended.
Kirk frowned at his chronometer. "Have you seen our guest in the past five minutes, Mr. Spock?"
"Negative."
"Find her and bring her back, if you will."
"Certainly, Captain." But he was hesitant.
"What's the matter, Mr. Spock?"
"Vulcans as a people are quite reserved, Captain, and—"
"I'm aware of that, Mr. Spock." Kirk's voice was sharp. "If you're going to be an official host, you'll have to learn to take the rough with the smooth."
"Acknowledged."
"If you'll excuse me." Kirk nodded and made his way toward a group of guests.
Spock, left alone, scanned the hall methodically, knowing that the distinctiveness of the envoy's silhouette worked very much to his advantage. Full-length square-necklined gowns appearing in conjunction with upswept hair and extraordinarily elegant physical features were hardly common sights aboard the Enterprise. And now that T'Anna's presence—or rather, her absence—had been brought to his attention, he did recall a vague impression of someone in a dark gown hurrying by. But the impression had been so fleeting that his mind had barely registered it. Where could his compatriot have gone? He hoped that all was well with her, that all would remain well between the two of them after the evening's festivities had concluded—indeed, after the cessation of the pon farr. The very fact that he hoped for the envoy's continued presence in his life gave him pause, for he was unaccustomed to experiencing hope—or indeed any human emotion—under normal circumstances. External influences could and did alter the equation, but not permanently. He had thought he could love Leila Kalomi, but that love had evaporated when the narcotic spores relinquished their hold. Likewise, his attraction to Zarabeth had vanished upon his return to the present time and place.
But I digress. On any other occasion, he would have regarded the task Kirk had set him as just another duty to perform, and he would have performed that duty with his customary objectivity, for he had been trained to be both logical and dispassionate. Yet where the envoy was concerned, he found that he was neither. Honesty bade him admit, if only to himself, that he was very strongly drawn to her and that the pon farr was the least of the reasons for the attraction. Perhaps I must simply accept what is happening between us, for it would be illogical of me to protest against our natures. But he was troubled nonetheless, having been taught for years that emotion was nothing more than an indulgence, that its expression introduced myriad complexities, all of which were best avoided.
Focus! His first duty was to concentrate on the task at hand. The main hall had two doors. The first of these led to the anteroom and from thence to the lavatories beyond. The second was the white-and-gold front door through which everyone had entered. If the envoy had retired to the anteroom, he did not wish to disturb her there. Hence, he opted to begin his search at the front door, where he found the starship's navigator and helmsman engaged in conversation.
"Zefram Cochrane?" Chekov was asking. "But that is incorrect. His name was actually Zefraim Cochranovich. He was Russian, of course."
Spock said, "Those assertions are inaccurate, Ensign. Please review your Academy history."
Chekov jumped. "Mr. Spock!"
"Can we help you with anything, sir?" Sulu asked.
"Affirmative, Lieutenant. I am seeking the Terran envoy to Vulcan. Have you spoken with her in the past ten minutes?"
"She was here just a few minutes ago, sir. We were talking, and all of a sudden she turned pale and ran off that way." He gestured in the direction of the anteroom. "I don't think she was feeling well, sir."
"Acknowledged." He crossed the room quickly. As he neared the door to the anteroom, he perceived the faintest hint of citrus. Here was compelling evidence that T'Anna had stood in this exact location mere moments ago. It was time to investigate. He eased the door open and was not wholly surprised to find the envoy seated motionless in one of the anteroom's two chairs, her face pale, her eyes closed. He recalled standing guard over her as she lay on the examination table in Sickbay, her eyes full of fear. He also recalled how that fear had dissipated once he had seated himself in an adjacent chair. Accordingly, he moved without haste to her side, kneeling before her and touching her hand.
Her eyes flew open in alarm.
"Envoy," he said. "Please forgive the intrusion; I was sent to search for you."
She regarded him warily.
"Were you . . . taken ill a few moments ago?"
"Yes." It was barely a whisper.
He searched her face. "Shall I hail Dr. McCoy?"
"That will not be necessary, Mr. Spock. Thank you for your concern."
"Acknowledged," he said. "Please wait here." He departed, soon returning with a wet washcloth, which he proffered wordlessly.
She took it from him and bathed her face with it. "Thank you, Mr. Spock. You are very kind."
He searched her face again. They could not require anything more of her tonight. Musical performances were taxing enough when one was well, which she currently was not. Moreover, the act of singing strained the muscles that contributed to indisposition.
"Envoy," he asked her softly, "are you overtired?"
"Yes." Tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "And now I have disgraced us both." She swiped at her face with the washcloth.
