you?"
"She offered. But it's no huge thing. I can do it myself."
"Would you like me to go with you?"
Her head whipped around. She didn't know whether to laugh
or not, didn't know if she felt grateful or humiliated. It
was one thing to be taken to the Academy by her father, a
Starfleet vice-admiral, and quite another to be accompanied
by a civilian her own age who knew nothing about Starfleet.
"That's awfully nice of you, Hobbes.
But it's not as though I'm a little girl. And there will be
others going."
"Okay." As always, he seemed utterly unaffected by
rejection. Was he? Or had he learned, through a lifetime of
suffering it, how to cope?
As she had so many times in her life, Kathryn felt sorry
for him. "Tell me about the university," she said by way of
a gesture.
"I've never even been there."
"You wouldn't like it. It's very traditional-they still
have some of the original buildings, in a square around a
small woods. And most of the buildings they've put up in
the last fifty years are in that same architectural style.
It's not sleek and modern like Starfleet Academy."
She smiled, remembering their discussions of
"traditionalism" when they were younger, when she had to
play tennis and study ballet. "Do you still play tennis?"
she queried.
"Sure do. Although not competitively. I'm on the swim team
instead." "You are?" Again, she was surprised. She didn't
equate Hobbes with competitive athletics. She glanced at
his thin frame and realized that though lean, he was
actually well muscled.
"Free-style and butterfly. Indiana actually has a long
history of excellence in swimming. Of course, now the women
are the real stars, but we hold our own."
"I'll never make a team at the Academy.
I wasted all those years playing tennis when I should have
been developing skills in Parrises Squares." "It wasn't a
waste. You can play tennis all your life. That's not so
with Parrises Squares."
"You can play tennis that long-but do you want to?"
"I do. It's still one of my favorite outlets."
"Really?"
They had entered into an easy banter, relaxed and genial.
Without her even realizing it, Kathryn's anxieties were
dissolving, floating away on the summer breeze along with
the heady aromas of green growing things, which Seemed to
possess curative powers after all.
The weather in San Francisco was frequently cold and
gloomy; Kathryn had come to terms with the trade-off from
Indiana's climate: no freezing winters, but a lot of fog.
But today a warm sun bathed the city by the bay in a
golden glow, and she sat stretched out on a bench on
Starfleet Academy's parklike grounds, enjoying the feel of
the warmth on her skin. And dreading the interview she was
facing. Admiral Owen Paris had a reputation that was
legendary, and while no one actually believed he ground up
small children and sprinkled them on salads, it seemed a
fair description of his demeanor.
Tough. Demanding. Unyielding. Those words might describe
any of Starfleet's officers, but when used in conjunction
with Admiral Paris, they always seemed to take on new
meaning.
The stories abounded: this was the man who demoted his
aide, a highly respected full commander, for making a
mistake on a padd entry. This was the man who flunked an
entire class of cadets because one of them was late to
class. This was the man who took cadets on wilderness
training so punishing many dropped out of school rather
than endure it.
Kathryn had, however, noted that no one who had ever
undergone one of these atrocities had ever been heard from;
the stories were all related as having happened to "a close
friend," or "my friend's cousin." Secretly she wondered
if this formidable reputation wasn't something Admiral
Paris created for himself, a looming, mythic presence in
Starfleet annals. Even if that was true, she dreaded the
interview. Admiral Paris was no longer on the active
faculty of the Academy, having been transferred to
Starfleet Command; it was bold of her even to approach him
with her request. And if he did agree to be her advisor for
her junior honors thesis, she would have to work twice as
hard as anyone else, for Paris was that demanding. It was
often considered unluckier to be one of his favorites than
one of his discards; once the laser-flame of his attention
fell on someone, that person's life was forever changed.
She looked up as a couple strolled by, laughing. The tall
young cadet she knew from afar; his name was William Riker
and she had spotted him during her first weeks at the
Academy two years ago. He looked so much like Cheb Packer
she had felt faint for a minute. The dark, tousled hair,
the deep blue eyes-the resemblance was uncanny.
And so Kathryn vowed to keep her distance. She wanted that
episode behind her, and didn't want even to be reminded of
Cheb. Or risk getting emotionally involved with someone
just because he looked like Cheb. So she'd managed to get
through two years in school without having met William
Riker or had a class with him. Not that he would
necessarily have taken notice of herhe seemed always to be
attracted to women who were galvanizingly beautiful and
supremely confident of their attractiveness.
That, she realized glumly, was hardly her. In fact, she'd
turned into something of a monk since coming to the
Academy. The things that interested her weren't the parties
or the dating; she was excited by her studies, by the new
disciplines she'd been exposed to. Not only did they
challenge and electrify, they didn't break your heart.
William Riker walked on by, laughing with a beautiful
cadet, and Kathryn's mind turned back to Admiral Paris.
What was the proper attitude to take with him? Deferential
and submissive'! Outgoing and assertive? Warm and likable?
She realized she couldn't begin to answer the question
because she didn't know what she wanted: on the one hand,
landing Admiral Paris for a junior honors thesis would be
an incredible coup; on the other, it would provide an
entire set of difficulties that would be obviated if she
simply asked one of her major professors. The more she
thought, the more she began to wonder why it had seemed
like a good idea.
Suddenly she felt faintly queasy.
Leaning over to get some blood to her head, she found
herself looking into two dark eyes. A fat puppy had waddled
over to her bench and was gazing at her expectantly, as
though assuming she would provide for whatever needs it
had. It was a golden retriever, still an off-white color
that gave it the appearance of a round, fluffy snowball.
