Captain Kirk had a headache. And it was getting worse as he listened to Yeoman Cassady, who sounded as if he might have a headache himself.

"The synthesizer has been re-programmed, and the thermostat has been set for a wider range of temperatures. And the light has been adjusted for the Andor color spectrum and intensity. The new complaint is the 'screeching' coming from Miss Grayson's room. Captain, she is playing her violin, but I can barely hear it standing next to the door. I guess their hearing or those antennae are extremely sensitive. I told Kelan that I would pass his concern along to you." Cassady shifted his weight ever so slightly from foot to foot as he made his report, obviously somewhat perturbed.

"We certainly can't ask a musician not to practice. Someone will have to move." Kirk rubbed his temple. "What is available? I guess it would be easier to relocate Miss Grayson. But if they can hear her in that guest room, they'll probably be able to hear her from any of the others."

Cassady tapped the tablet in his hand. There is an empty junior officer's quarters further down in section B next to the storeroom."

"All right. See to it. Let me know if you need me to step in for reinforcement."

"Aye, Sir," Cassady said with a sigh, straightening his shoulders and tucking his PADD under his arm. "I'll see what I can do." Kirk watched him enter the turbolift with weary resignation. "Sulu, what is our ETA to the Nu Pheonicis system?"

Sulu turned around in his seat to face him. "A little under six days at present speed, Captain."

"I guess Scotty would have an aneurysm if I requested warp fourteen." Kirk stood and stretched. "Never mind, steady as she goes. Mr. Sulu, you have the con. I'll be in Sickbay getting an aspirin."

"Aye, Sir." Sulu waited on him to enter the lift before adding, "I hope Doc has a lot of aspirin. Sounds like we may need them." Behind him, Chekov sputtered with laughter. Uhura turned from her console, shaking her head.

"This might be a long week for poor Cass," she said. "Kelan was demanding from the moment he stepped off the transporter pad. His buddy didn't have much to say to us, but they were having a pretty spirited discussion between themselves about translating some specific piece. I didn't catch it all. I would hate to be stuck with either one working on a project."

"What about your piano friend?" asked Sulu.

"Ahh. Working with T'Phol will be another story. I think our differing approaches and aptitudes will mesh well together. I can write the algorithm and she can envision the pattern and we can hopefully interpret the results. She's not a linguist, though. Her talent lies almost entirely in tonal applications."

Chekov snorted. "That does not sound like a fun way to spend shore leave."

"Considering the location, I think it sounds perfect. I don't think there will be wide-spread leave granted at Aminta anyway because of the working archeological sites and the harsh climate. Just light duty rotations aboard ship."

"Something is better than nothing," Sulu said.

"You gentlemen," said Uhura, "are totally wet blankets."

"We'll see who is wet after a few days on Aminta," said Chekov.


McCoy was finishing his quarterly report when Kirk strode into Sickbay. He signed the log and pushed it aside. The Captain grabbed a chair and sat astraddle, massaging his temples.

"Let me guess," McCoy said. "Headache?"

"Good guess."

McCoy rose and crossed the floor to the outer outer portion of his office opening a small pharmacy cabinet. "How bad?"

Kirk glanced at the antique pain assessment chart McCoy had displayed on the wall next to the door. "Face number six," he said. "Hurts even more."

He heard McCoy chuckle as the doctor shook a capsule from a bottle and filled a glass of water. He returned, dumping the pill into Kirk's outstretched hand, and putting the glass on the desk. Kirk washed the pill down, willing it to work immediately.

"I guess I don't have to ask how it's going," McCoy said, taking a seat at his desk.

"The Andorians are having some problems getting settled." Kirk rested his chin on his fist, looking rather boyish. "Cassady has been busy all afternoon. Hopefully that situation is almost resolved, otherwise it's going to be a long trip to Aminta."

McCoy harrumphed in agreement. "They were in fine mettle when they arrived. Evidently translating old documents is more exciting than I ever imagined."

"This whole ferry job is just busy work for us while we wait on Spock to finish whatever top secret thing he's doing with the Vulcan Council." Kirk frowned.

"What do you reckon that's all about?" McCoy asked. "Spock was tight lipped about it."

Kirk shrugged. "I honestly have no idea. But I suspect he was aboard the Vulcan Ambassador's ship Eridani 1 when it left orbit."

McCoy's eyebrows climbed. "Ambassador as in Sarek?"

Kirk shrugged again. "I'm just guessing, Bones. The Eridani 1 was in orbit when we arrived at Vulcan and left shortly after. Spock said he was going on a diplomatic mission. Whether that involves Sarek I can't say, but his father is a highly ranking ambassador."

