An aircar touched down at the Arrivals point, and disgorged a crowd of laden newcomers of varying sizes and hues, amongst them a young Vulcan carrying a single travelling case. He moved slowly through the already crowded area towards the huge reception hall, managing without apparent effort to avoid being jostled and pushed by those around him who all seemed to be in a far greater hurry than he. His youth was evident to anyone accustomed to Vulcans, but he carried himself with the dignity typical of his rate, and an air of calm and stillness set him slightly aside from the seething groups of young people surrounding him in the hall and spilling out through the exits.

He walked unhurriedly in the general direction of the flood, and then halted at the sound of his own language, spoken under, rather than over, the cacophony of voices. The words he heard were a traditional greeting, originally associated with the tiny isolated communities of contemplatives who gave shelter to desert wanderers, and now used when welcoming any stranger to a new place. An eyebrow slightly raised in surprise, he turned to see a Vulcan male, by appearance a little older than himself, wearing the insignia of a Starfleet Academy Third Year Cadet. The hand was raised in formal greeting.

"I am Sarvan," he said, speaking now in English. "I am here to meet you and to welcome you to the Academy." At that, he bowed his head slightly.

"My name is Spock," said the newcomer and, since he found himself still clutching his travelling bag in his right hand, he offered greeting with the left, murmuring appropriate noises of thanks. "I had not expected to hear my language immediately on arrival," he commented, by way of conversation.

Sarvan moved off, inclining his head to advise Spock to follow. "I would imagine not, and you will not hear it spoken much again whilst you are here. However ..." he paused again, his expression changing almost imperceptibly.

Spock nodded.

"We will find your room and I will show you there," Sarvan went on. "If you wish, I can then show you around the Block in which you will live and study. Come." They walked across the hall to an exit and swam out with the flood.

During the long walk which followed Sarvan took the opportunity to inform Spock in brief and concise verbal paragraphs of the general pattern of a First Year's day, interspersing his discourse with desultory enquiries as to Spock's current state of health after his long journey, his level of specialist education to date, his aptitude for adapting to mass-produced food and other such matters, intended, presumably, to orientate the 'fresher' to what could immediately be expected in his new home. Spock said little, and just listened and looked, until, after a maze of corridors, walkways, elevators and staircases, the pair arrived at one end of a long, blandly decorated shiny-floored corridor with identical doors opening from both sides at not very great intervals. Spock followed Sarvan along and stopped next to him outside the room numbered 5174.

"Your room," announced Sarvan unnecessarily.

Spock opened the door and went inside. Sarvan remained in the corridor. "Would you like a tour of the Block now, or would you like to rest?" he enquired, giving no hint whatsoever of the answer which he would have preferred to hear.

"I will stay and unpack," Spock replied, indicating the trunk standing in the middle of the room, "since my belongings have arrived. But I am grateful for your assistance. Perhaps we will meet later." He put down the travelling case and turned to face Sarvan, who nodded.

"Should you wish to contact me for any reason, my room is in Y Block, room 3130. Please feel at liberty to visit me at any time. Meanwhile, the first sitting of the main meal will be at 1930 hours. You will find the dining hall back along this corridor, left, right and right again. It will be clearly marked. And now, I will return to Reception. I trust that you will settle in comfortably.

"Thank you, I'm sure that I will." Spock returned to the door, and gracefully gestured farewell. "Goodbye, Sarvan." Sarvan bowed slightly once more, and walked away, and the miserably nervous and ill at ease young Vulcan closed the door sharply and leaned back against it with his eyes closed.

After a while, he opened them again slowly and, without moving from his spot by the door, took a long slow look around the room. It bore no stamp of any previous occupant, and its complete anonymity reassured him sufficiently to push himself away from the door and move towards the window. At least, he thought briefly to himself, he did not have to cope with the lingering atmosphere of someone else's lifestyle imprinted on the room. In here, at least, he was starting with a blank slate.

He glanced out of the window, registering the view of covered walkways between high buildings without really seeing it. Then he toured the room in the same fashion, acquainting himself with his immediate surroundings by touch and impression, lingering nowhere.

His jangled nerves would not yet permit him to rest or reflect.

Nor to unpack. The trunk sat in the middle of the bare room, remorselessly inviting its owner to remove the carefully packed contents, to spread them out around the room, and thereby to commit him to occupancy, and Spock could not do that yet. He steadfastly remained detached, and continued his examination of the narrow bed, the wardrobe, the table, tape input, chair, store cupboard, shelving, until he felt that there were no hidden surprises left to jar his precarious equilibrium. Then he sat down on the 'easy' chair in the centre of the room, rested his elbows on the arms and clasped his hands loosely in his lap.

He shifted position slightly.

He stared abstractedly at his feet, and shifted again.

He looked up, and his gaze lighted on the trunk which was sitting next to him quietly but reproachfully.

At lightning speed, he formulated the speediest method of transporting himself and it away, which would only require a call to the porter's office and a quick check on the times of the cars leaving for the nearest port. He could be out of the area in two hours at the most and on his way.

Back home.

His thoughts skidded to an abrupt halt as they reached the door of the house. There they paused briefly, and then turned and retreated in a contrite manner back to the present, depositing him firmly back in room 5174, with the trunk next to him, and the harsh afternoon light streaming in through the window.

