ACADEMY DAYS

FINAL YEAR

By Jackie Stone

(Reprinted with permission of the author)

 

There were not many families assembled around the huge square on the big day. Few fond mamas with tears in their eyes; a mere smattering of proud papas, with or without the tears. Most of the erstwhile tearful onlookers were busily engaged in their own careers, many, in fact, in Starfleet, and could not take, or were not granted, the necessary free time to make the journey to the godforsaken blob on which was situated Starfleet Academy.

Some parents were there. Unfortunately, so few as to render their offspring profoundly embarrassed at their respective progenitors' fond, and tearful, attendance. A pity, since many of the families had come specifically to avoid such embarrassment. "It would be such a pity if everyone else's families were there...."

"Yes, mother, but...."

"It's no trouble at all, dear. We'd love to come and watch you fall out."

"Pass out, mother."

"Oh, yes."

No, the cadets outnumbered the onlookers. They stood on the great square in serried, glistening, immaculate, uniformed and uniform ranks, ignoring through long practice the itching shoulder-blade, the crick in the neck, the tickling throat, and even the waving mother. Boots gleamed, emblems shone, and the bright, white dress uniforms clamped around their necks in a final, spiteful, strangling revenge. This may well be the day for which and towards which they had worked and strived for up to eight years, but, even now, the Academy was assuredly not going to make it easy for them.

Spock had trained and practiced too. He was able to count out the minutes until he could take off his polished boots, consign them to the bottom of a trunk, and put on something more

comfortable, and so some solace was derived from that prospect. He was easily able to overcome any discomfort from the long, long parade, and had time for silent sympathy for Graham, standing in front of him with a fly perched on his left ear. He had no parents watching him, of course, though the only other Vulcan to have survived the course, Selek, had a modest contingent in tow, and this afforded him some illogical but nevertheless real anxiety. They would know who he was.

They may report back.

Spock felt exposed to view, and yearned for the whole affair to end. The big day.

The climax of the Academy career.

The Passing Out Parade.

The first day of the rest of his life, someone had quoted merrily that morning over breakfast, and, trite though the phrase was, it had stayed in his mind and pushed stray thoughts and reflections here and there during the course of the day. Odd, that the Academy itself had held such fears and challenges for him when he had first arrived, five years before, and he now wondered whether, in those long ago days of agony and decisions, he had in fact ever thought beyond the Academy. The very achievement of acceptance and entry had been object enough. Subsequent "objects" had presented themselves, and each was reached and attained and marked by his own private triumph. But the future had always stretched out endlessly ahead of him, and plans could be made from the cozy standpoint of their being academic considerations only. The future would not come for ages and ages.

But it had. Spock and the other cadets had woken up to the beginning of the Final Year, with all their accumulated knowledge of just how fast a Year could fly. There was the future. Right in front of their noses.

The passing eavesdropper in the common-rooms and Dining Halls could frequently be privy to rambling discussions on the subjects of aims, ambitions, fears; warnings about dead-end posts from Final Year cadets who already knew it all; self-conscious disputes regarding the relative ease of promotion within the anthropological and geological fields as opposed to the "hard" sciences; simple and joyous anticipation of discoveries and adventures to come. All had their dreams of fame and fortune, though not all had the confidence to proclaim them. Paul, for instance, knew that he would make Captain. Of that group which was left in the Final Year, some of whom had been together since the First Year, some of whom had joined along the way, he was the only one who knew without any doubt that Starship Captain was his goal.

"You can't be so sure," Ham snapped, peevishly, raising his head from his intent scrutiny of the pieces of communicator which lay spread out on the clip-board on his lap. "I don't know how come you're always so bloody sure. You haven't finished the Year yet, never mind going on. Anything might happen."

"It won't," said Paul serenely. He was unperturbed by Ham's tone and, besides, it was an old, familiar argument. "I reckon I've got more of a chance of getting there than you have of putting that communicator back together." And, at Ham's answering snort, he went on, "Why did you take it apart, anyway?"

Ham snorted again, which was all the reply Paul had expected. He stretched a little, so that his booted feet took up even more of the common-room table, and leaned his head back in his chair. "What shall we do?" he asked of no-one in particular, as he stared at the ceiling.

No-one in particular replied, which was, again, all that he had expected. The question was generally asked about five or six times before anyone ever bothered to suggest anything - it just happened that he was the first that evening to come out with it.

"No really," said Quentin. "It's okay being confident, but you just can't say 'You're going to be Captain,' just like that. I mean...." He waved an arm in the air.

"Someone's got to," Paul said to the ceiling.

"Yeah, okay, someone's got to, but there's not many of them, and a hell of a lot of us. I mean, think of the odds.... Hey Spock, what are the odds against Paul being a Captain?"

Spock drew breath.

"I don't care what the odds are," said Paul, swinging his legs down to the floor and leaning forward with a cheerful grin.

Spock breathed out.

"I just will. You might even serve on my ship if you're lucky. Spock, you'd like to serve on my ship, wouldn't you." He turned to the Vulcan, his grin becoming more of a smile as he did so, while Quentin hooted derisively and Ham snorted again.

"Spock wouldn't serve on your ship," said Ham over his communicator components, which seemed to have multiplied during the course of the conversation. "He'll be too busy building computers to run ships so well they don't need jerks like you anymore. Eh, Spock?"

"Why don't you put that bit on there?" Alex augmented his suggestion by nudging a piece of Ham's communicator circuit towards a connection with the tip of his forefinger.

"I just got it off there. That's what was wrong." Ham's exasperation was now tinged with an unmistakable hint of anxiety. He turned to Spock. "What's the time?"

"It's no use hinting," said Alex. "You took it apart."

"Why did you take it apart?" asked Paul.

"What shall we do?" asked Quentin.

A silence fell, briefly, except for the sound of Ham's breathing. "Will you guys stop staring at me!" he shouted.

"I'm not staring at you," said Alex. "I’m just looking. Why don't you...."

"No!" Silence fell again.

"I think," Paul's voice broke in, "that we should go over to Jennie's Bar and get drunk."

"Takes ages."

"Sevvie's got a car and he's going."

"It's out of bounds."

"All the better."

"Some Captain."

"Sevvie's a bit of a pain."

"Don't have to stay with him."

"How do we get back?"

"We stay with him then, you jerk."

"Okay." It was Quentin who had spoken last, but no-one demurred. "When's he going?"

"Ah... about 20.00 hours, " said Paul.

"What? Oh no. What about this?" Stress had turned Ham's voice shrill.

"Why don't you leave it 'til tomorrow, Ham," said Alex, pushing himself to his feet.

"I can't. It's Prof. Weatherall's. He's expecting it back by class tomorrow."

There was another silence. Alex sat down again.

"Ham," Paul began.

"Don't ask," said Ham, tightly.

"Ham."

It was Spock's first verbal contribution, despite the fact that he'd been included in almost every other remark or inference of the others, and all eyes turned towards him, one pair mournful, and the rest intrigued.

"Yeah?"

Spock looked at the communicator pieces, and then back at Ham. One eyebrow moved.

Paul chuckled delightedly, and Ham's features slowly began to relax.

"I suggest," said Spock in his usual quiet manner, "that you go and get drunk," and he reached for the board with the bits.

Ham's gruff expression transformed itself into a relieved and sheepish grin, and he surrendered the board with inarticulate noises of gratitude.

"Spock, you shouldn't always bail him out," reproved Alex, on his feet once more with his hands thrust into the pockets of his over-jacket.

"He doesn't," Ham denied indignantly. "It's usually you. You ready, Quen?"

The group began to move away from the table, on which Spock was already clearing a space for all the communicator pieces. Paul turned to him before leaving with the others. "Are you going to Weatherall's class in the morning?"

Spock shook his head.

"Neither am I. He's only going over the Hellinger Principles again, isn't he. D'you wanna come over and dig me out, and we could finish off those tests? And I can show you that book my brother sent me, with the poems. I'd like to know what you think of them, especially a couple at the end....'

"Hey, Captain! We'll miss the car."

"Okay." He turned back to Spock, who had not paused from his work on the already diminishing pile of communicator components. The Vulcan nodded, still working. "Yes, I would like to see them. What time?"

"Oh.... any time. Just come in. I won't be awake."

"I know."

Paul grinned, and turned away with a wave. "Seeya tomorrow."

Spock nodded again, looking up and meeting Paul's eyes briefly. "Enjoy yourself," he said.

"Yup. Bye." He walked off to join the others. "Bye, Spock," called Alex and Ham in unison, and Quentin flapped a hand, and then the group surged out of the door. Captain Tachyer and his merry crew.

He would be. In time. Spock was as sure of it as Paul himself, although he had never said so. He had always told Paul that he found it wasteful to deal in speculation, and Paul would generally reply to the effect that he did too but that this wasn't speculating. Paul had been the first of the cadets to cease to be daunted by the Vulcan's highly individual speech patterns and mannerisms. It was partly indeed through their watching Paul that they realised that looks couldn't kill - not even Spock's. Having passed that hurdle, they took Spock unto themselves, and he became their universal collaborator, buddy, punch-bag, mentor, and anything else they wanted him to be. All without moving his lips, as Alex once remarked in a moment of unusual perception, but Spock did not know what he meant. They asked his advice on a multitude of differing subjects, and never seemed to notice that he seldom, if ever, gave it. In fact, he hardly spoke at all in a group, and on the rare occasions on which he did utter, his every word was hung upon by one and all, and weighed seriously and carefully.

Paul was without question their leader, despite their continual ribbing of his continual self-affirmation. But they were all, Paul included, aware that they were unlikely to meet anyone to match the Vulcan in intellect, and his devastating abilities in the classroom and exam room set him on a pinnacle from which he was expected to be able to guide and advise on any and every subject. Had he paid this phenomenon any attention, he might have suffered considerable anxiety under the weight of so much responsibility for his comrades' welfare. As it was, they asked advice, he didn't give it, and they thanked him profusely and went away to do, or see or say what they'd intended in the first place. Since he hardly ever said anything, it would have been difficult for him to have said anything wrong. The net result was that, by the Final Year, he had accumulated a group of staunch and protective admirers who all thought that they knew him but weren't quite sure, and who all knew that they would miss him a great deal when the Year ended.

All without moving his lips.

Not that he was completely infallible. Admittedly, his mistakes were rare enough to be regarded as curiosities in themselves, but when he did make a mistake it was a notable one.

