“Good. I’ll put it on ship’s news.”
Lindy whistled and Athene trotted to her side.
“Jim, can you ride?”
“Sure. Iowa farm boy, you know.”
“Would you like to ride Athene?”
Jim had not been on a horse since the last summer he spent on the farm. Winona kept a small herd of Shires as part of an endangered domestic species preservation project. Jim and Sam used to ride Earthquake and Tsunami all over the countryside, swimming in the lake, even fishing in the river. The broad back of a Shire draft horse made a comfortable resting place on a hot, lazy afternoon. The gray-dappled horses stood in sun-dappled water, chest-deep, dozing, splashing droplets up from the surface with their slowly swishing tails.
Jim flexed his hand, where the scabbed-over cat scratches stung. I haven’t had much luck so far with the animals on this ship, he thought.
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to ride Athene.”
“Come on, I’ll give you a leg up. Just slide your knees under her wings.” She laced her fingers together, cupped her hands where a stirrup would be if Athene were wearing a saddle, and tossed Jim easily onto Athene’s back.
[201] Jim felt the muscles of the equiraptor tense beneath him; he thought for a moment she might bolt, but Lindy laid one hand lightly on her neck and urged her into a walk.
Athene had a lively, rolling, bouncy gait. Earthquake, Jim’s Shire, had a deliberate and powerful step. He had been about three times Athene’s mass and four hands taller, over two meters tall at the withers.
Instead of getting in the way, Athene’s wings acted like the kneepads of a jumping saddle. Jim was glad of something to brace against, for Athene’s balance was completely different from any horse he had ever been on.
The equiraptor jogged in a circle around Lindy. Jim held on with his knees and touched his heel to her side. She leaped into a canter, nearly unseating him. He grabbed for her mane. She slid to a stop and he nearly pitched over her head.
“That’s okay—try it again. Subtle, remember.”
Jim squeezed his legs gently against her sides: walk, jog, canter. Growing more comfortable, he relaxed into her gait.
“You look wonderful!” Lindy said. “Born to the saddle.”
His knee twinged, but he was having too much fun to quit. So, he thought, why not give the knee a rest?
Jim put one hand on either side of Athene’s withers. Then he hesitated, thinking, I may be about to make the universe’s biggest fool of myself ...
“Nice and steady, Athene,” he said, more for his own reassurance than in a serious hope that she understood.
He pushed himself up so he was kneeling on her back. Again he paused, accustoming his balance to the bouncy canter. He could see a rim of white around her gray eye; and her ears swiveled nervously. Jim bent forward, braced his shoulder against her neck, and pushed off with his feet.
He balanced precariously in a shoulder stand, upside down, wing feathers tickling his face, as Athene cantered in a steady circle.
Jim let himself down. Athene slowed to a trot, a walk, a halt.
“That was fantastic! How did you do it?”
Jim rubbed his shoulder. “I wasn’t sure I remembered how. It’s been a good long time since I did it.”
“Will you teach me?”
[202] “If you like.” He plunged ahead. “Lindy, can I show you something? Something about the Enterprise?”
“Sure.”
The turbo-lift carried them from the shuttlecraft deck to the main body of the ship. The door of the arboretum slid open. They stepped into its dense, damp warmth.
Lindy let out her breath in surprise.
Someone with a considerable aesthetic sense had arranged the area, for though the plants that grew side by side came from many worlds, in combination they harmonized. Here the familiar shape of a small apple tree accentuated the curious bulk of a Deltan stone cactus; a Vulcan ground creeper, its growth accelerated by the relatively unlimited supply of water, blossomed all over in great blue flowers. On Vulcan it flowered perhaps once every hundred years.
“This is incredible,” Lindy said.
“It isn’t easy, getting this many different species to grow together,” Jim said. He knew some of the problems from Sam and Winona’s work with alien species. “It takes a lot of juggling microenvironments. In some ways it’s even harder than getting people from different cultures—different worlds—to get along.”
