CAPTAIN, DO YOU PLAY?

A young Starship Captain surveyed the Bridge of his new command with a frown and a momentary sense of deja vu. It was not his first time on the Bridge of the Enterprise, yet the memory of this scene had a different flavor, somehow, from his recollection of assuming command and of the previous day's duty shift. Then he had it: he and Sam on that long ago trip to see the rebuilt Bridge of the first warpship . . . two boys on an unexpected holiday from parents and teachers, travelling alone across half the country, giggling in adolescent sillines over rental cars and restaurants and hotels. . .

That was just before Sam went off to school, he thought. I must have been twelve . . . maybe thirteen already.

He had stood in the cluster of fellow tourists behind the roped off steps that led down to the command seat, much as he stood now by the turbolift doors of his own Bridge. Most of the Bridge positions had been occupied by uniformed mechanos, whose slight movements (a head turning here, a hand brushing just there over the controls) lent realism to the scene. Only the command chair was empty, whether by oversight or by some genius of imagination that well understood a young man's yearnings, he never knew.

His world had shifted suddenly, as though he had an unexpected peep into another dimension. The bodies, the voices, the presence of other people around him faded away and in their place he heard the muted hum of instrumentation, the soft comments of one crewmember to another, the cheep of a monitor. An almost tangible sense of belonging swept over him. No longer was he little Jimmy Kirk, no longer a small town farmer's son with aspirations far beyond his schoolmates' ken, but The Captain, their leader, the Old Man. Captain James T. Kirk glanced comfortably around his Bridge as he moved toward the command chair --

-- and a firm hand gripped his shoulder and hauled him back to reality.

"Hey, Jimmy, you can't go down there. No tourists past the rope, cantcha read?"

He looked up at his brother in momentary confusion and then his own world settled back into place around him and the Bridge was just another display in the Smithsonian's vast Museum of Space.

Now he suppressed the urge to look over his shoulder -- no big brother anymore to say, "you can't go down there" -- and descended the steps into the well of the Bridge. His First Officer, Lt. Cdr. Gary Mitchell, was on duty and should have been in the command seat. Instead, the Science Officer sat there, the cool efficient Vulcan whom no one seemed to really know.

Vulcans! they would exclaim, when asked what Mr. Spock was like.

Even Gary, who had served with Spock under Christopher Pike, professed to know almost nothing about him. That bothered Jim somehow. It was impossible to think of spending years with a fellow officer, even on a vessel the size of a Starship, and still being unable to speak more than two sentences about him.

The Vulcan looked up as Jim paused by the center seat, and started to rise.

"Sir, Mr. Mitchell has gone to Engineering," he said, and though his voice was stiffly correct, Jim thought in astonishment that he detected an almost defensive tone.

Does he suppose I'm upset that he was left in charge? he wondered, as he raised a restraining hand to keep Spock seated.

He studied the saturnine face for a moment, thinking how little he knew of other species despite his years in space. One thing he had learned well was that culture- and species-dependent signals, the non-verbal communication that characterized much Earth-human interaction, were totally unreliable when dealing with an alien.

Never assume anything! He could almost hear the Command School instructor again after all these years. Verbalize! Explain! Makes sure you're understood and that you understand!

What was he to understand from this awkwardness in a senior officer, especially one whose reputation for intelligence and efficiency was known throughout the fleet? He could hardly demand an explanation for something in the fellow's tone of voice, especially when he wasn't even sure it signified the same thing in a Vulcan as in a human.

He fell back on something else he had learned in command -- to trust his intuition, regardless of the rules. He met the Vulcan's eyes and saw a wary tension there. That decided him.

"Relax, Mr. Spock," he said very softly. "I don't bite."

A startled blink was Spock's first response, and then one eyebrow crept up and the mouth softened slightly. The changes were so subtle and fleeting that for a moment Jim wondered whether he had imagined them. Then Spock's long fingers relaxed their grip on the arm of the chair and his body settled more comfortably into the seat, and Jim knew he had been right.

"Carry on, Mr. Spock," he said, touching the officer's arm gently as he turned away.