It was not a good plan.

"Prejudice is illogical," he thought to himself. Prejudice founded on opinions based on inadequate data. Therefore, the fact that he had been utterly repelled by everything and everyone he had seen since his arrival should be ignored. He had thought it all out many times, both before and since his decision to come. So...

"You are being ridiculous," he told himself implacably.

"No. I'm not," oozed the reply miserably from the depths.

You're stuck here, said the trunk, as he glanced at it again.

He settled himself more comfortably in the 'easy' chair. (It wasn't.) He deliberately regulated his breathing and relaxed, slowing his racing heart beat, and calming his mind to a state receptive to constructive thought. He began to return himself to that state of mental strength and self control which he had managed to attain during the last stages of his journey, continually aware as he sat there of the sounds of slamming doors, chattering voices and clattering footsteps ringing from all around the Block. He drew away from them into himself. He felt a lot better.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

Spock waited for a good six seconds for his heart to return to its correct position and for the buzzing in his ears to stop. "Come in," he said eventually, noting with some surprise as he spoke that he was standing up.

The door opened.

"Hi!" boomed the tall, broad, bronzed, rugged Human male from the doorway, the deep tan serving to emphasise the brilliant white of the teeth revealed in the hearty grin. "My name's Frieburg, Nick Frieburg. I live in 5832."

He advanced into the room like a friendly tank, his huge hand extended before him. "Welcome to the Block."

"Mr Frieburg," said the Vulcan in his cool assured tones. With a slow deliberate movement he brought his right hand from behind his back, and raised it in the Vulcan salute. "I am honoured by your courtesy. My name is Spock." His hand returned to clasp the other behind his back. His dark eyes regarded his visitor steadily and expressionlessly. The visitor's grin faded slightly.

"Ah," he said, "Spock. Well, hi, Spock."

He found himself at a loss as to what to do with his right hand, which was still protruding forwards like an antenna. He let it drop to his side, then flapped it backwards and forwards once or twice against his hip like a one winged penguin, and then finally scratched the top of his head.

The Vulcan did not move.

Frieburg began again with vigour. "Well, Spock, I just came to say that if you wanted any help about anything, or just wanted to get to meet a few people on your first day, y'know, well, ah, there's a kinda party...sort of a meeting kinda thing in my room and a few others next door to me, and, ah, we'd all be real glad to see you along with the other First Years, to meet up and kinda get to know everyone and... ah..." He fizzled out.

This Vulcan was just too much.

Those eyes.

Oh boy.

He flapped both arms this time, and then produced the Grin again. "Anyway, it's after the meal." The Grin broadened, desperately.

"Thank you, Mr Frieburg..."

"Nick, please!"

"Thank you, Nick. I will be there if I am not too tired by that hour. It is good of you to take this trouble..."

"Oh, no trouble at all, no trouble at all," hooted Nick, as he began to back towards the door. He started to hold out his hand again, and then changed the movement to a wave. "Room okay?"

"Quite satisfactory, thank you."

"Fine, fine. Well, I'll leave you to unpack your gear then. I'll see you later. "Bye." The last word brought his back against the door, and with a fumble for the handle, another grin and a wave, he was gone.

Outside in the corridor he let out a low whistle.

Inside the room Spock did something similar.

Then he sat down in the chair again, and crossed his legs.

The trunk glared at him.

Muttering something extremely fierce under his breath, he pushed himself abruptly back to his feet, turned on the offending receptacle and snapped open the locks.

By making use of the food which his mother had insisted on including in his luggage ("You never know what the food there might be like"), and by leaving the sanctuary of his room only for the most essential expeditions, he succeeded in spending the rest of the day and the night in complete isolation. He did not attempt to rationalise the sensations of horror which arose when he contemplated the notion of walking into the dining hall or joining in with Frieburg's get together; they were in fact compounded of a mixture of acute shyness and insecurity and of a deep-seated conviction that, in respect of the party at least, it was simply not the thing to do for one such as himself. The problem could not long be avoided, however. A notice board which Sarvan had pointed out to him on their way to 5174 directed him to report to number 3 Assembly Room at 0830 hours and, after finishing off Amanda's thoughtful enclosure in lieu of his breakfast, he began his Academy career by finding a seat at the back of the huge hall at the due time.

The first days of bewilderment, anxiety and tension crawled painfully by, and then moved faster from morning to night as he gradually accustomed himself to the rooms, the smells, the sounds and the faces. One of the major worries which had cost him several additional hours of recuperative meditation proved in fact to be unfounded; he discovered from the first class that he would be more than able to keep up with the work, and one recurring nightmare evaporated in the light of reality. However, the ease with which he completed the set preparation for the preliminary seminars left him ample time for concern over the other aspects of Academy life, particularly in view of the fact that, judging by his initial observations, the set work appeared to be the last thing on the minds of his fellow cadets.

He watched them. He saw how, from the first day, the isolated 'freshers' formed into small groups of acquaintances, arriving at the lecture rooms together, finding seats together, and pushing out through the doors at the end in bursts of noisy energetic relief, disappearing towards various rooms or bars, or standing around the notice boards. He saw these groups quickly re-form and form again, as the cadets found their feet and recognised friendships based on more than just mutual insecurity and loneliness. Each evening began with the now familiar sounds filtering in to his room of slamming doors and racing footsteps, to be followed by a heavy silence broken by an occasional burst of music or laughter. Each day was spent moving from lecture hall, to tutorial, to dining room, to gymnasium, to his room, backwards and forwards, and all the time he watched them and he couldn't understand them.