"Envoy," Spock said, "do not suffer so. You have brought no disgrace upon either of us."
"Thank you, Mr. Spock," she whispered. "You are extraordinarily kind." More tears fell.
"May I?" Spock indicated the washcloth.
She nodded.
He took the washcloth and dabbed her tears away.
The door opened: Kirk. Spock rose, washcloth in hand, and turned to face his captain.
"What's the matter, Mr. Spock?"
"Captain, our guest—"
"Gentlemen," the envoy said. Spock, long accustomed to military discipline, recognized the voice of command when he heard it, however quiet that voice might be. Kirk appeared to recognize it also.
T'Anna straightened in her chair. "Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, please forgive my unexpected and incommodious absence. I am sorry to have troubled you both. I'm afraid I was . . . briefly unwell, but I now find myself able to rejoin the gathering and fulfill my obligations as promised. All I would ask of you in return is a glass of water—that, and sufficient time to drink it before the performance resumes."
"Of course, Envoy. Mr. Spock, would you please?"
"Certainly, Captain." Leaving the anteroom, Spock reflected that the envoy displayed all the determination—but none of the savagery—of the Romulan commander whom he had encountered on a previous mission. He had planned merely to distract the commander so that he and Kirk could locate the flagship's cloaking device and transport it to the Enterprise. But he had soon found himself becoming genuinely attracted to her, even going so far as to appreciate her emotion rather than fear it. Her nature had been passionate, and he surmised that in this respect at least, she and the envoy were very much alike. He retrieved a paper cup from the shelf and filled it with cold water. Returning, he offered the cup of water to T'Anna.
"Thank you, Mr. Spock," she said.
"You're very welcome, Envoy." She drank the water down, and he was relieved to observe that her color did not change for the worse. Apparently, however, the water didn't solve the whole of the problem, for T'Anna was rubbing her throat and swallowing experimentally. "I wonder whether I might make an additional request of you, Mr. Spock."
"Certainly, Envoy. Please ask."
"Thank you," she said. "I fear that for the remainder of the evening, I shall need to sing in lower keys than the musical scores indicate. Do you possess relative pitch?" She paused. "That is, can you transpose music from one key to another without the aid of manuscript paper and a writing implement?"
"Affirmative, Envoy. In fact, I possess perfect pitch."
"You never told me that, Mr. Spock," said Kirk. "Half the musicians I know would killto have perfect pitch, and the ones that do have it find it a curse. How on earth did you manage to survive Riley's debut as an Irish tenor?"
"As you will recall, Captain, I was not on Earth at the time." Spock remembered the incident vividly. Kevin Thomas Riley, who was Irish by heritage and the ship's navigator at the time, had hijacked the Enterprise via the auxiliary control room and proceeded to regale the crew with several appallingly off-pitch renditions of "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen." Aloud he said, "However, I did find good cause to regret the acuity of my hearing."
"Regret, Mr. Spock?" asked Kirk, lifting an eyebrow. "Surely that's a human emotion."
T'Anna interposed. "A moment ago, Captain Kirk, you asked how Mr. Spock survived. I was not aware that possessing perfect pitch constituted a risk to one's life."
"No, no, Envoy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that literally," Kirk corrected himself with a rueful chuckle. "But it is a talent."
"It would seem that your talents are legion, Mr. Spock," observed T'Anna, smiling at him softly. Turning to Kirk, she added, "I am most impressed with your musical knowledge as well, Captain Kirk. I did not expect the captain of a starship to speak the language of music so fluently. But perhaps that is not surprising—you are an explorer of new worlds, after all, and every musical composition is its own world."
Kirk smiled. "You're far too kind, Envoy. And incidentally, under the circumstances, I don't think anyone would mind if you took a few more minutes to rest."
"I am sufficiently recovered to proceed, gentlemen," T'Anna replied. "Truly."
"As you wish," said Spock. He helped her to rise and guided her unhurriedly back to the main hall. As they neared the concert harp, her steps faltered.
"Mr. Spock—"
"What is it, Envoy?"
"Perhaps I speak with a certain lack of decorum, but—" She hesitated.
"Please continue."
"Very well," she said quietly. "On this night of all nights, I do not wish to part from you."
He drew up short, recognizing in her words those he had spoken to Zarabeth five thousand years before. He was mystified. He had not shared his memories of Zarabeth with T'Anna, for he did not wish to give the envoy the mistaken impression that his mind was trapped in Vulcan's barbaric, best-forgotten past. Logic told him that the exact phrasing of T'Anna's statement had been rote, formulaic, a coincidence wrought of infinitesimal odds, but a coincidence nonetheless.
All the same, he wondered.