FROM THE FOOTHILLS of the Arrian Mountains, the city of Callinus looked to Wellesley Warren like a set of toy buildings arranged by an orderly child. The central square of the Tyrtaean municipality was clearly visible even from here; perfectly straight roadways ran from the corners of the square to the edges of the small city. The design resisted improvement whenever he saw it, and he had long ago given up on imagining its better, so pleasing was it to him.
“The first party from the Enterprise will be beaming down soon,” Myra Coles said as she stood next to him.
Wellesley glanced at her and said, “We’d better go back, then,” noting her flushed cheeks. She had obviously enjoyed the hike.
“Aristocles said he would be in the square with us to greet them, but he’ll be expecting me to handle most of our subsequent dealings with them.”
“He seemed very grateful when you volunteered to do so,” Wellesley said.
“Yes—a little too grateful.”
Wellesley knew what she meant. Myra’s political position had been weakened by the loss of their world’s data base, fueling the resentment of Tyrtaeans who already distrusted the Federation and who were beginning to see Myra as overly sympathetic to the Federation’s interests. There were too many such Tyrtaeans, without whose support Aristocles Marcelli would never have been elected. He had played on their resentments during his campaign, reminding them of the settlers who had come here from Earth a century ago. They had seen back then what the United Federation of Planets would become, a network of cultures and worlds bound in interdependency, and they had wanted no part of it. Better to look out for oneself, and not count on anyone else.
Naturally, Aristocles would want Myra to manage the Enterprise personnel who would be restoring their data base. He would want to avoid the crewmembers as much as possible, so that if there were delays or any unexpected problems, he would be held blameless.
“We can go a little farther,” Myra said, “before we head back.”
He followed her up the hillside. Myra was ten years older than he was, but extremely fit; occasionally he had trouble keeping up with her. Like many Tyrtaeans, she did not care to hold meetings indoors when matters could be discussed outside, while getting needed exercise, and she had often led her aides on treks through the Arrian foothills. Improved circulation quickened their thinking, she claimed, enabling her to hear their best thoughts. Wellesley had been her aide for two years now, having joined her small staff of four right after graduating from Callinus’s small university.
He used to wonder why Myra had selected him as one of her aides. He had been an outstanding student in both mathematics and history, but others had such qualifications. After his interview with her, he had not really expected to be chosen over older, more experienced people; he had feared that she might have glimpsed his secret self, despite his best efforts to keep his flaws hidden; he had been struggling with them all of his life.
“Wellesley is a daydreamer,” his childhood teachers had said. “Wellesley is too demonstrative.” “Wellesley mistakenly thinks of the classroom as a place for humor.” “Wellesley must learn to avoid wasted effort and impractical pursuits.” He had tried to overcome his flaws, but suspected that others still sensed them in him. He remembered worrying that he might have seemed too affable during his first interview with Myra. Now he suspected that she had chosen him because of his flaws, that she might even secretly share a few of his faults herself.
The aurora flowers of the foothills were in full bloom; their wide pink, salmon, and rose-colored petals covered the grassy slopes. The blue sky was cloudless, the air just warm enough for both of them to hike out here without jackets. He had often thought it ironic that the stern Earth folk who were their ancestors had settled such a hospitable planet, one with the kind of climate that might have led other settlers into hedonistic, indolent lives. With the Tyrtaeans, the invariably pleasant climate of their world’s largest continent had only strengthened their isolationist tendencies: we have our world; we can get along by ourselves; we don’t really need the Federation.
Unfortunately, the original settlers had made one mistake. By settling a world on the fringes of Federation space, they had believed that they had ensured their isolation. But the Tyrtaean system had turned out to be too close to the Neutral Zone to be left alone for long; the Federation had to make it clear to the Romulans that any foray into this system would be regarded as an act of war. Forty years ago, after a border skirmish with a warbird that got too close, the Tyrtaeans had unwillingly joined the Federation. They realized that was the only way to protect themselves if another war with the Romulan Empire ever came. Still, they had resented having to acknowledge such a dependence on the political entity they had hoped to escape.
Myra had been the Federation’s advocate throughout her six years as one of her world’s two leaders. “We value our independence, and the Federation allows us our independence,” she had often argued. “Our isolation allows us to develop in our own way. But it also serves the Federation in the long-term. Some day, the Federation may need the culture we have developed, and we may need to strengthen our ties with our ancestral world. Then we will repay the Federation for its help, and free ourselves from what some mistakenly view as too much dependence upon it.” Wellesley had never quite understood what she meant by that; it seemed to him that she was trying to have it both ways.
