The sunset at Ka'a Beach was glorious. Pink streamers and golden-bottomed cumulus clouds floated serenely above the orange glow that still tinged the distant dark horizon line of the sea. Thick tropical foliage in a range of vibrant green tones cloaked the flank of the steep mountain that rose behind the secluded beach, and several birds soared lazily on the gentle breeze off the ocean. The waves were soft, surprising for a late December day; and they crept in ever-extending laps farther and farther up the sand as the golden sunset slowly began to fade.

Spock ignored it all, sitting on the beach staring at his naked toes half-buried under the yellow-white sand. His boots, socks carefully folded inside, stood primly beside him. He had come to Ka'a for its quiet and its privacy, both of which had been zealously protected by Kauai's local government. The northernmost gem of Hawaii's necklace of islands maintained its right to preserve its natural beauty and had managed to do so for three centuries. Spock had been drawn to the Garden Island by its extreme contrast to his home planet.

He pulled his Starfleet jacket more closely around his shoulders as the wind off the sea rose slightly. He disliked cold weather of any kind; indeed, his personal quarters were always kept well above levels most humans appreciated. Vulcan would never experience such a cool wind as the one that now ruffled his hair. No lush vegetation ran such a riot of natural growth as on this tropical island, untended by nurturing hands. There were wide parklands around every Vulcan city and town, carefully maintained by squads of volunteer gardeners who felt a truly civilized society must spend some time among the tranquillity of growing things. But every tree, plant, vine, grass, and flower that grew in the parklands had been either botanically created by careful mutation and hybridization or imported from off-world sources.

Much of his planet was desert, relieved only by the ragged hulks of mountain ranges and the great bloodred oceans. Hardy succulents, gnarled and tiny-leaved isuke bushes, and karanji -- similar to Earth's barrel cactus -- constituted much of the wild flora of Vulcan. The flame-leaved induku trees clustered in the oases that had originally dotted the deserts -- except, of course, on Vulcan's Forge. Nothing grew on the Forge, that immense blistering range of hellish sand and rock into which no one -- not even the most toughened and experienced Vulcan -- ventured willingly, or for long.

Spock reflected briefly on his own taste of the Forge, images flickering in his mind of the ritual kahs-wan ordeal every Vulcan child underwent on his or her tenth birthday. It was a rite of passage, an endurance and survival test of the individual's strength, courage, and logic. (A tiny, ironic smile tugged at the corners of Spock's mouth. Intelligence was a foregone conclusion for a Vulcan child.)

There had been so many peculiar incidents tied up in his own kahs-wan that he sometimes thought of it as the single most important turning point in his life. He clearly remembered every event leading to and involved in his test, including the fact that he had set off for it unauthorized, alone, and ahead of schedule in order to prove himself a true Vulcan and not -- not -- an Earther.

He recalled his stubbornly determined march into the Forge, an impulsive act brought on by his father's stern admonition that he must learn to behave like a Vulcan. Spock had known Sarek was correct. Spock was subject to anger then, often fighting with Vulcan boys who taunted him about his half-human blood, and even giving way to tears of disappointment and frustration. It was a weakness that would not be tolerated in an heir by his noble clan. Spock had known he must conquer it, and forcing the kahs-wan had been his solution -- even though doing so in such an impulsive way was another demonstration of his human heritage.

Fat old I-chaya, his pet sehlat, had lumbered after him into the Forge, refusing to turn back even after Spock had firmly ordered him to go home. And it had been a good thing the loyal old beast had followed him so relentlessly, because I-chaya had saved Spock from an attacking le-matya. The aging sehlat had charged and parried the le-matya's attempt to get at the boy, until Spock's cousin miraculously appeared to finally subdue the great tigerlike beast with a skillfully applied neck pinch.

His cousin Selek had had an explanation for how he had discovered Spock had gone alone into the Forge and how he had followed the boy. It had seemed plausible at the time, and Spock had been desperate to get help for I-chaya, who had been wounded by the le-matya's poisonous claws. There had been Spock's anxious hurry to reach and persuade a healer to come to I-chaya's aid, his grief over I-chaya's terrible suffering, and, finally, the decision required of him -- to allow the healer to ease the sehlat's agony by a painless and merciful death with dignity. Somehow, thinking back on it, Spock had never been quite certain of the logic of Selek's explanations. His parents' relief and pleasure over Spock's passing of the kahs-wan had diverted his attention from it, and Selek had shown him exactly how to execute the Vulcan neck pinch, a technique that had eluded Spock to that point. Still, he looked back every now and then and pondered the unusual set of coincidences that had provided him with such a perceptive cousin exactly when he needed him. Several years later, Spock had idly investigated the many branches of his family tree, but he could not seem to find exactly the right combination of "distant relatives" with those names who had a son named Selek. Somehow the information never seemed to be urgent enough for him to launch a thorough search, and in time he was far too busy to think about it. The most important thing the kahs-wan had accomplished was that it left Spock with the firm resolution that he would follow the Vulcan way, as his father and tradition demanded.

