One had a fistful of something that looked like chicken-sized dinosaurs, complete with needle-sharp teeth. "What is that called?" she asked SilverTail in her best native speech.
"Grabfoots," he answered, indicating the teeth and motioning toward his ankles so that she would get the general idea what the word referred to, as well as how to pronounce it. "Grabfoots," she repeated. He nodded, mimed eating and licking his chops and said something more. She took it to mean 'Good eating' or 'Tasty' and repeated that as well.
Rushlight came toward her, with something large and four-footed slung across his shoulders. She turned the universal translator back on, very much afraid of being misunderstood in the general confusion.
"As we say, 'Take a bard and the hunt goes fast'. A good hunt, as you can see!" he said. He unslung the creature from his shoulders and dropped it onto the ground to stretch. "And I shall tell you what happened to Three Times- we'll make a song about it, you and I." He blinked at her and suddenly said, "You're twisting your own tail. Is something wrong?"
Embarrassed, Uhura said, "When you left without saying a word, I was afraid I had done something to offend you."
He started. "Surely you smelled the hunting scent...?"
That confused her still more. "I don't understand, Rushlight."
Rushlight considered her for a long moment, then his tail curled around her wrist. "I think I do: that's why your songs don't speak of smells. Next time I'll leave a message with one of the children." He reached up a finger and tapped her lightly on the side of the nose. "Remarkable," he said, "such long noses and no sense of smell at all!"
A handful of Sivaoan children sprang from branch to branch in the trees at the edge of camp, playing hide-and-seek. Staring up from below, Evan Wilson couldn't tell if rousting the welcome-homes was part of the game or purely incidental- it certainly added to the excitement, though. The game was much simplified compared to that of her own world, but it stirred a memory of her childhood and she smiled. An instant later, the smile turned to a puzzled frown. The memory could not be hers!
She hastily excused herself from Fetchstorm. She sought out Spock and found him alone with his tricorder. Having no wish to disturb his calculations, she sat down and tucked her chin into her hand to think. If Spock couldn't explain... "Dr. Wilson." Spock had completed his task, and he now gave her his full attention. Once again the intensity of it disconcerted her. She blushed and, with some difficulty, she said, "I'm not sure how to put this.... Does your memory transfer technique work both ways?" Nothing in the literature I read even suggested the possibility."
"I do not understand."
"I have a memory that's not mine. If it's not yours..." She frowned. "It must be yours, Mr. Spock. There's no other possible explanation."
Spock's expression did not change. "May I inquire as to the content?"
The question startled her- it seemed too personal- until she recognized the sheer foolishness of the feeling. "If it's your memory in the first place, there's no reason not to tell you," she said.
She described it to him as best she could, setting the richness of the game against the austerity of a desert world. It began with a challenge given and accepted, and it became a sort of hide-and-seek that required all one's skills, From computer programming to physical tracking. No one but the players knew the game was in progress. Yet, for all its complexity, the game she remembered playing held as much or more excitement as that of the Sivaoan children in the trees.
When she had finished Spock's raised eyebrow left no doubt that she had in fact been given one of his memories. "A child's practice on Vulcan," he said. He did not say "game;" and she understood him to mean a sharpening of skills. "Remarkable," he continued. "To my knowledge, there has been no previous mention of this phenomenon. Have you been tested for extrasensory perception, Dr. Wilson?"
"Meaning, was I reading your mind while you were reading mine? I've had all the standard tests: I come out average. I thought perhaps it was deliberate on your part- a kind of fair trade."
He shook his head. "I was unaware the possibility existed, Doctor. It too would be worth investigating when we return to the Enterprise."
"Yes, and meanwhile, it's a relief to know that I'm not completely off my rocker." She met his eyes and held them: "Thank you for the gift."
Caught in his continued scrutiny, she felt her face redden again. And this time Spock said, "Dr. Wilson, several times during the course of our conversation, your face has turned a distinctly darker shade of red. I believe humans refer to this as a 'blush.' I am unfamiliar with your culture. I apologize if I have inadvertently caused you distress. If you find it possible to speak further, I should appreciate knowing what taboo I have..."