Still, Myra looked out from this world, to its future, but increasing numbers of Tyrtaeans seemed to be looking inward. Once, the Tyrtaeans who dreamed of founding a second colony, one far from this sector with no ties to the Federation at all, and of creating and keeping to a true Tyrtaean culture apart from any outside influences, had been a tiny group on the fringes of society. Now there were a quarter of a million of them, according to a survey Wellesley had conducted before their planetary data base had been lost, and even more who had some sympathy for their position. Time, these people cried, to sever all ties to the Federation, to settle another world where they would be left to themselves. They had been responsible for electing Aristocles Marcelli.
Myra stopped walking and turned toward him. “Let’s hope that our data base is restored as quickly as possible,” she said. “Any problems, and it’s going to be even harder to convince the anti-Federationists that their way is a mistake.” She let out a sigh. “They fear other cultures so much. Why can’t they see that the kind of small colony they want wouldn’t be viable, that such extreme isolation would only be setting themselves up for eventual failure? Why can’t they understand that it’s possible to love one’s world and yet to try to look beyond it?”
Wellesley gazed at her in surprise; she was rarely so open and emotional, even with him, the only person with whom she shared her deepest thoughts. She looked away for a moment, then gazed back; her customary distant, almost severe, expression returned to her face.
“Enough self-indulgent outbursts,” she murmured. “We must head back. I promised Aristocles I’d be with him to greet the first group of Enterprise officers. He’ll be disappointed if I’m not there. He’s probably getting tired of having to scold them all by himself.”
Wellesley almost laughed, wondering if Myra had meant to make a joke, but she was frowning as she turned away and started back down the hill. It seemed to him that she was expecting trouble.
What she most feared was that the separatists might charge that the Federation had deliberately lost their world’s data base, in an effort to retard the Tyrtaean culture’s growth and development. There was not one bit of evidence to support the idea. Why would the Federation then be working so fast to restore all the lost data bases? The separatist rebels would have an answer for that also—to show how caring the Federation was, to elicit gratitude from their colonies, to draw them into greater dependency. Clever, but untrue, Wellesley told himself; but it sounded good and might convince many more people, if the charge were brought publicly—and then Myra’s position would be even weaker, perhaps dangerously so.
* * *
When the transporter had cycled and she could see again, Uhura found herself in an open square of flat, bluish-gray rock, facing a large white structure that resembled Earth’s Parthenon. This building, however, which housed the main library complex of Tyrtaeus II, was quite a bit taller than the ancient Greek monument; in fact, it seemed almost too tall to be supported by this particular type of architecture.
Commander Spock was already scanning the building with his tricorder. “The pillars have been reinforced,” he said, “and also the inside walls.”
“It’s a lovely building,” Uhura said. In spite of the buildings nearby, the library complex seemed to be standing in a kind of splendid isolation. She looked around the square. Every building here was like that, she realized, part of a pleasing whole and yet very individual. There had been no attempt to make each structure a part of some overall design, and yet the square viewed as a whole had an austere beauty.
“The design of the library does have a classical simplicity,” Ensign Tekakwitha murmured.
“That building there,” Captain Kirk said, “with the walls that look like rose quartz—it’s quite striking.”
The architecture made Uhura think of their music. She had listened to some recordings of Tyrtaean compositions that the ship’s computer had called up for her. The composers were clearly heavily influenced by Western neo-classical symphonies of the early twenty-second century, but there was something strange about the Tyrtaean symphonies. Uhura had listened to each performance twice before realizing why the music sounded so odd. The composition was more of a succession of solos rather than a symphony, with passages for string instruments, then for woodwinds, while the percussionists went their own way, resonating with the rest of the orchestra while still sounding independent of it. Given the way the music was written, Uhura thought, the musicians probably could have put on a performance without a conductor, which seemed consistent with the Tyrtaean approach to life.
The four officers had beamed down to the main square of Callinus, the so-called Tyrtaean capital city. But to call it a city was an exaggeration; Uhura knew that fewer than forty thousand people lived in Callinus. The two million people on this world so prided themselves on their self-reliance that the vast majority of them lived in small villages, preferring them to larger cities that might rob them of some of their independence. But despite the Tyrtaeans’ aversion to centralization, the library of Callinus was their cultural center, the repository of most of their society’s treasured lore.
