As the opening day of the inquiry drew nearer, Sarek of Vulcan, Ambassador Plenipotentiary to the United Federation of Planets, appeared more and more often on the news reports. Although I had seen many holos and security recons of the ambassador during my tenure as a Fleet Commander, I had never scrutinized those so intently as I did the image that now filled the monitor screen. Previously, Sarek had been nothing more to me than a grim and stereotypically self-righteous Vulcan functionary. More recently, I had come to think of him as the mysterious figure with whom Ambassador Tilendi was secretly involved, and who would preside over the Federation's self-serving charade of an inquiry. But now I saw him as something much more interesting: Spock's father. Odd, I thought, how all perceptions are changed by love. It was as though any person or thing connected with the beloved was transformed into an object of fascination, glowing with a kind of reflected light.
In Sarek's case, though, that glow was dimmed by my knowledge of the continuing disaffection between father and son. Although Sarek and Spock had achieved a detente of sorts during Enterprise's journey to the planetoid called Babel--after all, one could hardly remain estranged from the person who had saved one's life--I had seen Spock's memories of that event, and I knew that their fundamental differences had yet to be resolved.
At first it had been hard for me to comprehend why Sarek had chosen to bring so much pain to his family and himself by his obstinate denial of Spock's freedom of choice and moral independence. When I'd wondered aloud how such a renowned diplomat could be unwilling to negotiate a reconciliation with his adult son after almost twenty years of chilly silence, Spock had given me a look that said as plainly as words, You don't know the half of it.
Sarek's stubbornness was of a truly cosmic order, and his son had inherited that trait in all its undiminished strength. Most of their disputes had been conducted in that peculiar passive-aggressive fashion so favored by Vulcans. Neither party confronted the other head-on and openly; demands were phrased as logical propositions, defiance as point-by-point rebuttal. But the half-human Spock eventually lost patience with the ritual, and in adolescence he had begun to deal with family discord by, in the human phrase, running away from home. The early trial of the kahs-wan had proved his ability to withstand severe physical hardship; equipped only with the most basic survival gear, he would disappear, sometimes for days, into the mountains that ringed the harsh, burning vastness of Vulcan's Forge. But on his return his Vulcan father would not forgive him, and his assimilated Terran mother would not embrace him. Spock endured Sarek's punishment and Amanda's withdrawal as he endured all else: in silence, and with no outward sign of hurt or anger.
As Spock grew older, the rift with Sarek grew deeper. Expectations and personalities clashed again and again, until neither father nor son could find a way to make peace. Whether Spock saw the stars as a destination in themselves or as a means of escape from an intolerable family situation was an open question. In any event, on the day after his eighteenth birthday, having attained adulthood by Federation law if not by Vulcan custom, he applied for admission to Starfleet Academy. Six Standard months later, he was aboard a non-stop shuttle to Earth. From that day to this he had scarcely set foot on his homeworld.
I hit the pause key, freezing the news feed. Sarek's features were angular, aristocratic, austerely handsome; his face reminded me in some ways of my own father's. But I could see no trace of the deep lines that caused Tor's eyes to all but disappear when he smiled, no grooved and channeled evidence of decades of laughter and anger and joy and sorrow. It's as though Sarek's face has never been used ... I was certain that rulers and politicians of all species found the Vulcan ambassador reassuringly dispassionate: somber, aloof, immune to emotional appeals, never subject to displays of bad temper or good humor. Whether those qualities were also desirable in a husband and father was probably something best left for Amanda and Spock to decide.
* * *
I was still thinking about Sarek when Tilendi's commcode flashed on the screen. I hit the answer key and waited while a Fleet scrambler chirped and buzzed. Then the screen cleared and I stared, dumbstruck, at the image that appeared there.
"And good evening to you too, child," Tilendi said after a moment or two.
"I--I'm sorry, Lidiya. It's just that I haven't seen you out of uniform since--well, since my niece's first nameday, now that I think of it. You look lovely. Very exotic." That was an understatement. Her hair was pinned up in an intricate knot, and she was wearing a high-necked tunic of deep purple. Gold-mounted gemstones sparkled at her throat and eartips. "Is there some function at the embassy?"
"No. I have an appointment with Ambassador Sarek at a dining-hall this evening."
"You're meeting Sarek in public? I thought your discussions were confidential."