On the other hand, as he later maintained to himself (not to the others - nothing would have persuaded him to defend himself to the others) the mishap with the computer on the training ship was not really a mistake. The only "mistake", if he could be said to have made one at all, was to have allowed himself to be pushed into action before he had fully prepared his ground. He had taken to Paul's idea immediately. After the initial excitement and novelty of actually being out in Space had died down, the simple manoeuvres the cadets had been called upon to perform had been little different to the simulator mock-ups, and Paul's active mind was searching for diversion after only four days out.

Spock was the obvious choice of co-conspirator; he had the knowledge to put Paul's scheme into action, and a cool nerve and dead-pan face which would not give the game away. He immediately confirmed that, yes, it would be possible to re-route the helm through the computer station, and yes, he could do it in approximately four point one minutes, provided he was not interrupted. He would need about two days to go through the initial groundwork as the subtleties of the system were unfamiliar.... But Paul insisted that it would have to be done by the end of next day's second watch because after that they'd be approaching Starbase 8 and every tutor on the ship would have his or her eyes glued to the controls.

That was Spock's mistake - allowing himself to be hurried. If he'd been given the time he'd needed, he would have found out the easy way that the computer had been rigged to send the ship into ever decreasing figures of eight if helm control were tampered with.

"For God's sake, Spock," hissed Paul, visions of his glittering career slipping away before it had even begun. "You've got to stop it, man!"

"I am endeavouring to do just that," replied Spock in those cool, dead-pan tones which doubled Paul's risk of heart failure in their apparent absolute lack of urgency.

"I thought you said you knew everything about computers."

"You said that - not I. Now let me get on." Paul was shocked into silence by the unexpectedly peremptory tone. Perhaps Spock had been looking forward to a glittering career too. He paced helplessly, his nails digging into the palms of his hands.

"Isn't there anything I can do?"

"No."

He carried on pacing, and nearly paced headlong into Dr. Svenson, who had noiselessly materialised from a darkened corner of the room.

"Spock."

Something in Paul's tone told the Vulcan that this was not just another futile urgency signal, and he wriggled backwards on his stomach until he could twist his head round from under the consol.

He then put his head back under the consol and began composing the message to his father. Of course, he would not go home again, but vestiges of personal pride and loyalty to the Clan indicated that some justification ought to be offered. Meanwhile, he could probably find employment on one of the new colonies in....

"Mr. Spock."

Spock lay a few seconds longer, his eyes closed. Then he crawled backwards again, climbed carefully to his feet, dusted down the front of his trouser legs, flicked a couple of smuts from his tunic sleeve, and then turned around. He waited, like Paul, bolt upright, hands behind his back and eyes fixed on a corner of the ceiling.

"Who's idea was this?"

"Mine, sir," replied the cadets in perfect unison.

Dr. Svenson smiled even more broadly at this, and let them stew a few agonising moments more in the horrible silence.

"Gentlemen," he said at length. "There are several lessons to be drawn from this."

Neither of the cadets twitched so much as an eyelid. He was really quite proud of them.

"Mr. Tachyer."

"Sir!"

"For goodness' sake," pleaded Dr. Svenson in friendly, reasonable tones. "Work out your true objectives and then PLAN, man! Plan your strategy around your objectives. If the objectives are found wanting, drop the plan. If the plan has any weaknesses, don't just ignore them. Your enemy won't. Mr. Spock."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm surprised at you."

He paused, and the Vulcan stood like a rock in his intent scrutiny of the corner of the ceiling.

"You should have worked out that jury rigging in your sleep."

Afterwards, Dr. Svenson always insisted that he was the first and only member of the Academy staff to elicit a genuine, spontaneous response from the Vulcan. Even if the response was just a widening of the eyes. He dined out on the story for quite a while.

"Mr. Spock, don't ever let anyone, and I mean not even your superior officer if you have any alternative at all, not anyone, force you to act against your better judgement. Your judgement is exceptional, and your knowledge and abilities are great gifts. Use them.

"I'll leave the two of you to work out the rest of the lessons in a two thousand word written summary which I will want by the end of tomorrow. But I will leave you with the most important one; never underestimate your opponent.

"As you were, gentlemen."

He turned, and left the room.

"You owe me twenty credits, Baker," he said, as he entered the rec room which served on the training ship as a staff room.

"He was involved?"

"I told you," said Svenson in gleeful tones as he poured himself a drink.

"Well, I won't pretend I'm not surprised. You've earned your money as far as I'm concerned. I mean... he's so... straight laced!" Baker's annoyance at being proved so wrong was being rapidly superseded by his astonishment.

"Nonsense! He's not straight laced. He just doesn't usually get tempted to break any rules. He doesn't need to. The rules suit him. But give him the incentive, and he'll do just what he likes, that one." Svenson plonked himself down into a chair, exuding self-satisfaction.

"Nah," scoffed Baker. "He hasn't got it in him to do it alone like that."

"He's just proved that he has! Now, Tachyer was the obvious one."

"Oh, he was a cert," joined Chamberlain in her usual clipped, abrupt manner. "But I'm surprised too. It's usually the more flamboyant ones who go for it. If Tachyer hadn't," she added, "I'd have kicked him off the course."

"And another thing," continued Baker eagerly. "You say Spock would go his own way given the incentive. Well, where was his incentive here? Practical jokes? Drawing attention to himself? As far as he knew, risking his whole career for a bit of fun? That doesn't sound like the Spock I know. By the way, did you find out what they were going to do?"

"No. It's usually the same sort of thing, isn't it. And I'd say his incentive was just curiosity. Scientific interest. He wanted to see if he could do it. My main surprise is that he didn't. I'm a bit disappointed in him there."

"No-one's ever cracked it before, Svenson. He's not that much of a wonder boy, is he?"

"Yes. He should have done it. Tachyer was the problem - pushed him into going too fast. Spock's still too easily led. But," Svenson sipped his drink thoughtfully, "he'll grow up in time."

"So," Chamberlain suggested, while she too helped herself at the drinks table, "you're waiting for him to grow up into a fully fledged totally independent genius, who's principle loyalties are only to himself, who'll tow the line as long as the line suits him, but who'll have the capability and the guts to go and do just what he wants when he wants."

"Exactly."

"And you think he will?"

"I do."

"And are we therefore going to pass him?"

"Yes."

"Do you want your brains tested?"

Svenson laughed.

"For goodness' sake, Svenson, think what he could do to Starfleet when he decides to turn against us."

"And look what he'll be able to do for us whilst he's with us! And he will stay with us! His whole background and his culture and his principles say he will." He paused for breath. "That man will never be an enemy of the Federation! The very worst that can happen will be that he'll just drop out, and go and hide at the top of a mountain, or... or bury himself underground somewhere with the computer of his choice. And, until he does, we have got ourselves quite an asset!" Svenson leaned back in his chair with a triumphant flourish. "So," he went on, "twenty credits, please!"

Baker's grin turned to a scowl, but then softened back into the semblance of a smile. "I'll tell you one thing," he said. "I'd give twice that to hear what they said after you'd gone out!"

They had not, in fact, said anything.

Spock was the first to move. He turned around, very gingerly, as though afraid that his bones might break at any sudden movement, walked slowly over to a bulkhead, and leaned against it. His movement was the signal for Paul to gradually unfreeze; he came to life, from his feet upwards, and ended by sitting heavily on the floor. There they stayed for while, until Paul looked slowly and blearily at his motionless companion.

"Spock." His voice was no more that a hoarse whisper.

Spock's head moved round to face him. In the half light, his eyes seemed to glitter. Paul swallowed hard, and spoke again.

"I need a drink."

The dark alien gaze stared back at him, unwavering.

"So do I."

***

He stared at the horizon over Graham's head as another class marched past in clattering and cracking unison. Spock detested marches. Watching and listening to them constituted, in his view, an offence. Taking part in them caused him a deep and mortal embarrassment, and this despite all his best efforts to persuade himself that there was no need for any embarrassment.

Every cadet had to march. No-one there would have reason to single him out and point and discuss the absurdity of his walking heavily up and down a large square of concrete in time to a tune which sounded to his ears like the efforts of the Dining Hall staff to clear away quickly after the third sitting. But it was no use. He had never been able to take part in a march without gritting his teeth. He knew that some people enjoyed the sound of them, but he found this impossible to understand, as several of those same people had also expressed an appreciation of music. Paul was one of them. And Helen.

Spock thought back as the marchers marched forward.

They had decided to put on a play, "they" being a handful of Final Years who felt more strongly than some the inexorable element of "last time" inherent in everything they did together. They had to do something to note the existence of the group at last before its extinction. They wanted a public declaration. And, because they were, of course, the best Year that the Academy had seen, it had to be the best production as well.

"Which shouldn't be difficult," said Helen Jenner, one of the self-elected committee, thinking back with a shudder to some of the abominations perpetrated in Number One Assembly Room in the name of Art.

So there began a long wrangle which plodded round and round the committee, out into the rest of the Year and round nearly everyone in it, and back to the committee again, over the question of Which Play. Oswald thought that they should write their own, and, by chance, he had the outline of one already written which they may like to peruse, but the idea, the offer and the play were politely, but swiftly, rejected. They then swept the Galaxy for suitable sources of inspiration, and here tempers became heated and accusations unpleasant, until the committee were forced to put out a joint statement threatening to cancel the whole project unless apologies were publicly offered. They were, and so it wasn't, but time was catching up with them and they had to make a decision. So, Helen asked everyone which playwrights they thought were better than Shakespeare, and only Oswald came up with anyone, and no-one had ever heard of Fdng anyway.

Shakespeare it was therefore, and they chose Romeo and Juliet, the excuse being that it accurately reflected the poignant mood of the break up of the Year. The committee went into conclave and emerged with a full and thorough allocation of all parts, roles and tasks involved in the production, which were read out in a general meeting of the Year, to the ready accompaniment of inebriated howls, hisses, jokes and raucous chuckles.

Only the leading roles were to be auditioned, by strict invitation only, and the minor roles and backstage jobs were allotted without room for debate. But there was little dissension, as the committee knew their people, and everyone was in the mood to enjoy themselves. Lighting was given to three people; Alex was among them, to his surprise and pleasure, and they immediately sought each other out in the crowd and went into a huddle over initial plans for special effects. Rhoda sat quite stunned at her invitation to audition for Juliet, and then stuck out her tongue at Lissor who was making rude remarks from the other side of the room. Paul, perched next to Spock on a window ledge at the back of the room, was delighted at his job of Senior Props, and he turned to Spock with the suggestion that they scour A Block the very next day for likely objects d'art. Spock was still listening to him when he heard, to his surprise, his own name read out by the committee. The noise level in the room lowered slightly in anticipation, and Spock shut his eyes and braced himself for the ribald remarks which would come as surely as night follows day to whatever suggestion the committee might make. "Spock," said Helen from the table top which was serving for this evening as a hastily rigged dais, "we'd like you to do the music."