Spock sighed and shook his head. Denying his human heritage was a denial of his mother, and he could not dishonor her that way. Instead, he had gone on to strengthen those human qualities most like a Vulcan's and had learned to sublimate the more embarrassing ones. Mostly learned to sublimate, he reminded himself. He still remembered I-chaya proudly, but always with a swell of grief that put a lump in his throat.

Spock wiggled his toes. It had been an impulse to remove his boots and socks and sink his feet into the warm, fine sand. His mother had told him she had always enjoyed doing that. "Walking on a beach in your shoes is a joyless experience, Spock," she often said. "Put yourself in touch with the land... feel its life."

A soft hiss and slap of water on the sand brought his head up. The tide had lifted a gentle froth of white foam nearly to his feet, leaving a dark, moist mark as it slid away again. Dusk was already pulling down the shadows, darkening the tropical growth behind him. Above the last faintly glowing light of the sun on the horizon, the stars had begun to appear, glittering with icy white and pale blue points. Spock freed his toes and brushed his feet free of sand. Quickly pulling on socks and boots, he managed to scramble out of the path of the next wave before he got damp. The temperature had dropped farther as the wind rose again. He pulled his jacket edges together and sealed them with a brush of his hand up the join. As he started to walk back toward the path through the undergrowth to the road, he realized he had not gotten all the sand off his feet. The grains shifted and bit into his flesh as he strode along toward the parking area where he had left his ground car. He ignored the discomfort but mildly cursed the impulse that had caused it.

The short-hopper whisked Spock from the Lihue shuttle field to Honolulu's spaceport. He carried only a light trip valise containing the few items he required for brief stays, plus two uniforms and a traditional Vulcan robe. Captain Daniels had ordered him to take some R&R after he signed off the Artemis, and he had gone with few possessions. Everything else would be forwarded automatically to his new ship.

"Spock, you work too hard," Daniels had said. "You're not always on duty. It's a commendable attitude for a young officer, but it's not practical." The captain had softened the remark with a smile. "Take the time to get away before you report to the Enterprise. Relax. Enjoy not having to tend to duty."

"I do require some time to review the Enterprise's expedition logs and equipment specifications," Spock had replied thoughtfully. "Especially the library computer and science station. I have not made a complete study of the ship's systems...."

"That's not what I meant," Daniels snapped.

Spock had raised an eyebrow quizzically, the rest of his face perfectly composed. It was his best way of responding to anything that amazed, amused, or puzzled him. "Sir?"

Daniels stood up and leaned on his knuckles on the desktop. He put firmness in his voice and bit off every word clearly and sharply. "This is an order, Mr. Spock. You will go somewhere beautiful. You will take no research information with you in any form, nor will you access said information from Starfleet sources. You will relax. Swim. Walk. Ride. Lie on a beach if that's what you fancy. But do not work. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir. I am ordered to relax."

"Excellent."

"Sir?" Daniels swiveled a wary look at him. "Captain Pike has a reputation as a taskmaster--"

Daniels interrupted sharply. "Chris Pike is hard but fair. Remember it."

"Of course, sir." Spock remembered everything. Automatically. Without effort. "However, I believe he will expect his new second officer to know something more about his vessel than its basic specifications."

"What are you getting at?"

"How many days am I ordered to relax, sir?"

"Ah." Daniels gave the question a few seconds' thought and then gravely replied, "You have two weeks. Ten days should be sufficient."

"Yes, sir. Ten days' relaxation. Is that all, sir?"

"Not quite." The captain held out his hand. "You've been an excellent third for me. I was happy to recommend your promotion, and I was even more happy to hear of your posting to the Enterprise. She's a fine ship commanded by an excellent captain. Good luck, Spock."