"It was his suggestion that we meet face to face. Perhaps he believes that a secret is best hidden in plain sight." She glanced down at the embroidered placket of her tunic. "Questions would be asked if I were to be recognized in Sarek's company just now. In these clothes I should be able to pass as one of his Vulcan colleagues."
In fact, she did look very like a Vulcan matron. I was thankful that McCoy wasn't here; he probably would have taken her appearance as more proof of his favorite hypothesis. "I'm glad to see you, Lidiya," I said. "When I didn't hear from you, I thought of calling Nanclus at the embassy to ask whether all was well."
"You wouldn't have found him. I've sent him back to the homeworld for a short while."
"So soon before the inquiry?"
"Yes. I want him to assess firsthand the mood of the Senate and the people. No doubt he will return with messages from your family. That should give you something to look forward to."
She was smiling, but I could hear the tension in her voice. "You're worried about this meeting," I said quietly.
"Among other things. As I've said before, Sarek mistrusts my motives. I must persuade him that this business with Al-Diraj need not affect our talks."
"That may not be easy."
"I will simply point out that because the cloaking technology is no longer in the Federation's possession, the Empire will be disinclined to make a declaration of war. And I will remind him that the Federation ships were not fired upon by Adjuvant. Al-Diraj would have been lost in any event as soon as it engaged the cloak."
I had posed the identical argument to Spock, and his reaction was still fresh in my mind. "I wouldn't assume that Sarek will see things as we do, Lidiya."
"He must. He may not like what he sees, but what is done is done. The matters that concern us now are far more important than a stolen weapon and a lost ship."
* * *
Over the next few days I pondered that astonishing statement in solitude. Spock was in San Francisco with Kirk for a final series of meetings with Starfleet's lawyers; I thought it unlikely that I would see him before the inquiry began. Elydex and Venn too were still mostly incommunicado. And Tilendi was deeply preoccupied with Sarek--which was beginning to worry me.
What I had come to think of as "the Sarek question" had been eating away at me ever since my talk with Ra-ghoratrei on Starbase Four. The little I'd learned since then had only served to confuse me further. I wasn't about to dispute Sarek's reputation; Tilendi had been correct in saying that his probity was beyond doubt, even in the Empire, and if she was willing to believe that he could rise above his blatant conflict of interest, then so was I. But this continuing contact between the two of them was another matter.
There could be no political reason for a secret dialogue. The Federation maintained its own embassy to the Romulan Empire, headed by an Andorian woman who had won the reluctant respect of my people as much for her martial prowess as for her debating skills. If Tilendi had official business that involved the Federation, she would have conducted it directly through Ambassador Thallis ...
And that was the key, of course: whatever was going on didn't involve the Federation. All at once, a memory came rushing back: Certain confidential and delicate discussions between the Empire and the planetary government of Vulcan. Recent events had pushed that conversation to the back of my mind; clearly, it was time for me to re-examine it.
I knew that Vulcan couldn't enter into trade or treaty arrangements with a sovereign power except through normal Federation channels; even something so innocuous as a cultural exchange of performing artists would have to be managed through the supraplanetary government. And though I was certain that under-the-table commercial dealings regularly took place between individual citizens of the Empire and the Federation, no one in the Romulan imperium would have sanctioned any covert discussions between two ambassadors--unless those "certain senior officials" who were instructing Tilendi were very senior indeed, and unless the stakes were exceedingly high.
But what were the stakes? And how was Vulcan, of all worlds, involved? The Romulan Star Empire was in need of many things, from potable water to a diversified economy to trustworthy allies, but Vulcan could supply none of those--and would not, even if it could. However, I thought, it's just possible that the last item might be on Tilendi's wish list. But if the Empire wanted to find a secret ally within the Federation, why seek out the pacifist Vulcans? Why look any further than the Andorians, whose warrior culture so closely mirrored our own?
There was no answer to that question. Plainly, Tilendi had not approached Andor; equally plainly, Vulcan had something that the Empire--or some faction in the Empire--wanted. More interesting still, Vulcan was apparently willing to discuss giving, trading, or selling it to an enemy power behind the Federation's back. Romulans loved intrigues and conspiracies, and we were masters of the arts of misdirection and disinformation. But Vulcans prided themselves on their candor and open dealing: whatever Romulus was asking must be something that Vulcan was eager to supply, or Sarek would never have agreed to these clandestine talks.