No wonder they were so bitter about the loss of their data base, Uhura thought. They must be as angry with themselves for their dependence on this library as they were of having any need of the Federation.
The other buildings surrounding the square were not quite as impressive as the library, but she admired them all. One long, low structure was made of a material that resembled cedar; at the other end of the square, across from the library, a massive stone stairway led up to the wide metallic doors of the Callinus Administrative Center. One door slid open; three people, two men and a woman, passed through it and descended the stone steps.
Uhura recognized one of the men as Aristocles Marcelli, so the woman with them had to be Myra Coles. The two Tyrtaean leaders had said that they would meet Captain Kirk and his landing party here. Myra Coles had been as terse as Aristocles Marcelli in her messages, but Uhura had detected a softer note in her voice.
The three Tyrtaeans hurried across the square, slowing as they came closer, then stopped two meters away and stood rigidly, regarding the officers from the Enterprise with cool, disdainful expressions.
“Myra Coles,” the woman said. Her thick chestnut hair was cut short, and she wore a simple gray tunic and trousers, but her kind of beauty needed no adornment. If anything, the plainness of her clothing only emphasized her attractiveness. Her large gray eyes were framed by thick dark lashes, and her flawless pale skin had a rosy glow; if the woman could ever bring herself to smile, Uhura was sure that she would see perfect white teeth.
“James Tiberius Kirk, captain of the Enterprise.” The captain nodded at Myra Coles and smiled, clearly enjoying the chance to use his middle name; her mouth tensed, as if she resented his smile. “This is Commander Spock, first officer and chief science officer.” Myra Coles stared at Captain Kirk without blinking; maybe she thought that even this scaled-down greeting was too effusive. “Lieutenant Uhura is our communications officer.” He waved one arm toward Uhura, who smiled. “And Ensign Cathe Tekakwitha, one of our other science officers, is a trained anthropologist and information retrieval expert.”
Ensign Tekakwitha was gazing at the Tyrtaeans as impassively as Spock. Uhura had worked closely with Cathe Tekakwitha when the ensign was first assigned to the Enterprise, and had been delighted to find that they shared an interest in ancient Egyptian art. She knew that the captain considered the young woman a promising officer, and Teka-kwitha’s quiet, dignified manner might help in dealing with the somber Tyrtaeans.
“Aristocles Marcelli,” Myra Coles said, glancing at the other Tyrtaean leader. “But of course you’ve already met, so to speak.” She looked uncertain for a moment, then motioned to the third man. “My aide, Wellesley Warren.”
A quick smile passed across the face of the tall young man; he tugged at his mustache and quickly looked down, as if embarrassed by such a lapse. A Tyrtaean who actually smiled, Uhura thought; there had to be others like him.
“Our team of data retrieval experts is waiting in the library,” Myra Coles continued. “We would like to get to work as quickly as possible, Kirk.”
“So would we,” Kirk replied. “We’ll work as hard as possible to repay your kind reception.”
Wellesley Warren made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle to Uhura, but the two Tyrtaean leaders seemed oblivious to the captain’s mild sarcasm, and Myra Coles seemed immune to his charm.
“Let’s hope that your hard work will be enough,” Myra Coles said, and started to lead them toward the library.
“I know that you don’t care for titles,” Kirk said, “but I’d prefer to address you as Myra rather than Coles.”
“That’s not necessary, Kirk. Everyone here except for my family, friends, and close associates calls me Coles.”
“Call it an Earthman’s affectation—and Myra is a lovely name.” Uhura suppressed a smile at this comment of the captain’s; Spock raised his eyebrow slightly.
“I don’t care which of my names you use,” Myra Coles said.
“And most of my friends call me Jim. If that strikes you as too informal, James will do.”
“Very well, James. Since we’re going to be working together, perhaps some cordiality will be appropriate.”
Well, that’s a start, Uhura thought. Maybe there was more warmth in the Tyrtaean woman than her culture allowed her to express.
* * *
“I think we’re ready to run that test now,” Christine Chapel said.
Leonard McCoy nodded at the nurse. They sat in one of the library’s data retrieval areas; their small screens and consoles were set on a flat surface before them, linked to the library’s data heads. The plain wooden furniture in the room lacked cushions, but provided some comfort along with support.