He kept himself aloof for the simple reason that he had no idea how to talk to them. The only Human he had even known well had been his mother, and after only two days he had reached the conclusion that his mother must have been a very unusual Human. She spoke in quiet moderate tones, for one thing, and Spock found it very difficult to tolerate the Humans' apparent compulsion to shout at all times, even when they were addressing him from a distance of some two feet away. He also began to regret the number of times he had accused her, either directly or to himself, of a penchant for illogical statements. Although he had to appreciate that these Humans seemed to understand each other without difficulty, he was now forced to either re-define his previously maintained concept of illogicality or to accept Amanda as well worthy to continue the tradition of Surak. Following one incident in which a fellow First Year, sprawled in a lounge chair in a common room reading a tape which was clearly unconnected with any of his studies, looked up and drawled to the passing Vulcan, "All go, isn't it, Spock?" the latter was moved to send a message tape to his mother telling her of his news in terms more affectionate than any he had employed since he was ten years old.

The agony which he had initially experienced when entering any crowded place such as a lecture room or dining hall eventually subsided; although he came no closer to being able to behave as they did, and daily moved further away from wishing to do so, he did finally realise that he was only one person among many and, sensing his reserve without necessarily knowing the reason, the others were content to let him be. Those who recognised him nodded greeting when passing in a corridor or courtyard, but word passed around that attempts to initiate conversation with him would be met by a poker-stiff sobriety and formality, and, in general, such attempts ceased.

***

So his first days turned into weeks, and he travelled through them alone, continuing to observe with intense curiosity (but little enlightenment) the strange Human behaviour patterns, the incomprehensible dialogue, the utterly illogical approach to their studies, and their extraordinary social activities.

These last he avoided with clinical fastidiousness, until one evening when he found a note pushed under his door, inviting him to a party (another party?) to be held the following evening in several rooms on the corridor. A birthday party, the note declared in brightly coloured staggering capital letters.

He had once or twice had occasion to walk past open doorways through which this party or that could be seen in full spate, and he realised that he would have little peace if this one were to follow the same course as the others always seemed to do. Therefore, although fully aware that he had been invited only through politeness, since room 5174 was right in the middle of the proposed field of play, he decided that he may as well bow with the wind and attend - it might after all prove educational.

In a sense, it did. He arrived deliberately late, with a view to entering undetected by the merry throng, but the plan was instantly thwarted when a young and rather scantily dressed female, whom he dimly recognised as his hostess, swam towards him through the crowd with arms outstretched, uttering shrill cries of welcome (You darling person, you've come, how lovely!) She wrapped the arms tightly around his neck, planted a damp kiss on his cheek and, before he had had a chance to recover from the state of intense shock into which he had been hurled, a glass of alcohol was thrust into his hand and he was pushed into the room accompanied by the exhortation to "Go in and mingle, darling! I'm sure you know everyone."

In fact, he did, and that made it worse.

Swallowing the rising panic as a child forces down his compulsory daily intake of vitamins, he tried at first to find a dark corner in which to hide. All dark corners were, however, spoken for (he had arrived very late) and so, still clutching his untouched drink, he proceeded to slide furtively around the room like a plain-clothes detective at an intergalactic summit reception, darting nervous glances to all sides and tripping over the occasional inebriated corpse. From time to time he would stop his prowling, only to find himself caught up in strange conversations with various unattached characters who would shout slurred but friendly noises into his ear over the music and who did not seem terribly concerned about the kind of replies they received.

After a while he began to feel mesmerised by the utter strangeness of the sights and sounds around him, and he moved through the evening as though in a dream. He found himself eventually at a small table in another room, the half-emptied glass placed carefully in front of him. (He had not drunk anything but his elbow had interacted with an enthusiastic couple on the dancing area, and some of the liquid had disappeared down his sleeve.) Opposite him at the table was a yellow-haired girl from the same year as himself who was sitting with her chin propped on her hands and telling him all about why the wearing of uniforms constituted an exaggerated focus on the concept of feminine sexuality. He watched her with keen interest. Although her face was pointing at him, her eyes seemed to be moving in all directions of their own volition, and he found himself unable to tear his own eyes away. His attention was interrupted however when, with what he hoped was a sudden change of subject, she leaned towards him and, a slow smile appearing on her wide mouth and in her now focussed gaze, she said, "Spock, do you know what I really like about you?"

"No," said Spock, truthfully.

"Well," she began in a sly voice, and then she began to shrink. At least, that was how it appeared at first, but after a second or so Spock realised that she was merely sliding slowly and gracefully under the table. He watched, fascinated, until the top of her head had disappeared, and then peered underneath the table, where she lay curled up, sleeping peacefully with the smile still on her face, and one arm wrapped round his legs. He gently disentangled himself, got to his feet and, leaving his glass on the table, he tiptoed away.

