The Eyes of the Beholders - A. C. Crispin [6]
Selar hesitated, noting the admirably restrained eagerness in the child’s expression. “I believe so,” she said. “Unless we experience some kind of unexpected emergency in sickbay.” Something in the child’s wistful expression made her ask, “Would you like to accompany me to Ten-Forward for lunch? I have no other plans.”
“Could I?” Thala breathed, then she smiled broadly, her antennae twitching with excitement. “That would be wonderful! Thank you so much, Doctor!”
“There is no need to thank me,” Selar said. “We both must eat, and pleasant companionship at meals promotes good digestion.” The child started toward her, her steps still rather uncertain. She has not yet become comfortable in the use of her new net, the Vulcan thought. It would not do to have her progress set back by a stumble or fall at this stage.
So when Thala reached her, the doctor held out her hand. “Come, we’ll go up together, then.”
Small blue fingers closed around sallow green-tinged ones, and they left the child’s cabin together and started down the wide corridor, with Selar unobtrusively steering her small charge. Through the physical contact, the doctor could telepathically sense her companion’s pleasure and excitement at the prospect of spending more time together.
“After lunch, you can bring me up to date on how your studies have been progressing,” the Vulcan said as they walked.
Thala nodded. “I’ve been studying hard, and this new net is going to make it even easier to work with the computer, Doctor.”
“We have known each other for one point four years now,” Selar observed, looking down at the little girl’s earnest features. “Haven’t we?”
“That’s true,” Thala agreed gravely. “Ever since you began working with Doctor Pulaski to help me see better. I was just a little kid then,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height.
Selar’s mouth twitched slightly. “And now you are of a vast age, correct?” Thala nodded. “In that case, since we are now nearly contemporaries, perhaps it is time for you to begin calling me by my name. Could you call me Selar, do you think?”
The child inclined her head formally, and her grasp on her teacher’s hand tightened. “I would be honored, Selar,” she said softly.
Lieutenant Commander Data sat before the computer console in his cabin, going over the logs of all ships that had traversed Sector 3SR-5-42 within the past five years. The trade route between Thonolan Four and the Federation had not existed until last year, nor had this new one between the Federation and the Klingon Empire, but some ships had entered that sector, mostly small cruisers and independent freighters.
And, as Data had just discovered, 15.4 percent of those ships had not been heard from again.
Space travel was, by its nature, still a risky occupation, but that percentage was still higher than could be accounted for by the ordinary perils of interstellar travel, Data knew. But none of the logs of the ships that had made it through safely reported anything out of the ordinary.
The android scanned the log files one more time, searching for any scrap of information that he could present to Picard, but there was nothing. Renegade Gatherers? he speculated, then dismissed the idea. That far from the established space lanes, their presence was unlikely. Any cargo they could steal would not be worth the fuel or travel time necessary to resell it on a receptive world—such as Arcturus Six—where the planetary government turned a blind eye to underworld fencing-and credit-laundering activities.
Data’s pale features remained serene as he got up from his chair and paced slowly around his cabin. Many humans claimed that movement helped them to think more clearly. The android was skeptical but willing to allow the notion an empirical test. Perhaps he should get out his meerschaum pipe and his deerstalker hat from his Sherlock Holmes adventures on the holodeck.
As he strode past his desk, Data saw the fountain pen and pages covered with his own copybook-perfect script. A sudden memory of his talk with La Forge flashed