If all went well, McCoy thought, they would soon be able to download the new medical data base. Annoying as it was to be working with this cursed machine, his job was relatively easy, certainly simpler than the work Lieutenant Commander Scott or Ensign Cathe Tekakwitha had to do. Scotty was in the basement chambers of the library with his engineers, installing new data modules while taking care not to lose any old data that might still be retrievable. Ensign Tekakwitha was in charge of the team that was working on the restoration of lost historical and cultural data; she had left that morning with Aristocles Martin and a few Tyrtaean historians to interview several older citizens for the library’s oral history records.
Restoring the colony’s medical data base presented no great difficulties. There was, as far as McCoy knew, no medical knowledge that was unique to Tyrtaeus II that had not already been taken by the Federation’s subspace data harvesters. The Tyrtaeans should end up with exactly the same medical data base they had lost.
He had actually enjoyed his sessions with this world’s physicians; once they got down to exchanging medical yarns, and notes about odd cases, he could almost forget that they were Tyrtaeans. Their records revealed that the average Tyrtaean was extraordinarily fit and healthy well into old age; these were not people inclined to indolence and self-indulgence. Usually they needed medical treatment only for injuries resulting from accidents or for illnesses that took a sudden unexpected turn for the worst, and almost all of them had acquired some knowledge of medicine, since they considered it foolish to be entirely dependent on a physician for medical treatment. The physicians here did not have many of the latest medical tools, but they were the sorts of doctors who did not like to rely too much on their instruments anyway, a quality McCoy could appreciate. He had developed a special liking for one old curmudgeon named Elliste who, like most of the medical personnel on this planet, had acquired great expertise in orthopedics. “Anybody who wants to know the upper limits of what human bones and joints can take ought to come here,” Elliste had said, “because no Tyrtaean takes his aches and pains to a doctor until he’s got no choice. I’ve seen folks who slapped on their own splints and homemade braces and just kept on going until they finished whatever they had to get done first.”
McCoy’s communicator beeped softly; he pulled it from his belt, snapped it open, and said, “McCoy.”
“Scott here. You can start that test on the third section now, Doctor—those new data modules are up and running.”
“We’ll do that as soon as Christine’s finished with the second section.”
“Aye. Scott out.”
It saved him and Nurse Chapel time to work behind Scotty, running the tests after the engineer confirmed that each new section was ready to be checked. Both McCoy and Chapel knew as much about data base tests as they did about biological organisms. In two or three weeks, when all the modules were reset, the incoming subspace download would start. After that, the final tests would be run on the data directly from the Enterprise bridge, with the ship’s computer.
“Computers can get ill just like people,” Scotty had said to McCoy the other day. “Just feed them a lot of wrong ideas and wait for the flow of unexpected synergies to produce something that no one understands. And the closer a computer is to human capabilities, the sicker it can get.”
If any further problems were encountered during these tests—always a possibility with these occasionally ornery computers—Tyrtaeus II would be without a usable data base for at least three weeks, possibly four. Apart from the physicians, the Tyr-taeans whom McCoy had met during his four days in Callinus had seemed increasingly irritable as time went on. He wondered what bothered them more—their dependence on their library’s data base or their need for Starfleet’s help in repairing the system.
McCoy concentrated on the screen in front of him, rechecking each module as Chapel ran the test. No glitches, no error messages—everything seemed to be going well. The damned machine was behaving itself today. He might as well be grateful for that, since this particular tour of duty had turned out to be even duller than expected. The people of Emben III, who had a reputation for histrionics, had certainly lived up to it while their data base was being restored; every small setback had resulted in public scenes of tears, recriminations, and bitter denunciations of the Federation’s criminal carelessness by members of the Embenian Council. On Cynur IV, the normally cheerful and friendly inhabitants had gone out of their way to be rude. But at least those worlds had offered some diversions. The theaters of Emben III offered some of the best productions of Shakespeare to be found anywhere, and the Cynurians seemed to have a festival of some sort nearly every week. The Tyrtaeans of Callinus, from what McCoy had seen, did little except work, eat, and sleep.
Self-reliance, they called it. What was the point of a self-reliance that made a person try to emulate a machine?