"Thank you, sir." Spock shook Daniels's hand quickly, exerting an acceptable amount of pressure. Then he dropped it, promptly clasping his hands behind his back, his usual stance when in the presence of senior officers. He had never been comfortable with the human custom of shaking hands. He much preferred the ancient ritual greeting used by Vulcans: "Live long and prosper." It was both formal and courteous and at the same time offered respect and good wishes. Spock considered it a prime example of Vulcan efficiency to convey so much in such a brief salutation.

The landing of the short-hopper at the spaceport interrupted his musings about the start of his leave. He collected his trip valise from the overhead storage bin and hurried out into the bustling port. He hadn't been scheduled to return here for another four days. Events had conspired to interrupt the ordered relaxation period the afternoon of his sixth day on Kauai. The subspace radio message had been relayed to him at the hostel via the Artemis: "Return to Vulcan immediately. Urgent matters require your attention." It was succinctly signed "Sarek." Daniels had attached a brief message of his own: "Sorry. I believe his orders supersede mine." Spock had sighed and gone to arrange for his return to the Honolulu spaceport, a connector shuttle to Armstrong Lunaport, and a reservation on a fast passenger ship to Vulcan.

Now, as he scanned a status board to confirm that his connector shuttle would leave on time, Spock wondered again what possible matters could be so urgent that only he personally could deal with them -- and which also required his presence on Vulcan instead of being transacted by subspace messages. It was remarkably convenient that the order from Sarek (and Daniels was correct; it most definitely was an order from Spock's father) should have arrived at exactly the time Spock was free to respond.

Of course, it would have taken very little effort on Sarek's part to discover that his son had received a promotion to full lieutenant and been transferred to the Enterprise, with an accompanying amount of leave time before being required to report. A Federation ambassador (even one not currently on diplomatic assignment) had more than enough Starfleet contacts to know every movement in his son's career. Not that Sarek personally would have sought out the information. He would have delegated the chore to an aide and would expect to find the data reported on his library computer with continuous updates. Sarek might never refer to it, but woe betide the unfortunate aide who failed to ensure that the most recent facts were there if wanted.

Yes, Spock decided, Sarek had known exactly where he was and that he could easily return to Vulcan for whatever "urgent matters" required him. Sarek would never interfere with Spock's duty by demanding that Spock take a personal-time leave. But he would not scruple for a second about interrupting Spock's official leave.

The connector shuttle was on time, and Spock turned toward the ticket counter where a reservations robot would confirm his place on board. Spock had hesitated briefly and then obeyed the summons from his father. Not to do so was unthinkable. Still, he wondered with just a twitch of uneasiness what it was all about. Sarek of Vulcan had not communicated with his son by written or spoken word for eight years -- and they could have been light-years, so great was the philosophical distance between them.

The afternoon was getting on, and the hard yellow light of Vulcan's sun stretched long shadows across the courtyard, running in wavy ripples over the carefully raked ridges of the sand garden. As Amanda watched, the slim shadow finger cast by the candlestick tree touched the base of the highest rock in the group of three clustered together in the center of the garden. She could tell the hour almost to the exact moment as the dark line slowly lifted toward the rock's center.

Sarek would be home soon. And Spock -- she sighed heavily -- Spock would return to Vulcan in two days. She knew Sarek had planned it out very carefully, calculating all the parameters and possibilities. Two days was the maximum time it could possibly take for their son to receive the message, debate it, resist it, give in, and take transport to Vulcan. But come he would. Then there would be the confrontation between Sarek and Spock -- not face to face, of course. Sarek had already arranged that, and Amanda had had to agree to his plan. Her title was T'Sai Amanda, Aduna Sarek -- rendered inadequately but closely enough in English as the Lady Amanda, Life Partner of Sarek. She had accepted the role, but the choosing had always been Sarek's. She had wanted him more than anything else in any world that could be named, but it had to be his choice of her that made them life partners. Amanda had given everything she could to fulfill that role, and what Sarek had asked of her this time she would also do -- but reluctantly.

She heard the outer door slide open exactly when she expected it. The candlestick tree shadow had touched the top of the highest rock in the sand garden. She turned toward the spacious foyer of the house, a smile automatically lifting her lips in spite of the sadness that rode her shoulders.

The tall figure of her husband moved against the brightness of the skylit foyer, a dark silhouette until he stepped into the large, cool main room. He wore plain, somber clothes as always, a deep forest green suit today, the only highlight the heavy gold ring on the index finger of his left hand -- the clan ring worn by the ranking male family member.

Sarek saw her moving toward him, and his brown eyes lit with warmth. "Amanda."

His rich, vibrant voice stirred her as it always did, and her smile brightened her face. "You're on time."