Kathryn looked around for its owner. No one was in sight
except a couple of cadets walking in the opposite
direction. She reached down and scratched the puppy's ears;
he responded by rolling over on his back and extending all
four pudgy paws into the air and wriggling in ecstasy. She
stroked his silky stomach, which was almost distended with
baby fat, and the pup wriggled even more.
Then he suddenly regained his footing and tried to put two
paws on the bench, but he was still too short and he
flopped on the ground. Eagerly he tried it again, seeming
not to make any connection between his efforts and his
failure.
Kathryn scooped him into her lap, stroking him and
murmuring softly to him. "Where'd you come from, fella?
Do you belong to anyone? What's your name?" The pup
snuggled in her lap and plopped his head down on her leg.
As she scratched and caressed him, his eyes began to close,
and in seconds, he was asleep.
If no one claimed him, she would keep him.
Pets were forbidden in the dorm, of course, but as a junior
she could live off-campus. She'd get an apartment for
herself and the puppy, and she'd train him and brush him
and comfort him. He'd never be unfed, or alone, or unhappy.
A profound peace settled over Kathryn. The warm sun, the
soft presence of the puppy in her lap, the pastoral setting
of the Academy's grounds-all combined to bring her to a
condition of imperturbability that was almost nirvana-like.
Her eyes closed, and she imagined she was back in the
cornfields of Indiana, with Bramble on her tummy, sleeping
in the sun.
"There you are, you naughty thing. I can't let you out of
my sight, can I?" Kathryn's eyes snapped open and she saw
Commander Ruah Brackett heading toward her. The commander
was a handsome woman in her thirties, a full professor in
mathematics.
Kathryn hoped to take her differential geometry course in
her senior year; Brackett had a reputation as an inspired
teacher.
Now she was reaching for the puppy, pulling him from
Kathryn's lap and slipping a collar and leash around his
plump neck. "He slipped right out of his collar, the little
devil. I named him Chomel, which means "peace," but I
suspect he has more of the devil in him."
Kathryn reached out for a final stroke of the puppy's
satiny fur; an ineffable sadness came over her. "He's a
beautiful pup. Where did you get him?" Maybe he has a
sibling, she thought, maybe I could find his brother or
sister.
"He adopted me. I was in Golden Gate Park one evening and
he came out of the woods and sat down next to me. He
couldn't have been more than five or six weeks old. I took
him home and fed him, cleaned him up. He slept on my bed
that night-and that's where he's still sleeping. I don't
know what I'll do when he's fully grown."
Kathryn could see that Commander Brackett's eyes were
shining as she told this story. She adored this puppy.
Kathryn's eyes stung as she experienced her own sense of
loss, and gratitude that the puppy had found such a loving
friend.
It was after the commander had left, puppy in ungainly
pursuit, that it occurred to Kathryn that perhaps she
needed something to love.
Admiral Paris wasn't in his office when she arrived for
her appointment. His aide, Lieutenant Commander Klenman, a
dark-haired, gracious woman with a British accent,
explained that he'd been called to an emergency meeting but
he was expected in ten or fifteen minutes. Would she care
to wait? And so she sat in the admiral's office and studied
the pictures on his walls and on his desk.
The walls were adorned with pictures of various groups of
Starfleet personnel: Starfleet on Mars, on Vulcan, on Bole,
on Risa.
Meetings, conferences, commemorationsall showing at least
one officer named Paris: Argonne Paris, James Paris,
Caroline Paris, Bailey Paris, Mackenzie Paris. It was a
display of some of the most revered names in Starfleet
history, generations of brilliant, selfless officers who
had dedicated their lives to the service of others.
The pictures on the desk were different. They were recent
family pictures-a pretty, laughing woman Kathryn took to be
Admiral Paris"
wife, and several pictures of children of various ages.
Kathryn determined there were three, a boy and two girls,
who were depicted from their babyhood until what must be
their present ages: the girls in their early teens, the
boy-who had a particularly impish smile-around ten. They
were all handsome, happy children, tow-headed and blue-eyed. If Admiral Owen Paris was an ogre, this laughing
family seemed to flourish under his cruel ministrations.
She heard the whoosh of the door opening behind her and
sprang to her feet. "At ease, Cadet. After keeping you
waiting for half an hour, I don't expect formalities."
She was looking into blue-gray eyes that were remarkably
intense, that seemed to have the capacity to burrow into
her brain and go probing around in there, discerning just
what she was about. She took a breath and tried to shed the
sensation. Those disconcerting eyes were set in a genial
face of regular features, with a straight, narrow nose and
a puckish mouth that seemed to have to fight not to grin.
Once-blond hair was now streaked with gray, all of it an
unruly gnarl of waves and cowlicks.
The dreaded Admiral Paris reminded her of the cheerful
farmers she had grown up with.
He waved idly at her. "Sit down, sit down. Let's get to
it. I have the feeling you want me to rekindle my days as
an Academy professor." Kathryn was stunned. She had told no
one about her plan. It was so unlikely that she didn't want
to appear foolhardy. Could this man actually probe her
mind? Was he a telepath?
She felt her heart beating in her chest. "It's remarkable
you should say that, sir. I hadn't mentioned it to anyone,
but I was hopeful that you would consent to being my
advisor for a junior honors thesis."
The ever-present smile tugged at his mouth.
"Junior honors thesis, eh? I might consider a senior