McCoy pursed his lips in thought. "Maybe this is a journey of discovery in more ways than one."

"What, Bones?"

"Ah, nothing. Just thinking out loud." McCoy stretched. "I think I'll visit the guest wing and see how things are coming along. Care to join me?"

"In fact, I will. I want to assess the situation with Kelan myself." Kirk's brow furrowed. "All this complaining makes me uneasy."

The guest corridor was quiet when they arrived. Yeoman Cassady was at a desk in the small seating area adjacent to the guest rooms working with a stylus on his PADD. He still had a harried air about him, but it appeared at that moment things were calm. He stood at their approach.

"At ease, Yeoman," Kirk waved off the formality. "How are things with our guests?"

"Quiet for the moment, Sir. I just finished making sure cabin four-B is ready. I was getting ready to ask Miss Grayson if she would be agreeable with the move."

"Good," Kirk said. "I think I'll introduce myself to everyone." He stepped to Kelan's door and rang the chime.

"Who is it?" The Andorian's voice sounded sharp over the com.

"This is the Captain of the Enterprise," Kirk barked back.

The door opened and Kelan stepped through.

"My apologies, Captain. I was busy at my studies and did not wish to be disturbed. I am Kelan of Andor." He bowed stiffly from the waist.

"And I am Captain James T. Kirk. Welcome aboard. I understand there have been a few kinks to work out. I trust these issues have been dealt with satisfactorily."

"For the most part. There is still the matter of that disturbance from the Vulcan woman." Kelan looked at Kirk through heavily lidded eyes,

Kirk's mouth tightened. "Yes. We are currently working on a relocation plan."

"That would be a great relief, Captain." Kelan paused. "You think I am being too demanding, how do you say... Crossing a line, yes? Our antennae are quite sensitive. The stringed instrument she plays is grating inside my head, interfering with my thinking."

"I understand," Kirk said. "As I said, we should have that resolved shortly. Is there anything else that needs my attention?"

"Nothing at the moment, Captain Kirk. I expect to remain closeted in my quarters for the duration of the trip to Nu Aminta II. I would appreciate not being disturbed."

"Very well," Kirk said. "Cassady will remain available should you need anything. He will relay any situation directly to my attention." His words were pointed and crisp. The Andorian tilted his head in understanding.

"Of course, Captain," he nodded. "Now, if you will excuse me..."

"Of course. Good evening," Kirk said. Kelan stepped back into his room and the door swooshed closed. Kirk stared at it a moment, then turned on his heel back to McCoy and Cassady. "So how is Vartheb getting on?"

"Actually, Sir, he has remained in his quarters," Cassady said. "Engineering did reprogram his food synthesizer and cabin control, but he has voiced no complaint."

"Interesting," Kirk said. "Let's pay a little visit." Vartheb responded to the door chime at once, standing back and motioning them in. Kirk introduced himself again. Vartheb bowed.

"Captain Kirk," he said in a soft voice that was almost a whisper. "It is a pleasure to meet you in person. How may I serve?"

"I am just checking to make sure you are finding your accommodations satisfactory. Is there anything you need? Kirk glanced around the room. Evidently the Andorian had not yet unpacked. There were no personal items visible at all.

Vartheb slowly shook his head. "No, Captain Kirk," he said. "All is suitable for my needs. I do not require a great deal. As a fact, I plan to spend quite some time in meditation prior to our arrival."

"I see," Kirk said. "If you should need anything, Yeoman Cassady will be your liaison until we arrive."

"Many thanks to you, Captain," Vartheb whispered. "I shall keep that in mind."

Kirk smiled briefly. "Good evening, then."

Vartheb inclined his head. "To you as well."

Kirk stepped out of the room and back to the waiting Cassady and McCoy. They followed him up the corridor. "Well," Kirk said, "perhaps staying in their quarters is a good thing." He stopped at T'Phol's room. "Here we go," he said. "Let's hope she is agreeable to the move." He pressed the chime and the door slid open. T'Phol glanced through the door at McCoy, then at Kirk. Kirk stepped forward, his smile now genuine.

"Miss Grayson, I am Captain James T. Kirk. Welcome to the Enterprise."

T'Phol stepped back to allow them to enter. She spread her fingers in the Vulcan salute. "Thank you, Sir.. I am honored." She nodded to McCoy. "Well met, Doctor McCoy, Mister Cassady."

"I hope you are finding everything to your liking, Miss Grayson," Kirk said.