“At least with people you can get them to talk to each other,” Lindy said.
“Some of them. Some of the time.”
They walked along the path, passing beneath drooping giant ferns, under a thick sprawl-branched conifer. Feathery vines covered the ground with a springy tangle. The heavy, humid air made everything damp. Jim thought about walking hand in hand with Lindy, but he was not quite ready to reach out to her, to risk rejection ... or acceptance.
The trail narrowed and turned. Jim led Lindy in a different direction, off the path entirely. He listened hard and kept an eye out for signs that others had passed recently. He did not want to startle anyone by coming upon them unaware. He heard no voices except his and Lindy’s. They were alone.
“How big is this place?”
“Smaller than it looks—smaller than the shuttlecraft deck. But you can’t see its sides because of all the trees, so it looks bigger.”
“Where are we going?”
[203] “That’s a surprise.”
He saw the spot just ahead. In it, even terran trees looked alien, for their branches grew in strange and unexpected directions. Jim led Lindy to the edge of the clearing. Tree branches almost completely surrounded a spherical space five or six meters in diameter.
Jim launched himself into the empty space. He glided through the null-grav point, plucked a branch of dark purple lilac as he somersaulted at the far edge, and kicked off toward Lindy again. He judged it perfectly, coming to a halt an arm’s length from her, still floating in zero g. He presented the lilac to her.
“Jim ... thank you.” The lilac had formed a spherical bloom in null-grav, rather than its usual tapering spray. Lindy breathed its deep fragrance.
“This is one of those gravity anomalies I told you about. Want to try it? Move slowly at first—it takes a little while to get used to the feeling.” He wondered suddenly if he had made an awful mistake, for many people found their first few minutes in freefall not exhilarating but nauseating. And some people never got used to it at all.
Lindy stepped off into zero g, giving herself a push and a twist at the same time. She tucked her head and drew up her knees and spun like a diver, then stretched out her body to slow the spin. After three revolutions the friction of the air brought her to a halt.
“It’s like being on the trapeze, only better!” she said. She drifted to the far side of the sphere, touched a branch, and pushed off toward Jim.
He met her, caught her hands, and spun with her around their mutual center of gravity. She ducked away, slipped around him as if they were swimming, caught a branch at the far side of the clearing, and brought herself to a halt. She laughed. Gazing at her, Jim let himself float free.
“Say, Jim?” Lindy said tentatively.
“Yes?” Jim heard the questioning tone in her voice, and his heart beat harder.
“What do you do when ...” she hesitated. “When you feel close to somebody you work with? I mean when you want to feel close, but ...” She blew out her breath in frustration. “You know what I mean.”
[204] He hoped he did, but he was not certain.
“That depends,” he said. “I think it’s generally a bad idea to get emotionally involved with subordinates—”
“But there aren’t any subordinates in the company.”
“—but if it were someone outside your own hierarchy ...” He stopped when what she had said got through to him. “In the company?” he said lamely.
“Yeah.” Lindy shrugged, looking sheepish. “This never hap
pened to me before. I mean, sure, when I was a kid, I made a fool of myself with the occasional bout of puppy love, and later, if we stayed in one place long enough, once in a while I’d meet someone.” She grinned. “And sometimes I have the urge to tackle Marcellin around the knees, but he’s awfully elusive, he never lets anyone very close.”
“Lindy,” Jim said, feeling confused, “you’re going to have to be a little clearer about what exactly it is that you’re asking me.”
“I think,” she said, “that I’m falling in love with Stephen.”
“Stephen!” Jim felt a quick flash of jealousy, jealousy he knew he had no right to, then a rush of envy, and finally disbelief. “Stephen! Lindy—I don’t care how elusive Marcellin is. A Vulcan will make him look demonstrative.”
“Not Stephen,” she said. “He’s different.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But Mr. Spock says he seeks out emotional experiences. Maybe you’re ... just another emotional experience to him.”