He was conscious of stares as he moved around the Bridge -- hardly unusual, considering the circumstances. Most of these people had been years with Chris Pike; now they had a new Captain to get used to, and Starfleet's "glory boy" at that, the youngest Starship Captain in the fleet.

Jim paused at the communications station, an updated version of the one he had manned in a very early posting, and watched as the comm officer processed a stream of incoming messages. After a moment, the young lieutenant looked up and Jim smiled at him.

"I'm not watching over your shoulder," he said. "I just appreciate competence. I never had a good enough ear to pick out the priority codes just by listening to them, as you do. I always had to wait for computer confirmation."

The lieutenant nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment and grinned back at him. Jim moved on, reassured at the quiet professionalism he saw all around the Bridge. Stares were to be expected, but nobody seemed to be rattled or annoyed with his scrutiny. The strongest reaction had come from the Vulcan, to Jim's surprise, since Vulcans were reputed to have no emotions at all.

Have to talk to Gary about that, he mused as he completed his tour of the Bridge's outer perimeter and stepped down again to the center seat. Spock looked inquiringly at him, ready to step aside, but Kirk shook his head.

"It's all yours, Mr. Spock. I'm not on duty. Just wanted to spend some time with the people I haven't seen yet on my shift."

Behind them the turbolift opened and Gary Mitchell stepped onto the bridge. Spock did stand then, as Mitchell came down the steps, and moved aside for the Exec to take the center seat.

"You're relieved, Mr. Spock," Mitchell said formally, and then, to Jim, "We had a slight problem in Engineering, but it's taken care of. I didn't think you'd mind my leaving the con to Mr. Spock that long."

Kirk happened to be watching the Vulcan as Mitchell spoke, and saw the shoulders stiffen and the mask drop over the fine features. But Spock showed no other reaction and a moment later he was at the Science Station with his back to the others. Jim was appalled that Gary would say such a thing of a fellow officer in front of him, and equally concerned that Mr. Spock turned away as though he hadn't heard, almost as though he had expected the rebuff.

"Mr. Mitchell," he said very deliberately, "I want to see you in my quarters at the end of your shift. Let Mr. Spock take it about ten minutes before shift change, so we can talk while you're still on duty."

"Aye, sir," Mitchell answered breezily. "Jim, it's very nice of you to be so concerned about my time, but I don't mind waiting until I'm off duty. We have some old times to catch up on and I have a feeling that's going to take more than ten minutes."

The two of them went back a long way, the kind of opposites that often become good friends. They had stayed in touch since the days when Mitchell was a brash cadet and Kirk a visiting instructor at the Academy. But they hadn't served together since Jim's first command, and he was seeing a side of Gary Mitchell he had never noticed. Mitchell's casual familiarity with him rankled a bit too, especially after his insulting manner toward the Vulcan.

"Nevertheless," Jim repeated firmly, "I want to see you ten minutes before your shift is up. We'll talk business then and save the 'old times' for later."

"Aye, aye, Captain, sir," Mitchell replied flippantly. "I shall be there."

Kirk went to the lift, which opened in his face as he fumbled for the call button. That was one of the little luxuries he hadn't become accustomed to yet on the new Starships. In his other commands one pushed a button and waited; here the damn thing almost seemed to read his mind. He glanced back around the Bridge, wondering whether anyone had seen their new Captain groping for the non-existent button, and caught the Vulcan watching him. Something flickered in the dark eyes, whether amusement or sympathy Jim couldn't be sure, but he did know that whoever said Vulcans had no emotions hadn't met this one. He grinned companionably and thought he saw a brief ghost of a smile in response before Spock turned back to his station.

The meeting with Gary Mitchell was as unsatisfying as it was brief. Mitchell shrugged off what Kirk had seen as patently insulting behavior toward Spock.

"He has virtually no command experience, Jim. Never wanted command, never went to Command School. He's happy to be a Science Officer, as far as a Vulcan can be said to be happy about anything. Even if I thought he had any feelings to hurt, I would probably have said the same thing. It wasn't meant to be insulting, just factual."

"Didn't Captain Pike ever give him command?" Kirk wanted to know. "Chris had such a fine reputation for training young officers that I can hardly believe he would have passed Spock over."

"Jim, I told you Spock doesn't want command!"