"Yes," T'Phol replied. "I am quite comfortable."

"I am afraid I must impose on you," Kirk said. "I need to ask you to switch rooms. We have a little– problem."

"Certainly," T'Phol said immediately. "It is no imposition. I have hardly unpacked." She gestured to her bag, unopened in a chair. Her violin was laid across the bunk, and the odd wooden box was still on the floor.

"We have another room a little further down. We can move you now if you like."

"Of course, just a moment." She put the violin back in its case, then offered it to McCoy. "Could you carry this for me, Doctor McCoy?" she asked.

He grinned, accepting it from her hands. "I think I can manage this one," he said.

She threw her bag over her shoulder and reached for the box handle. "Let me get that for you," Kirk said quickly.

"No, Sir, that is quite all right," she said. "I prefer to carry this myself." Kirk stepped back and they marched down the corridor to her new quarters. The new room was only slightly smaller than the guest quarters, plain and serviceable.

"Thank you for your understanding," Kirk said as she entered. She put the box down and turned to him.

"I assure you, Captain, that I do not resent the change. Your hospitality is most kind."

"Please let me know if you need anything," Kirk said. "It would be my pleasure to show you the ship if you would like."

"Thank you. I will be certain to notify you if I should need your assistance."

"Good evening," Kirk said. "I hope you will find your trip aboard the Enterprise to be a pleasant journey.

"And a pleasant evening to you, Captain." Kirk and Cassady moved away, McCoy hung behind. T'Phol turned her attention to him.

McCoy handed her violin over. "I guess you'll need this."

"Yes, indeed. I am working on a new composition."

"I would love to hear it," McCoy said.

"Perhaps it will be complete before I depart the Enterprise. If so, I shall appreciate a trial audience."

"Oh, you could easily get an audience on the Enterprise. Miss Grayson, might I impose enough to ask if you'd be willing to give a small concert for our crew? It doesn't have to be much. We seldom have live performances on board. It would be a real treat."

"Is there a piano on board?"

"Yes, there is. Rec Room Five has a piano. A few people play it from time to time." He paused. "In fact, Spock plays sometimes when he's not playing his Vulcan harp."

"Spock prefers the lyre. He could be good at the piano if he wanted," said T'Phol. "I would like to see the piano, if I may."

"Sure. Now?" McCoy glanced at the chronometer at the computer terminal.

"Whenever is convenient," T'Phol answered. "I do not want to interfere with your duties"

"As CMO, I make the duty roster. Have you eaten? It's almost supper time."

"I have not eaten. Supper, you said?"

"A colloquial term," McCoy said "That's the informal evening meal we Southerners have instead of dinner. Suppose we get a bite to eat and then visit the piano?"

"That would be lovely, thank you, Doctor McCoy."

"I do need to check in at Sickbay for a minute. You can come with me if you want, or I will swing back here afterward."

"Please go ahead to Sickbay. I also have a few things to do. I shall wait here."

"All right. I'll see you shortly." McCoy left, joining Kirk at the turbolift.

"Well," McCoy said as the doors closed, "did you form an opinion?"

"Yes." Kirk said. "More than one. I do not like Kelan. I do not trust Vartheb."

"Listen to your gut feeling, Jim," McCoy said. "But Vartheb evidently does not hear well. Maybe that's a lot of his problem"

"Why do you say that?" Kirk was alert on McCoy. He knew that the doctor often saw things through a different filter than he or Spock, and he had learned to pay attention to those differences.

"Well, I could get out a text on Andorian physiology, but I know their hearing is more acute than Human, and their antennae are sensitive to frequencies that we cannot hear. Kelan was so disturbed by the violin that he couldn't think, while Vartheb never complained, and his room was closer."

Kirk stared at McCoy. "I didn't think of that," he said slowly. "But there's something else there, something...hidden. I'm going to post a guard in the area. Just in case."

"Cass will probably appreciate the company."

The turbolift halted and they stepped out. McCoy turned to Kirk. "I'm checking on a couple of things and then eating with Miss Grayson. She wants to inspect the piano. You want to join us?"

"Dinner with our guest already, Bones?" Kirk teased.

"No," McCoy said. "Supper."

Kirk chuckled. "Supper, then. I'll pass on it, paperwork waits. I'll probably eat late."

"Don't make it too late. Bad for the digestion."

They went separate directions, McCoy stuck his head in Chapel's office, but it was empty. He heard baritone humming coming from the treatment room. "Geoff?" he called. Doctor M'Benga's compact but muscular frame appeared in the doorway, calibration sensor in hand..