“That’s not fair!” she said. “I said I’m falling in love with him—I don’t know if he ... I’ve been trying to decide whether to say anything to him.”
Jim felt rejected, without even the comfort of having had a chance to be accepted. He started to say something to Lindy about his own feelings, but his pride silenced him. Trying to think of something else to say, he fell back on ethics.
“It can get difficult,” he said. “You are manager, after all, with responsibility and authority the others don’t have. If Stephen reciprocates your feelings, you’ll have to be sure not to show favoritism. If he doesn’t, you’ll have to be careful not to use your position against him—”
“I wouldn’t!” she said, shocked and offended.
“—and if you get together, then break up, that’s the most complicated of all.” He wished she would accuse him of [205] trying out of jealousy to deflect her feelings for Stephen. At least then she would be acknowledging that he had feelings for her. At least she would have noticed.
Lindy nodded thoughtfully. “I see what you mean.”
So do I, Jim thought gloomily. Now that I’ve given Lindy a lecture on how to behave if you’re turned down, I’m going to have to see if I can follow my own advice.
Lindy looked at him and smiled. “Thanks, Jim. I’m grateful for your advice. You’re so easy to talk to. I feel a lot better.”
Jim felt a lot more depressed.
Chapter 9
THE SMALL THEATER on the recreation deck was nearly full. Jim tried to accept his reserved front-row seat as a courtesy, but he felt on display.
The rustle and hum of conversation increased. Jim made out disconnected bits: expectation, laughter, curiosity.
Commander Spock entered the auditorium. The shadows accentuated the angular planes of his face.
He took the seat beside Jim’s that had been reserved for him. He sat straight and stiff, his hands resting on his thighs, his expression one of studied neutrality. Jim glanced at him quizzically.
“Commander Spock.”
“Captain.”
“I didn’t know Vulcans went in for frivolous entertainments.”
Spock arched his eyebrow. “I was under the impression, captain,” he said, “that you had issued an order to attend.”
“What? Certainly not. Where did you get that idea?”
“From your announcement, captain.”
Jim thought back over his wording. He had not ordered anyone to attend. Neither had he thought to specify that attendance was optional. He had to remember that the officers and crew needed time to become familiar with him. They might all assume, as had Janice Rand, that he was a martinet who expected them to treat his most subtle hints, his offhand whims, as unbreakable orders.
“Commander Spock, when I give a direct order, I’ll make it clear that it’s a direct order.”
[207] “Very well, captain.”
Spock remained in his seat.
“That means you don’t have to stay,” Jim said.
“Is that a direct order, sir?”
“No, it is not a direct order.”
“In that case, I will remain. I am most curious about Ms. Lukarian’s profession. Perhaps I misjudged her character. I wish to observe her performance.”
“By all means, then, observe.”
“Thank you, captain.” Mr. Spock glanced around the theater. “Though I would prefer to have been assigned a seat in the back. That way, I could observe both the performers and the audience.”
“Why don’t you relax, Mr. Spock?” Jim said. “You can observe the audience at the second show.”
If Spock realized Jim had made a joke, he gave no sign of it. “An excellent suggestion,” he said. “Humans have so many quaint and contradictory beliefs. It is interesting to observe them under unusual conditions. Are you aware, captain, that branches of the Flat Earth Society have sprung up on several worlds colonized by human beings?”
“No, I wasn’t aware of that.” Jim wondered if Spock were pulling his leg, but that seemed rather out of character. “But I don’t see how you can equate a vaudeville show with believing that the earth is flat.”
“Not the show itself—the magic. Magic has been used to defraud, to engender a belief in the supernatural—”
“Mr. Spock,” Jim said with some asperity, “this is an entertainment, not a conspiracy. Are you expecting Lindy’s company to set up a seance? To help you—for a suitable fee, of course—contact your dead great-aunt Matilda?”
The house lights flickered. The chatter faded. Spock regarded Jim with an expression very near a frown.
“How did you know, captain, that my mother’s deceased aunt was named Matilda?”