I spent a number of fruitless hours considering what that something might be. Vulcan had no unusual attributes except an abundance of sand, rock, and blistering heat, and a desert-bred race of people who had learned to thrive on hardship--which probably accounted for their latter-day tendency to asceticism. It also had a vastly inflated opinion of itself. The post-Reformation era had seen Vulcan reduced to the degrading status of noncombatant in sectoral wars and skirmishes; centuries later, as a founding member of the United Federation of Planets, it had finally been given a forum in which to disseminate its bizarre views on pacifism, nonviolence, and what it was pleased to call logic. Inexplicably, the other founding worlds had decided that Surak's philosophy was a good thing (though they had no wish to follow it themselves), and so had cast Vulcan in the role of the Federation's official conscience. Like many another conscience, it was heeded or ignored as circumstances and pragmatism dictated.
Personally, I thought Surak had nothing less than the end of a world to answer for. His writings made it clear that he had been a naive ideologue--a dangerous combination. His simplistic teachings had polarized families and nations, with a devastating result: the mass flight off-planet of those who would not repudiate the fierce pride, passion, and ambition that had once characterized all of Vulcan. The Romulan Empire owed its existence to Surak; for that, at least, he deserved our grudging thanks.
But Surak and his errors in philosophy were ancient history, and could have nothing to do with Tilendi and Sarek. Everything about their association spoke of deadly serious business--Tilendi's secret orders from a power bloc in the Romulan government, Sarek's failure to notify the Federation Council of his dealings, even Parizeau's possible attempt to sabotage their talks by stealing the cloaking device ...
All this uninformed speculation was getting me nowhere and giving me a headache. I went to bed early that evening, hoping that sleep would bring both figurative and literal peace of mind. That hope proved futile: I spent the night fighting off a recurring dream that verged on nightmare. But in the morning I could recall nothing of the dream except a horrifying image of rivers of green blood pouring from a broken vessel--a deep stone bowl of the kind used on Vulcan.
* * *
The end of the week brought several days of steady sunshine and higher than normal temperatures. The news reports labeled this phenomenon a "January thaw," and announced that it was an occasion for rejoicing. Evidently the locals agreed with that assessment: the park that lay beyond the perimeter wall of the apartment building was now a muddy brown quagmire, but that didn't seem to trouble the swarms of humans who emerged from nowhere to walk and run and toss balls to one another across the swampy ground.
Among those lured outside by the so-called warm weather was Dr. McCoy--or at least that was the excuse he offered when he arrived unexpectedly at my door.
"Almost like spring," he said, unsealing the closures of his mud-encrusted shoes. "I just felt like going for a run, so I thought I'd head over here and see how you were doing."
"I'm well, Doctor, thank you."
He stood up and peered at me critically. "You look a little peaked. Maybe you need a change of scenery. You still wearing that gizmo in your arm?"
"The locator? Yes, I'm still wearing it."
"So why don't you brave the weather and come out with me for a while? The fresh air might perk you up. You got any athletic shoes? We could run around the park a couple of times."
The offer was tempting. Although I faithfully completed an exercise routine twice a day, I knew that I was losing my conditioning. A good run would at least remind my cardiopulmonary system that it had a purpose in life. "I'd have to get permission from Elydex and my ambassador," I said. "And a security detail would have to come with us."
"The more the merrier. Call and ask 'em."
"I don't know, Doctor. We might attract notice "
"Hell, no. Nobody'll pay any attention to us, and if they do they'll think you're a Vulcan."
I had to laugh at that. "Oh, yes? When did you last see a Vulcan take any type of recreational exercise?"
"Well ..."
"Exactly. A Vulcan out for a casual run in the park would be more conspicuous than a Romulan military officer in full dress uniform."
"Got an idea." He picked up his parka and pulled a striped woollen scarf out of the sleeve. "Just wear this on your head. It'll keep you warm, and you can tuck it up a little around your face and neck. Now, you go call Elydex. And make sure she tells the guards not to wear their uniforms!"
* * *
Elydex gave her permission willingly enough, and when the embassy finally located Tilendi she too agreed that I might go out for an excursion with McCoy. When we were ready to leave, I put on my pilot's jacket. Suddenly the multicolored Two Worlds emblem on the breast pocket seemed twice as noticeable as it had the last time I'd looked.
"Oh-oh," McCoy said. "What're we gonna do about that?"
"Perhaps we could hide it with the scarf?" I said doubtfully.