Spock's eyes snapped open in surprise, and he stared at Helen in unconcealed astonishment. A Human would have said that he was flabbergasted, but Spock did not have such a word in his vocabulary. However, his flabbergastedness was not, apparently, shared by the Humans in the room who, after an uncanny second or two of silence whilst they absorbed the committee's suggestion, let out a roar of total approval, and Paul slapped him on the back and then had to grab him to stop him from falling off the window ledge. Spock wriggled back into his niche, and then sat, contemplating both the suggestion and its general reception, until he realised that Helen was still waiting for his reply.

He could only nod at her, and she beamed, and scribbled a note on her list, before going on to give wardrobe to Alicia, Merry and Phil. Spock sat for a while longer, the noise sweeping over his head and Paul's voice still sounding in his ear, until he could bear it no longer, and, with a hasty excuse, he escaped the room and made for his Block and his lytherette, to try out the ideas which had already started to form themselves.

Thereafter he haunted rehearsals, a long silent figure in the wings, storing snatches of scenes in his mind whilst the others ignored him respectfully and worked around him. He watched the lighting tricks take shape round the cast, and mulled over the individuality which Rhoda, Greg Seddon and the others were investing in their characters.

When Helen approached him and asked whether he would be ready for a full run-through, he found himself smitten by an unVulcan-like attack of nerves, and asked if he could play some pieces to her in private first. She assented in surprise, and the two departed for a vacant study room, the kind of remarks which he had missed out on at the general meeting following them down the corridor. In the study room she sat down at the table, preparing to take notes, and he pulled up another chair and sat down opposite her and, after pausing a second or two, he described briefly his ideas for each scene and played her his music. When he had finished, her stylus was lying unused and forgotten next to the pad on the table, and there was a sharp pricking at the back of her eyes. She felt both foolish and uplifted, and could only say to the now somewhat anxious Vulcan who sat awaiting her comments, "Please, don't change anything! Come and play it to the others. Now!" Forgetting herself and who he was, she jumped up and grabbed his hand in hers and pulled him to his feet. "Come on!" She led him excitedly back towards the group, almost at a trot. Halfway there she changed her mind and turned to him, apologising as her dead-halt in the corridor nearly resulted in a sad accident to the lytherette.

"Don't play it to the others! We'll keep it as a surprise until the final run-through. Get it on tape as soon as you can - you can still add bits as you go along. You'll still have ideas, won't you. Oh Spock, I'm so pleased! It's beautiful, your music!" Then, with a last beam, she hurried back to the cast, to offer a mysterious announcement about The Music from Heaven which No-one Could Hear.

Spock sighed.

Humans.

He strolled after her at a more decorous pace.

He did not look quite so decorous the next week when, responding to a request from the stage crew for male assistance, he found himself crawling along a cross-girder twenty feet from the ground, fixing contact points along its length - a brainwave of Alex, who wanted to coordinate the drawing of the opening curtain with the pin-pointing of lights all over the auditorium. The curtain was only to be used twice, at the beginning and end of the play, but its opening and closing would draw the audience in to far greater effect. Spock merely took in the instructions and shot up the ladder to the cross beam to start his work. He was a quarter of the way across when Commodore Bauer entered the Hall, caught sight of the Vulcan apparently teetering at such an alarming height, and called his name in surprise and alarm.

"Spock!" Whereupon Spock looked round sharply, lost his balance and fell.

And hung, swaying, his hands clasped around the beam where he'd grabbed it.

He peered down over his shoulder, and saw every person in the Hall dashing to the spot below him, although, later, when they were describing and re-describing the incident to those who hadn't been there, each one of them said that their legs had felt weighted with tutonium and that the rush to the stage had been like one of those nightmare journeys when you run and run and still can't move. "Spock!" called Greg in anguish. "Get the curtain!" shouted Helen, and two people ran to pull it down.

Spock dangled above them, squinting down at them over his right shoulder.

"It would be advisable for you to move away from that spot."

They heard his quiet calm voice with incredulity.

"The gravitational pull of my home planet," continued the voice unhurriedly, "has resulted in a far greater physical density and body weight in Vulcans than in Humans. Should I fall on you, it would cause you considerable injury."

Having delivered this brief lecture, he looked up at the beam, and then lightly swung his legs up and over it, and hoisted himself upright until he was again sitting astride the beam. He resumed his work on the contact points, whilst the little knot of erstwhile rescuers clustered below him in redundant perplexity.

There fell a silence, broken only by the sound of Spock affixing another metallic strip to the beam.

"Spock," said Greg. His voice was not friendly.

"Yes?" replied Spock. He hadn't noticed.

"Come down here." And, when the Vulcan made to continue his work, "Now."

Spock frowned slightly, but edged backwards along the beam until he reached the ladder at the side, down which he slid, coming to rest softly on his feet. He approached the waiting group.

Greg found that his fists were tightly clenched. "You...." he hissed. "You little..."

"Greg?" enquired Spock.

"You..."

"Don't you ever do that again, you little slime worm!" yelled Jamieson, one of Alex's lighting colleagues. He had actually grabbed the Vulcan by his shirt collar before he regained a measure of self control, but he still shook with fury. "You supercilious little bastard," he shouted into the sensitive pointed ears.

Spock was at a complete loss as to what had prompted this sudden outburst of violence. He did not know why they were so angry with him. But he did know that he did not like being manhandled, shouted at, and physically abused. He stepped back abruptly, straightening his crumpled shirt as he did so, looked briefly around the group, turned round and stalked out of the Hall.

"What did you want him to do," asked Helen dryly into the new silence. "Fall?"

"Bahh!" spat Jamieson, and Greg waved a helpless but accusing finger in the direction taken by the retreating Vulcan. "For God's sake, Helen, of course not! But, you know..."

"Yes, we do know," broke in Alex. "We do. But he doesn't. He really doesn't."

There was a long long pause.

"Come on. Let's get on with this," said Alex. They resumed their jobs, miserable, abashed and frustrated, each one remembering the only too genuine look of bewilderment on his face, and the only too genuine exasperation which he had managed to generate, and then Greg suddenly burst out laughing, and the others joined in with relief.

Spock, however, remained baffled, and not a little disturbed; disturbed, not by the aggression, but by his inability to find its cause. He decided to stay in his room for a while, and only emerged two days later. Greg said hello and gave him a sheepish smile. Spock gathered that the incident was ended.

It was one minor event in a series of minor events leading to the grand production itself, which was universally and genuinely proclaimed to be a runaway success on The Night. Spock, watching on his own from the back of the huge auditorium, found himself very impressed. Even his own music, to which he listened with a highly critical ear, pleased him in its context and its treatment, and he mentally breathed a very large sigh of relief. He escaped at the end, and was not even there when the cast and audience called for him on stage. Neither was he to be found at the celebration party afterwards.

But then, no-one really expected him to be.

***

"Atten - hut!!!"

SNAP - CRACK. In unison.

They'd practiced well. Not one cadet out of time. McEwan relaxed a little. He'd had some embarrassing moments during Passing Out Parades over the course of his years on Drill. This lot were okay though.

"At EASE!"

STAMP.

Well, that was all the speeches from the bigwigs over with. Just the diplomas now, in order of classes of merit. Lowest passes first. Rough on the good ones, that - they have longest to wait on the day.

Still, whoever said there was any logic in the Service.

At that thought, McEwan's eyes swivelled automatically to the Vulcan, the Academy's current wonder boy, standing "at ease"; so still and with an expression so wooden that he might as well not be alive at all. McEwan had sometimes wondered whether Spock did ever actually switch off when he was on parade - sort of go to sleep on his feet.

He'd never liked to ask him about it, though.

Standing there like a bloody totem pole.

Sixteen point three minutes, and it ought to be over. Only sixteen point three minutes and then he could move again.

The totem pole successfully resisted the urge to shuffle. Instead, he repeated a series of graphic Old Vulcan Pre-Reform curses in his head, and by the time he had gone over all the ones he knew (which he had memorised many years ago from a book which he had found at the bottom of the desk of old Senet, his school teacher for the second and third years of his first school - he had heard Senet returning before he had had a chance to read them all) he felt quite resigned to the wait.

He was peripherally aware that he ought to view the event with more seriousness and weight. And indeed he should have done; but it was easy for those who had succeeded to take that success for granted after the initial realisation and euphoria. It was a salutary experience to be reminded on occasions that not everyone did succeed. Starfleet sent its cream into space, and the rest were left planet-bound to wreak less, or more, havoc from that less prestigious vantage point. Some cadets realised en route that the course was beyond their capabilities, and left sadly but discretely. Some were taken aside by Year tutors, and left in the same way. But some were left to fail, and the blow was hard. No second chances were given. There may be no second chances all alone on the far side of the galaxy. The unsuccessful had to swallow the pill and make different plans for their lives, and one early lesson for passes and failures alike was to learn to deal graciously with one another, before their ways finally parted. There was not a little agonising among Human cadets over whether they should seek out or visit a failed compatriot, and what they should say when they did meet.

Spock had no such difficulties, as he would have seen no reason to make a purely social call in any event, and certainly not with the express purpose of commenting on the biggest disaster of the other's life. On passing any of these people on stairs or in corridors, he either acknowledged their presence or he did not, as at any other time, without any embarrassed shuffling or sideways glances or awkward smiles. They in turn could greet him with an equal lack of confusion, since they considered him to be as far out of their league as the Fleet Admiral. When, therefore, Andrei Argutinsky presented himself at Spock's door one evening, it was not to indulge in self pity or maudlin regrets and sympathy, but simply to say goodbye.

Spock was surprised. He said as much with one eyebrow.

"I...er..." said Andrei, and stood in the doorway. Spock moved aside, and Andrei stepped inside, hesitantly.

"I don't mean to ah... bother you. Ah... it's just that I'm leaving tomorrow - you know I flunked out, don't you?" Did the all-knowing really know everything?

Apparently he did, since he was nodding without surprise.

"I.. ah," continued Andrei, "just wanted to come and say, er... it's been good to know you, Spock." He stopped, and nodded to emphasise what he'd just said. Spock looked at him calmly, while his brain moved at lightening speed over all the various responses which he had learned during his years at the Academy, and just as rapidly rejected them all as inappropriate.