He spent the rest of the night in the covered roof garden on the top of D Block, watching the stars and thinking. At daybreak he made his way back to breakfast, feeling more serene and composed than he had for some years. It had been revealed conclusively to him over the past weeks, culminating in last night, that he had less in common with Humans than with a litter of half-grown le-matya kittens. He had done the right thing in coming to the Academy; it had shown him his true self. A Vulcan. He would succeed.

He felt good.

He spent that day revelling in his new-found security and, the following evening, he did what he had not dared to do since his arrival - he walked over to Y Block and knocked confidently on the door of room 3130.

He then left, a little deflated, because Sarvan was not at home. But he returned some days later, and was this time invited in by the occupant, who introduced him to two other Vulcan males who were sitting over a chess board with cups of coffee at their sides.

"We have heard much about you since your arrival, Spock," said the one called Saen, unexpectedly.

Spock went cold.

"Oh?" he managed.

"Yes, indeed, your reputation has spread throughout the Academy. All the instructors in Computer sciences and allied mathematical fields say that they do not recall a student showing such brilliance in his first Half Year. We congratulate you.

Spock found it quite impossible to conceal altogether his pleasure at this news, which did in fact come as a complete bombshell, but his lapse was either unnoticed or immediately forgiven. He was welcomed into the room and proffered a seat near the chess board, and an easy silence reigned as the game progressed to its conclusion. Then the four sat back, and Sarvan asked Spock what plans he had made for his next year. "Do you intend to go straight into officer training?"

"Yes, if I'm recommended," he replied, uncertainly. "I had thought of seeking a commission as Science 0fficer eventually, and so I want to begin to specialise as soon as possible."

"I don't think that there will be much specialisation in the initial stages," put in Sarvan. "Command training and deep space survival conditioning takes priority at first. But are you not working towards a Captaincy?"

"I hadn't thought that far, and it is certainly too early to judge whether or not I am fitted."

Spock gathered from the nods of approval around the room that this had been the right thing to say. "It is as well not to be too ambitious," said Saen. "There are too few Vulcan space commands for every Vulcan cadet to aspire to one."

"There are opportunities for Vulcans on non-Vulcan ships."

He wondered why he had said that. The words had seemed to leap out before he had had a chance to consider them. He found, however, that he did not or could not regret them.

"That is true, of course," answered Sarvan coolly. "But..." he paused, and almost shrugged, "who would want one?"

Again, a strong current of assent flickered round the room. Spock found himself standing as if on the edge of a pool of treacherously thin ice.

A devil, the same devil who had been with him since he entered the room, pushed him straight on to the middle of the pool.

"Why not?" he queried innocently.

The others looked at each other briefly, and then two settled back in their chairs leaving Sarvan to educate the youth. Sarvan leaned forward.

"After you have been at the Academy for a substantial period of time, you will have no need to repeat that question," he said simply. "Human qualities, whatever they may be," Spock sensed that feeling of approval again at Sarvan's interjection, "...do not and can not match those of Vulcans. The approach of the respective races is not compatible. I do not believe that any Vulcan would not find his full potential severely hampered by close contact with, and certainly by subordination to, any Human. I have no doubt you will discover this for yourself."

Of course, Sarvan was perfectly correct.

Those were in fact the very sentiments which he, Spock, had expressed to himself that night on top of D Block in the roof garden, though phrased, perhaps, in less emphatic terms.

Was it not the seed of that same conviction which had driven him apart from his parents, and finally exiled him from his own home?

Sarvan was right.

So why did he now feel the way he did? Why had he kept silent for the rest of the evening? Why had he felt the need to leave early, why had he continued to thresh over Sarvan's words throughout his walk back to 5174, throughout the sleepless, restless night, and day after day to debate them, to convince himself of their veracity?

He had visited Sarvan that evening on a wave of serenity and confidence. So where, he wanted to know as he queued for his morning shower, had the confidence gone to so abruptly?

It was quite illogical. He had proved to his own satisfaction the fact of Vulcan superiority. Therefore, all that had happened was that his own hypothesis had been confirmed by another who had, presumably, learned the truth from experience.

His discomfiture would seem to stem from the fact that, while it was all right to say to himself, he could not, for some reason, hear with any equanimity the same things from someone else...

"Mr Spock!"

“ Sir?"

"Oh, you are with us, Mr Spock."

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir."

"Well?"

Pause.

"Sir?"

Sigh.

"I want to know how you would resolve the apparent anomaly displayed in the contradiction between the facts presented by the sensor banks here, and the information on the cause and extent of the radiation which you have, I hope, derived by means of the methods discussed in our last meeting."

"Yes, sir - I would suggest that the solution to the contradiction may be found by closer study of the secondary sensor scans which would reveal..."

He knew it anyway.

(It was rare these days for him to be called on in the academic classes since the tutors were beginning to feel that it demoralised the others. They also noticed that entire classes were learning to rely on their Vulcan companion to fill in the nasty silences. So he was generally passed over, barring untimely exceptions.)

Did it mean that he simply did not like the truth, and was therefore disturbed because he had had it confirmed? Or - that he did not believe it?

But he did believe it, he told himself again as he stood with a group in the gym waiting to be selected by the Unarmed Combat instructor to be hurled across the room "pour encourager les autres".

