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Authors: J. M. Dillard
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us together.”
Spock appeared puzzled by the turn the discussion had taken. “Are you suggesting, Doctor, that we came along to Yosemite because we sensed the captain—Jim—might be in danger? Again, you are assuming precognitive—”
“Spock, I’d call you soulless if I didn’t know better from personal experience! Think about it. We found you, saved you, brought you back from the dead, all on a hunch, if you want to call it that. At the risk of sounding maudlin”—McCoy took a sip from his cup as if to brace himself for what he was about to say—“there seems to be some sort of. . . I don’t know, call it a psychic bond between the three of us. All that time in space, getting on each other’s nerves . . . and what do we do when shore leave comes along? Spend it together. Most people have
families.”
“Other people, Bones,” Jim said wistfully, thinking of David and Carol Marcus. A gray blanket of depression began to settle over him. “Not us.”
“Untrue,” Spock countered, unmoved by the sharplooks directed at him. “The captain has a nephew with whom he could stay. You, Doctor, have a daughter—and a granddaughter, if I am not mistaken—with whom you could live. And I have a family on Vulcan. No, the three of us
choose
to serve together rather than live with our families.”
Jim’s lips twisted wryly. “Thank you, Mr. Spock, for rescuing me from the throes of self-pity.”
“Just for that,” McCoy said lightly, “when we get back up to the ship, I’m gonna force both of you to look at four dozen holos of that granddaughter of mine. Still, I’m disappointed in you, Spock.” He took a final mouthful of beans and put his plate down.
“I do not understand.”
McCoy hadn’t quite finished chewing when he said, “For not making fun of my psychic bond idea.”
Spock set down his own empty plate, then picked up a stick and examined the end with a finger. “Actually, I quite agree with your theory. After all, you and I had some difficulty
dissolving
our link after
fal tor pan.
And the captain has managed to contact me telepathically before. As to whether you and the captain are linked together . . .” He broke off to retrieve a bag from his knapsack, then reached into it and pulled out a soft, pristine white marshmallow.
Kirk grinned, delighted. “What are you doing, Spock?”
“I am,” Spock replied gravely, as he attached the marshmallow to the pointed end of the stick, “preparing to toast a marsh melon.”
“A marsh
what?”
Jim blurted, but McCoy silenced him with an elbow in the ribs. Clearly, the doctor was enjoying a little practical joke at the Vulcan’s expense.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” McCoy remarked pleasantly and perfectly straight-faced, while Jim did his best to hide a smile. “Toasting marsh melons. Where did you learn that, Spock? Did your mother teach you?”
Spock held the marshmallow over the fire with great seriousness. “No. Before leaving the ship, I consulted the library computer in order to familiarize myself with the custom of camping out. The evening meal is traditionally followed by the toasting of marsh melons.” With his free hand, he offered sticks and marsh-mallows to the doctor and Kirk, who hurried to finish off his beans. “Though I must admit to a certain degree of puzzlement: I do not see any physical resemblance between these small confections and any melon with which I am familiar.”
Jim improvised. “It resembles a certain type of melon grown in a—”
“A southern swamp,” McCoy finished helpfully. “Hence the name,
marsh
melons. My grandfather used to grow whole fields of them. Quite a thing to see right before harvest time.”
“Indeed.” Spock nodded with interest.
Now it was McCoy’s turn to fight a grin. “Tell me something, Spock,” he said, with a shade too much solicitousness, “what do we do
after
we toast the marsh . . . er, melons?”
Spock’s marshmallow was puffing up and turning a glorious golden
Spock appeared puzzled by the turn the discussion had taken. “Are you suggesting, Doctor, that we came along to Yosemite because we sensed the captain—Jim—might be in danger? Again, you are assuming precognitive—”
“Spock, I’d call you soulless if I didn’t know better from personal experience! Think about it. We found you, saved you, brought you back from the dead, all on a hunch, if you want to call it that. At the risk of sounding maudlin”—McCoy took a sip from his cup as if to brace himself for what he was about to say—“there seems to be some sort of. . . I don’t know, call it a psychic bond between the three of us. All that time in space, getting on each other’s nerves . . . and what do we do when shore leave comes along? Spend it together. Most people have
families.”
“Other people, Bones,” Jim said wistfully, thinking of David and Carol Marcus. A gray blanket of depression began to settle over him. “Not us.”
“Untrue,” Spock countered, unmoved by the sharplooks directed at him. “The captain has a nephew with whom he could stay. You, Doctor, have a daughter—and a granddaughter, if I am not mistaken—with whom you could live. And I have a family on Vulcan. No, the three of us
choose
to serve together rather than live with our families.”
Jim’s lips twisted wryly. “Thank you, Mr. Spock, for rescuing me from the throes of self-pity.”
“Just for that,” McCoy said lightly, “when we get back up to the ship, I’m gonna force both of you to look at four dozen holos of that granddaughter of mine. Still, I’m disappointed in you, Spock.” He took a final mouthful of beans and put his plate down.
“I do not understand.”
McCoy hadn’t quite finished chewing when he said, “For not making fun of my psychic bond idea.”
Spock set down his own empty plate, then picked up a stick and examined the end with a finger. “Actually, I quite agree with your theory. After all, you and I had some difficulty
dissolving
our link after
fal tor pan.
And the captain has managed to contact me telepathically before. As to whether you and the captain are linked together . . .” He broke off to retrieve a bag from his knapsack, then reached into it and pulled out a soft, pristine white marshmallow.
Kirk grinned, delighted. “What are you doing, Spock?”
“I am,” Spock replied gravely, as he attached the marshmallow to the pointed end of the stick, “preparing to toast a marsh melon.”
“A marsh
what?”
Jim blurted, but McCoy silenced him with an elbow in the ribs. Clearly, the doctor was enjoying a little practical joke at the Vulcan’s expense.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” McCoy remarked pleasantly and perfectly straight-faced, while Jim did his best to hide a smile. “Toasting marsh melons. Where did you learn that, Spock? Did your mother teach you?”
Spock held the marshmallow over the fire with great seriousness. “No. Before leaving the ship, I consulted the library computer in order to familiarize myself with the custom of camping out. The evening meal is traditionally followed by the toasting of marsh melons.” With his free hand, he offered sticks and marsh-mallows to the doctor and Kirk, who hurried to finish off his beans. “Though I must admit to a certain degree of puzzlement: I do not see any physical resemblance between these small confections and any melon with which I am familiar.”
Jim improvised. “It resembles a certain type of melon grown in a—”
“A southern swamp,” McCoy finished helpfully. “Hence the name,
marsh
melons. My grandfather used to grow whole fields of them. Quite a thing to see right before harvest time.”
“Indeed.” Spock nodded with interest.
Now it was McCoy’s turn to fight a grin. “Tell me something, Spock,” he said, with a shade too much solicitousness, “what do we do
after
we toast the marsh . . . er, melons?”
Spock’s marshmallow was puffing up and turning a glorious golden
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