He rolled twice, effortlessly, floating, then broke the surface of the pool and side-stroked to the ladder. Overhead, the fiberflex board seemed to hum, calling him back. For a long time, he merely relaxed against the smooth sides of the pool, letting thought come and go without recording it consciously. But gradually reality intruded and he considered the day's events.

Five officers approached—four of whom admitted to dreams. Nothing conclusive, he told himself. Everybody dreams. Period. Drop it, Kirk. Stop looking for Klingons under every latrine.He floated out into the pool, letting the water buoy him up. Or if you're really that worried about it, go have a brandy with Bones and—

But before his mind could complete the train of thought, a familiar high-pitched whistle sounded on the communications panel.

Can't even be bored without interruptions, he thought with a vigorous shake of his dripping head. He backstroked over to the edge of the pool, hoisted himself up onto the deck, and strode over to the wall.

"Kirk here," he said. "Unless it's a full-scale red alert, Spock, I've got a hundred thousand gallons of water on hold."

"Unfortunately, Captain," the Vulcan's voice replied, "I can offer nothing quite so … intriguing at the moment."

Even three decks away, Kirk thought he could detect the amusement in the Vulcan's tone. "What is it, Spock?" he asked more lightly.

"Lieutenant Uhura has just received a Class A Priority Transmission from Starfleet Command," Spock responded. There was a momentary pause, then: "The message is manually coded. I believe that requires your personal attention in the Com Lab?"

Kirk smiled at the question in the Vulcan's voice, and at the gentle efficiency behind that question. But beyond that, he felt a peculiar tightness settle in the pit of his stomach. Manually coded messages were almost unheard of. Manually coded messages meant hours of painstaking transcription. Manually coded messages were a pain in the—

He quickly clamped down on the intruding thoughts. Anything was better than boredom. But as he looked at the pool, a deep sigh escaped his lips. "Pipe it down to the lab, Spock," he ordered, gazing at the high-dive board which was still slightly vibrating from his first—and apparently last—plunge of the day.

"Affirmative, Captain," the Vulcan responded. "Spock out."

Kirk chanced one final look at the board, the pool, and the sky-blue water. For a moment, he thought of home again; but the hum of starship's engines reminded him that thiswas home now.He turned away, content with that knowledge, and thumbed the switch which would activate the hot blow-dryers hidden in the bulkheads. A cubicle came down from the ceiling on silent rollers, surrounding him with a privacy which wasn't necessary. Then, after grabbing a towel from the heated compartment on the wall and rubbing it briskly over his head, he quickly dressed, pulling the gold command tunic neatly back into place—and, with it, the responsibilities.

Four hours later—at precisely the end of the day's official duty shift, Kirk sat alone in the Com Lab, staring at the single slip of paper before him. Scrawled, scratched and practically illegible, the message was nonetheless clear—but hardly worthy of a manually coded transmission status.

Rubbing tired eyes, he switched off the computer terminal, erased all coding programs pertinent to the message, then rose from the tiny desk and stretched tired muscles. He looked at the message again, then folded the paper and slipped it into the palm of his hand.

"Damn!" he swore, and stalked out into the deserted corridor.

Chapter Two

YEOMAN S'PARVA PLACED the dinner tray on the table, sat down carefully in a chair which was somehow too small for her bulky frame, and stared at the food, picking gingerly at the egg rolls and won ton on the edge of the platter. Across the dining room, she noticed a few heads turn in her direction—most of them male, she noted. Muted conversation buzzed noisily in her ear, and she heard her name mentioned more than once. Turning a little more toward the wall, she found herself feeling self-conscious despite the fact that she was far from being the only non-Terran in the room. Psychically, she sensed a Denevan, an Andorian, two Rigelians and a Deltan. Logically, the Deltan female should have been the center of attention, she told herself, remembering her psyche studies of the compelling women who were required to take a celibacy oath before accepting starship assignment. But at least the Deltans were humanoid, she thought.

Carefully, she nibbled at the food, wondering what new rumors were making the rounds concerning her placement on a starship. Even though Katellans had been in Starfleet for years, she realized with a certain amount of pride that she was the first of her race to achieve a position onboard a starship. She smiled to herself, and absently licked at the morsel of shrimp which had accidentally dropped from the egg roll and onto her left paw. Then, realizing what she'd done, she made a mental note to be more cautious. Old habits die hard, she thought. After a few more delicate bites, she laid the egg roll aside, picking up the knife and fork. Inconvenient though the implements were, she accepted that they were a necessity—at least until her peers grew accustomed to her canine physiology. And yet, she realized that Katellans weren't thatdifferent from their human counterparts. Already, she had mastered walking upright—which, she had realized, was actually quite convenient. And the rest would come soon enough. Within a week, the control panel and equipment in her department would be completely refurbished—to accommodate both bipeds and quadrupeds. She looked at her hands, at the fork she had learned to hold with some amount of practice. Three longer fingers and a thumb distinguishable from its human counterpart only by the soft fur. Yes, the rest would follow.

"Hi!" a voice said as another steaming dinner tray seemed to appear on the table next to her own. "How's life down in the psyche lab?"

She jolted, gasped, then quickly recovered her composure, grateful that the facial fur concealed any tint of embarrassment which might otherwise have found its way to her cheeks. She looked up from her reverie to discover Jerry Richardson sitting across the table, a boyish grin playing in the deep brown eyes.

"Didn't mean to startle you," he apologized, grabbing an egg roll and unashamedly stuffing it into his mouth. "Just thought you looked lonely sitting over here all by yourself."

After the initial astonishment, S'Parva felt herself relaxing. She managed a smile. "Thanks, Jerry," she said quietly. "Guess I'm a bit nervous tonight."

Richardson shrugged, downing the remainder of the egg roll and reaching for the container of chocolate milk on the corner of the tray. "No reason to be," he said between swallows. "You seem to be doing just fine—at least from the reports I hear."

S'Parva leaned closer, her voice hushed. "It's not the work, Jerry," she relinquished somewhat hesitantly. "It's … well …" She sighed deeply, broad shoulders rising and falling in the blue V-necked sweater-tunic which had been especially designed for her. Even in that way, she was different, she thought. But Jerry didn't seem to notice—just as he didn't seem to notice that she was a foot taller than he was, or that she could snap his neck with one quick movement. And there was something compelling about that innocence, she realized. Something which allowed her to think of him as K'tauma—friend, companion, teacher, little brother. "It's something …" But she fell into silence. There were no words in Katellan or Terran to describe the feeling.