"Hullo, Leonard. I sent Nurse Chapel off duty early. Nothing much happening here that can't wait until Nurse Merrit comes in. I noticed bed two is almost due for calibration so I'm getting a jump on it."

"Didn't mean to bother you," McCoy said. "I'm just dropping in to check some lab results and finish a chart."

"The labs came in a few minutes ago, they've loaded on your PADD."

"Good, thanks." M'Benga followed McCoy to his office and waited while he checked the results. Satisfied, McCoy made a notation and put the tablet away.

"I understand we have guests aboard," M'Benga said. "Have you met them?"

"I was on the welcoming committee," McCoy answered. "I'll borrow one of Spock's words and say it was 'interesting'. The two Andorians were quarrelsome, but I guess they've settled down some. At least it was quiet when I left a few minutes ago."

"T'Phol Grayson was in the group?"

McCoy stared at M'Benga. "Does everyone on the ship know about her except me?" he groused. "Yes, she was and is. Are you a fan, too?"

"I like her music, yes," M'Benga replied, his calm unruffled. "I met Miss Grayson while I was first interning on Vulcan. She was just resuming her career following her break. I saw her in concert and then interviewed her for a paper I was writing. 'Neuroplasticity and Excelerated Synapse Connection versus External Compulsion and the Effect on Cognitive Development in the Exceptional Brain'." He paused. "At one time I thought I would be a psychiatrist, but space medicine pulled me instead."

"Yeah, " McCoy said. "That way you get plenty of both disciplines." He took a deep breath. "I am not going to ask about that paper," he continued, "because I am meeting her in a few minutes for a little tour. We can stop by here later if you'd like to renew your acquaintance."

"If you have time, sure," M'Benga said. "She had a very strong will which served her well as a child performer. I would like to see how she has matured."

"Another paper?" McCoy realized he sounded somewhat huffy.

"I doubt it," M'Benga answered mildly. "She was not a big fan of the first one. So much so that I did not publish with her data included. Sometimes human sensibilities must come before scientific effort. You might want to mention me first before you drop by. I am not sure she will be eager to chat."

McCoy was immediately sorry for his petulance. "That empathy is part of what makes you a great doctor, Geoff," he said. "And a right fair psychologist, too."

M'Benga smiled and nodded. "I have been fortunate to have great mentors and teachers."

"No doubt they had a good base to work with," McCoy said. "We'll see how it goes this evening. Have a good night."

"You, too." M'Benga turned back to his calibration, humming a popular show tune. McCoy headed to the turbolift. When he arrived, he saw that the waiting alcove was indeed occupied by a guard as Kirk had promised. McCoy stopped at the doorway. "Lieutenant Sama," he acknowledged. "Is Yeoman Cassady gone for the day?"

"Yes, Sir," Sama answered. "I am taking over as contact for tonight." He lowered his voice. "I am also on guard duty, but inconspicuously."

McCoy almost laughed, suppressing the comment that all security personnel looked like security, even while trying to seem innocuous. "Maybe you might try sitting at the desk rather than standing at attention," he suggested. "It looks a little less rigid. I am borrowing one of your subjects for a while."

"Yes, Sir. I'll make a note in the log."

McCoy continued to T'Phol's quarters and chimed. The door opened and she stepped aside for him to enter. He glanced around, immediately noticing the contraption in the wooden box which was now laying open on her bunk. He stepped closer, curious. The box halves formed a right angle platform and support for what he guessed was a musical instrument of some sort. There were two piano keyboards, although neither was full size, and a host of dials and buttons and small screens on different levels. He was a little surprised that all that equipment had evidently sprung from the one box.

"What is this?" he finally asked.

T'Phol stepped over to it and flicked a switch. Immediately the screens sprang to life with flickering graphs and colors.

"This is a Moog synthesizer," she said. "It's actually a hybrid system, not all of it is antique."

"What does it do? You play it?" McCoy ran a finger over a gleaming, polished edge.

"Yes, indeed. It can recreate the sound of over six hundred Earth instruments, and about three hundred fifty from other worlds, including Vulcan, Andor, Altaire, Tellar, and Delta IV. With this I can duplicate the sounds of all five types of musical instruments. Would you like to hear?" She pulled the desk chair over to the side of the bed and sat, turning several switches and dials. When her fingers began playing the keys, the sound was that of a horn. Flipping more switches changed the sound to other instruments. She ran through several in quick succession, horn, clarinet, bass, and a couple McCoy couldn't name, sounding a bit incongruous with Beethoven. She turned and looked up at him.