“The second section is operational,” Chapel announced, but McCoy had already noted that on his screen. By the time the two were finished running the tests on the third section of modules, Scotty had spoken to McCoy again over the communicator. The rest of his engineering team had beamed back to the Enterprise; he needed a break and a meal before the next round of work, and was going to see what the city of Callinus had to offer. McCoy and Chapel decided to join him.
They shut down their operations, left the data retrieval area, and entered the outside gallery. Scotty came toward them down the long, wide corridor, with Wellesley Warren at his side. McCoy could hear the young Tyrtaean’s laughter even at this distance. The man had to be something of an eccentric and misfit by this world’s standards; Wellesley Warren laughed easily, smiled more often, and didn’t shy away from shaking hands or uttering a friendly greeting, as most Tyrtaeans did. But he was much more restrained when other Tyrtaeans came near, as if he could show his wanner nature only to the crew of the Enterprise.
Life here couldn’t be easy for him, McCoy thought. Yet Wellesley Warren was also one of Myra Coles’s trusted aides. If he had been able to win her respect, then obviously he had been successful at concealing qualities his people would see as weaknesses. It was puzzling, but maybe there were other relationships here that escaped the usual, and more than one Wellesley Warren.
“Where are we headed?” Christine Chapel asked as Scotty approached.
“Wellesley here advised us to try Redann’s Tavern,” Scotty replied. “It’s just across the square.”
“You could go to Doretta’s Cafeteria if Redann’s is crowded,” Wellesley Warren said, “but it’s three streets down, and, frankly, the food at Redann’s is better. You’ll be served—er, welcome there.” McCoy reminded himself that there were places that would probably not welcome them. “Ask for the special—it’s always the best thing on the menu.”
“Coming with us?” McCoy asked.
“I have to meet with Myra and a team of historians.” Warren was one of the people working on restoring lost cultural data. “Enjoy your lunch.” The Tyrtaean hurried toward a staircase on their right.
“When’s the rest of your team beaming back here?” McCoy asked Scotty.
“Most of them will be back this afternoon,” the engineer said, “but Mister Spock needs a couple of engineers to work with him aboard the ship. He requested the two who are best at sensor system analysis and repair.”
“He’s already got Ali Massoud,” McCoy said; Lieutenant Commander Massoud, a methodical young science officer who had won several commendations and also Spock’s respect, was on duty with the Vulcan. “You’d think that would be enough help.”
It had surprised McCoy that Kirk had sent Spock back to the Enterprise two days ago; the Vulcan and the Tyrtaeans seemed made for one another. But maybe the captain preferred to have his second in command aboard his ship, and Spock seemed anxious—if a Vulcan could feel anxious—to continue his observations of the unknown object, which was unexpectedly persisting in its sunward course.
“He’s very curious about that thing,” Nurse Chapel said.
“He sounded unusually interested when he spoke to me,” Scotty said, “and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was even a wee bit worried about it.”
* * *
Redann’s Tavern, housed in a stone structure near the Callinus Administrative Center, turned out to be a large room filled with plain wooden tables and long benches.
“This is a tavern?” Scotty whispered as they sat down at a table near the back of the room. “Seems more like a study hall.”
“Or a prison mess hall,” Christine Chapel murmured.
“Maybe the food and drink will be worth it,” McCoy said.
The waiter who took their order was a grim-faced man in a black tunic and trousers. He brought them three plates of meat and dark bread and three mugs of an amber-colored beverage, along with three knives.
McCoy made a sandwich of his meat and bread, cut it in half with his knife, and took a bite. The meat was well-cooked, probably boiled, without gravy or seasonings. “This is the special?” he said, keeping his voice low. “If this is the best dish on the menu, I’d hate to see the worst.”
Christine Chapel took a bite of her bread, then grimaced. “I had a childhood friend whose mother always used to complain that the foods that were best for you always seemed to taste the worst. She would have considered this bread very healthful.”
Scotty sipped from his mug. “Tastes like watery tea. You’d think an establishment that calls itself a tavern would have something stronger to offer.” He sighed. “These people make even Vulcans seem jolly.”
McCoy chuckled, earning himself several blank stares from four men at a nearby table. “I don’t think anyone here knows what a joke is,” he said, then took another bite of his sandwich. “Well, here’s one joke—this meat!”
“I don’t know which is funnier,” Scotty said with a straight face, “the food or the drink.”
