And now Shelby spoke up, observing, "It's rare one hears that sort of vehemence from anyone, much less a Vulcan."
"Lieutenant Soleta cares passionately about her work," McHenry said, not sounding particularly convincing.
"I see," said Calhoun, who didn't. "Mr. McHenry, time to Nelkar?"
"Twenty-seven minutes, sir," McHenry said without hesitation, as he turned away from Soleta and headed back to the conn.
Calhoun never failed to be impressed over how McHenry seemed to carry that knowledge in his head. Only Vulcans seemed nearly as capable of such rapid-fire calculations, and McHenry seemed even faster than the average Vulcan.
Which Soleta, for her part, did not seem to be. Her outburst had hardly been prompted by some sort of scientific disagreement. But Calhoun didn't feel it his place to probe too deeply into the reasons for it . . . at least not as long as he felt that his ship's safety was not at issue.
If it did become an issue, though, he would not hesitate to question Soleta and find out just what exactly had caused her to raise her voice to McHenry despite her Vulcan upbringing.
"Vulcans," he muttered to himself.
Soleta turned in her chair and looked questioningly at Calhoun. "What about Vulcans, Captain?" she asked.
He stared at her tapered ears, which had naturally zeroed in on the mention of her race, and he said, "I was merely thinking how what we need on this ship is more Vulcans."
"Vulcans are always desirable, Captain," she readily agreed, and went back to her analyses.
The main lounge on the Excaliburwas situated on Deck 7 in the rear of the saucer section, and was informally called the Team Room, after an old term left over from the early days of space exploration. It was to the Team Room that Burgoyne 172 had retired upon hish returning to the ship. S/he had felt a certain degree of frustration since s/he had not had the opportunity to complete hish work on the Cambon.If there was one thing that Burgoyne disliked, it was leaving a project unfinished.
And then s/he saw another potentially unfinished project enter the Team Room. Dr. Selar had just walked in and was looking around as if hoping to find someone. Burgoyne looked around as well and saw that all of the tables had at least one occupant. Then s/he looked back at Selar and saw an eversobrief look of annoyance cross the Vulcan's face. That there was any readable emotion at all displayed by the Vulcan was surprising enough, and then Burgoyne realized the problem. Selar wasn't looking for someone to sit with. She was trying to find an unoccupied table.
Her gaze surveyed the room and she caught sight of Burgoyne. Burgoyne, for hish part, endeavored to stay low-key. S/he gestured in a friendly, but not too aggressive manner, and waved at the empty seat opposite hir. Selar hesitated a moment and then, with what appeared to be a profound mental sigh, approached Burgoyne. Burgoyne could not help but admire her stride: she was tall, almost regal of bearing. When Selar sat down, she kept her entire upper body straight. Her posture was perfect, her attitude unflinching.
"I believe," Selar said in her careful, measured tone, "that our first encounter was not properly handled . . . by either of us."
"I think the fault was mostly mine," Burgoyne replied.
"As do I. You were, after all, the one who was rather aggressively propositioning me. Nonetheless, it would not be appropriate to place the blame entirely on you. Doubtlessly I was insufficiently clear in making clear to you my lack of interest."
"Well, now," Burgoyne shifted a bit in hish chair, "I wouldn't call it 'aggressively propositioning' exactly."
"No?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Burgoyne leaned forward and said, "I would call it. . ." But then hish voice trailed off. S/he reconsidered hish next words and discarded them. Instead s/he said, "Can I get you a drink?"
"I am certain that whatever you are having will be more than sufficient."
Burgoyne nodded, rose, disappeared behind the bar, and returned a moment later with a glass containing the same dusky-colored liquid that was in hish glass. Selar lifted it, sniffed it experimentally, then downed half the glass. It was only her formidable Vulcan self-control that prevented her from coughing it back up through her nose. "This . . . is not synthehol," she said rather unnecessarily.
S/he shook hish head. "It's called 'Scotch.' Rather difficult to come by, actually."
"How did you develop a taste for it?"
"Well," said Burgoyne, and it was obvious from the way s/he was warming to the subject that s/he had discussed this topic a number of times in the past. "About two years ago, I was taking shore leave on Argelius Two . . . a charming world. Have you ever been there?" Selar shook her head slightly and Burgoyne continued, "I was at this one pub, and it was quite a lively place, I can tell you. It was a place where the women were so . . ."
Burgoyne was about to rhapsodize about them at length, but the look of quiet impatience on Selar's face quickly dissuaded hir. "In any event," continued Burgoyne, "I felt very much in my element. We Hermats are sometimes referred to as a rather hedonistic race. That's certainly a sweeping generalization, but not entirely without merit. In this pub, however, watching the Argelians and assorted visitors from other worlds engaging in assorted revelries and debaucheries, why . . . I felt that my humble leanings were dwarfed in comparison.
"And then my attention was drawn by one fellow seated over in a corner. A Terran, by the look of him, with hair silver as a crescent moon."
"You are attracted to him, no doubt," said Selar dryly.
"No, actually. He was a bit old for my tastes. But I was interested in him, for he seemed to be watching everything without any interest in participating. Furthermore he was wearing—believe it or not—a Starfleet uniform that hasn't been issued in years. A costume, I figured. I asked the bartender about him, and apparently he'd simply wandered in one day some weeks previously and just—I don't know— taken up residence there. He hardly ever left. So I went over and chatted with him. Asked him what he was doing there. He told me he was 'reliving old times,' as he put it. Remembering friends long gone, times left behind. He was reticent at first, but I got him talking. I have a knack for doing that."
"Indeed."
"Yes. And he seemed particularly intrigued when
I told him I was an engineer. He claimed that he was as well. Claimed, in fact, that he wrote the book on engineering."
"A man with drinks in him will claim a great many things when he seeks the attention of a pretty face," observed Selar.
Burgoyne was about to continue when s/he paused a moment and, with a grin, said, "Are you saying you think I have a pretty face?"
"I am saying that, with sufficient intoxication, anyone may seem attractive," replied Selar. "You were saying—?"
"Yes, well. . . as I said, he boasted of a great many things. Sufficiently intoxicated, as you noted. Came up with the most insane boasts. Said he was over a hundred and fifty years old, that he served with Captain Kirk . . . all manner of absurd notions. And he also had no patience at all for—how did he put it—?" And Burgoyne made a passable attempt at imitating a Scots brogue as s/he growled, " The wretched brew what passes for a man's drink in this godforsaken century.' He was drinking this," and Burgoyne tapped the glass of brown liquid.
"That very drink?"
"Not this specific one, of course. It was two years ago, remember. But he seemed to have a somewhat endless supply of it. We seemed to communicate quite well with one another. At first, I believe, he took me for a standard-issue female, and he openly flirted with me. When I informed him of the Hermat race and our dual gender, at first he seemed amazed and then he just laughed and said," and again Burgoyne copied the brogue, "'Ach, I would have loved to set up Captain Kirk with one of ye on a blind date. There would have been some tales to tell about that one.'" Burgoyne paused and then added, by way of explanation, "There are some who find our dual sex disturbing."