Stall.

"Sit down," he said, indicating his only easy chair.

"Thanks," said Andrei, and sat.

Carry on stalling?

Encourage the other person to talk.

"What will you do now, Andrei?" he enquired, taking his usual perch at the end of his bed.

"Well, I'm not sure."

Force the other person to talk.

Spock remained silent, and turned his most enquiring expression on his visitor.

It worked. After a slow start Andrei rattled on, and Spock, back now in a situation more familiar to him, could once again sit back, switch off and make the right noises. Andrei eventually got up to leave, but seemed unwilling to go.

"Spock?"

"Yes?"

"I..." Andrei paused, and then, with a "what the hell" shrug of his shoulders, "I feel privileged to have known you. You... give something to the people you're with. You do. I don't know how to describe it. It's a sort of... peace." He paused, and looked up at the Vulcan's face, and then laughed wryly. "And you don't understand a word I'm saying, do you!"

Spock looked at the floor briefly.

"It doesn't matter. Perhaps you'll remember it one day. Thanks anyway. I don't need to wish you luck, so I'll just say goodbye."

He waved, and left.

Spock looked after him, thoughtfully. He thought about how two beings occupying areas of space so close to one another could have such vastly differing perceptions of what they would both choose to call reality. He wondered whether it was the same for every pair of beings who ever inter-related. Or whether it was only when one of them was himself.

***

He had never found the answer to that one.

***

She switched off the display with a sharp snap, and smiled out at the group. "And that's that. The rest is up to you geniuses when you get out there. End of lecture, end of course." She stood up, and began to pack away her notes, but still no-one was moving away. She turned to them again, and grinned. "Well, go on then! Go away!"

A few chairs scraped back as the group started to get up, but most of the cadets drifted towards her rather than to the door, clumsy eager moths around the darkly luminous flame. Erik perched on the edge of her desk and gazed soulfully up at her. "Are you sure there's nothing more you can tell us about...."

"Go away," she repeated, ignoring both this and all the other remarks from the cluster of cadets around her. "John, you're sitting on my case. Get off." She was used to it, well aware that she provided a striking contrast to the usual run of physics professors. Physics professors didn't usually come five foot seven with shining raven hair, liquid dark eyes and a figure to write sonnets about, which some of the cadets had done over the years, and pretty bad sonnets they were too. She'd ignored their sonnets, smiled at them when their project work was good, and held their attention riveted through lecture after seminar on atmospherics, when other tutors would have had them wriggling with boredom or squinting at the chronometer. Sex appeal hath its privileges. Professor Shemin Sharma made good use of them, and had perfected the art of evading all approaches without ever stepping upon the easily bruised ego of a single cadet.

Shemin Sharma was an Academy cult.

And now she was saying goodbye. "It's still not too late," said Alex. "We could nip back to my Block..."

"Goodbye, Alex," said Shemin. She smiled The Smile. "Goodbye, and good luck. I know you'll do very well."

Alex floated a centimetre or two above the ground, as she side-stepped another proposition from Greg with a shake of the gleaming hair and a light laugh. Her work was packed away, and she was ready to leave. "I must go now. It's been wonderful to work with you all - you're a very special Year. Goodbye now." Her gaze swept the group, and came to rest on the one who had taken no part in the enthusiastic attempts to claim her final attentions for his own. Her smile seemed to change, and then it quirked into an expression of devilment as her eyes gleamed. She moved over to him and he turned to face her.

"Goodbye, Spock," she said. And then, to the astonishment and glee of everyone else in the room, she took his hand, moved closer to him, reached up, and kissed him.

In the total silence which crashed around this remarkable tableau, she briskly picked up her case, walked to the door and went out, shutting the door after her with a sharp click.

All eyes swivelled back from the door to the Vulcan and stayed there.

Relentlessly.

The silence began to crackle, until it was finally broken by Greg, who took a deep breath and said, "Well!"

There were at least twenty three shades of meaning in that one word, and not much more needed to be said. The combined grins, looks and changes of position amongst the group provided the rest quite adequately.

His utterance also broke the spell which had held Spock rooted to the spot, and he too found that he could breathe again. Just. He was struggling in the grip of a fury so choking that he knew that he could not contain it unless he left the scene immediately. It was not merely a matter of hanging on to his dignity, which was at a fairly low premium anyway after Professor Sharma's piece of theatre. It was a question of absolute control itself, and he had to get out quickly and do something about it. He started to move towards the door, and Alex laughed and reached towards him with a light remark.

Which died a strangled death as he was hit with the full force of Spock's expression.

He stepped back, stunned, and Spock brushed past him as though he had not noticed him. As, indeed, he had not. The cadets parted to let him through their midst; whatever it was emanating from him, they could feel it as tangibly as though it was a force field, and he reached the door without further impediment.

He went out without a backward glance, and the slam of the door was nerve-grinding.

"My GOD", breathed Greg.

Alex just looked at him.

Spock paused momentarily outside the door and shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, Shemin Sharma was standing in front of him.

He felt his anger rise so fiercely that he actually swallowed to try to keep it down. Not surprisingly, it didn't work. He simply shook his head sharply, either as a signal to her, or to try to clear his head, made a brisk military left turn and marched away down the corridor.

She ran after him; the effect of his anger on his long legs meant that by the time she reached him she was almost out of breath. "Spock!" she said when she was level with him. "Stop a minute!"

He ignored her and marched on.

"Spock!! Why don't you stop for a second and let me talk to you?"

"Because..." He shook his head again and said no more.

"Because what?" she persisted, still trotting to keep up with him as he rounded the corridor and made for the elevators. He made no reply.

"Because what?" He'd reached the elevator, and pressed, and the door was already opening. She shot through with him before he could take off without her, and closed the door after them. "What?" she asked, into the confined silence of the elevator.

He looked down at her from a distance of several light years.

"Because I might kill you," he finished, quietly and succinctly.

Anybody who knew anything about either Vulcans in general or about Spock in particular would have had some idea of what it meant, both for him to feel like that, and then for him to admit it to another. Shemin did know about Vulcans, and about Spock, and she gasped involuntarily, before lapsing into silence herself.

She felt an agony of soul creeping over her which she did not know whether she could bear, as she stood still as stone, next to him.

The elevator stopped and the door slid open. She waited, unseeing, for him to walk out and leave her.

When she dimly realised that he had not done so, she made herself look cautiously up at him again.

His anger had gone. She could feel that. It was as though the pain which she had felt during the elevator ride had literally been her absorption of his feelings. He was now drained and confused. She could feel that too. She wanted to leave the elevator to let him recover in his own way, but a remaining germ of selfishness wouldn't let her go until she had said something more.

'I...."

Her voice emerged as a croak, and she stopped, and coughed.

"I... didn't... think," she tried again, not really knowing what she was trying to say. "I... wouldn't have... done anything if I'd... thought... realised..." She trailed off again. But she found that she could breath again more easily, as though the choking had eased. He knew what she was trying to say, even though she had scarcely managed a word of it.

He nodded slightly.

"Good," he said, his voice also hoarse.

She took a deep breath.

"Shall we... ah... go?" She gestured out of the elevator door, and he followed the direction of her hand in surprise, as though he hadn't realised that the elevator had stopped. He nodded again, and they walked out, still together, and moved aimlessly down yet another corridor.

It was ridiculous, she was thinking. Ridiculous. All that pain, to try to win back the esteem of one single hurt cadet. How many had been upset in the past because she hadn't talked to them, or smiled at them, or because she hadn't said what they wanted her to? And here she was.

She!

But it was different here. Somehow, although she didn't know why, he had trusted her for a short while. Trusted her absolutely and completely with all that he had. And in that one silly gesture, she had seemed to take that trust and crumble it in her hand in front of him and everybody else.

But no-one else knew.

But I did.

She stopped, puzzled.

"Are we talking?" She spun round to face him and grasped his arm to stop him from moving on. The slight stiffening of the muscles told her to release his arm, but he did stay where he was.

"Probably," he said, wearily. He looked weary, too. His gaze was tired, and almost indifferent.

"How?" she asked, urgent, astonished. "How... oh!!" And then, to her horror, she giggled, out of sheer embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she muttered, turning away from him. "I don't think it's funny, really I don't... oh God!" She paused, took a few anguished steps away, and then back again. "Oh God!" she shouted. "Spock, have you ever wished that a big hole would open up underneath you and you could drop into it and be taken right away?"

"Frequently," he replied. There was a lightness in his voice. She dared to look up at him again, and the beginning of a small smile was reflected in the corner of his mouth and in one eyebrow.

The relief was such that she felt like crying.

"The last time," he continued, "was approximately eleven point two eight minutes ago."

She nodded.

"I asked for that."

He nodded.

She smiled, timidly. "If we carry on standing here like a couple of neurotic mandarins someone will come and see us and start wondering."

They resumed their wandering down the corridor. Round a corner, past windows and a sudden flash of sunlight in their eyes. She blinked.

"Spock." Embarrassed again, but not so badly now. "Is it... ah... permanent?" For goodness' sake; out of everything else that they'd done, why should this aspect alone make her act like a stammering adolescent? She was even blushing.

He ignored her confusion. Perhaps he was too busy trying to conceal his own.

"Most unlikely," he said evenly, as though discussing the results of one of her Half Year projects. "It has become apparent only because of our present physical proximity and the... er...intensity of our recent discussion. With time and distance, the link will fade."

She was silent, during the time it took for her to recognise the sudden sick feeling in her stomach as one of sharp disappointment. "That figures," she thought, bitterly. "Just to turn the tables completely. What's the next bit? Burst into tears and beg him to stay with me?"

Her silence continued, whilst she chewed over the fact that, yes, that was exactly what she wanted to do. And then she thought a little more, and they reached the outside door.

"I'd better leave you here," she said, very quietly - it was the only way she could keep her voice as controlled as his.

She was aware of his turning to face her.

"Oh?"

"I..." She swallowed, and glared at the wall next to her. "I..." she trailed off, and just shook her head instead, knowing that any attempt at speech would be disastrous. She hoisted her case smartly under her arm, and turned to go. But his hand touched her lightly on her shoulder and it froze her in her tracks.

She turned in astonishment and looked at him, and then, slowly, a smile lit her eyes like a blaze of summer sunlight.

But it was only the muted dull glow of evening which was spreading through the air around the atmospheric physics professor and her star pupil, as they strolled off in the direction of the Staff Residences.