Mitchell's voice was snappishly impatient and Kirk eyed him, wondering whether there was a completely different Mitchell here from the one he had known. But Gary subsided immediately, with the old apologetic grin.

"Sorry, Captain, I got a little carried away there. Yeah, Captain Pike used to leave Spock in command sometimes when we were docked, just as I did today, but that's all. Vulcans have enough problems relating to humans as it is, without the pressures of command on top of everything else."

"What do you mean?" Kirk asked. Most of the other Vulcans in 'Fleet had attended the Vulcan branch of the Academy and served on all-Vulcan ships, and he had never really known why. It was something they all took for granted, like the old days when the different Terran nationalities maintained their own fleets and training academies, even after the formation of a central government.

Mitchell looked surprised at his question. "Haven't you worked with them before? I guess you graduated before there were Vulcan cadets on Terra. They just don't get along with us irrational emotion-riddled humans. They think of us as not very well trained children and they make lousy commanding officers."

He rolled his eyes and drew a finger across his throat. "One mistake and pfft! You get a dressing down like I haven't seen since Plebe Summer at the Academy. They have no understanding of or patience with any kind of human emotion and they'll tolerate nothing short of perfection. I had one instructor at the Academy who made me completely redo a paper for something that no one else would even have noticed!"

"Mr. Spock doesn't seem like that," Jim observed, beginning to wonder again whether he had misunderstood what he took for emotion in the man's eyes. He knew he was falling into the trap of reading human responses into an alien's expressions, but his sense of having communicated with the Vulcan, even on that unreliable non-verbal level, was so strong that he couldn't just dismiss it.

"We-l-l, Spock is a little different, I'll admit. He's worked around humans longer than most of the other Vulcans in 'Fleet. And there is a rumor that he's part human himself, though I don't know if such a thing is biologically possible. But believe me, Jim, you don't want a Vulcan in command. They just can't handle humans. Nothing anyone does is good enough for them and they don't give any consideration to human responses. Just logic, my friend. Logic is all they know."

"That doesn't seem like a very soul-satisfying existence, but I guess you can't judge by human standards. Gary, let's see whether we can give Mr. Spock some command training and experience. Maybe this doesn't bother either of you but I'm not happy that the most senior officer on the Bridge, next to me, has no command experience. If it doesn't work out, okay, but let's at least try."

"Anything you say, Captain, sir."

The flippant tone was back in Mitchell's voice and Jim gave him a hard look. It was one thing to joke around in private, as they were now, but Gary would have to maintain a bit more formality on the Bridge. The old maxim about commanding your friends was turning out to be all too true.

Mitchell saw the look and turned instantly contrite. "Sorry, Jim. I'll try to take it more seriously, even if I think you haven't a ghost of a chance of success. By the way, I should tell you something about Vulcans. I assumed you knew this, but apparently not."

"What's that?"

"They can't stand to be touched, Jim. They don't shake hands or clap each other on the back, anything like that. Nobody knows why exactly, whether they think touching is unsanitary or just illogical or what, but I thought I should tell you. Kelso said you put your hand on Spock's arm earlier so I figured you didn't know."

Jim frowned in concentration, trying to remember when he might have "put his hand on Spock's arm." The only thing he could recall was the momentary gentle pat he had given the other man when he visited the Bridge, but Spock had not recoiled from that. In fact, Jim had sensed no reaction at all, but perhaps Spock was just being polite.

"I'm glad you told me," he said. "I'll try to remember. I've been asking people what Vulcans are like ever since I came on board but nobody mentioned about not touching them."

Mitchell shrugged as though it wasn't really important. "Doesn't come up that often, I guess," he said. "Spock keeps pretty much to himself."

He leaned back comfortably in the chair and Jim had a sudden feeling that he was about to put his feet up on the desk and start reminiscing. There were too many things to sort out right now, two days into a new command, to get sidetracked that way.

"Tell you what," he said before Gary could get started. "Let's get together for dinner tonight and have a good long talk. Eighteen hundred okay?"

Mitchell sat up again and eyed him. "Yeah, that's fine. You're back to being 'super officer' again, aren't you? You were a lot more fun when you were a lowly lieutenant commander on the Deneb run."