But the food satisfied McCoy’s hunger, and the tealike beverage warmed his stomach and lifted his spirits a little, and he tried to think in a more fairminded way. Maybe the Tyrtaeans weren’t quite as dour as they seemed; maybe you had to get to know them before they loosened up. The physicians had certainly seemed more congenial while they were sharing their medical lore. Wellesley Warren was a friendly enough fellow, and there might be others like him. Myra Coles obviously respected her young aide; McCoy, during one meeting with them both, had seen how attentive she was to Warren’s ideas about recovering lost historical data. Maybe she wasn’t as cold and humorless as she appeared to be. Dig down deep enough, and no one knew much about anyone.
* * *
Kirk had been given quarters in a five-story hostel adjacent to the library. This building, which housed visitors to the capital city, was the closest Callinus had to a hotel, although it seemed more like a monastery. His small, bare room contained a narrow bed with a firm mattress, one shelf jutting out from a whitewashed wall, and a tiny closet. The lavatory, shared with anyone else staying on this floor, was at the end of the hallway. Uhura and Cathe Tekakwitha also had a room on this floor; except for having two shelves and two beds, it was exactly the same as his.
He sat on the bed to pull on his boots, then stood up. He and the other Enterprise officers on duty here did not really need quarters on the planet; he could come and go from the starship just as easily as he could walk over to the library complex. But Uhura had agreed strongly with him that it was best to accept the offer of hospitality, as they had on the other planets they had visited. To refuse might seem insulting, and the Tyrtaeans had seemed especially insistent. Perhaps, Uhura had surmised, the offer of a place to stay was also one of the few ways that the Tyrtaeans could demonstrate some friendliness.
“And there’s another thing,” the lieutenant had continued. “Have you noticed how it’s almost always Myra Coles who deals with us, while Aristocles Marcelli keeps his distance? Cathe Tekakwitha says that whenever she has to work with him, he says as little as possible—hours can go by with hardly a word. Apparently a lot of his political backing comes from those who are hostile to the Federation, who think that they might be better off on their own.”
“So what do you conclude?” Kirk asked.
“I suspect Coles is keeping the lid on.”
Kirk knew of the separatists, and had endured an unpleasant encounter with a Tyrtaean data retrieval specialist whose son was a cadet at Starfleet Academy. Kirk had uttered some pleasantries about the respect the few Tyrtaeans serving in Starfleet had won for themselves during the short time their world had been a Federation member; the Tyrtaean man had scowled at him. “He didn’t go with my approval, James Kirk,” the man had replied, “and if he ever comes back here, I won’t see him. Those young people go off, and once they’ve seen Earth and San Francisco, Tyrtaeus II and Callinus aren’t good enough for them. Either they come back with a lot of impractical notions they picked up from other people, or they don’t come back at all. That’s one reason I think the anti-Federationists are right.”
“Coles,” Uhura went on, “may share a lot of her people’s insularity, but she seems adamant about not leaving the Federation. She’s probably the closest thing to an ally we have here.”
“Which isn’t saying much,” Kirk murmured.
“I think she’s trying, Captain. In any case, Marcelli seems ready to exploit any distrust of us that exists. That makes it even more important to be amenable to any suggestions Coles makes, and to accept all forms of hospitality. She needs all the help she can get.”
Nonetheless, Kirk had diplomatically pointed out to Myra Coles that he did not want to put her people to any trouble, and that he and his crew could easily beam back and forth from the Enterprise. “And be dependent on the transporter?” she had replied, lifting a brow in the way Spock often did. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“We all have to depend on the transporter,” Kirk had said.
“What if there’s a malfunction? What if some glitch keeps you and your people from beaming back here?” Her voice had risen slightly, and he had reminded himself how unused to transporters these people were. To allow one’s body to be converted into matter and beamed to a distant point was not something that came easily to Tyrtaeans; it required too much trust and dependence. “It might only delay the completion of your work here by a few hours or days while the transporter’s repaired, but every day counts now,” the Tyrtaean leader said more softly. “We must have our data base up and running as soon as possible.”
He could not argue with that, accepting that restoring the data base quickly was the political achievement she needed most; but he had beamed back to the Enterprise on the sly a few times already. Sometimes, after a day spent in the company of Tyrtaeans, he just needed to see some smiling faces, and to unwind without having to worry that any friendly gesture might give offense. Of much more concern was the fact that Spock had become very curious about the enigmatic object that was moving toward the Tyrtaean sun. Kirk had begun to worry more about the object himself, even while trying to concentrate on the work of this mission; any unknown had to be regarded as a possible danger. It was already an important find; how important or dangerous waited to be determined.