(He knew that he would be chosen - he always was. This was irritating, since he had learned years ago at home how to defend himself from elementary tackles such as these, but he was equally aware that to attempt such defence would be an unpopular move with the instructor, who didn't like him. Spock had initially been disturbed by this overt dislike; the instructor could not let the Vulcan walk through the same room as himself without a barked "Stand up straight, you there!" which command Spock found painful to his eardrums as well as damaging to his ego. Whenever possible, other faults were found, and it was beyond even Spock's ingenuity to anticipate all the potential offences. This continued torrent of abuse caused Spock a considerable degree of soul-searching, until he had seen the instructor on separate occasions tearing strips off an Andorian for the most trifling of reasons, accusing another Vulcan of "loud-mouthed impudence", and firmly promising a Rigellian "the worst report this place has ever seen". Then Spock began to get the general idea and he stopped taking it personally.) But if he believed it, why did he have continually to seek reassurance on the subject?

It was a question which...

"Spock! Over here!"

Spock walked forward smartly, grappled with the instructor, flew through the air, landed with a thud, got up and returned to his place.

...demanded serious and honest investigation if he were to regain any kind of peace of mind.

One thing was clear, though. It was not going to be as easy as it had looked a few rosy days ago...

"Spock!"

Oh really!

Time trudged steadily along towards the Half Year break, taking Spock and his dilemma along with it. He had become well used to the routine, and his fellow students and tutors had become well used to him. Each student's life had fitted into a pattern, and his was virtual isolation, which was the only way it could be.

That again was a state to which he was long accustomed, and he embraced it with practised ease. He worked, walked, exercised, slept, ate and thought.

And thought and thought.

His musings were frequently interrupted towards the latter part of Half Year by a strenuously energetic and earnest young gentleman whose goal in life appeared to be to Organise every living being around him into all manner of healthy and worthy activities. This daunting individual, having presumably Organised everyone else to his satisfaction, now descended on Spock with a view to drawing the Vulcan into the social swim. He chased him into and out of lectures and seminars. He hissed into his ear during gym sessions. He intercepted him in corridors and courtyards. He finally ran his victim to earth in the sanctum of 5174 itself, surprised the victim into offering him a cup of tea ("a little more milk please"),and settled down in Spock's 'easy' chair to talk.

He spoke (at length) of the excellent qualities of Vulcans. He commented humbly (but at length) on the relevant characteristics of Humans. He talked movingly and sincerely of the tremendous mutual benefits to be gained by the conscientious pursuit of inter-racial cultural and recreational interchange. He then lifted himself from the 'easy' chair and moved over to the corner of the bed, accepted a second cup of tea and, with a flourish, produced a file of papers from which he selected one and waved it triumphantly under Spock's nose as the mesmerised Vulcan stood back from adding a little more milk to the tea cup.

"I've put you down for the basketball First Team!" he declared fondly.

"Basketb...?" Spock's voice trailed. He swallowed.

"I thought that would be best," went on the Energetic Organiser, energetically. "You see," he explained, "you're tall."

Spock sat down.

"What d'ya say?"

"I...er, I...er, don't..."

"Oh gee! broke in the E 0 strenuously. "Am I pushing you?"

Spock looked up hopefully.

"I'm really sorry," went on the E 0, "I really am! I'm just going on and on and I haven't given you a chance!"

Spock's spirits lightened. He took a breath to speak but...

"Look, okay Spock, if you don't like basketball, well...let's see... there's baseball, football, volley ball, 1500 metres relay - do you run? - well I guess you do...ice hockey, oh, and tennis? You'd be real good at tennis. You're tall, you see.

He beamed. Then he indicated the papers strewn across his lap. "What d'ya say?" he intoned once more.

It could not go on.

It was preposterous.

Intolerable.

Spock's fighting spirit, temporarily crushed by uncertainty and bewilderment, came to the fore. He was Vulcan! a proud unconquered race whose carefully nurtured veneer of serenity and logic served only to keep in check the violence, passion and ruthless ferocity which smouldered beneath the surface. He was Spock, son of Sarek the Ambassador, claiming direct descent from Surak himself and heir to the most highborn of the Clans. He, Spock the Vulcan, rose to his feet in a smooth panther-like movement and faced his visitor. He stood tall, poised, proud. He spoke.

"I'll think about it," he said.

Well, he was half Human.

And he was to find that he had erred miserably. The E 0's vendetta continued apace, and it was not until the Half Year break that Spock found relief from the continual fear of capture. A few cadets stayed at the Academy, either to study or because, like Spock, they had nowhere to go. But the majority piled into the aircars and shot away to respective happy homes and holiday retreats, leaving Spock revelling in the peace of the solitude which contrasted sweetly with the tense harshness of term time isolation. It was a holiday in itself for him, and he wandered the area freely, his mental defences relaxing by the day, his composure returning and strengthening, his tension evaporating in the silence and the slowness.

It couldn't last.

Thirteen weeks later they were back with a vengeance, and his peace and serenity were abruptly exploded. Second Half began, but Spock noticed a difference. He was puzzled for a while, until he found the reason for the strange and strangled atmosphere.

Exams.

The cadets, whatever their Year, were simmering in a collective stew over their forthcoming respective ordeals, and Spock was astonished to see the Humans he had studied so carefully suddenly and drastically change their habits and demeanour. He gathered from the hush that fell on the Block each evening that the interminable socialising to which they had seemed so attached had been cut to a minimum. He noticed that study rooms were filling, library inputs were frequently engaged (which was irksome), lectures were crowded, corridors were quiet. Faces became pinched and anxious. Regulars in the dining hall ceased to attend. Spock could not understand it at all.