"Okay, fold it like this, and then bring it around. There. Damn!"
"Now what?"
"That's a leather jacket!"
"Yes. So?"
"So when was the last time you saw a Vulcan wearing anything made out of leather?"
I was beginning to lose patience. "I thought we agreed that no one would take me for a Vulcan."
"Yeah, but what if?"
"Then I'll be a Rigelian," I said. "Anyone who looks will only see a few square centimeters of my face. And if it's as cold out there as I think it is, whatever's visible will soon be green enough for me to pass as an Orion."
He laughed. "Better not be, or we'll have a crowd followin' us. Where do we meet the security guys?"
"Elydex said they would wait for us in the lobby."
"Then let's go." McCoy motioned for me to precede him. For the first time, I left the apartment by the front door.
* * *
Beneath my jacket I wore a cobbled-together running outfit of deck shirt, heavy black leggings, and foam-soled halfboots. McCoy looked even odder than I in his faded and fraying denim pants, oversized parka, and worn canvas shoes. But the Federation security guards had truly gotten into the spirit of things: all three were dressed in professional-looking athletic wear, complete with weighted greaves and wristlets; their phasers and comms were tucked discreetly in side pockets or trouser waistbands so as to resemble physio monitors. They and McCoy formed a kind of flying wedge around me, and off we went.
The Terran sky shone an icy blue-white rather than the deep hot azure that all the tourist vids promised, but at least it was clear and bright. The weather was cold, though not brutally so, and in full sun it seemed quite bearable. Even as out of shape as I was, I could have run for hours in Earth's low gravity. We sped along the pathways, avoiding the children, pets, and ball-tossers who were frolicking in the muddy grass. The guards kept up with me easily, but we had barely completed our first circuit around the park when McCoy began to plead for a rest break.
"Over there," he gasped. "By that kiosk. We can sit for a while in the sun."
"As you like, Doctor," I called back to him, and we swung around to an open patio furnished with tables and benches. McCoy sat down, looking relieved. He fished in his pocket for a card and handed it to one of the guards.
"Here you go, son," he said, still puffing. "Get us all some juice and some danish. My treat."
"Yes, sir!" The guard trotted over to the kiosk, and returned in a moment or two with a tray filled with food and drink.
"Orange juice," McCoy said--unnecessarily, since the color was perfectly obvious. "Helps maintain your electrolyte balance. Not all that different from a human's. And a danish'll give you quick energy."
I hadn't realized how hungry I was; I made short work of the juice and pastry. "This is very pleasant, Doctor," I said. "Thank you for suggesting it." I loosened my scarf a little. The sun was warm on my face and hands, and the air smelled wonderful.
"Fresh air and sunshine," said McCoy, as if he had read my thoughts. "Nobody who works in space gets enough of either one, so you go for it when you can." We sat in agreeable silence for a little while, engaged in what McCoy described as "people-watching." Eventually he glanced over at the security guards, who were observing their surroundings with a good deal more purpose than we were. "Commander," he said in a low voice, "I just wanted to apologize again for those remarks I made last time I saw you."
"I received your note, Doctor. There's no need for anything more."
"Yes, there is. I had no call to talk to you like that. I just--sometimes I don't think before I speak." He shook his head. "Well, anyway. Glad you're not holding a grudge."
"Never. That's a Terran and a Klingon trait. We Romulans settle our disputes swiftly and then move on."
"I bet you do. Okay, I'll move on to something else you probably don't want to hear. Remember that paper I was working on with M'Benga? About, ah, Romulan biology?"
"I'm not likely to forget it, am I?" I smiled to show him that I was not holding a grudge about that subject either.
"Well, Spock didn't think much of our methodology. Fact is, he thought it was a mess. And we didn't say so, but we kind of agreed with him."
"So you've abandoned the project?"
"Abandoned it? Are you kidding? No, I got in touch with a friend of Jim's, a research scientist. She's gonna have a look at our results and then help us rerun the tests and document 'em for publication."
"I take it her credentials are appropriate to the task."
"They sure are. Carol Marcus is a geneticist, and she specializes in evolutionary biology. We'll give her a co-author's credit if she can make the data stand up and salute the peer reviewers."
"And if she can't?" While I had come to admire his persistence, I knew that the body of Romulan and Vulcan scientific evidence was bound to defeat him.