Lieutenant Uhura and Ensign Tekakwitha would already be at the library. Kirk left his room and took the lift down to the small lobby. As usual, it was empty, and for good reason. It contained no furniture, as if the hostel’s management wanted to make sure that no one would be tempted to loiter there. He reminded himself that he and his crew would not be on Tyrtaeus II much longer, a week or two more at most. Enduring oddities, irritations, and what seemed to be lapses in taste, would soon come to an end. Compared to some of their missions, this one could almost qualify as a vacation; he might as well take advantage of that.
The weather, as usual, was clear and dry, the air clean and cool. The Tyrtaeans certainly could not complain about their climate, Kirk thought. People strode through the square, backs stiff, eyes gazing straight ahead. Tyrtaeans moved as if they had no time to waste and knew exactly where they were going; he had never seen anyone wandering aimlessly, and even the children he saw on their way to classes had purposeful looks on their faces.
Kirk nodded in greeting, as he always did, to the people who passed him in the square. Most of the Tyrtaeans ignored him, but two men and a woman nodded back, and two boys hurrying past actually dared to smile.
As he approached the library, he thought again of Myra Coles. It was rare to meet a woman so unconscious of her own beauty—so much so that he did not have to fear that any graceful compliments or friendly gestures on his part might offend her, because she simply ignored them. She never let down her guard, even when he gave her his undivided attention, but he wondered if she might be a woman with banked fires. She seemed more at ease in the company of Wellesley Warren; a truly cold person would not have chosen that congenial young man as an aide.
There was no place to eat at the hostel, but the Tyrtaeans had set up food slots in a small room next to the library gallery for the Enterprise personnel and any Tyrtaeans working with them. Kirk helped himself to a late breakfast of a hot, brown beverage that smelled of chicory and a bowl filled with a substance that resembled gruel. McCoy was just getting up from a table with Wellesley Warren; the doctor muttered something under his breath and Warren laughed. The two men clearly got along; Kirk had often seen them together.
“How’s it going, Bones?” Kirk asked.
“My job’s done,” McCoy replied. “I’m going over to the Administrative Center to meet with some physicians, but that’s mostly to see if they’ve got any more local medical lore that I should know about.”
“And we’ve found those two journals by early settlers we thought were lost,” Warren said. “An old woman in Teresis—that’s a town near here—has copies. Myra sent me a message about it this morning.”
“Glad to hear it,” Kirk said.
“You and your people won’t have to stay here much longer. Still, we’ll be sorry to see you go.”
Kirk doubted very much that most of the Tyrtaeans would be sorry to see him and his crew leave, but it was courteous of the man to say so. “We’ll have to pay you a return visit sometime,” Kirk replied, just to be polite.
There had been many times, he told himself as he sat down, when it had been a struggle to keep himself from making a humorous remark that he knew the Tyrtaeans would take seriously. Dealing with such somber, earnest people, taking care not to insult them with remarks that might seem flippant to them while reminding himself that their blunt speech and expressionless stares were not intended as rudeness—he had been tempted to order Lieutenant Riley to beam down just to see how the Tyrtaeans would react to his sprightly and irrepressible personality. The overwhelming conclusion he had drawn about the Tyrtaeans was that they just didn’t have to be the way they were, but persisted in their ways out of sheer stubbornness.
Uhura and Cathe Tekakwitha came into the room; the lieutenant nodded at him. The two women helped themselves to cups of the chicoryflavored beverage, then came over to his table.
“Good news, Captain,” Uhura said as she sat down. “We’re just about finished installing the subspace communications components. We’ve already started running tests, and we should be ready for the incoming subspace download this afternoon.”
Kirk heard the note of relief in her voice, and said, “Then our job’s nearly done.”
“Yes.” Uhura sighed. “I’ll be glad when this mission is over. I certainly don’t intend to offer any more musical performances before we leave.”
“Musical performances?” Kirk asked.
“Two evenings ago,” Tekakwitha said, “a group of us were walking back to the hostel, and we decided to stop for a drink at Redann’s Tavern. Then somebody—I think it was Ensign Marais—said that what we needed was some music.”