Jim chuckled. "Responsibilities of command, I suppose. Eighteen hundred, then, in the Officers' Lounge. Now clear out of here so I can get some work done."

After Mitchell left, he instructed the computer to notify him at 1750 hours, and then sat thinking for a long time with the stack of routine administrative work lying untouched before him. There was an undercurrent of personal animosity in Gary Mitchell's behavior toward the Vulcan that puzzled him. Some of the tension might result from the fact that Mr. Spock was technically senior to Gary -- both were lieutenant commanders, but Spock had a much longer time in grade. Yet he was under Mitchell in the chain of command. The situation should not have occurred, in Jim's opinion, but 'Fleet had allowed it, Chris Pike had condoned it and he, Jim Kirk, was stuck with it. The best he could do was insure that Mr. Spock was given at least a minimum of command training. He deserved that by virtue of his rank alone, but in addition, Jim needed to know that if he and Gary were both incapacitated in battle, the only other senior officer on the Bridge was capable of taking over.

He found himself thinking of the obvious hurt in Spock's face when Gary relieved him of the con. Were these people's stereotypes so firmly in place that they couldn't see Spock as another sentient, feeling creature like themselves? Or was he, Jim, reading into the situation a completely erroneous conclusion of conflict and division?

Remember! he told himself. Spock's a Vulcan, an alien, a non-human. Whatever response you thought you saw may mean something totally different than it would in a human. He might have been trying to tell you, in a polite Vulcan way, to mind your own business.

But he couldn't shake the vision of a lean figure retreating from the patronizing tone of a fellow officer, or the unmistakable tension in the dark eyes when Kirk first came on the Bridge. As though I had 'caught' him in the center seat, he thought. He shook his head to clear away the disquieting images and turned to his paperwork. Nothing deadened the mind like reading through two years worth of maintenance and repair slips, fuel consumption reports, personnel changes, refurbishing and refit data. Few commanding officers bothered to read up on the boring routine minutiae of a ship's past history, but Kirk had found it invaluable for decision-making in the present, and to discern a pattern that would guide him in the future. He plodded through the pages on his terminal until the computer's saccharine voice announced the time. Then he put it aside, and out of his mind, and went to meet Gary.

Somewhere between his quarters and the Officers' Lounge, he got thoroughly turned around in the still unfamiliar corridors. He found himself passing a short hallway labeled "To Observatory" and on an inquisitive impulse, he turned aside, followed the hall, and went through the door at the end. The room inside was dark, except for the faint starlight shining through the massive thick windows overhead, and at first, he thought he was alone. Then he saw the dim outline of a crewman at the front of the room and went forward to see who else was there.

It was Spock, seated Yoga-fashion--or the Vulcan equivalent of it--on a mat in front of the first row of seats. He looked up as Jim approached, and would have risen when he saw the Captain, but Jim shook his head quickly and raised his hand.

"Please don't get up, Mr. Spock," he said. "I'm just exploring; I haven't been in here before. This is an impressive view of space, isn't it?"

As he spoke, he dropped down to the deck and sat next to the Vulcan, hugging his knees comfortably. It was not a very dignified posture for a Starship Captain, he supposed, but he had learned that people were more likely to talk when you were physically on their level. Whether that observation was cross-species valid he had no idea, but it was one of those things that couldn't hurt one to try.

Spock looked up in silent reverence at the glittering swash of stars across the window. Then he said, quite unexpectedly, "I am convinced that one's vision of the stars determines one's course of life." He gave Jim an almost bashful look, as though he didn't ordinarily say that sort of thing and wasn't sure what response it would bring.

"Not in a mystical sense, of course," he added, "but true nonetheless. A child sees the stars and wonders -- and yearns . . . " there was that sideways tentative look again, "and at some point in that child's life, he comes to believe that he can realize his dreams and hopes -- or that he can't. He reaches out for the stars, and becomes one kind of person, or he puts away his dreams and becomes another."

He broke off and looked down at his hands. "Forgive me, Captain," he said. "I am not usually given to philosophical musing."

