She interrupted with a flick of her tail. "One moment- you use the term differently now. Can a Vulcan be one of your people although he is not human?"
"Mr. Spock is my chief science officer- and he is my friend. In that sense, he is 'my people'."
"Then you do not find him as alien as you find us?"
Jim Kirk had to smile. "I do indeed find Mr. Spock alien. Usually in the most unexpected ways. But that does not make him any less my friend."
"And you, Mr. Spock?"
"If I understand your question, Stiff Tail- yes, I am pleased to count James Kirk my friend."
"Although you find him alien?"
"His ways are often most peculiar, as are those of most humans I have encountered. I must often make an extreme effort to understand them. But Vulcan philosophy encourages such understanding, as we hold a strong belief in 'Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination'."
"'Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination,'" she repeated.
Spock nodded.
"Your alien form of memory frightens me as I have seldom been frightened before. I would send you away- but I have seen Evan Wilson risk something as unknown to her as this is to me and be both interested and grateful for the experience, and Brightspot has told me that you would protect her relationship with me"-she looped her tail possessively about Brightspot's waist and continued- "and I have heard you call each other friend. My people can risk much for the sake of a possible friendship- and for the sake of 'Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations'." She nodded at Spock.
She finished, "We must all tread lightly. I'll tell the others in camp." She walked slowly away. Kirk could see the tip of her tail still quivered from her emotion, but she did not call Brightspot away with her. Brightspot said, "This is exciting!" and Jim Kirk laughed his relief.
Chapter Ten
Pavel Chekov was quite genuinely surprised at the number of Sivaoans who stayed to learn his techniques of construction rather than strayed to hear Uhura sing. They were mostly older, he thought, judging from their range of sizes; and each one tried each individual process involved. When they were finished, he was quite sure, each of them would be capable of duplicating this style of shelter.
Remembering what the captain and Mr. Spock had learned, Chekov had asked Distant Smoke the proper way to give them all permission to use the design whenever they wished and to teach it to others and give the same permission. This they accepted as joyfully as if he'd made them a gift. By their standards, he had, one that would have pleased his teacher back in Volgograd as much as it pleased the Sivaoans.
A short time later, there had been a huddle around Distant Smoke. Chekov, then occupied with the roof thatch, missed most of the conversation; from his vantage point, he saw only quivering ears and tails. Then three Sivaoans vanished into the wood.
He thought at first that they had gone to join Uhura, whose voice came to him in sweet snatches of song, but all three returned half an hour later laden with branches and leaves quite different from those he had been using. They explained, with much excitement, that Distant Smoke wished to improve his design; and they began a fourth shelter on their own, this time showing him how it was to be done. Not wishing to miss a single detail, Chekov turned on his tricorder and watched in fascination.
They certainly knew the local materials, he thought. Rather than basket-shape, this shelter was going up with the elegant sweep of a bird's wing- and it was not just its style they were improving. Using a more flexible branch to begin with- they assured him it would remain flexible for a longer time- they were weaving a more intricate and sturdy base.
Then came the covering of leaves: some four different varieties, each a different shade of green, ranging from almost black to a reddish to a pale creamy green that was almost white. Distant Smoke himself had brought an armful of plumed rushes. There was a second huddle as Distant Smoke explained what he had in mind, but most of this was lost to the universal translator, which had no referents for artistic descriptions.
They began at opposite ends of the structure and worked toward each other and, to Chekov's utter amazement, when they met in the middle a stylized flight of birds swept across the face of the shelter as if they rode it like a current of air. Chekov stared, openmouthed.
The two largest of the Sivaoans hoisted Distant Smoke up to place the plumed thatch, then they all stepped back to stand beside Chekov. After a long good look at their work, they turned inquiringly to Distant Smoke. Distant Smoke's whiskers arched forward and trembled. "Yes," he said, at last, in a satisfied tone, "That is what I meant," and much pleasure and mutual congratulations flashed through the group.
Chekov still could not quite believe what he saw. They had taken his general process, a purely functional design, and made of it a work of art no less beautiful than their own tents or the permanent building woven among the trees. At last he said, "It is beautiful, Distant Smoke."
Distant Smoke preened his shoulder, pleased. "Let's see if it works as well from the inside." Chekov followed; so did the others.
Inside, the sunlight filtered through the multicolored leaves and cast bright shadows on the floor. There was a sweet scent and a subdued rustling from the plumes overhead; Chekov was sure they been chosen for sound and smell as well as sight. "Wonderful," he said softly, "It's wonderful, Distant Smoke."
"Good," said Distant Smoke, "Your people have much individuality of manner, but none of style. I intended something as unique as you are. I'm pleased you like it; it's not easy to improve for someone from such a different culture." He twitched his ears to the rustle of the plumes. "For the time being," he went on, "I am satisfied with my work. As I learn more about you, Pavel Chekov, I may find this inappropriate- but then, that would hardly be surprising. Even with my own people, I find changes from day to day, from year to year. Don't think I mean that because you're alien. Until then I would be honored if you would use the pattern whenever the desire strikes you."
Chekov suddenly understood: Distant Smoke intended him to have the design as a gift. He was stunned. It was all he could do to say, "I hev no way to thenk you, Distant Smoke. No one hes ever made me such a gift before. To hev something so beautiful created for me- thet is something I never thought would heppen on any world!" Embarrassed by his own emotion and a sudden awareness of his own inabilities, Chekov added, "I hope I will not disappoint you- but I think I hed better warn you, I would not be able to duplicate your work."
Both pleased and astonished (to judge from his ears and tail), Distant Smoke said, "Perhaps I misunderstand.... Will you eat with me? We'll talk further. I'm curious to hear about your world and its customs. If you will try to explain, I will try to understand."