"I will use the Moog extensively in my translation work to reproduce tones," she said. "It is not a concert instrument for me, although on Earth in the late twentieth century it was used by a number of rock and roll genre bands."

"So this thing is three hundred years old?"

"Some parts of it, yes. The case, the keys, and many of the dials. The wiring, boards, and memory circuits have been replaced, of course, and it uses a modern battery rather than alternating current." T'Phol paused, stroking the polished wood fondly. "Various types of synthesizers exist today. But I find this historic instrument to be oddly compelling, like playing a Stradivarius. It is special and uncommon. It sings."

McCoy pointed to her violin. "I carried a Stradivarius? You should have told me! I'm not clumsy, but..."

T'Phol interrupted, breathing a small, soft huff that might have been a laugh. "No, no. I do not own a Stradivarius. I have played a borrowed one in concert. There are less than five hundred left, so they are rare and priceless. This is my travel instrument, of fine quality, but certainly not a Strad. My concert violins are at home."

"How many instruments can you play?" asked McCoy, interested.

"In concert I play violin, piano, and occasionally the hydrocrystalophone. I also play Vulcan lyre, harp, viola, cello, mandolin, and guitar competently, but not at exhibition level."

"I've heard of most of those, but hydro what?"

"It is better known as a glass armonica."

McCoy shook his head. "Still nothing. Let's go eat, you can tell me more about it."

T'Phol reached into her open bag, grabbing a sweater which she quickly donned. McCoy then noticed the temperature in her cabin was a little warmer than standard. "Are you cold?" he asked. "Does your thermostat adjust correctly?"

T'Phol looked at him with a hint of apology. "I find the common areas are a little cool," she said. "I did indeed increase the temperature in my cabin a bit. I am comfortable enough with a cover."

They headed down the hall. Sama was now seated at the desk as McCoy had suggested. He nodded a greeting as they passed. When they were out of earshot T'Phol turned to McCoy and stopped, pinning him with her eyes. He met her gaze equally, noting her eyes were an unusual color, a soft deep green with flecks of cerulean and gold. "Are we being guarded?" she asked.

"It's that easy to tell?" He sighed. "Not exactly guarded," he said. "You're not under arrest. Just a normal precaution when we have guests. Like Cassady, he's assigned to help with any questions or needs."

"Mister Cassady does not carry a weapon."

"No," McCoy said. "He is in a different department."

T'Phol frowned. "Travel on a military vessel is a new experience for me," she said, relenting. "I have never had an armed guard before. I suppose I shall become accustomed to the notion."

"Don't worry about him," McCoy said as they resumed walking. "After a while, the phasers become part of the scenery, although I sometimes don't carry one."

"No? Even on dangerous assignments?"

"I am a healer. It is abhorrent to me to think of taking a life," McCoy said gently. "But to answer you, yes, I go armed when necessary. I am a member of the crew and responsible for their safety." He stopped. "We have a choice for supper," he said. Here is the officer's lounge, or we can go to the big mess hall."

"Which ever is your preference, Doctor. I fear that I am disrupting your routine."

"Routines need some shakin' up occasionally. The officer's lounge will be quieter. We'll eat in peace. You can meet your adoring public in the rec room later."

"Adoring public?" T'Phol followed him to the food synthesizer, where she ordered a salad with various greens and a bowl of Vulcan squash soup. McCoy realized that he had not eaten all day. He opted for beans, cornbread, and a glass of milk. They carried the food to the table and sat. For a few minutes they ate without much chatting, McCoy finished the beans, and then crumbled the cornbread into his milk, a process that T'Phol watched with interest. He grinned at her. "This is a Southern delicacy," he said. "Cornbread and milk. I had this many times in my Grandma's kitchen. Hers was better."

"I see," T'Phol said. "I believe it is called comfort food."

McCoy nodded. "So," he said between bites, "tell me about the glass harmonica."

"Armonica, no H," T'Phol said, pushing her empty plate away. "The glass armonica is an obsolete Earth instrument invented by Benjamin Franklin. It consists of tuned glass bowls mounted on a turning spindle in order of increasing pitch. You play it by rubbing the bowl edges as they rotate. It has an ethereal quality. Mozart wrote several pieces for the armonica. As far as I am aware, I am the only musician playing one in concert. Mine is made with quartz bowls rather than glass, and during performance is accompanied by a light show. The sound is quite delicate and must be amplified to be audible in a large hall."

"You seem to like old things," McCoy commented. "Are you a student of Earth history?"

"Only musical history. For whatever reason, Earth has produced iconic music on a grand scale for hundreds of years. It is something humans do exceptionally well."