Until that moment, she had not recognized the cause herself. She raised her hands. "No, no, Mr. Spock. Nothing like that. I'm afraid it's a cultural misinterpretation on my part. I've seen it happen more than once between Vulcan and human." It was easier to speak of it impersonally. "The kind of undivided attention a Vulcan gives as a matter of simple politeness is often misread as... sexual interest by a human."
"Fascinating." He fixed her with a long steady regard- experimentally, she thought- and her blush deepened. Smiling, she said, "Yes, you've done it again. In my book you just gave me the eye. If I were you, Mr. Spock, I'd try to tone it down a little. I'm sure I'm not the only one this happens to."
She glanced away and, to her relief, saw the tip of Catchclaw's tail disappearing into her tent. "If you'll excuse me? I have an appointment with the local physician." She rose and, as an after-thought, added, "Don't worry, Mr. Spock, I'll get over it."
She strode away without a backward glance. A moment later, Catchclaw's invitation to enter wiped the encounter from her thoughts: here was the problem she had to solve.
The Sivaoan glared at her from head to toe and growled, "What am I to do with a species that has a privacy taboo about removing its clothing?"
Wilson grinned. "We make an exception for doctors," she said, "and I'll satisfy your curiosity, if you wish."
"Thank you," said Jinx, giving a sidelong glance at Catchclaw, who arched her whiskers forward.
When their examination of both normal flesh and injured flesh was completed, Wilson rewrapped her sari. "Stay and talk," Catchclaw invited. "Jinx tells me you wish to find the cure for a disease. Will you tell me what you know of its symptoms?"
"That's the best question I've heard all day," said Wilson. She pulled up a stool, sat down and went to work.
Left Ear had come to speak with Jim Kirk with her claws sheathed, but to no avail. Try as she might - and he could see the effort it cost her-she could not bring herself to speak on the subject of the Eeiauoans. She skirted the topic, edging nearer and nearer, but she never quite got there.
He wished he could think of something to make it easier for her. Meanwhile, he kept his questions to areas she could talk about.
The only thing he had learned about the Eeiauoans was negative: They did not seem to have been exiled for religious reasons. How can you have a schism when each camp has its own god- and every plant and animal its own spirit? If he understood her correctly, the Sivaoans had not so much a religion as an ecology. There were limits to the number of animals of each kind that might be taken in a season, for example, and strictures that allowed land to lie fallow. It might have been fascinating had his mission simply been to establish contact.
Left Ear sensed his distress. Giving her tail a vehement shake, she said, "I cannot. I can no more tell you than I could tell Brightspot or Jinx or one of our own. You must try elsewhere, Captain Kirk. I am only wasting your time."
Kirk felt an enormous sympathy for her. He had seen the strength of taboos- he'd even had to deal with some of his own- and he knew the difficulty she must be facing. But he could not let the chance slip away. "Please, Left Ear. Keep talking. Talk around it, if you must. Tell me what it's not about, and perhaps I may be able to learn enough from that to get the help we need."
Her hackles rose, but she said mildly, "We will continue our discussion after dinner." Having little choice in the matter, Kirk followed her lead once again.
Stepping from her tent, he found himself in the midst of a festival, like something from a medieval costume drama. A cooking fire blazed before every tent, and exotic spicy scents filled the air. A welcome-home, tempted by the smells, ventured into the clearing a handful of children chased it back into the trees and then threw it scraps.
They crossed to Stiff Tail's tent, where Distant Smoke and Chekov happily improvised dinner over the fire. Two small children clung to Chekov- one at shoulder height, peering over into the cooking pot, and the other clutching his head. A third dashed in circles, trying to catch his own tail and shouting excitedly. Distant Smoke jabbed a tail in the child's direction and said, "Noisy baby."
"It certainly is," Jim Kirk agreed with a grin.