***

A crackle of applause sounded muted and distant; another newly-fledged ensign marched smartly back to his place in the line and stood still once more under the intense blue early afternoon glare. Captain Oppenheim filled his lungs, and let rip on the next on his list. "Seddon - G!"

Spock let out a tiny and utterly imperceptible sigh.

Seddon G. was already climbing the steps of the dais; the few words of congratulatory conversation went of course unheard by all but those immediately adjacent, and the sound of his footsteps on his return journey was equally contained.

He too rejoined the line, taking up position so perfectly that it looked as though he had never left.

"Tachyer - P!" screamed Captain Oppenheim.

Spock's eyes swivelled to his friend as the latter moved, smart and immaculate, to collect his paper recognition. He was fairly sparkling with confidence for what had to be his last Academy performance - he had called Spock up two nights before and asked him to come over because he had just heard that he was leaving straight after Passing Out. He had had an urgent posting and couldn't stay for the Party. So this would be goodbye; Spock attended on his friend in not a little apprehension.

"You are called away so soon?"

"Yeah! What a drag! The Constellation's been called to the Gamma Niobe system twelve days earlier than they'd thought because they've got to carry drugs out to one of the colonies out there. One hell of an exciting first mission, and I have to miss the Party for it!"

"But the Constellation has an excellent reputation. It is a good posting."

"Yeah," said Paul, grudgingly but cheerfully. "She's a good ship. I've read up everything I could on her." He paused. "Have you done that with the Enterprise?"

Spock hesitated fractionally, and then nodded, the merest smile and the lift of an eyebrow prompting a hoot of delighted laughter from Paul, who bounced back on his bed and stretched all four limbs before relaxing back against the wall. "She's a good ship too, isn't she?"

Spock nodded.

"Who's the Captain? Pike?"

Another nod. Spock never said much when Paul was there, and this was partly because, over their five years of friendship, Paul had unconsciously developed the habit of phrasing all his questions so that they required 'yes' or 'no' answers, which could be dealt with by a nod or the shake of the head. It was a system which worked admirably for both of them, and had contributed considerably to their long and fruitful acquaintanceship.

"Will you get a chance for leave before you join her?"

Nod.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know. I'll probably stay here. There is work I can do here."

"Spock!" Paul sounded genuinely distressed. "You can't, man! You've just had five years of it and you're just about to have a lifetime of it. You've got to have a break. Go somewhere! Go and..." he paused, and thought fiercely ,"meditate somewhere," he finished, lamely.

This time Spock did smile, and Paul laughed sheepishly. "I worry about you, you know."

"I know."

"What are you going to do without me to look after you and translate Human for you?"

Spock had found that the hem of his right trouser leg and become slightly creased, and he had to straighten it out before he could reply. "There can not be any more of it worth translating," he said. coolly. "The fragments you have already passed on to me all share the one common characteristic of eminent forgetability."

"Bull," said Paul. There followed a companionable silence, Paul lounging on his bed propped up against the wall, and Spock, as was usual during his visits to Paul's room, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the big window, from where he could look out, as well as in at his host. Paul's room overlooked one of the busiest walkways in the residential area, and Spock found it both interesting and relaxing to sit and stare out at it. Paul often wondered how the Vulcan managed to sit in that position for so long, and then how he managed to get up afterwards and walk normally without creaking or staggering. Practice, Spock had told him. But why do it at all, Paul had asked. Because it's comfortable, had been the reply. But...

Paul sprawled against the wall.

"Spock."

"Can I tell you something you won't like me telling you?"

Spock turned his gaze from the view from the window and fixed it impassively upon Paul. "What is it?"

"I'm going to miss you when I leave."

Spock held his gaze for a moment more, and then looked out of the window again.

"I know you can't answer that. But I wanted to tell you anyway. You could remember it sometime."

Why did people keep telling him things to remember? 'Here are some words. You needn't use them now - keep them for later. You might be glad of them one day.'

"Can we keep in touch?"

Spock looked at him again.

"Yes. But will you want to?"

It was Paul's turn to stare, and he knew uncomfortably that, if he gave an answer which was anything other than honest, Spock would know it. And the Vulcan was still looking at him, and Paul had only himself to blame for getting himself into this.

"Yes," he said eventually, and only then realised just how true it was. "Yes, I will. I wish we were on the same ship. We'd make a great team."

There went the eyebrow again, and Paul knew that Spock had let him off the hook. Again. It was always happening; he'd say something stupid, find himself on the line, and then gently tipped off just when it was getting too precarious to balance anymore. Then he would usually change the subject gratefully and lead his friend on to less dangerous ground. But Paul felt that this evening there was no more time for that. He'd be leaving in three days.

"So will you write to me?" he persisted. "If I write to you, that is?"

"Yes." Spock was looking out of the window again. "I would like that." He paused a while. "If you write to me, that is."

A cushion flew through the air, and Spock ducked just in time. It hit the window harmlessly, and he leaned sideways and picked it up, and plumped it between his hands for a moment or two.

"I will miss you, as well," he said.

Whilst Paul was still reacting to that most unexpected of remarks, the cushion hit him full in the face.

***

And then it was him. Well, he assumed that that was his name. It was a valiant attempt to pronounce it, anyway. He was surprised; he thought that they'd just stick to his given name, at least for the purpose of the Parade. He marched, as practiced, along the lines of cadets, up to the podium, up the steps, in full view of everyone, and switched off his mind. The Admiral said something to him, but he did not know what it was, and he cared even less. The sun was hot. He enjoyed its warmth, whilst the Admiral kept talking at him.

Surely the others had not spent so much time up here.

The Admiral was smiling.

Non regulation.

And he was, at last, handing out the diploma.

Spock accepted it, saluted, about-turned, and marched down the steps of the podium, and his mind returned to the surface as he arrived back at his place in the line.

And then it was over. The band struck up that objectionable march, and, obeying the shouted commands, they all finally marched off that parade ground for the very last time. "What the hell was he saying to you up there?" asked Paul, as all the cadets collapsed together in the cool of Number Two Assembly Room, shouting and giggling with the strain and the relief, and gulping down the cold drinks which had been thoughtfully laid on by an even more relieved McEwan.

"I don't know."

"You must do."

"I don't. I didn't hear any of it."

"Oh Spock!" said Paul.

Spock looked at him.

"I've got to go now."

"I know."

There was a long pause.

"Look after yourself, Spock."

Spock nodded, and swallowed.

"And you," he managed quietly.

Paul flung his arms around his friend and hugged him tightly for a moment, and then punched him hard on the shoulder, and dashed away through the crowd and out of the doors.

Spock sat down on a bench along the wall, and looked long and carefully at the drink in his hand. The hubbub rose and fell around him, as he gently swished the liquid from one side of the cup to the other.

"He'll go far," said a voice above his head.

Spock blinked, and looked up. It was Commodore Shashimoko, a smile on his face and the light on his braid, and Spock began to get to his feet, but the Commodore waved him back down again, and gestured to the empty space beside him. "May I?"

He hesitated just long enough for Spock to nod, and sat down next to him with an exaggerated grunt. He too had a cold drink in his hand, though he looked quite cool enough without it.

"A gruelling afternoon," he said, unconvincingly.

"Yes, sir."

"That was quite a speech the Admiral gave you."

"Yes, sir."

"I've not heard him say anything like that before at a Parade."

"Oh? Er, I mean, no sir."

The Commodore looked at him, and chuckled. "That's typical of you - doesn't turn a hair, even at a speech like that from the most hard-to-please Admiral we've had in years."

Spock stared at his drink again.

"Yes, he'll go far."

"The Admiral, sir?"

The Commodore guffawed.

"No, not the Admiral. Mr Tachyer."

"Oh. Yes sir, I expect that he will."

"An exceptional cadet."

"Yes sir."

"So are you."

"Thank you sir."

"You could go far."

The choice of words was odd, and Spock looked at him, saying nothing.

"Or, you could go nowhere, and stay here."

Spock sighed.

"Thank you sir, but no."

"Can't I persuade you?"

"No, sir."

"Mr Spock, it would suit you perfectly! Think of the opportunities for research! You'd be an invaluable member of the Academy staff, and you'd have all the time you required for your own pursuits. You're the kind of person we need here, as a research scientist and as a teacher." He paused, and flapped his hands helplessly, looking ruffled for the first time that afternoon. "I can't understand why you won't consider it!"

"I'm very honoured, sir, but..."

"Never mind all that! Why don't you want the post? Do you know how many people would be queuing up for it? And twice your age, too." He paused again, doubtfully, remembering to whom he was talking. "In a manner of speaking," he finished, feeling somewhat silly.

Spock ignored the mistake. "I have considered it, sir," he said. "I've considered it very seriously. But, it is not what I want."

"It is a unique opportunity..."

"No sir, it is not."

The Commodore looked at him in cold surprise. "It's not what?"

"Unique, sir."

The surprise grew colder.

"What do you mean, lieutenant?"

It was Spock's turn to feel startled, as this was the first time that he had been addressed by his rank. But it had been employed to emphasise, not the level he had reached, but the higher level with whom he was arguing, and, as intended, it made a difficult situation more difficult.

If it had not been a gruelling afternoon so far, it certainly was now.

"Please may I explain, sir."

"Please do." Each word was carefully enunciated and encased in ice.

Spock took a deep breath and turned to look squarely at his torturer. "The career which has been offered to me here at Starfleet Academy is," he paused, "very similar to that which I was expected to take up at.... on my home planet." He stopped again to consider the next words of this agonising speech, and the Commodore broke in. "At the Vulcan Science Academy?"

Spock nodded.

"You were offered a post there?"

"You do not understand, sir!"

It would have been difficult to assess which of the two men was more startled at Spock's sudden outburst, and several of the cadets standing nearby spun round at the never-never-heard-before sound of Spock raising his voice.

They saw to whom he had raised it, and hastily looked away again. Spock himself mustered every ounce of his considerable will-power and hammered it into a cloak of control, and the sickening and disabling sensations of anger and exasperation began to fade. "I am sorry, sir," he said, when he dared use his voice again. "I beg your pardon."

"That is... ah... forget it, forget it," said the Commodore, the tell-tale twitch in his voice indicating that the incident had probably disturbed him more than it had his erstwhile victim. "You are... er, however, quite right... I don't understand. But I want to understand, because I am not the only one who is anxious to settle this matter satisfactorily." Having offered this heavily significant pronouncement, he waited, but Spock, still fighting his own battle, ignored him, so he had to press on.