He saw no need to put in any additional preparation, and therefore continued through the following weeks at his regular pace, watching the turmoil from his comparatively placid distance, and wondering why they had all changed their minds so suddenly and simultaneously about the importance of academic achievements. The phenomenon intrigued him to such a degree that he felt compelled to enquire as to its reason, since he was unable to find the answer by deduction.

After a revisional seminar, when the other cadets had all scurried out of the room in their new-found enthusiasm for study, leaving Spock and the tutor assembling their equipment in a more leisurely fashion, he made his enquiry, viz why are they all now so concerned about the results of their examinations whereas they clearly were not a few weeks ago. And then he wished that he had not asked, because the tutor simply confined his reply to a heartfelt but uninformative "I wish I knew!", patted Spock kindly on the shoulder, looked intently into his face for a moment, chuckled abruptly and then left. Not only was he now no nearer the answer, but he knew that he had just stepped even further outside the boundaries of the way which They followed and They knew, and even nearer to...

He didn't really know what he was nearer to.

He wrapped himself in a warm cloak and went for a stroll on D Block's roof garden until darkness fell and it was time to eat.

***

Spock was as glad as his fellow cadets when the final examination ended and the door was slammed shut on the room for the last time. He discovered that his sensitivity to atmosphere could be properly guarded only when in the privacy of his room, and by the end of the run-up period he had been forced to maintain a continual effort to prevent the combined tension and anxiety of the others from rendering him almost as incapable as they. Anticipating the potential hazard of the exam room itself, Spock took serious steps to practice mental shielding, since the Humans made no such effort themselves but allowed their hysteria free rein. It was highly novel, stepping as he had done from the restrained and isolationist society of his father's people to this beargarden of frenzied thoughts and fevered emotion.

"Perhaps it was against this which he tried to warn me," he thought, suddenly ashamed at how little he had known before he came, with all his brave words about his destiny and his place in the Universe.

Psychic assault and battery, nearly all day long - Spock was very weary and intensely pessimistic, until he too had the opportunity to go into the exam room himself, buried under his layers of protection, and show the world what he could do.

Not that he thought of his papers in those terms. He went in, sat for two or sometimes three hours doing what they asked of him and then went out again, with no consideration afterwards about whether the first question had really been that straightforward, or why he hadn't guessed that they would centre half a paper on that topic. Not for him the agony of the post mortem or the panic of the Night Before. In three weeks it was over, in another week the last cadet had taken his last paper, two days later the practicals were finished, and then he hid in 5174 while the rest of the world found relief in relaxation which Spock did not understand, need or want. It was enough for him that their collective crisis was ended.

It had, more accurately, temporarily lapsed until the posting of the results.

Spock was surprised at the results. Not because he had done so well, since there had been no reason why he should not have done so, but because of the marked difference between his grades and those of the other First Year candidates. He stood by the notice board and shrugged off congratulations which he did not know how to acknowledge, until his curiosity over how the others had fared (one of the two Vulcans in his Year had failed!) was overwhelmed by a desperate need to escape from all the attention which his apparent genius was exciting from the others crowding round. He gave a nod, wriggled out of the throng and fled. In his haste, he failed to notice the shocked disbelief on the face of the Energetic Organiser who, on searching in vain for the fourth frantic time for his name among the list of First Year passes, was unable yet to comprehend that, if he wanted to carry on Organising, he was going to have to do it somewhere else. Spock's neighbour, the vigorous Nick Frieburg, usually contrived at the slightest excuse to exercise his vocal chords to their limit, and therefore Spock did not realise as he moved off down the corridor that this particular bellow was one of triumphant joy. It was perhaps unfortunate that Spock did not turn around at that instance for, if he had, he might have been the only one to witness the other First Year Vulcan executing a brief, discreet, moderately dignified but undeniably gleeful soft-shoe shuffle at the back of the crowd, before he too departed solemnly from the vicinity of the notice board. Spock, however, surged on, rounding the corner and out of earshot of the cacophony of multilingual, racial and planetary exclamations and expletives.

And almost collided with Dr. Echstein, who was the head of the Computer Science and Statistics faculty, and therefore a man to be respected, although not all cadets gave credence to the rumour that he had no need for private living quarters since he simply needed to recharge himself every few days or so in Engineering Section and check in for overhaul and parts-change at each Half Year break. Dr Echstein was, in fact, quite Human, theoretically fallible, and extremely perceptive. Looking now at the tall, thin, black haired boy recovering in front of him, a green blush on his cheeks and confusion very evident despite the rigidity of the posture and the forced stillness of the facial muscles, he made a rapid decision, smiled and said, "Mr Spock, may I offer my congratulations on your success this year." Allowing a fractional pause for the acknowledgement (which did not come), he went on to suggest that "perhaps you would join me in my rooms some time - let's say, tomorrow evening - and we can have a chat, a bite of food, you know - 2000 hours suit you? Fine, I'll see you then - oh, A Block 398". He allowed not even the merest fraction of a pause for refusal, but was gone.

The green blush deepened.