"I'd be gled to, both."
As Distant Smoke led him into the clearing again, Chekov took a last wondering look at the shelter. So beautiful! he thought again.
The gift of a personal design made him take a second look at the other structures around the camp, and he saw something that he hadn't seen before. They were the work of several artists- four, or perhaps five in all. He strongly suspected, now that he thought about it, that Distant Smoke had also designed the permanent building and one or two of the tents in camp. He asked, and Distant Smoke confirmed this, looking pleased.
"This one as well," said Distant Smoke, as he invited Chekov into what had earlier been identified to him as Stiff Tail's tent. "I have for some time been wanting to redesign it. Stiff Tail has softened through the years, and I wished to reflect that. And I have gained more skill and I wished to reflect that as well. But she"- he seemed amused- "says she is comfortable- that the design is an old friend." He spread his hands and added, "What is one to do with one's mother, after all?"
A brown tail thrust through the tent opening. "Send them in, Catchclaw, and good hunting to you!"
Four tiny creatures scrambled through the door, took one look at Chekov and froze in their tracks, tails bristling. Catchclaw stuck her head in, took in Chekov and made a harrumphing kind of sound. Exactly like Dr. McCoy, thought Chekov. Catchclaw fixed grave eyes on Chekov. "Noisy baby," she said. As this seemed to require some response on his part, Chekov shook his head and, grinning, said, "It won't bother me, if thet's what you're esking."
She stepped in and the four little ones instantly scrambled up her and clung to her back, peering at him from various vantage points over her shoulders and around her sides.
"Don't stare," Distant Smoke told them firmly; to Chekov, he added, "Forgive them please. They're very young."
"And I'm wery strange to them," said Chekov. "I wish I could sing them a song like Lieutenant Uhura did, but I suspect my woice would frighten them even more."
Catchclaw snorted and used her tail to peel one of the babies off her back. "Not frightened," she said, "just cautious." She dangled the little one in front of Chekov. "Take a good look," she said. "No claws to scratch you, no teeth to bite you, no fur to protect him from you. How dangerous can that be?"
The baby, the same brown shade as its mother, but with a pure white splash along its belly, stared at Chekov wide-eyed and upside down. "No claws?"
Chekov held out his hands. The little one, still clinging, stared all the harder. "No teeth?" it said.
Chekov drew back his lips to show the child. The other three were easing down from their mother's back to approach him cautiously for a better look. They were very small, about as high as his knee. He leaned down to display his teeth for them as well. The white-bellied one let go Catchclaw's tail and dropped to the ground. "No fur!" it said.
"Some fur," corrected one of the others. "Looks sick, Catchclaw. Can you make it better?"
"Yes, please?" interjected the third.
"He's not sick- have I interpreted your sex correctly?- that's normal for a human, or so I'm told. He's just different. Go ahead, he won't hurt you." Her look said clearly that he had damned well better not.
"My name is Pavel," he said, "What's yours?"
"Grabfoot to-Ennien," said the white-bellied one and feinted at his foot by way of demonstration. The others were TooLongTail (that he could almost see as well), WhiteWhisker (also self-explanatory) and Eager Talker (that one he didn't get at all- it seemed the quietest of the three). As far as sex went, he hadn't the vaguest idea, but he supposed it didn't really matter much at this age, especially since he had seen nothing to indicate sex roles in professions or chores.
Catchclaw harrumphed again and turned to Distant Smoke. "I hold you responsible, Distant Smoke."
"I accept the responsibility, Catchclaw, and I thank you."
That sounded like a ritual exchange to Chekov and he made a mental note to ask about it sometime- he realized he was saving a lot of questions for Brightspot. It seemed safer to ask her than to ask at random, no matter how friendly the others might appear.
Catchclaw went to the door and turned back to the babies surrounding Chekov. "You," she said, fixing them with a glower. "You take care not to hurt him. He has no fur for protection. As for you, Pavel Chekov, have the good sense to squawk if you're hurt."
He wasn't sure how to reply to that and, before he could decide what to say, she was gone. TooLongTail looked at Distant Smoke. "Can we touch?"
"You ask him. He's a person, not a tree, and he understands you perfectly well."
"You mey touch," said Chekov, holding out his arm. For the next few minutes, he was explored at great length- patted, poked, prodded, sniffed and tugged at. Eager Talker very delicately extended one claw and drew it across the back of his hand.
It was a minor scratch and Chekov could see that she was experimenting so he did nothing to stop her. She peered closely at his hand and her ears flicked back. TooLongTail took a close look as well and turned and cuffed her soundly.
"Catchclaw said not hurt him!"
"Didn't," said Eager Talker. "Didn't squawk!"
The argument turned into a scuffle, with the two others joining in. The others seemed to take no sides but cuffed and bit and hissed at random.
Distant Smoke deftly moved a pile of bowls out of range of the free-for-all and gave them a general shove away from the embers of the cooking fire with his foot. He placed the bowls safely in some overhead netting, then bent to examine Chekov's hand. "You humans don't know enough to squawk when you're hurt," he said, and Chekov could almost hear tsk-tsking in his voice.
"It's only a scretch," he said. "I hev been hurt worse by the brenches in the forest." He showed Distant Smoke the cut on his other palm from the sharp-edged leaves.
Distant Smoke flicked his ears back. "You are delicate" he said. "That's why you wear clothing on your feet!"
"Boots," said Chekov. "I should hope so- ef I went barefoot here, I would most likely be permenently lame." The melee rolled toward them, a chaotic scramble of claws and lashing tails. Grabfoot bounced out and attacked Chekov's foot. Chekov, startled by the unexpectedness of the pounce, jumped. Distant Smoke cuffed Grabfoot and sent him (or her) rolling back into the free-for-all.