"I would appreciate it, therefore, if you would explain to me once and for all why you do not want this post and what it has to do with the post you were offered at the Vulcan Science Academy." His voice too had risen, and the surrounding cadets began to converse more softly among themselves. Spock closed his eyes very briefly, and then opened them.

"I was not offered a post there, sir - it is not like that." He looked at the Commodore again, and this time his expression was openly pleading. "I cannot explain it, sir, it..." He sighed again, and tried once more. "It was just... understood... that I would... be there. It was to be my... oh, you do not have the word for it... but sir, please just accept that I had reasons sufficiently pressing to prompt me to leave... everything that...everyone expected of me, and join Starfleet. My reasons," he rushed on, forestalling further interruptions, "were... too complex to explain now - I am sorry sir. But I did not... leave... my home... in order to take up another academic post - attractive though it is, sir." Spock ground to a halt and sat, miserable. He was painfully aware that he had explained absolutely nothing, and had probably made matters far worse. He knew that there was keen pressure to get him into that post, and he now felt faced with the hideous alternatives of either explaining his entire life history in front of the Commodore and half the cadets in his Year, or of giving in and taking the post.

And he was still clutching his drink. He drank it down before he could succumb to the temptation to pour it over the Commodore's head, and then crushed the cup in his hand without thinking. Silence continued, and the conversation around the two combatants became even more sparse.

"I have to admit," said the Commodore eventually, "that I still do not understand your reasons for wishing to reject the offer."

Spock was looking at the pieces of cup in his hands.

"However," he went on, "the one thing that seems clear is that you will not be persuaded to change your mind." There was another lengthy pause, during which a part of Spock's mind wondered dispassionately whether everyone was put to the torture so many times during their lives, or whether, again, it was just him.

He sat, knowing his features to be entirely expressionless, knowing that logic dictated that this must end, sometime.

Mustn't it?

"So," said the Commodore with a sudden and unexpected smile, "I shan't try any more. It is a pity. But you'd be no use to us if you were dragged kicking and screaming to the job, would you!"

Spock realised that some kind of answer was expected to this facile remark, and managed to come up with, "Er, no sir." while the relief threatened treachery to his composure.

The Commodore noticed, and, to his credit, even felt a pang of guilt.

"So, I won't keep you any longer, lieutenant. I expect you have things to do, preparations to make."

"Yes sir," said Spock softly, without listening.

"I expect I'll see you at the Party."

"Yes sir," said Spock again.

"Good, good. As you were, lieutenant." And he was gone, before Spock could even get to his feet.

He sat, feeling exhausted. Whilst all the other cadets had stood in friendly groups and relaxed and thrown small talk at each other, he had seen the Enterprise sail out without him, and then, at the last moment, reverse thrust and return to collect him.

It was quite enough for one afternoon.

He pushed himself to his feet, and moved slowly towards the doors.

"Okay, Spock?"

The whispered question was from Helen; but she was standing with a group comprising some of his oldest and staunchest Dining Room and seminar companions. There they all stood, forming an almost protective circle around him, their faces all expressing the same concern that he had heard in Helen's question.

Spock looked back at them, from face to face, and realised for the first time that he was leaving. His mind flickered out and took in the vastness of space, and all the dangers which waited there for them all. Then it returned to the Assembly Room, and moved around the group, alighting on each one, and absorbing each individual aura and set of impressions, and storing them. And they all waited for him, and no-one wanted to break in and speak until he had, which he did, at last, and nodded.

"Yes, I'm alright," he said.

They all, to a man, looked unconvinced, and so he gave them the expression which they always used as his smile, and their tension broke amidst shuffles and smiles of their own. "Why was he bawling you out, Spock? What was wrong?" asked Alex for them all. Spock shook his head firmly.

"He wasn't. Nothing was wrong. He was... making a suggestion about my career which... I could not accept. That was all." He looked round at them again. "Really," he said.

"Hmm," said Helen, dubiously. "As long as you're okay."

"I am," he said, even more firmly.

"Good. Right then," this time to the rest of the group in a brighter and more vigorous voice. "I've got to go now. We'll see you at the Party anyway, Spock."

Every eye was focussed on him.

He acknowledged her statement with the merest inclination of the head and a movement of the eyelids, and then turned and walked out of the large doors. The others stood and watched him go.

"Was that 'yes' or 'no'?"

"Search me."

They laughed, and wandered out after him, and dispersed into the sunlight. The dais on the huge parade ground was already dismantled and the visitors' stands were empty. The families and friends were already either on their way back home or ensconced in their residences, most savouring the brief hours until their newly commissioned sons and daughters were dispatched to the far corners of the galaxy. Instructors and staff were breathing metaphorical or actual sighs of relief, throwing their notes and tapes at the wall or the ceiling or under the bed and gathering together to crack open celebratory bottles. It really was the end of the Year, and there was nothing ahead except the Party.

Not all the officers and staff received invitations to the Final Years' Party. The popular ones never did, any more than did the cadets; it was simply assumed that they would put in an appearance. The formal invitations were extended to the rest, Commodore Shashimoko amongst them, and it was equally generally assumed that these exalted few would not outstay their welcome. A tutor or lecturer knew that he had made his entry in the popularity stakes when his invitation failed to arrive simultaneously with the posting of the date and venue on the notice boards around the Blocks.

The organisation of the big event took a slow and casual pace before Passing Out, and then erupted into a frenzied fever over the course of the next few days. Paul had been on the committee but had had to resign when his early posting came through. Greg had taken his place. Spock stayed out of it all.

He too had his preparations to make for the Party. They consisted of arrangements for an early escape from the entire vicinity. He had seen the survivors of previous Final Year Parties being carried out the morning after, and had heard stories about previous Final Year Parties being bandied about in awe-stricken tones many months, and sometimes years, after the event. He had made his evasion plans over the last few days with the meticulous precision characteristic of all that he did.

And he completely miscalculated.

The Party would officially get off the ground with the customary speech by the Principal in Number One Assembly Room at l800 hours that evening, and would then continue all over the whole of A Block for as long as there were guests still awake to perpetuate it. His air car to the mountains was booked (secretly) for l500 hours.

At l400 hours there was a knock at his door, and, in answer to his invitation, the door opened to reveal what could only be described as a delegation, headed by Alex who was flanked by Quentin, John Price and John Fylie.

Spock's mouth went dry.

"Hello, Spock," said Alex. He stood with arms folded and the air of a nurse who, after a day's run-around, has finally run her young victim to ground for his daily dose of cod liver oil.

There was a decidedly malicious grin on his face.

Spock said nothing, and looked guardedly at his visitors.

"I think you know why we're here," went on Alex. The blood curdling tone of voice indicated that Nanny had just joined the ranks of the Spanish Inquisition.

Spock shook his head slowly and carefully.

"Well," said Alex, taking a seat at the desk, his cohorts standing relaxed but alert around him in the general vicinity of the door. "We thought that there was a possibility that you might not be planning on going to the Party." He paused, to see the reaction to his words, but, to his disappointment, there was none.

None that he could see.

"And, in fact, we thought you might decide to go off somewhere so that you wouldn't have to go."

Another pause, but Spock's face was still alive with all the expression and vivacity of a piece of smooth granite. Alex gave up, and pressed on.

"We talked about this and someone thought that if you were going to go off you'd go early. And you'd have to go quite a long way, so you'd need transport."

This time the results were gratifying, though, had Alex but known it, the drop of the head and the small sigh in no way reflected what Spock was thinking he would do to the booking clerk when he caught up with him.

It was not that he was short of money, but, when you paid for secrecy, you expected to get it.

"So, we're here, Spock," said Alex triumphantly, though unnecessarily. "And we're staying with you until the Party starts."

"All of you?" Spock was aghast. "All four?"

Alex was beginning to experience pangs of remorse; the thrill of the chase was rapidly cooling, now that his prey had begun to thrash and squeal in the trap. He realised that the difficult bit was probably about to start.

"Well," he said, diffidently, "there'll be four people here all through. It might not always be the same four. John F. has to go at l700 and finish setting the bars up, so someone else will come in then."

This time, his pause was not due to gleeful triumph, but because the full force of the Vulcan Stare was unnerving even for someone who had known its perpetrator for as long as he had.

"Four?"

John Price winced. He hadn't heard that voice before. The Vulcan picked up the reaction instantly, and his eyes turned to him, and stayed there.

John Price took a step back, and then felt a fool.

"Look, Spock!" began Alex aggressively.

Spock did.

"You see, Spock," continued Alex, reasonably. "we... ah... we figured that you couldn't psyche out four people at the same time."

A phrase popped into Spock's mind which he had heard many times since living among Humans, which he had never used and which he had no intention of using, but which seemed apposite in these circumstances.

You wanna bet?

It wouldn't be until years later that pertinent instruction in the noble game of poker could indicate that, had he actually used that mundane but pithy phrase, he would probably have cleared the room and won his battle for peace in seconds flat.

As it was, Spock's knowledge of the techniques of bluff, though effective, was nevertheless limited. He said nothing, and the chance of victory slipped away. Quentin checked that the door was shut, John Fylie sat down against the wall, and John Price looked out of the window.

"Do you have to wait in here?"

They looked at each other.

"Gentlemen." Spock's voice was as dry as his homeland deserts, and just as hospitable. Unless I were to launch myself from this window, my sole avenue of escape is that door. Could you not wait outside it?"

Alex thought about it, and looked for the trap, but could see none.

"Okay," he replied, in not unfriendly tones. "We'll do that. Okay you guys?" He rounded them up with a glance, and John Price was already outside. Alex was the last to leave.

"Alex."

Alex looked back, and then came back into the room and shut the door. "Yes?"

"I do not understand."

"What?"

Spock looked at him, down at the floor, and then back up at him again.

"Your preparations for my capture and imprisonment," Alex grimaced, but made no attempt to deny the accusation, "have been...admirably thorough. They indicate a detailed awareness of my thinking processes in these circumstances, and also of my preferences. Whoever devised this scheme clearly realised the extent to which I would wish to avoid attending this evening's function."

Alex said nothing. He felt vaguely mesmerised, and a little frightened.

He wondered how Paul had been able to take so much of it.

"I am, therefore, unable to understand why you are so determined that I should attend."

The statement was a question, no doubt of that, and Alex was left with it while the seconds went by, marked by a deepening silence. But he was in no hurry to reply, and this irrespective of the fact that he had nearly four hours in which to do so.

He reached out for a chair and slowly sat down.