"Do you have a favorite genre?" McCoy spooned the last of his cornbread mixture.

"Earth Baroque, Classical, and Romantic," she answered instantly. "Renaissance period from Altaire. Post-modern Vulcan classical. And mid to late twentieth century Earth rock, but that is for personal gratification."

"Really? I began liking old classic rock music as a teen, mostly the guitar driven bands. Then in medical school one of my instructors always listened to it in the operating room theater. I still hear Aerosmith in my head when I initiate the sterile field. I'm glad you like it, that makes me feel validated. But I prefer Van Morrison, The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Dire Straits, others like that over the metal bands."

He pushed back from the table and took their trays to the recycle unit. "Are you ready to meet the piano, Miss Grayson?" he asked.

"Please call me T'Phol. And lead the way."


The rec room was sparsely populated when they arrived, but Chief Engineer Scott was plunked in a chair, an old fashioned paper tech manual at hand. He looked up as they entered and rose to his feet. "Ah, g'evening Doctor McCoy. This is our musical guest?"

"Yes, this is T'Phol Grayson. T'Phol, meet Montgomery Scott. He keeps the ship in one piece, often beyond all odds. We call him our miracle worker."

"It's a pleasure, Lassie." Scott almost reached for her hand before remembering she was Vulcan, so he turned he gesture into a little wave instead. "I hope yer findin' everything to be ship shape on board."

"Yes, the Enterprise is beautiful, Mister Scott," T'Phol said. McCoy realized that she had evidently cultivated the knack for saying the right small talk in conversation. Scott was beaming, he loved nothing more than hearing accolades to his ship.

"Aye, that she is," Scott agreed. "I could give ye a tour of the engine room if you'd like."

"I would like that, thank you. Tonight we are here to investigate the piano."

"It's right over here," Scott pointed to the corner where the piano sat on a small raised area. T'Phol stepped up and lifted the cover, and took a seat at the bench. She ran a scale up and down the keys and nodded. "It is an electronic piano, so it is in tune," she said to McCoy and Scott. "I suppose it would be difficult to keep a traditional piano true in outer space." She turned back to the keyboard. "Do the gentlemen have any requests?"

"Lady's discretion," Scott said, pulling his chair closer. McCoy sat on the platform step, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"All right, I will do something familiar first. You have probably heard the first movement. The third takes more preparation mentally. I cannot do it justice on short notice."

She began playing quietly, the notes of Beethoven flowing from the keys. McCoy watched her for a minute, then found himself closing his eyes and losing himself in the music. As T'Phol played, several crew members wondered in and took positions silently. Soon a crowd of about twenty was gathered in the rec room, including Uhura and Chekov. They were held enthralled until the last note faded, then broke into applause. T'Phol turned around, noting the audience growth in the few minutes that had elapsed. She rose and bowed, graceful from years of experience.

"You have been listening to Beethoven's Piano Sonata Number Fourteen," she announced, "commonly known as The Moonlight Sonata. The first movement is more widely recognized. Next I present a piece by composer Johannes Brahms. Written for the full orchestra, here is the second movement, Brahms Piano Concerto Number One in D minor."

The crowd grew. By midway through the second piece the room was getting full, all the seats were taken and people were lining the walls. Uhura moved through the crowd followed by Chekov, and they sat beside McCoy on the step. Brahms drew to a close to enthusiastic applause and a few cheers. T'Phol turned, sweeping her eyes over the room and acknowledging their approval. After a moment, she raised her hand to quiet the clapping. When the room was quiet again, she spoke.

"We are putting together a concert for later in this journey," she began, interrupted by more applause. "For tonight, I will close with an extemporization from the twentieth century. Thank you all for your kind reception." She turned, looking down at McCoy, with a slight enigmatic smile before putting hands to keys. T'Phol closed her eyes for a minute, then began. It took him a few bars to recognize it, having never heard it as a piano solo. Then he almost unconsciously began singing along, softly, but Uhura could hear his voice was pleasant and pitched true.

The last notes faded, and T'Phol turned, locking gazes with McCoy for a moment and then the applause came. Uhura stared at the doctor, both surprised and impressed. They had worked together for almost five years, and she never heard him sing. She laid her hand on his arm, and he looked at her, dazed, his eyes shiny and distant. It took him a moment to focus on her. The crowd was moving forward to greet T'Phol, so Uhura took his hand, pulling him to his feet and leading him to the side out of the flow.

"Hey, are you all right?" She gently chafed his hand, which felt very cold.