"I would have notified you if I were to be delayed."

"I know. I'm teasing."

The light in his eyes grew warmer. "A human characteristic I have never been able to fathom, my wife."

"Perhaps not, my husband," Amanda said lightly. "But you do let me indulge in it."

"Analyzing it is a fascinating hobby." Sarek lifted her hand in his, sobering quickly. "I have received word that Spock is on his way. He has left the Honolulu spaceport and will depart Armstrong Lunaport for Vulcan at five o'clock Earth time."

"Then he'll arrive in two days, just as you said."

"Of course."

Amanda turned away, pulling her hand from his. "Why are you forcing this now, Sarek? You know it doesn't have to be now."

"We have gone over the matter before, Amanda. Spock has obligations. It is his duty to fulfill them. The family, the bonds that are in place, the traditions he has sworn to uphold as a Vulcan--all demand he respond now in the accepted manner."

Sometimes Amanda hated the traditions, hated the narrow line of action they forced Vulcans to follow. But she had accepted them herself when she accepted Sarek's love and proposal of marriage, had accepted the Vulcan role of life partner, had birthed and raised a child whom she knew must also abide by the same traditions. She had made a promise to the man she loved and the house into which she married that she would do so. She kept her promises -- her own human tradition -- but that didn't mean it was easy. This was another one of the times when it wasn't going to be easy.

She turned back to her husband. "He has obligations to Starfleet, too, Sarek. Even you acknowledge that." "What he must do here is acceptable within Starfleet. It has no relation to his duties."

"I think you are not seeing the two in relation to each other, Sarek," Amanda said firmly. "They are two different things, and I do not believe Spock can fulfill both duties simultaneously. We used to have an old Earth saying, 'Something has to give.' It is very possible that Spock will have to consider not meeting one obligation or the other."

"Then that will be his decision. I am certain he will choose the correct one."

"The correct one by whose lights?" Amanda asked. "Yours or his?"

Sarek stared at her, not answering for a moment. Then he turned and walked toward the corridor leading to the bedrooms. "I will be in meditation," he said quietly. "I assume supper will be at the usual hour?"

"Of course, my husband," she said formally. She watched him until he disappeared down the hall, then she turned away toward the formal sand garden again. She slid aside the door that led to the patio and stepped out.

Vulcan's twilight heat pushed at her, not uncomfortable now in the winter of its year. There were times in the summer when she could not even look out at the glare from the surface of the sand garden, but now it lay soft and pleasantly shadowed in the last light. She sat down on the stone edge of the patio, pulled off the light sandals she wore, and burrowed her bare toes into the warm sand.

There. In her mind, she went back through the years to the Carmel beach where they had honeymooned. Typically, he had brought work with him, and after breakfast the first morning he settled himself at a computer console to tend to it. She had kissed the tip of his ear, laughing, and gone down to the beach. She was on her knees at a tide pool, examining the microcosm of life assembled there, when she glanced up and saw him approaching along the beach. He was determinedly trudging along -- wearing boots, of all things -- stopping now and then, apparently to study the seaweed and kelp, the shells, and the stones tossed up on the tawny beach sand by the waves.

She realized suddenly that she was probably "a sight," as her mother would have put it -- dirty feet, disheveled hair, no makeup. He had never seen her like that, even in bed. Because of his innate formality, she had taken care always to look as perfectly groomed as possible. Later, he told her he thought he had never seen her look so lovely -- slim as a gazelle, dark hair tossed by the wind, and beautiful blue eyes that looked at him with open candor and honesty -- and love.

She had chided him lightly, teasingly, about the boots. A beach like this was half wasted if one walked on it in boots. She never did persuade him to remove them and wriggle his toes in the sand. Vulcan dignity simply did not descend that far. She began to realize then that the traditions observed by Sarek -- by all Vulcans -- were not subject to human influence, even in so light a thing as informality in leisure time. Certainly the greater traditions that governed their lives were untouched by contact with humans.

Her son was bound, and tied, by those traditions. Sometimes, not often but sometimes, she felt guilty about Spock's half-human heritage. She knew it troubled him, gave him pain, caused him grief, all of which he buried behind a stoic Vulcan bearing. But would she have said no to Sarek's wish for a child? She shook her head and smiled ironically. Of course not. She had desired Spock's birth as much as Sarek had. She wiggled her toes again in the warm sand of the garden's edge and sighed. She had never persuaded Sarek to go barefoot. That would have been too human.