It didn't often happen that Alex Meadows chose his words carefully, but he wanted to do so now, and he was content to wait until he had got it right. While he thought, he listened to the silence, and felt a kind of peace moving through him and quelling the nervousness.

Alex discovered that close conversation with the Vulcan forced one into a degree of honesty usually rejected or disregarded in more normal communications. And, he further realised, after one had crossed the initial pain barrier it was cleansing, and refreshing, and welcome.

He looked up again.

"Because we want you there," he said simply.

"But I do not want to go."

"I know. We all know. But this is our last chance." He stopped, and swallowed; not all the nervousness had evaporated. "We've been together for five years, and we all know the chances of meeting up again are slim. And anyway, we'll all be leading different lives..." He trailed off, and sat and thought again for a moment. He could feel Spock's eyes on him, but there was no sense of urgency or prompting there, and so he didn't mind.

"We know you don't want to go," he said again. "We know... that you're different from us, and it's not the kind of thing you like to do - go to parties and talk to lots of people and drink and...." he stopped, a lot more abruptly this time, as the memory of that last seminar with Shemin Sharma walloped him with full force, together with all the ensuing rumours, and he pushed it ruthlessly out of his mind. "So - we know that. But... this is the last chance we'll have. To see you. It's been five years, Spock, and you're... you're pretty special to us.

"I don't care if you don't like us much." Now Alex was rushing on. He could feel the atmosphere crystallising again, but knew it couldn't hurt him, and he wanted to say what he wanted, carefully thought out or not.

"I don't care... well, I do, but it doesn't matter. We've none of us met anyone like you, and we're all pretty sure we won't forget you either. You've... helped all of us along and. ..and you're one of our bunch, like it or not... anyway, this is our last chance to be with you. Afterwards you can go out into space and do what the hell you like and never talk to another Human again if you don't want. But for today you'll have to put up with us. We want you there so that we can see you again. For the last time. Okay?"

And, so saying, Alex flung himself to his feet and slammed out of the room.

Spock sat still, staring at the closed door, and he thought back over what Alex had said, and what Paul had said, and Andrei. And Helen, with her eyes.

"Okay," he said quietly to himself eventually.

Then he thought ahead to the Party, and he shuddered.

He had three hours and twenty-one minutes left.

He leaned back more comfortably in his chair, steepled his fingers, and began the preliminary breathing exercises.

As he slipped gradually down through the levels of concentration, the four jailors sat together on the floor outside his door, and Quentin produced a pack of cards. Then John Fylie dashed back to his room and returned a few moments later with four large beer tubes, and then Samuels came by, and stayed for a while and Quentin dealt him into the next hand. When Jo Camabady came by as agreed to relieve John Price, the latter decided that he'd stay for a while longer, but Jo took over his hand whilst John nipped back for some more beer. Peter Marks stuck his head out of his room to see what was going on, and contributed an extra hand and a bottle of wine to the gathering....

Spock began to emerge from his meditation as he had planned, thirty minutes before the Party was due to begin, and was dragged forcibly out of the last two levels by the noise of revelry and hilarity just outside his door. He opened one eye and squinted in the direction of the row, and listened for a while, and then put the few words and phrases he could hear together with his accumulated knowledge of Humans, and worked out what must have happened out there over the last couple of hours.

It was so predictable it was almost funny.

He estimated that they would contact him again any moment now.

There was a light tap at the door.

Deciding against calling out a general invitation, he went to the door himself, opened it and peered round and down at the cheerful carnage spread all over the corridor floor. "Hi, Spock," said Alex, perhaps a little sheepishly. "It's nearly time for the Party."

"I had the impression that it had already begun," came the stolid reply.

Alex laughed and climbed unsteadily to his feet. "You've just got time to change."

There was a pause.

"Change?"

John Price winced again.

Alex cleared his throat. "Spock," he said, in a voice that emerged as an almost desperate whisper. "You can't go to a Final Year Party in uniform!"

"I can't?"

John Price decided that it was time he made his own preparations, and began to sidle away.

"No," Alex croaked. "You can't. Oh God, Spock, you can't." He raised both hands to the Vulcan in mute appeal. "Haven't you got any of your own clothes?"

"Yes."

"Please, Spock."

He stood his ground against the icy glare, and scarcely jumped when the door snapped shut a few inches from his nose. He looked down at Samuels, who was sprawled at his feet, but Samuels could only shrug.

Alex sat down again. Gloom, tinged with anxiety, settled in a soggy cloud over the remaining jailors. Quentin swallowed, and glanced nervously up at the closed door. "We'll give him until five to."

They nodded.

"Another hand?"

"Nah."

They waited, and, at five minutes to eight, feeling, he was aware, far worse than when he had walked into his Final Command Training Test, Alex knocked once more on that infernal door.

Quentin, Samuels and Jo ranged themselves round him. The door opened.

And revealed a Vulcan, in grey.

Not the ubiquitous buff of the Academy cadet, but grey.

He even had on some kind of cloak.

Alex went slightly weak in his limbs with relief.

"You've changed!"

The right eyebrow climbed skywards.

"Did I have any choice?"

Alex felt like throwing his arms around him, but instantly rejected the notion. "Come on then," he said. "Atten-SHUN! Left TURN! Quick..."

"Oh shut up Alex," said Quentin. "Come on, you guys, we'll be late. Okay, Spock?"

Spock cast a last lingering glance at the interior of his quiet, peaceful, solitary, dignified and private room, sighed again, and shut the door. 'Lead on', said his arm in a gesture which seemed to match the cloak thing he was wearing.

They set off, Alex leading, Samuels bringing up the rear, and Spock padding silently between them in his very own, non-regulation boots.

***

The general consensus was that it was a good party - the best Final Year Party since the one six years ago when A Block annex had had to be completely rebuilt. This consensus was, by definition, heavily tinged with bias, since no cadet ever attended a Final Year Party until he reached the end of his Academy career. But several of the staff were able to support the view, including Wendle and Napier, who's opinions carried weight with those who cared about such things. The omens were good from the beginning, because the Principal's speech was short. To the surprise of most, it was, not only short, but relevant, pithy, warming and very moving, and a short silence fell at its end before the sincere applause front the audience heralded the true start of the festivities.

Spock spent the duration of the Speech at the very back of the Hall, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, studying the floor and planning his escape, and he gauged it safest to slip out as soon as the Principal stepped down from the stage and the crowd began to move about.

Wrong again.

Just as he began to slide sideways to his left, a slim brown arm slipped through his right arm and held him gently but very firmly. His head snapped round in surprise and he looked into the smiling eyes of Helen Jenner.

"Uh uh," she said.

His brown eyes sent a frank and undisguised appeal into her blue ones, but her smile only broadened. "Come on, Spock," she said, leading him, still gently but even more firmly, through the Hall towards the terrace doors. "Come and talk to me for a while." Speaking quietly to him, as though soothing a skittish horse, she walked him out on to the terrace and sat him on one of the stools placed by the parapet. Ignoring the many onlookers whom she knew to have watched their progress through the room, she fixed him once more with the blue gaze, knowing that, if nothing else, his innate good manners would keep him there.

And they did, and, by the time they were joined by Marash, Jane and Ira, he had realised that logic dictated a graceful surrender to superior forces. Helen slipped off to collect drinks, leaving the three girls with him, and Jan Andrzejewski strolled up and leaned against the parapet next to him and joined in the chat, and the evening drifted on....

"Is that a cloak or is it wide sleeves?"

"Well... it's a combination of the two."

"It's lovely. Does everyone wear them on Vulcan?"

"No. Does everyone on Earth wear short yellow dresses and green sandals?"

- pause -

"I suppose it was a pretty stupid question."

***

"Hello Spock. Why don't you play that piano instead of sitting on it?"

"I do not know any suitable musical accompaniment for such an occasion."

"Ah well."

"Spock, thanks for - all the work you've put into my groups."

"I have done nothing requiring thanks, Dr. Aitchison."

"No, maybe not. But it's been good having you along. We Humans feel compelled to do crass things like say 'thank you' now and then. It's something you'll have to get used to, you know."

"I am beginning to realise that, Dr. Aitchison."

***

"Did you ever get nervous at exams?"

"No ...

"Was that because you knew you'd do okay, or because you just don't get nervous?"

- pause -

"The first reason."

"So you do get nervous."

"No .

"But - what, then, if you didn't know you'd do okay?"

"I would make sure that I did."

"But what if you didn't? What if... oh, what if someone just threw something at you - no, I don't mean literally - I mean, a problem you'd not worked on?"

"A problem requiring immediate resolution?"

"Yes."

"Then there would be no time to 'get nervous', as you put it."

"Well, no then, a problem you had time to work on."

"Then I would resolve the problem."

"But what if you didn't have time?"

"Then the crisis would be upon me and there would be no time..."

"Spock!!"

"Yes?"

- pause -

"Nothing." - pause - "I wish I could always have you in my class!"

"I am honoured."

"You're laughing at me!"

"Me?"

"Yes, you!"

***

"Ooops, sorry! Oh no, did it spill on that gorgeous cloak thing?"

"No, no... nothing is spilt on me."

"Oh good. Ah, Spock."

"Yes?"

"It's not just the cloak that looks gorgeous."

- pause -

"Oh, Spock, you're blushing!"

***

"Commodore Fraser's gone."

"Thank God for that. Who's left?"

"Prof. Weatherall and... ah... oh, Dr. James and Commodore Estavez are over there."

"Together?"

"I'll get Stewart to get rid of them. I just saw him in the annex."

"Great. I'll organise the booze. Let me know when they're gone."

***

Look who he's talking to over there!"

"Who who's talking to?"

"Spock! Look."

"My God. Was it true then?"

"Looks like it. They certainly look as though they've got a lot to say to each other, anyway."

"How long's she been there?"

"Dunno."

***

"Samuels."

"Yeah?"

"They've gone."

***

"Have you noticed, over there..."

"Yes, I have!"

"Temper temper! They've been there half an hour already."

"Yes, I know."

"Look, Greg. You can't win 'em all, you know. Our delicious physics prof obviously prefers her ears pointed. You'll just have to..."

"Shut your mouth, John!"

"Boy, you've got it bad!"

***

"How d'ya do it, Helen?"

"Do what?"

"Get Spock to stay for the whole party?"

"It's not over yet."

"No, but he doesn't look like shifting now."

"I didn't do it. He just stayed. People talk to him. I think he likes it."

"He certainly likes that piano. He's back on it again."

***

"Spock!"

"Greg. You seem surprised."

"I thought you'd have gone?"

"Why?"

