corrupted him lately, the answer is no. When I came right out and asked him if he was all right, he [90] just looked at me and said, ‘Of course. Do I appear any different?’ And he said it—you know how ... Vulcan.”
McCoy grimly keyed the door panel. “I know indeed.” he muttered.
“Who is it?” Zar’s voice, but the door stayed closed.
“McCoy.”
The panel slid open. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know you were there. Please come in. ...” The younger man sat before an easel, a brush and palette in his hand.
“Haven’t seen much of you for the last couple of days, Zar. What’s up?”
Zar dabbed carefully at the canvas, not meeting the Doctor’s measuring stare. “Up? The Enterprise maintains a constant gravity of one Earth gee. Why should—”
“Not another one!” McCoy interrupted with a groan. When the artist didn’t raise his eyes from the canvas, he amended, “I meant, what kind of things have been going on with you lately?”
One shoulder twitched in what the Medical Officer assumed was a shrug. Baffled, McCoy walked around to get a better look at the painting.
It showed a blood-colored sun setting over a jagged upthrust of rock and ice. The background was muted, and the glow of the sun on the ice-glazed boulders was a scene McCoy remembered vividly. The defiant angle of the glacier stabbed the roundness of the sun like a dagger.
“Cold as hell, in spite of the sun,” the Doctor commented. “I remember how strange that icy glow looked. You’ve really caught it here.”
Some of the remoteness left the artist’s expression at the compliment. Zar dabbed carefully at one corner again, turning so McCoy couldn’t see his face, but his voice betrayed him. “It’s beautiful. So cruel, but beautiful. I miss it ... sometimes.” He straightened, laid down the brush. “This is Jan’s favorite.”
[91] “You’ve done others?”
“Yes, I like to paint almost everything I’ve seen. I’ve done three others since I came on board, and some sketches.”
“I’d like to see them.”
Zar dragged several canvases and a fat sketchbook out of the cabinet built into the bulkhead. “I’m afraid they aren’t the same as they were in my head,” he apologized. “Nothing comes out the way I envision it.”
McCoy set the first painting on the other side of the easel, and examined it., A portrait of Jan Sajii—the distinctive features were unmistakable, despite the flaws in perspective. The artist had caught the characteristic tilt of the head, the humor in the eyes. He could see Sajii’s influence in the style. “That’s the first one I did,” the younger man offered. The Medical Officer nodded.
“That’s old Jan, all right. You’ve really caught him.”
The second painting was a posed grouping, showing Spock’s Vulcan harp propped against a chair, next to an open book. Mathematical equations showed on the pages. A Star Fleet uniform tunic hung over the back of the chair, with one sleeve dangling free. Gold braid of a full commander winked against the blue. McCoy studied the picture intently, nodding to himself, then looked back at Zar, who didn’t meet his eyes. He lifted the painting down carefully.
The last canvas was an abstract, with swirling shades of purple, muting into lavender, shading out to rose and light blue. A jagged slash of black jumped out of the center to drip off the side of the painting. It disturbed McCoy. “What’s this one?” he asked.
The gray eyes still avoided his. “I painted it the other night. It really doesn’t mean anything.”
The Doctor made a rude noise. “Like hell it doesn’t mean anything. I’ll bet a psychologist would have a good time with it. Wish I had more training in that [92] field.” He opened the sketchbook as Zar put the pictures away, smiling a little as he recognized himself, bent over a microscope in the lab. The sketches varied from people aboard the Enterprise to Sarpeidon’s now-extinct animals, with some
McCoy grimly keyed the door panel. “I know indeed.” he muttered.
“Who is it?” Zar’s voice, but the door stayed closed.
“McCoy.”
The panel slid open. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know you were there. Please come in. ...” The younger man sat before an easel, a brush and palette in his hand.
“Haven’t seen much of you for the last couple of days, Zar. What’s up?”
Zar dabbed carefully at the canvas, not meeting the Doctor’s measuring stare. “Up? The Enterprise maintains a constant gravity of one Earth gee. Why should—”
“Not another one!” McCoy interrupted with a groan. When the artist didn’t raise his eyes from the canvas, he amended, “I meant, what kind of things have been going on with you lately?”
One shoulder twitched in what the Medical Officer assumed was a shrug. Baffled, McCoy walked around to get a better look at the painting.
It showed a blood-colored sun setting over a jagged upthrust of rock and ice. The background was muted, and the glow of the sun on the ice-glazed boulders was a scene McCoy remembered vividly. The defiant angle of the glacier stabbed the roundness of the sun like a dagger.
“Cold as hell, in spite of the sun,” the Doctor commented. “I remember how strange that icy glow looked. You’ve really caught it here.”
Some of the remoteness left the artist’s expression at the compliment. Zar dabbed carefully at one corner again, turning so McCoy couldn’t see his face, but his voice betrayed him. “It’s beautiful. So cruel, but beautiful. I miss it ... sometimes.” He straightened, laid down the brush. “This is Jan’s favorite.”
[91] “You’ve done others?”
“Yes, I like to paint almost everything I’ve seen. I’ve done three others since I came on board, and some sketches.”
“I’d like to see them.”
Zar dragged several canvases and a fat sketchbook out of the cabinet built into the bulkhead. “I’m afraid they aren’t the same as they were in my head,” he apologized. “Nothing comes out the way I envision it.”
McCoy set the first painting on the other side of the easel, and examined it., A portrait of Jan Sajii—the distinctive features were unmistakable, despite the flaws in perspective. The artist had caught the characteristic tilt of the head, the humor in the eyes. He could see Sajii’s influence in the style. “That’s the first one I did,” the younger man offered. The Medical Officer nodded.
“That’s old Jan, all right. You’ve really caught him.”
The second painting was a posed grouping, showing Spock’s Vulcan harp propped against a chair, next to an open book. Mathematical equations showed on the pages. A Star Fleet uniform tunic hung over the back of the chair, with one sleeve dangling free. Gold braid of a full commander winked against the blue. McCoy studied the picture intently, nodding to himself, then looked back at Zar, who didn’t meet his eyes. He lifted the painting down carefully.
The last canvas was an abstract, with swirling shades of purple, muting into lavender, shading out to rose and light blue. A jagged slash of black jumped out of the center to drip off the side of the painting. It disturbed McCoy. “What’s this one?” he asked.
The gray eyes still avoided his. “I painted it the other night. It really doesn’t mean anything.”
The Doctor made a rude noise. “Like hell it doesn’t mean anything. I’ll bet a psychologist would have a good time with it. Wish I had more training in that [92] field.” He opened the sketchbook as Zar put the pictures away, smiling a little as he recognized himself, bent over a microscope in the lab. The sketches varied from people aboard the Enterprise to Sarpeidon’s now-extinct animals, with some
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