It was the longest speech Jim had heard from the Vulcan since he came on board, and totally at odds with the unemotional logic he'd been led to expect. Despite the man's calm voice, there was a wistfulness in the words that struck at Jim's heart. He remembered Gary Mitchell's casual dismissal of the Vulcan -- "He keeps to himself." But why? Because he was truly unable to interact with humans? Or because as an alien he was simply unaccepted?

Jim watched without saying anything for a moment as Spock turned back to study the glowing radiance outside the window. Then he asked gently, "And which of those children were you, Mr. Spock?"

Spock looked down again and shrugged. "No one is immune to unrealized dreams, Captain," he said stiffly, and Jim understood that his question had been a little too perceptive and too personal. Yet he also understood, without quite knowing how, that Spock's answer had left the door open to pursue the matter another time.

"That is certainly true," he acknowledged, and then, to change the subject, "By the way, I understand that I committed a bit of a faux pas earlier. I didn't know that you prefer not to be touched, but I've been made aware of it since and I do apologize. I'll try to remember from now on."

"I was not -- offended, Captain."

Now what did that mean, Jim wondered. In the dim light, Spock's expression was unreadable.

Jim said slowly, feeling his way, "I'm glad to hear that, because it's kind of a habit with me and I may forget sometime again. If I do, just glare at me, okay?"

Spock turned to look directly at him and that eyebrow went up again. This time the expression was definitely amused, and suddenly he was a completely different person from the dispassionate, almost taciturn Vulcan of the Bridge.

"I'm not in the habit of glaring at my superior officers, sir," he said with wry humor.

Jim had his mouth open to reassure Spock when he realized abruptly that Spock was not saying that he wouldn't complain, but that he didn't object. The knowledge was so certain, despite the ambiguity of Spock's words, that he just stared at Spock for a moment and then closed his mouth, wondering how many unseen facets there were to this man, and whether he dared push a little harder now.

Finally he said, "I have a reputation for a certain amount of teasing also, I'm afraid. I know what things are safely said to a fellow Terran, but I may inadvertantly step on something Vulcan that I don't even know about. Will you tell me privately if I say something out of line?"

Spock nodded, with the quiet amused look still on his face and a sudden glint in his eye.

"Captain," he said gravely, "I am unable to discern any useful purpose in 'teasing.' However, it is such a pervasive component of human relations that I must conclude it fulfills some obscure psychological need, illogical though that may seem."

The stilted phrasing and academic vocabulary could have been anything from patronizing to sarcastic, but the Vulcan's expression was the closest to a smile that Jim had seen yet. He responded with his own slow grin.

"Mr. Spock," he said, "for someone who claims not to understand teasing, you're suspiciously good at it."

He glanced at his chrono and gathered himself to stand. "I'd like to stay and talk to you, but I haven't time right now. Enjoy the stars, Mr. Spock -- and your dreams."

He found Gary Mitchell relaxed in his favorite pose in the Officers' Lounge, with his head lolled back against his seat cushions, and his feet propped on an adjacent bench. Mitchell looked up and hesitated when Jim walked in and then came to his feet.

"Sir . . ."

Jim waved him back to the chair. "No formality tonight, Gary. I promised a long talk about old times, remember?"

They moved to one of the booths along the far wall of the lounge and ordered dinner. The room was nearly unoccupied, to Jim's surprise. Most of the officers were back off leave and he would have expected a far larger gathering. A few people clustered around a table in the far corner, and another pair sat in the next booth, but the room was otherwise empty.

Mitchell shrugged -- that seemed to be his reaction to everything -- when Jim commented on the sparse company. "A lot of people go down below for dinner when we're in dock," he said.

"I don't think we have that many officers on leave status," Jim countered. "I saw the roster this afternoon."

"No, not on leave, exactly. Just -- out for dinner, you might say."

"Suppose we were to be suddenly deployed," Jim said mildly, but with an edge to his voice. He was more disturbed than he would allow Mitchell to see. Chris Pike's reputation as a Captain in battle was unsurpassed, but there was more to the operation of a Starship than maneuvers and tactics. From his reading, Jim could see that Mitchell had taken on most of the administrative duties, and his idea of ship's readiness was not Jim's own.