“I—” Jim started to say that he and half the other adult human beings he knew had a great-aunt named Matilda; it had been a very popular name two generations before. Instead, he grinned. “Psychic, I guess.”
The house lights flickered again. The audience settled.
As the house lights faded to darkness, and Jim waited for [208] Lindy to come onstage, he explored his feelings about her. He had lectured her on ethics; now he would have to find out if he could follow his own rules.
Since he had shown her the null-grav node, he had been busy; she had been busy. He had barely seen her: a wave at noon, across the mess hall. A pang of regret that her smile meant no more than “Hello, friend.” A flash of jealousy, instantly controlled, when he saw Stephen touch her hand.
Jim wished once more that he had never told her about Ghioghe, about those few dreadful minutes in the rescue pod. He felt that somehow, if he had not told her, her feelings about him would have been different.
She doesn’t need one more person to worry about, he thought. She needs someone steady, someone she knows she could lean on. Even if she never did, just knowing she could ...
And even if I never did, just knowing I could ...
But he knew that for him, there was no one to lean on.
It’s just as well, Jim decided. I’m glad I didn’t tell her how I feel. Even if I told her, even if she returned my feelings, it would have ended the same way things ended between me and Carol. I’m glad Lindy didn’t realize what I was trying to say to her.
Or maybe she did, he thought. Maybe she understood perfectly, but she didn’t want to love another person who would stay awhile, and then be gone.
A blue spotlight flashed on center stage.
Amelinda Lukarian—Lindy no longer—gazed out, silent, aloof, somber. She wore a silver suit glittering with multicolored highlights. Jim would have sworn the stage had been empty, even when the house lights dimmed. Amelinda had simply appeared—as if by magic. He wondered how she created the illusion.
You’re beginning to think like a Vulcan, Jim told himself. Take your own advice: sit back and enjoy the show.
“Honorable members of the crew of the starship Enterprise.” Onstage the magician’s voice took on a low and powerful timbre that sent an extra thrill down Jim’s spine. “Welcome to the
first interstellar performance of the Warp-Speed Classic Vaudeville Show. I am Amelinda, and I am a [209] magician. I will show you illusion—or I will show you a deeper reality. Only you can judge which it is.”
She plucked a glittering object from the air. The audience murmured in surprise. The transparent blue disk caught the light, concentrated it, and flung it out again.
“The people of Tau Ceti II possess great mineralogical expertise. They crystallize their currency from pure sapphire,” Amelinda said. “Jewels have transfixed the imagination of sentient beings since before history—but some would say that jewels have powers of their own, powers that transcend even the imagination.”
She held up the sapphire coin, grasped it with her other hand—and it disappeared.
“My daddy used to tell me, a fool and her money are soon parted,” Amelinda said. “But you know how aggravating children can be. I always replied—” She reached up and plucked another coin from nothingness.
Jim found himself applauding along with the rest of the audience, except, he noted, for Commander Spock.
Spock leaned forward, intent on the stage. Two narrow parallel furrows creased his brow. Then, as if he had become aware of Jim’s scrutiny, his forehead smoothed and his expression regained its impassivity.
The applause stopped. The audience waited expectantly.
“It is, of course,” Spock said in a normal tone of voice, “the same coin.”
Jim glanced sidelong at the commander. Amelinda hesitated so briefly that Jim was not certain she had heard.
“It came in handy, my ‘magic money,’ as my daddy used to call it,” Amelinda said, “when I was little. There was a bully in school who stole money from anyone smaller than him. Whenever he tried to steal mine, I made it disappear.”
She reached for the second coin; like the first, it vanished from her hand.
“The coin is still in her hand,” Spock said.
“Commander Spock!” Jim whispered.
“Yes, captain? No evidence of phaser or transporter dematerialization. Therefore, the coin must still be in her hand. Unless,” Spock said in a thoughtful tone, “it was a holographic illusion.”
STAR TREK: TOS - Enterprise, The First Adventure Page 23