He nodded. "Yes, I felt a little dizzy. I'm better now."

Uhura looked at him skeptically. "Are you sure?"

He squeezed her hands and pulled away. "Yes, I'm the doctor, remember?"

"I do remember. Well, you should add singer to your list of things you are. That was fabulous," Uhura said quietly, under the cover of the noisy room. "Why haven't you ever told me you can sing?"

McCoy cleared his throat, swallowing hard, and shook his head. "I don't sing. Except for lullabies, I haven't sung out of the shower since I was a kid in chorus," he said. "That song is..." He was looking again at T'Phol, who was mingling with the crew members, seemingly at ease with the process. "I don't know how she knew that..."

Uhura had no reply, so they stood together as the crowd began to dwindle. Finally T'Phol made her way to their corner.

"That was wonderful," Uhura said. "I wasn't expecting an impromptu concert this evening. Thank you so much."

"Thank you, Miss Uhura. I am glad you enjoyed it. You should bring your lyre. I have several pieces adapted for the twelve string lyre. I believe you said Spock has been giving you some lessons?"

"I am still practically a beginner, though. And at the rate it's going I'm not likely to advance very far."

"The joy seems often in the pursuit, especially where hobbies are concerned. If you would like, come to my quarters when you are off duty and we shall continue your pursuit of the Vulcan lyre. Perhaps you will surprise Spock when he returns ."

T'Phol then turned to McCoy. Uhura noticed her features relaxed ever so slightly and her eyes grew soft and seemed lit from within. "You mentioned doing a concert for your crew," she said. "It seems I have now promised them one. We might want to begin planning the particulars."

"Yes, I suppose we should." McCoy fell uncharacteristically quiet. Uhura stepped into the silence.

"I'll help. For one thing, we will need a bigger space. I think we should use the main mess hall. And we can broadcast through the ship." She looked at T'Phol. "It's not Carnegie Hall, but we'll do our best."

"Do not say that," T'Phol said, suddenly intense. "I have played at Carnegie Hall, and countless other large venues since I was five years old. There is a great deal to be said for playing for a small audience where there are no cameras or critics or reporters waiting for interviews. Where I can improvise a piece as I go." Her eyes found McCoy's again. "Where I can play for individuals rather than masses." She snapped back to Uhura. "So you see, it is perfectly fine that the Enterprise is not Carnegie Hall. I do not expect that, nor is it necessary." She paused a moment, then added, "I very much am looking forward to this performance, small and insignificant though you might think it to be. I have a large repertoire for both piano and violin. Let me know what sort of things you think your people would most enjoy."

"I will do that," Uhura promised. "I'll be in touch, certainly, and I'd appreciate those lessons, too."

T'Phol inclined her head. "They are yours at your convenience, Miss Uhura."

"Thank you so much.," Uhura said. Scott approached the three, tech manual still in hand.

"That was right bonnie playing, Miss T'Phol", he said. "I'm looking forward to hearing more."

"That is good," Uhura said, taking his arm, "because you are going to build us a stage in the mess hall."

"Ach, it'll be my pleasure, for sure. I'll draw some plans. Does anyone want to join me for dinner?" he asked.

"I'll be glad to, if you promise not to eat Haggis," Uhura said, poking him in the shoulder.

"What about you two?" Scott turned to McCoy and T'Phol.

"No thanks, Scotty," McCoy replied. "I've already had supper." T'Phol also shook her head. "I was introduced to southern fare earlier, cornbread. Is Haggis a comfort food, too? "

Scott and Uhura both laughed. "Ah, Lassie. Dinna let the good doctor lead ye down a bad path. I'll bet he soaked it in milk, too," Scott said, still chuckling. "Haggis is a Scottish dish that few people can appreciate outside of a true Scotsman.I suppose it is as comfortable as it gets. The synthesizers can't make a decent Haggis anyway."

"At least cornbread doesn't stink," Uhura said. "Are you ready? I'm hungry."

Scott tucked her hand in his arm. "I'll get in touch about what you will need for your stage," he said to T'Phol with a nod to McCoy as he and Uhura left.

McCoy turned to T'Phol, nodding toward the doorway. "Let's walk," he said. "I'd like to talk, but not here."

"You are upset." It was a statement rather than a question.

"No," he said slowly, "not exactly. But there are some things I don't understand."

He led her down the corridor to the small alcove at the entrance to the arboretum. He sat on a small bench, shoulders slumping. T'Phol sat beside him. She could smell the green growing things, a loamy and damp smell, very different than the desert planet she called home. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes and leaning back against the bench. McCoy rubbed his neck, feeling tiredness wash over him. For a few minutes neither spoke. Then she sat up, opening her eyes and studied his profile.