"Er...."

***

"Hi Spock. Is this a private piano or can anyone sit on it?"

"Most people seem to have taken a turn on it this evening."

"Well, if that's the way you feel..."

"No, no - you misunderstand me..."

"Only kidding, Spock, I promise.. When do you join the Enterprise?"

"In nine standard days."

"Looking forward to it?"

"It promises to be an interesting environment."

"Hmmm, yeah. I'm going to miss this place."

"You join the Farragut?"

"Yeah. I hear rumours our two ships meet for war games in Delta quadrant sometime soon."

“Oh?"

"Yup! Hey, bet my ship blasts out your ship!"

"Jan."

"Yeah?"

"Grow up. - Jan? - Are you alright down there, Jan?"

***

"Spock!"

"Hello Rhoda."

"Spock, will you come and dance with me?"

"No, Rhoda, I will not."

"Attaboy, Spock!"

"Alex, if I interpret that remark correctly, I can assure you that Rhoda knows I mean no offence by my refusal."

"Well, just come and stand on the dance floor with me."

"That would seem to be a remarkably pointless exercise, Rhoda."

"Oh, for God's sake, Spock, I'm trying to get you off that piano and down here! I've got to go now," Rhoda's voice suddenly took on a tremulous squeak, which she valiantly tried to control, "and I want to give you a goodbye hug and I can't reach you up there!"

Rhoda glared defiantly at him, and the friends who were gathered round looked on with amused and inebriated interest. Spock placidly regarded the dishevelled red-haired girl in front of him, and then, carefully and deliberately, he slid himself forward and dropped down off the piano to the floor.

And he held out his arms.

Her air of defiance dissipated like woodsmoke in the wind, and she could only stare at him in stupid astonishment. Then, with a subdued whimper, she stepped forward, wrapped both arms tightly round his neck, shut her eyes and hugged him; they were rocking slightly to and fro, and she realised that it was he who was doing it - rocking her in his arms as though she were an upset and tearful child. She gave a shuddering sigh, and raised her head.

"God bless you, Spock,' she whispered in his ear, so quietly that no-one else heard.

"May you live long and prosper," he whispered, just as quietly.

She looked up at him, drawing away, but couldn't see him properly, so blinded was she by tears. Not just Spock, but everyone, all her friends of the last six years - she had to leave them all, and probably for ever, and she had only just realised it fully. She ran from one to another around the group, hugging and hugged back, only able to say each name and no more, and as she clasped each one in turn her emotions moved round with her, and hers were not the only tears by the time Maya called, "Rod, we must go! Come on!"

Maya linked her arm through her friend's, gave a last wave round the group, and the two girls walked to the door and out, without looking back again.

No-one spoke. No-one moved. Each stood quietly with their own thoughts.

Helen was the first to break the spell, looking around her at the remnants of the party. People still there, though a fraction of the original force. Glasses and plates and broken decorations all around, lights low. She wandered over to the big plate window and peered out. The emerging murky outlines of rooftops told her that it was not long until daybreak. She turned round and surveyed the group of friends, all of whom were leaning on the long-suffering grand piano as though it were their last bastion before collapse. "What shall we do?" she asked, her voice sounding flat to her own ears.

No-one replied. She didn't really expect them to.

"I would like to go onto the roof garden. It will soon be dawn."

Six pairs of eyes turned towards the Vulcan and held there.

Then they were all, all but one, rushing to and fro, finding coats and wraps, finishing drinks, ushering each other to hurry, their collective mood soaring as high as it had previously dipped. Six of them dashed out of the Hall, giggling like children just out of school. "Come on, Spock!" called Helen and Alex in unison.

Spock followed them out at his own pace, wondering, not for the first time that evening, though almost for the last, why it was that he was, after all, still there.

***

E Block was quiet.

The whole of the main Academy Campus was quiet.

The near-silence glowed in the morning sunshine and gently enfolded the harsh glass and titanium scene in a softening, benevolent embrace.

Cadets strolling across the yards spoke quietly to their companions, and smiled up at the sweet blue of the sky. A window opening wide on the fifth floor could be heard down on the ground, and the freshly awakened occupant of the room leaned out and breathed in deep gulps of new morning air. The constant muted sound of D Block's turbo lift hummed a sunny ballad to greet the day. The Final Years buried their hangovers under their pillows and waited for death to bring a merciful release.

The one who had not bothered to go to his bed at all was walking silently in the midst of this morning splendour. He was remembering other early mornings, long ago, or so it seemed; mornings of solitude and silence under the familiar orange sky instead of this alien blue. He had learned to accustom himself to the blue, though alien it would always be. And now he must learn to accept no sky at all, but only stars outside and ship's morning within.

He would, and with no difficulty. There would be no sickness, or claustrophobia, or fear, or panic. All his training results had assured his tutors of that, though he himself had required no such assurances. The physical transition to shipboard existence would be easy.

The other aspects - not so. But the passage would be no more impassable than that from the protective cocoon of ShiKar to the blaring hotch-potch of Starfleet Academy, and many of the remarks made to him last night and over the last few days seemed to indicate that he had achieved that passage to the satisfaction of most of his regular associates, staff and cadets alike.

And his own assessment?

Spock looked up at the deepening blue, his features crinkling a little against the glare. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his closed eyelids - a poor insipid warmth compared with the scorching blaze of his home.

His own assessment of the success of his off-world career to date must depend to some extent on what he had originally intended, or hoped, to achieve.

And that, he reflected as he opened his eyes again and walked on slowly, was a question demanding just as much consideration as the first one.

Always questions, and more questions.

He sighed.

"Spock!!"

And jumped, and then instantly collected himself, turning to search for the perpetrator of that ear-splitting peace-shattering yell. It was Marc Vautier, a Fourth Year whom he knew only really by name and sight; the noisy offender, seeing that he had succeeded in attracting the Vulcan's attention, was now running towards him across the wide empty courtyard between E and Y Blocks. Spock used the intervening moments to assemble his protective shell, and he had it fully installed and in good working order by the time Marc skidded to a halt a respectful two metres away from him.

The Fourth Year took a second or two to try to catch his breath, and then blinked in surprise as he took in for the first time the strange sight of his Vulcan idol out of Academy uniform.

Spock ignored the reaction and waited in silence.

"Message for you," blurted Vautier. "Enterprise." Then he watched with breathless interest as both Spock's eyebrows shot towards his hairline.

"Where?" was all he said, however, in a disappointingly even and calm tone.

"In the General Office. It came......

But Marc had already lost his audience.

***

"...regret the curtailment of your leave, lieutenant. Rendezvous with the Seroan delegation on Delta 6 necessitates Enterprise departure from this quadrant at 0864.9. Shuttle at l2.l7 Academy time from Academy Space Port will convey you to arranged beam-up co-ordinates, from which point you are ordered to report for duty on USS Enterprise at l0.30 Academy time 0865.2. Academy authorities have already been notified. Message ends. Enterprise out."

Spock let out the breath which he had not realised he had been holding.

The General Office secretary sitting nearest him looked at him with a smile of amusement.

"Hope you didn't have any plans for your leave," he said, and grinned, as Spock shook his head vaguely.

"Your passage on the shuttle is booked," the secretary continued, holding out a small folder of documents. Spock accepted it numbly. "You'll also find in there your letter of introduction at the Spaceport and safe conduct to the beam-up point. Sorry you've not got much time - I don't know how many goodbyes you can make in three and a half hours. Still, that's the Service. Anything more you need to know?"

Spock shook his head again, still clutching his folder and staring at it blankly. Once again, he could not recall a word of what the secretary had said to him; he seemed to have recently developed an alarming ability to bypass the conscious layers when someone was talking to him and send the words direct to the subconscious memory. At least, he hoped that that was where they went. He hadn't tested it out yet.

"So," the secretary was now saying, "perhaps you'd better change into uniform?"

He heard that, and he glanced down with a start at his admittedly unorthodox attire. He looked up again at the secretary, who was still grinning. "Yes, indeed," he replied, in cool, cool unhurried tones. "Thank you for your assistance." He paused, and looked at the tape input. The secretary followed the direction of his gaze, and reached over to eject the tape. He held it out. "Here you are. Souvenir for you."

Spock accepted it, and turned on his heel and swept out of the office without another word. The secretary leaned back in his chair and shook his head slowly. "Supercool bastard," he said to no-one in particular.

"Well, they're like that, aren't they?" said another of the secretaries, looking up from her work.

"Vulcans. Never twitch, or smile. He said thank you, didn't he."

"Hmmm." He shook his head again with a wry smile, and bent once more to the papers on his desk.

***

So, Spock approached the end of his Starfleet Command Academy career in much the same way as he had entered it, moving on automatic pilot, his mind a distant and unfunctioning whirl. He was back in his room in two point two minutes, and had collected and packed all his possessions in the space of half an hour. His shuttle would leave in two point six three hours. He would give himself thirty minutes to get himself and his belongings to the departure point. That left two point one three hours for....

What?

He stood, in the centre of his bare and emptied room, and brought his thoughts gently to a halt. He walked over to the window and stared out for a while, committing the view to memory, and then turned round and leaned back against the window ledge and looked around at his room.

It gave him absolutely nothing in return.

There was one thing which he knew he must do before leaving, but he did not want to start it yet. His mind was not yet sufficiently steady and controlled to have entrusted to it the wording of a message tape which, though directed to his mother, might well find its way to the attention of his father.

On stern reflection, his mind was not yet sufficiently steady and controlled for anything.

So he sat down in the chair which was no longer his and relaxed into meditation, and after two hours he returned to surface consciousness again, his mind cleansed, and Vulcan. It was Spock of Vulcan who sat for the last time at the desk and dictated the message to his home, and it was a message written to his mother but successfully worded for his father. And when it was taped and dispatched, he left directions in the tape input for the removal of his trunk, got briskly to his feet, picked up his bag, and left the room, the door closing softly but sharply behind him.

He left the Block and set off directly to the Space Port, with no attempt to contact anyone before his departure; no wish to say goodbye. When he reached departure point it was still fifteen minutes early, and he spent those minutes standing, motionless, upright, hands clasped loosely behind his back, staring sightlessly at the vehicles as they took off and landed from the bays.

Then his shuttle landed, and he picked up his bag from the floor and moved along the line and showed his pass, the light glinting on the gold braid on his sleeve as he did so. He stepped on board and took his seat, and, after a few more moments, he watched through the porthole as Starfleet Academy receded below him, and his view was replaced by the black sky, and the stars.

 

 

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