"Oh, she will. She's smart as a whip, that one. You'd get along with her real well." McCoy stood up and collected our empty cups and plates. "Let's dump these in the cycler and get going before I lose my momentum. One more turn around the park?"
Before I could agree to his proposal, a low-pitched oscillating tone, barely audible even to my ears, made me look around. The security guard seated at the far end of the bench opened her portable comm, listened for a moment, and then replaced the device in her pocket. "We have to head back to your residence now, Commander," she said.
"No way!" McCoy protested. "We haven't even been gone an hour. This lady's been cooped up there for weeks. Why don't you folks ease up a little? On a beautiful afternoon like this--"
"Excuse me, sir, but the request came from the Romulan embassy."
"Too bad. Let 'em wait."
"Can't do that, sir. Official business."
McCoy made ready to express an opinion on that subject, but I was quicker. "Why do they want me, Officer?"
"Not sure, ma'am. You're just supposed to meet the Romulan ambassador and someone from External Affairs."
I waited for McCoy's objection, which didn't come. I'd never known him to fall silent so quickly, and that made me suspicious: "Do you know what this is about, Doctor?"
"Well, no, not exactly. But there's been some talk ..." His voice trailed off.
"Talk? What kind of talk?"
"Some people ... well, I heard that the Federation is probably, um, gonna make you a proposition pretty soon."
"Nonsense. Your government isn't in a position to propose anything to me."
He hesitated, and for a moment I was reminded of that first night on Enterprise, when I'd seen something like concern in his eyes. "You ever hear the expression 'Hobson's choice,' Commander?" he said at last.
"No. Should I have?"
He glanced towards the security guards, who managed to project an air of impatience while standing perfectly still. "C'mon, let's go. Your ambassador can tell you what it means even better than I can."
* * *
I half expected to see an armed brigade waiting for us in the lobby of the apartment building. But the concierge merely nodded a greeting and released the lock on the door that led to the lift corridor.
One of the guards turned to block McCoy's way. "You'll have to leave now, Doctor. The embassy said this is an official meeting."
McCoy raised an eyebrow at the young man. "I invited this lady to go out for a walk with me, son. I'm gonna see her home, just like any gentleman would. I'll leave when she tells me to go and not before."
"Doctor," the guard began, but I interposed myself between them.
"McCoy is my guest," I said. "He may accompany me."
Evidently I could still use my command voice to good effect; the guard exchanged a look with his comrades, but said nothing. The five of us crowded into the lift and traveled upward in silence. The guards approached their conventionally uniformed colleagues who stood sentry at my door; when both groups were satisfied that the transfer of custody had been properly documented, McCoy and I were finally allowed to enter the apartment.
"They're nice kids," said McCoy. "They just take life too seriously, and their manners need a little mending."
"Come, Doctor, they're only doing their duty. And they've been exceptionally well-mannered so far. You ought to have the experience of telling a Romulan security guard what you will and will not do."
"No, thanks. Anyway, I figure your ambassador can throw me out herself if she wants to."
"Perhaps it won't come to that." McCoy loved small talk, but I had reached the limit of my tolerance. "Now. Explain this 'choice' you referred to."
"I only know what I already told you," he said. He was deeply engaged in the dual process of removing his shoes and avoiding my eyes. "I heard some rumors."
"So you said. Go on."
"It's gossip. I'd just be speculating."
"I should like to hear your speculation."
He stood and faced me. "Okay. See, the thing is, the Federation's in a political bind. This year more than half the seats on the Council come up for re-election. Nobody wants to go back home to their constituents on Mars or Vulcan or Procyon or wherever and try to explain how Starfleet got so far out of control that it violated interstellar law and provoked a war with the Romulans. Or that they sent you home to be--to stand trial for something Starfleet did to you. And I bet your own government isn't gonna win any popularity contests if it treats a military hero like she was a common criminal."
"Neither the Federation Council nor the Romulan Senate can rewrite history, Doctor. What's done is done."
"Yeah, but I guarantee you both sides want to cut their losses. Figure out a way to save face."
"Save face?"
"Preserve their dignity. Get out of a mess with their political skins intact. Preferably both."
"I daresay every politician in the galaxy wants nothing less. But no matter what bribe the Federation might offer, Doctor, I have no intention of remaining here one moment longer than I must."
"Uh-huh. Well, just for the sake of argument, how far do you think the Federation might go to defuse a threat of war and crawl out of a political mudhole spankin' clean? How far would the Romulan Empire go to do the same thing?"