"What is it you want to understand, Doctor McCoy?" she finally asked. "I am sorry you found your Van Morrison song to be distressful. I chose it because I thought you would like it. Indeed, I heard you singing along."

"Damned Vulcan ears." He straightened, not looking at her. "Sorry. I didn't mean that."

"I know," she said. "Spock has told me a little about you."

"Damn. Well, don't believe a word he said."

"Would you not like to know what he said before you decide?"

"No."

He heard her softly exhale, almost a sigh, but she did not elaborate.

"Into the Mystic. Why did you choose that particular song? How did you know it has monumental significance in my life?" McCoy's tone was sharp. "You didn't have written music. Had you played it before?"

T'Phol's eyebrow raised. "You named him as one of your favorites from the genre. The lyrics seem as fitting for space men sailing the cosmic ocean as much as sailors over the deep blue seas. I thought it was a logical choice. I might have chosen the Beatles or Elton John or Billy Joel or any one from dozens of others. I am familiar with many Earth artists of that genre and time period, particularly those who make extensive use of piano. It is purely coincidental that Morrison's work happens to resonate with me as well. My motive was no deeper than that, I assure you.

"I never use sheet music while performing. I do study written notation, preferably a copy in the artist's own hand when learning a new concert piece. I have a photographic memory for music. After hearing a song, I can see the score in my head. I had heard that song before, so it was simply a matter of letting my fingers feel the way. Had I realized it would disturb you so, I would not have chosen it."

McCoy took a deep breath. "I was off balance. That song takes me to another place and time. I wasn't expecting to go there. I don't want to go there. And it seemed like you were- inside my head. I don't play piano, but I felt my hands on those keys, I knew what chords were coming next...Then it ended and I sort of woke up. I didn't realize I was singing until Uhura told me."

T'Phol looked at him, troubled. "I shall not play it again."

McCoy finally turned to look at her, his eyes gleaming and intensely blue. "It was a beautiful rendition," he said quietly. "I was taken by surprise, I guess. Not your fault. It was lovely, but it was also a shock."

They were silent a few minutes, then McCoy continued.

"I have a confession to make. Spock approached me and and suggested that I make sure to meet you while you are on board the ship. In fact, he was almost adamant about it. I don't like that hanging over me or influencing what I say or don't say to you while you're here. I don't like secrets."

"I know. He told me."

"He told you?"

"Yes. I went with my grandparents to meet him when he arrived on Vulcan. He suggested that I seek your company while aboard. He thought you might be somewhat reticent. He is quite often right about things."

"Your grandparents?" McCoy felt like he was a character in the midst of an important story, but losing the thread. He was unraveling.

"Yes, Sarek and Amanda."

McCoy was incredulous. "Ambassador and Missus Sarek are your grandparents? But..." He stopped abruptly. "Is Spock your father?"

"No. my father is Sybok." She paused. "I see you do not know of him. He is Spock's older half brother, son of Sarek and his first wife, a Vulcan princess who died."

McCoy stared at T'Phol, dumfounded. Finally he said, "I never knew Spock has a brother."

"I am not surprised that Spock has not spoken of him," T'Phol said. "Although it is not a secret, Sybok is not spoken of often in or out of the family. Also Spock keeps things close." She stopped a long moment before continuing. "My mother is an Earth Human who was living on one of the border worlds and met my father there. I will tell you if you wish. But not tonight."

"Agreed. I think we've had enough deep conversation for this evening," McCoy said. "But when you are ready, I will be here to listen."

"You have a way of inviting confidence, Doctor McCoy," she said, shyness shading her voice. "That must work as an asset to you as a physician."

"I have often been told my bedside manner could use some improvement. Just ask my chief nurse. Or practically anyone." He stood, weary and spent.

T'Phol rose from the bench. "Perhaps gruffness might work as an asset as well. You look fatigued, as I am. Shall we go?"

They proceeded down the corridor to her quarters without talk. She keyed in the door code, turning to McCoy.

"I appreciate your time and attention," she said. "In fact, I find it pleasurable. But do not feel compelled to entertain me. I have things to occupy my time, and you must be busy."

"Am I a drain on your resource allotment?" McCoy asked with a crooked smile.

"Of course not."

"Then, with your permission, I'll see you tomorrow." He turned to leave.

"Thank you, Doctor McCoy," T'Phol said. He turned back for a moment, and nodded. T'Phol watched him down the corridor and out of sight.