would
ever need to know how to cook?
She could have concentrated on mathematics instead. She and
her six teammates stepped off the pad; the uniformed,
female cadet barely inclined her head toward them. Students
from The Meadows were considered somewhat odd, generally
undisciplined, and most definitely inferior. Kathryn made
an inner decision to return to the transport site
victorious, and make sure the condescending cadet knew it.
The seven team members carried their tennis bags toward
the Institute's beautifully landscaped courts. The school
was an immaculately groomed facility, with rich green lawns
and precisely planted shrubbery surrounding low, sleek
classrooms. Kathryn always felt ambivalent about being on
the grounds; on the one hand she loved the ordered neatness
of the place and felt comfortable thereas though she
belonged-but this was offset by resentment that she wasn't
a permanent student there, and had to endure the cluttered
atmosphere of The Meadows, whose sprawling grounds lacked
both symmetry and organization.
Heat waves rose from the ground, and billowing white
clouds hung heavily in the sky.
The air was damp and close; it would rain before nightfall.
These weren't optimum conditions for playing a grueling
tennis match, and Kathryn had no doubt that today's would
be grueling.
She had played her rival before. Her name was Shalarik, a
Vulcan exchange student whose imperturbable demeanor on the
court was unsettling.
But she was attackable, and if she was broken early, her
tightly controlled emotions became an obstacle, because
she was unable to use her feelings to generate momentum.
Kathryn's advantages lay in her head. She could analyze an
opponent's game with mathematical precision, then devise
countermeasures to thwart and frustrate the adversary on
the other side of the net. That tactical capacity was what
had made tennis tolerable, and gradually turned it into a
challenge that she had determined to conquer. Her backhand
was the first stroke to solidify, and it became a
formidable weapon. She loved the feel of it, the coiling of
her body, knees bent deeply, the drive forward as she
uncoiled and whacked the stuffing out of the ball. It gave
her an intoxicating sense of power. Two years later, she
was captain of the team.
Strategy was key today. If she could keep pressure on
Shalarik, hitting deep to the baseline, punishing her with
the powerful backhand, trying to force a short ball so she
could come to the net, she could win. And at least she
would greet Daddy tonight with a victory to report.
Four hours later she was crawling through a muddy field,
sobbing uncontrollably, soaked to the skin from a pounding
thunderstorm. Wind whipped at her, driving stinging rain
into her face, and her throat ached from the harsh sobs
that racked her.
It had been humiliating.
From the beginning of her match, nothing had gone right.
She was unfocused and erratic. Her stamina was low
(probably as a result of her two-mile run through the herb
fields) and she tired early.
Shalarik's controlled, precise shots were unerring: she
kept Kathryn off balance all afternoon. No strategy Kathryn
tried was successful, and the Vulcan broke her serve
immediately and then just kept winning.
Kathryn won only one game in the entire match, which ended
6-1, 6-0. Her loss allowed the Institute team to win the
match and the season. She had let everybody down.
Her teammates had tried to console her, but she was beyond
solace. She refused to go to the transport sitewalk by that
snotty cadet?-and instead struck out, walking, determined
to hike the entire twenty miles back to school, punishing
herself for this intolerable defeat. The storm burst only
minutes after she started out. There had been a quickening
of the breeze, a sudden drop in temperature, and then the
first crack of thunder followed only seconds later by
lightning. So close so quickly! The noise was unnerving,
and