"Is there a point to this, Doctor? Or do you intend to pose rhetorical questions all afternoon just for the sake of argument?"
"You play chess, Commander?"
I took a deep breath. The control techniques I'd been practicing were going to be put to a definitive test today. "Yes. In each of its Romulan, Andorian, and Klingon variations."
"Well, I don't know about all those. But in the Terran version there's this little guy called a pawn. His whole reason for bein' on the chessboard is to serve somebody else's purpose. He just has to keep marchin' along, right out there on the front lines, into the battle."
"That piece has analogues in all games of military strategy. Its function is an important one."
"Yeah, it is, in some ways. Did you know that in Federation Standard the word 'pawn' means more than just the chess piece?"
"Of course. It refers to someone who is used by another without his knowledge or consent. I assure you that the term does not apply to me, if that's what you're getting at."
"Not just that. It's a verb, too. When you leave something as security for--oh, for a loan, let's say--you pawn it."
"Yes. And?"
"It's a pledge, Commander. Giving away something valuable so you can get something of equal value in return."
"A trade," I said tersely, suddenly disliking the tenor of this conversation.
"Yeah, kind of. But with overtones."
"Overtones of what?" Though I'm not sure I want to know ...
"Promises, Commander. Future consideration. Keeping your word, pledging your honor. Now, that last--well, that's a Romulan concept too, isn't it?"
* * *
If McCoy really did intend to explain how and where an element of choice--mine or Hobson's or anyone else's--fitted into his rambling speculations, he never got the opportunity. Our conversation was interrupted when the transporter beam shimmered into life.
"Ambassador," I said, bowing slightly in greeting. This impromptu gathering might be official, but apparently it was also informal: Tilendi wore an ordinary duty uniform beneath her cloak, and her only decorations were her rank insignia. Her dark hair fell in long, loose waves over her shoulders; I wondered whether the Federation representative would recognize that for the sign of nonagression that it was.
"Commander," said Tilendi. "And--Doctor McCoy?" She allowed her voice to rise a little, as if she were unsure of his identity.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, sounding somewhat uncertain of it himself. He stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on her face. "How d'you do?"
"Why, I am very well, Doctor. Thank you for asking." She stepped off the platform and began to unfasten her cloak; McCoy nearly tripped over his feet in his haste to take it from her. I pressed my lips together to restrain the smile that wanted to escape: this wasn't the first time I'd seen someone fall instantly under the spell of Tilendi's magnetism. Male hominids seemed particularly susceptible.
"I should like to express my gratitude to you, Doctor, for your kindness to the commander." Tilendi offered him her hand in Terran fashion. "You have made her time here much more agreeable than it might otherwise have been."
McCoy took her hand gingerly and managed a few rather dazed thank-yous and my-pleasures. Tilendi walked across the living room to the foyer, murmuring apologies for interrupting our outing; McCoy followed her, seemingly without realizing that he was doing so. She gestured towards one of the chairs, and he obediently sat down and put his shoes on. By the time he had sealed his parka and wrapped the striped scarf around his neck, he believed that he was doing her the greatest of personal favors by graciously withdrawing so that she might have a private word with me.
The door closed behind him, and I could no longer hold back a laugh.
"Something amuses you?" Tilendi asked innocently.
"Watching you in action is an education, Lidiya. McCoy thought you might ask him to leave, but I don't think he knows what just happened to him."
"I judged that he would respond to courtesy with courtesy. I see no point in using coercion when persuasion will do."
"I suppose. I'm sorry you got rid of him, though. He was going to tell me what he had heard about the reasons for this meeting."
Tilendi acknowledged the implied reproach. "I regret that I was unable to take you into my confidence. These talks with the Federation have occupied much of my time over the last while, and it was only recently that our Senate authorized me to move them to the next level. Both parties have agreed that it is time you were brought into the discussions."
"But why so suddenly? Does this have anything to do with Sarek?"
"No. Ra-ghoratrei found an unexpected opening in his schedule, and I chose to take advantage of it."
"Ra-ghoratrei? The guard just said 'someone from External Affairs.' If the minister himself is expected ..." I waited for something more from Tilendi, but it was not forthcoming. She looked down at my leggings and boots with mild disapproval.
"I suggest that you change your clothes," she said. "This is not a formal occasion, but one must always keep up appearances."
© 1996, 1999 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.