“So I went across the square to the hostel,” Uhura said, “to get my Vulcan harp, and when I went back to the tavern and started to play—” She paused, looking exasperated. “I never saw such icy stares. Believe me, I didn’t play for very long. It wasn’t that anyone was complaining—they just stared at me without reacting at all.”
“Wellesley Warren was with us,” Tekakwitha said, “and two other Tyrtaeans.” She shook back her long, black hair. “They assured us that Lieutenant Uhura wasn’t doing anything offensive—in fact, they seemed as anxious to hear her play and sing as our crewmates were. Wellesley was very apologetic—said that people here just aren’t used to hearing music in a tavern.”
“Imagine not knowing what to make of music in a tavern,” Uhura murmured.
“I sympathize,” Kirk said with a smile. “I’ve had Myra Coles and aides of Aristocles Marcelli complaining at me one minute for any delays, and then muttering about their resentment at needing our help at all.”
“Tyrtaeans are obsessively self-reliant,” Tekakwitha said, “and controlling. They almost make a fetish of it.”
“I suppose that’s better than being weak and cowardly,” Kirk said.
Tekakwitha smiled. “I keep reminding myself that their ways aren’t our ways, and that we have to respect that. And Federation colonies have to be insular in order to develop their own cultures. When they’re more secure, they’ll reach out. The Federation’s strength is in its diversity, and we may have great need of Tyrtaean mores in time, what they’ve developed in their isolation from other cultures—that quality they have of acting as if they have to stand up to whatever the universe throws at them.”
Kirk nodded. The ensign was not just speaking as an anthropologist, he knew, but as a Mohawk. Her own people had needed time to relearn their old language and practice their customs apart from the white European culture that had nearly overwhelmed them, and they were stronger for having withdrawn for a period. Too bad that the Tyrtaeans had to be so dull and dogged about it.
“Maybe you should have kept Mr. Spock down here,” Uhura said. “The Tyrtaeans might have found his manner more to their liking.”
Kirk was not so sure. Many of the Tyrtaeans might have found Spock extremely irritating after a while, a reminder that they, for all their restraint, could never be as controlled as a Vulcan. Spock had also implied that, for all their Spartan customs and behavior, he found the Tyrtaeans quite illogical for harping on the need for self-reliance when they so clearly needed Starfleet’s help. Resentment of the Federation for an unforeseen, accidental error seemed equally illogical to him. Sensing that Spock might prove to be more of an irritant than a balm to the people here, and knowing how curious he was about the object coming in from the outer solar system, Kirk had decided it was best to leave him in charge of the Enterprise.
Uhura took another sip from her cup, then set it down. “Well, back to work.” As she got to her feet, Kirk’s communicator sounded. He pulled it from his belt and flipped it open. “Kirk here.”
“Captain,” Spock’s voice said, “I have important news.” Uhura sat down again; Tekakwitha leaned forward. “The unknown object is still on a course for the sun. Our most recent scan indicates that there are life-forms aboard. They have not responded to any of the standard hailing frequencies. If the object continues on its present course, it seems likely that any life-forms aboard will perish.”
“Does it show any sign of changing course?” Kirk asked.
“None, Captain. I suspect that if there is intelligence aboard, it may have lost control of its vessel. Or it may be deliberately aiming for the sun—for what reason, I cannot conjecture. The object is too distant for us to do deep scans.”
“We’re just about finished here,” Kirk said, feeling a twinge of apprehension. “It’s time we took a closer look at this curiosity. I know it’s been working on your mind.”
“It is most intriguing.”
“Any ideas of what it might be?”
“I would rather not speculate,” Spock said. “There is a much better way.”
“And what is that?” Kirk asked, instantly realizing that he wasn’t thinking, that he already knew the answer to his question.
“To go and see,” Spock said.
Uhura laughed softly. “Obviously,” Kirk replied irritably. He was in no mood for Spock’s version of a witticism.
“Not obviously, Captain,” Spock said. “I have seen too many human beings, both past and present, who seem to prefer guessing to learning.”
Kirk did not take the bait. “Guessing games are not on the agenda today, Mr. Spock. Prepare to investigate the object. Kirk out.” His communicator closed with a satisfying snap. He could hardly wait to be done repairing planetary data bases. Necessary as the mission was, it had gone on long enough; it was putting him to sleep. A real challenge was just what he needed now.