"We'll talk about that later, Gary," he said. "In fact, we're all -- all the Department Heads, that is -- going to talk about a number of things. I'm not the kind of commanding officer that sweeps away everything his predecessor did, but some changes are going to be made. I'd like to see more input from the Heads, for one thing. I'm the one in the center seat, but the rest of you are assumed to have some intelligent ideas and opinions too, or you wouldn't be here. I want to hear suggestions, especially in the area of cross training.

Mitchell frowned and pushed his potatoes around on the plate. "Jim, you have your own way of doing things and obviously it has worked for you. But have you considered the practicality of what you're asking?"

"Make your point, Gary."

"I just have my doubts about carrying over policies that worked on smaller ships to something the size of the Enterprise. You're talking about four hundred and some souls and over sixty departments. Cross training is fine when you don't have so many different disciplines, but I don't see how you can do that here. Even Mr. Spock couldn't hope to be proficient in more than a few departments; the rest of us would do well just to be capable of handling any of the Bridge positions if necessary."

He leaned back in the booth and grinned lazily. "End of lecture. You'll have your own way, of course. You always did. If you're right and it works, this'll be the best damned Starship in the 'Fleet, which is doubtless what you intend. If it doesn't, you'll scrap the idea and try something else. The ever resourceful James T. Kirk, Pride of Starfleet."

The words could have been barbed, but his smile took the edge off them.

"Well, it's my head," Jim said lightly. "If I screw things up, I take all the blame, but if I'm right, you get to share in the glory. That's fair enough, isn't it?"

He dialed up coffee from Food Services and turned with the cup in his hand to survey the room. "It's like a morgue in here," he said. "Why don't we go down to Main Rec? I'd like to meet as many of the crew as possible before we go out."

Gary hesitated. "Yeah, if you want. Main Rec is kind of -- well, not off limits, certainly, but officers don't put in there much. It can get a little rowdy, especially in port."

"Maybe a little gold braid would tone things down," Jim said evenly. "We're all officers, strictly speaking, on this ship, even if we're not all commissioned. I'm seeing a sense of class and rank that has no place on a Starship, especially when we have non-Terrans in the crew. That's hardly the image of Earth that we want to convey, is it?"

Mitchell laughed easily. "I'd forgotten what a crusader you are, Jim. Actually, the only alien in the crew right now is Spock and I don't think anything you or I do is going change a Vulcan's opinion of humans."

Gary hadn't answered the question, Jim noticed, but he decided not to push the issue. There would be a certain amount of strain for everyone until new policies were implemented and new ideas accepted; no need to get anyone's hackles up yet. There was one thing, though, that he didn't think he could stand to hear one more time.

"All right," he replied. "Forget Main Rec for now. Do me a favor though, Gary."

He paused and Mitchell said expansively, "Anything. Just name it. I'm in a good mood."

Jim said, not smiling, "I don't ever again want to hear the word 'alien' applied to a member of our crew. Can you pass that along in such a way that I don't have to call attention to the problem by putting it in writing?"

He had backed Gary into a corner and he could see that it didn't set well. And he had violated one of his own prime rules by using an off-duty social occasion to set ship's policy. Not bright, he told himself.

He allowed his face to soften and reached across the table to pat Gary's arm. "I promised we would reminisce about old times and here I am playing Captain. Forgive me?"

Mitchell relaxed somewhat but there was a hard look about his eyes still. "You have the best intentions, Jim," he said, "and it really isn't my place to advise you. I wouldn't even have said this much, except that we're old friends and you've always encouraged me to speak my mind, despite the difference in rank."

Jim nodded; this was the Gary Mitchell he remembered. "Gary, I respect your opinion as a fellow Starfleet officer, and as the Exec of my ship. Let's hear what you have to say."

"Well. I have to tell you, where Vulcans are concerned, that you're wasting your time. Their basic attitude toward humans is contempt, pure and simple. Look at Spock. The only time you see him outside his quarters is when he's eating or on duty. He doesn't care to associate with us otherwise."