Its owner stood for a second of petrified puzzlement, and then continued on his way at least at twice his previous speed.

***

The objective observer could have said that the meeting in A Block the following evening was a 50% success. Spock had the opportunity to discuss his hopes for the coming year, and to hear (to his secret gratification) that, based on his overall performance and his examination results (which had come as no surprise to any of the Staff) he would be able to specialise to his heart's content (Echstein's words, not Spock's), allowing of course for the continuing physical and psychological training essential for any Starfleet candidate whatever his aspirations or prospects, and not forgetting the weekly seminars on the most relevant of the latest brainchildren from the various whiz-kids around the Federation. "I shtrongly shushpect that you'll be able to cut two yearsh from the shtandard training," crunched Echstein through his mouthful of cherry torte on biscuit.

The food was pleasant as well.

The 50% element of failure was Echstein's personal failure to break through Spock's reserve, which he did not consider to be of Vulcan origin. He had met Vulcans a'plenty, of all ages and degrees of experience, and had never encountered anything quite as invincible as the fortress of formality and frost which surrounded this snip of a boy. He had sensed something of it earlier in the year, when curiosity about the unusually talented cadet had drawn him to talk with him, and the same curiosity had led him to do a little research. Therefore, unlike any other Human or Vulcan who had had occasion to deal personally with Spock since his arrival at the Academy, Echstein knew about Spock's socially exalted, mixed and perhaps (speculated Echstein) difficult background and makeup.

With the experience of his years and his status, he considered Spock's personal reticence to be not only unnecessary but a potential stumbling block to his future mental health and professional success. He wanted to talk to him, to find out about his feelings about working with Humans, and to help him to understand them. He wanted to find out if the Vulcan hybrid was as lonely as he surely ought to be, and to try to guide him towards the way to companionship if he was. He wanted to smooth Spock's path.

But the intended protégé would not be reached. The eminent doctor was forced, as he sat later nursing a 'nightcap' possessing the properties of an anaesthetic rather than of a sedative, to concede that he had failed that evening. He had not expected that he would encounter such resilience, such... obstinacy, such... damned pig-headed stubbornness as he had in this... Vulcan. Or whatever he was. As soon as he sensed the shift in the conversation towards his private life and his own attitudes and motives (and Dr Echstein knew enough about the Vulcan respect for privacy not to make his approach either obvious or tactless) Spock had almost visibly retreated, until Echstein felt exceedingly weary of the sound of his own voice and of the frozen monosyllabic interruptions and wound up the evening.

A shame. A great shame. A mind far above the average, the Vulcan reflexes so useful in a crisis, a startling curiosity tempered with a necessary degree of caution which was dictated by logic - all the ingredients for a first class commander, except one - the openness and self-confidence essential for earning and keeping the respect of one's crew.

"You can't make a captain out of an iceberg," he slurred sleepily to himself as he got ready for bed.

***

Two days later, the iceberg was sitting in his room hunched over his tape viewer, listening to and watching his mother inviting him home for the end of Year break. "It's a big house," she said, among other things, such as, "You ought to get away from there at least once a year, it would be good for you," and, "Oh, by the way, Sarek will be away for five weeks, or is it six, at a conference about the Chakkyan problem." Over, under and through it all he clearly heard one thing which she didn't put into words, and he wondered if he had missed her as well. He wasn't sure.

But it would be...enjoyable...to see ShiKahr again. And his room, and the gardens, and the Forge.

And he could take the opportunity to make certain that I-Chaya was taking sufficient exercise to keep his weight down.

The sound of a raucous laugh outside in the corridor seemed to emphasise the bland alienness of his surroundings, and a wave of what anyone else would have called homesickness washed through him and made up his mind for him. Not being a person given to indecision, he cued in the travelling times, planned his route, compiled a reply to Amanda, and made a cup of tea, all in the space of eight minutes.

While finishing his tea sitting curled up on the end of his bed (having given up on the 'easy' chair) he thought again about the reply which he had dictated on to the tape. After a moment's reflection, he ran through Amanda's message once more before putting it with the others she had sent him through the year. Then, re-inserting the tape on which was his characteristically terse reply, he added the news of his examination results and the reactions of his tutors.

"They may," he thought as he sent it off, "be...interested."

Thus the whole of the Block became engrossed in the lengthy business of packing and leave-taking, and not, as before, the whole of the Block bar one room. Spock did not, however, have a great deal to pack, nor anyone from whom he wished to take his leave. He had exactly the same number of clothes as he had arrived with, except for a pair of soft boots which, although ideal for walking the dry soft sands of his homeland desert, had given up the struggle against Academy puddles, and had disintegrated, just before the end of Half Year. There were no decorations to take down from the walls or shelves, and no goodbye presents to pack. While the other cadets spent the days until their departure flying from Block to Block promising to write, wishing good luck, planning next year, back-slapping, hand-shaking, hugging or crying (according to the depth and nature of the particular acquaintanceship), Spock read and meditated and wandered. One day one of his wanderings took him near Y Block and he met Sarvan, and the two walked together for a little way.

"Congratulations, Spock," murmured Sarvan. "You have already made your mark."

Spock bowed his head gravely, not knowing, as usual, what to say. "You will return home this break?" he asked eventually.