"A little less claw there," Chekov said, turning his eyes up. "Hello, keptain. This is TooLongTail and EagerTalker, Ketchclaw's children. They hev already discovered that I hev no tail to remove them with." He bent to taste the concoction in the pot.
Kirk saw that neither child was in danger of being dislodged- Chekov, however, was going to be a vast collection of scratches and pinholes. "I don't recall assigning you pincushion detail, Mr. Chekov."
Chekov grinned back. "I ken't keep them away, sair. Perheps you want one? The other two are WhiteWhisker and Grebfoot- I respectfully suggest the keptain watch his toes around thet last."
On hearing Chekov's suggestion, Grabfoot forgot his tail and pounced for Kirk's foot. Kirk caught him up and held him dangling. "Hello, Grabfoot," he said. Grabfoot flipped in midair. Kirk, horrified he might drop the child, scooped him close.
Grabfoot's tail snapped around his neck and, for a brief moment, Jim Kirk was sure he was about to end his career ignominiously strangled by a small child. Then the tail flipped away and he felt Grabfoot's weight on his back. "Hello, Captain Kirk," said a voice very close to his ear. Except in the initial scramble, he hadn't been scratched; Grabfoot was using only enough claw to pierce his tunic.
Chekov reached up. "I beg your pardon, Keptain," he said, and he cuffed the child. "You do not," he said firmly, "wrep your tail around the neck of a human. Humans ken't breathe thet way."
"Didn't squawk," Grabfoot protested.
"He couldn't," said Chekov, "No air, no squawk." To Left Ear, he added, rubbing his Adam's apple, "The air intake on a human is much too close to the surface of the neck for comfort around these little ones. I'm gled they learn fest."
"Sorry, Captain Kirk," said Grabfoot, and something scratchy- the child's tongue- licked his ear by way of apology.
"No harm done, Grabfoot," Kirk assured him, "but be careful next time." If Kirk had thought their tails a strange sensation, he was now ready to admit their tongues were even more so. He didn't know whether to laugh or to evict the child from its perch.
After a few licks at his hair, Grabfoot said, "Smell nice, taste funny."
Chekov looked knowingly at Distant Smoke and said, "I suppose he'll hev to taste eweryone."
"Taste this," said Distant Smoke, indicating the stew. "Do you think it could do with some tail-kinkers?"
"Old Russian proverb," said Chekov. "You ken't spoil kasha with butter." When that didn't seem to translate, he explained, "It means you ken't spoil something good by putting something else good in."
"That depends on how many tail-kinkers," said Distant Smoke, looping his tail.
"New Sivaoan proverb," Chekov corrected: "You ken't spoil stew with a tail-kinker or two."
The universal translator's version of that was much more successful- all four children immediately took up the line as a chant, rocking to its rhythm. Kirk wasn't sure how much childish glee his tunic could survive. Fortunately, he did not find out, for Grabfoot suddenly stopped rocking and chanting to thrust his head forward and stare. The object of his intense scrutiny was Spock, who returned the scrutiny with equal interest, to Grabfoot's immense satisfaction.
"Grabfoot, this is Mr. Spock. Mr. Spock, this is Grabfoot, one of Catchclaw's children."
"Not touch Mr. Spock," said Grabfoot, then he added, "Ears?" Spock treated this as a request and turned slightly. "Good ears," said Grabfoot, with an air of decision.
"As to the matter of my ears," Spock told him, "I had little choice in their appearance. However, I am gratified that they meet with your approval."
Grabfoot's ears flicked back, brushing Kirk's cheek. Jim Kirk said, "He means he's glad you like them, Grabfoot."
"Indeed, Captain, Grabfoot understood me."
"Understood," said Grabfoot, distracted, but wanting to set the record straight. His attention shifted completely and he suddenly scrambled from Kirk's back. Two others scrambled down Chekov, nearly causing him to spill the stew, and another nearly ran Kirk down. All four gave Spock a wide berth. A moment later, they all swarmed up Catchclaw, and there was much licking and patting.