"Is it possible," Jim had to ask, "that he just doesn't feel welcome -- "

Gary interrupted him with a snort. "He just doesn't feel, period. When he first came on board -- that was before my time here, but I've heard things -- he really antagonized a lot of people. You'd ask him a question with a simple yes or no answer and get back a scientific dissertation. Or ask for a calculation where all you needed was a rough estimate and he'd give it to you in sixteen decimal place accuracy without even touching the computer. Showing off, you know?"

Jim had to admit that 'showing off' was exactly what it sounded like, but he couldn't reconcile that kind of person with the man he had met in the Observatory.

"I don't know much about Vulcans" he said. "just the usual scuttlebutt about emotions and logic. So I admit I'm speculating. But could it be that his culture and tradition, not to mention his training as a Science Officer, would prompt him to answer every question as completely as possible, even when such a detailed answer might be unnecessary?"

Gary shook his head almost despairingly. "Jim, you're not speculating, you're fishing. I don't know what has you in such a dither about Vulcans, but I can tell you from three years of serving with the man that you're wrong. He's learned that humans won't put up with being patronized, so he doesn't pull that sort of thing much anymore. But every once in a while, still, he starts quoting odds and statistics and probabilities and you get the feeling he's just toying with you. Let me warn you; the first time that happens, better put him down hard or you'll get that kind of answer every time you ask him something. Captain Pike did, and I've had to do it too, in spite of him being senior to me."

Jim heard the words, but what he saw was a frustrated lonely man who had been gagged, essentially, as a Science Officer, and who was driven to the occasional retaliation of a precise answer. He remembered Spock's response and the light in his eyes when Jim mentioned teasing, and hoped fervently that the Vulcan had enjoyed his "odds and statistics and probabilities."

"Gary, I think you've been had," he said with a quiet chuckle.

Mitchell threw up his hands in mock disgust. "I give up. You'll have to learn for yourself. I give you two weeks, tops, to get tired of trying to make friends with him. In fact, I bet it won't take that long."

"Betting is a non-approved activity aboard Starships, Mr. Mitchell," Jim said with a dangerous smile.

"I get first chance at A shift when we ship out," Mitchell responded instantly, matching Jim's smile with his own.

"Mmmm." Jim had to think a moment. "How about a 2000-word paper on Vulcan culture?"

"Man, you're sadistic! I'm not worried though. This is one that I just can't miss."

Across the room, in Jim's line of sight but behind Gary's back, the double doors of the Officers' Lounge swung open and Mr. Spock entered. In his arms he cradled a playing field for 3-D chess. He stood there glancing about the room until Jim caught his eye and gave him a conspiratorial wink. Up popped that eyebrow again, to Jim's great amusement, and Spock started across the room toward him and Gary.

Gary was still rattling on about his "sure thing" when Spock reached the table and set down the chess field and an ornately carved box. Gary wavered to a stop and stared back and forth in flabbergasted shock between Jim and the Vulcan.

"What do you want, Mr. Spock?" he asked weakly.

Jim stood and met Spock's eyes over Mitchell's head. The Vulcan handed him the box and Jim slipped off the cover. He was prepared for something special just by the way Spock handled the box, but what he saw left him speechless. The king and queen were Vulcan, in flowing desert robes, carved of richly grained wood with a lustrous sheen. The bishops, at first glance, looked almost ordinary in Terran gown and mitre, but when Jim looked closer he found that one pair wore impish grins and the other severe frowns. The rooks were spacecraft, Federation scout ships, and the knights Andorians, mounted on the two legged cavalry beasts of their world. He couldn't immediately identify the pawns, but when he held one up to the light he realized suddenly that they were Klingons.

Cannon fodder! he thought delightedly. Someone with a very subtle sense of humor carved this set. He knew even as he had the thought who it must have been and he glanced at Spock with his own version of a Vulcan eyebrow.

"Your work?"

Spock nodded in silent acknowledgement of Jim's appreciation. He took back the box and began to arrange the pieces in position for play.

Gary slid out of the booth, shaking his head in disbelief, and Jim said out of the side of his mouth, "Cough up, Mr. Mitchell."

"Okay, okay," Gary whispered. "Give me a day or two, will you? I can see I'm gonna have to do a lot of research."

Spock finished setting up the pieces and turned to Jim with a quietly exultant expression.

"Captain," he said, "do you play?"