"Yes, I shall go home. I have not yet decided whether to return at all next year, since it has been suggested that the remainder of my training could be completed on Starbase 5, under the tutorship of Storos." Sarvan made only a perfunctory attempt to suppress a smirk, and Spock did not try to conceal his admiration of anyone who could name-drop so with such an exalted member of the Vulcan scientific community. "My father speaks of him often with great respect," he blurted out, and then instantly and fervently regretted that he had even been endowed with the power of speech.

"Your father is personally acquainted with Storos?" asked Sarvan with genuine eagerness. He was puzzled that the only reply should be a brief nod of the head, and persisted with his line of enquiry.

"Is your father a Fellow at the Science Academy?"

An equally brief shake of the head.

"Oh," said Sarvan, even more puzzled. "It merely occurred to me that I could mention your name to Storos - as he knows your father he may be interested in your progress here..."

//He is trying to be helpful//thought Spock dolefully.//And friendly//he added fiercely.

"My father..." Spock found that his voice seemed to have become snarled up in something. "My father," he said again, "is an ambassador," he finished softly, his eyes scanning the fascinating fifth floor windows of Y Block.

"Oh? Ambassador...?"

They had all said that he had a good brain, and his end of Year results appeared to prove it. But when it came to finding rapid avenues of escape it was next to useless. He gave up.

He muttered something through his teeth.

"Saret?"

"Sarek." The name emerged clear, brittle, final and, it seemed to the speaker, deafeningly loud. Sarvan's step did not falter but he turned to look at Spock with wide eyes, and there fell a silence.

A silence long enough for each of the young men to recall every word of the long-ago conversation in Sarvan's room.

And then a further silence, during which Spock waited for Sarvan to grope his way out. He himself felt no compulsion to break the hush. It was, after all, something with which he lived - his natural element, so to speak - and the familiar heavy atmosphere of unspoken hints, insinuations, curiosity and crushingly obvious Tact was now rebounding in full on Sarvan while Spock lowered his eyes from Y Block's fifth floor and looked at him impassively.

"Indeed," said Sarvan at last, his voice sounding at once harsh and somewhat breathless. He returned Spock's gaze, and offered him a mute but frank acknowledgement that there was nothing more that he could say. Spock could feel the space between them widening inexorably, and he unconsciously took a small step back.

"I must prepare for my departure."

"And I." Another brief pause. "Peace and long life, Spock." Sarvan saluted, bowed, turned and marched smartly into the entrance to the Block. Spock walked slowly back towards his room, the multitude of reactions cancelling each other out and leaving him quite numb. Later he would feel, and anger, loneliness and confusion would vie for precedence, but now he only needed to put on a warmer coat to stop his shivering and to sit on his own and strive for understanding and control.

He had achieved almost his usual measure of both by the following day, and all his attention was now concentrated on manoeuvring his trunk out of the door prior to pushing it down the corridor to the collection point. He had no idea why it could not be taken away by the same means by which it had arrived, but for some reason one had to do one's own hefting at the end of the Year. Perhaps it had just been a gesture of kindness to 'freshers'. Whichever, he had succeeded in standing the trunk on end in the doorway and he now gave a push, nearly exterminating the cadet who was walking by in the corridor outside. This gallant gentleman accepted Spock's horrified apologies with airy grace, and proved his complete lack of umbrage by helping the Vulcan to slide the trunk down the once shiny floor to the end of the corridor, where they left it with the others. The Human brushed himself down and looked up at Spock with a grin.

"Well, we'll all be back in the dump soon enough! Hey, did you know I'll be in the same group as you, for First Half anyway. Sure am glad about that!"

"Why are you glad about it?" asked Spock, the Human's friendliness seeping through his shell and so surprising him with its unexpected warmth that he found his guard evaporating slightly.

"Why? 'Cos it means there'll be one person there who can be guaranteed to carry me through, that's why!" He laughed, but saw the Vulcan drop his gaze, and he became a little more serious as he said, "Really, I am glad, 'cos I was wondering if next year - well, if I could get together with you sometimes on some of the Stats work. I mean, I'm not clueless about it, but I didn't do that well in the paper, not as well as I'd have liked, and - well, I'd really appreciate it if you could find some time to work through some of it with me. If you had the time, I mean."

The dark eyes regarded the Human solemnly.

"I would be honoured to help, if I am able, Mr. Tachyer."

"Oh great! Thanks! And the name's Paul. And I've got to go and fix up a place on a car now. But I'll see you next year. Enjoy your vacation." He held out his hand, and then broke into a wry laugh. "Oh hell, I forgot, Vulcans don't shake hands. Oh well, seeya then."

"Goodbye."

The Human hurried away. Had he chanced to return some moments later, he would have found Spock still standing by his trunk, his eyes fixed on a distant point in mid air, and his lips curved up into the merest of smiles.

Spock didn't understand what the conversation had signified, if indeed it had signified anything, but it had somehow made him feel much...stronger? He could at any rate think about it on the journey home, before bracing himself for his arrival.

That was the next hurdle.

The smile was gone as he walked back to his room.

He cleared out the room and packed the few remaining items into his travelling case. Then, a brief glance out of the window and round 5174, and he closed the door behind him and walked out along the corridor, through the walkways, down the escalators, and finally through the huge crowded echoing hall towards the departure point and the waiting car.