"Thanks," sighs possibly-Captain Viteri. "You're a lifesaver."

Isabella inclines her head in acknowledgment. "The closest Federation settlement with a regular shuttleport is the Betazoid colony of Piran Four; will that suit? Betazed itself is also relatively accessible, particularly if you hope to hire a ship for a salvage mission."

"Either one," he shrugs. "I don't want to put you too far out of your way. Where are you going next?"

"I was planning to complete my survey of this system, then resupply, either at Betazed or farther along near Andoria, and then continue to PN-115." The star presumably has a dozen real names from the people who live under its light, but she hasn't learned any of them yet. "Dropping you off at Betazed would be no trouble, although Piran would get you on your way sooner if you did not plan to salvage the Harlequin."

"Then I'll take Betazed," he decides. "It'd be a shame to leave the old girl drifting." He rubs his hand fondly over the arm of his chair.

"Very well," says Isabella. "Approaching docking position. Please permit my ship's computer to interface with yours for fine maneuvering, and then pack your personal effects and you may board Prometheus."

"Fingers crossed," he mutters, and makes the relevant gesture before leaning forward to access some controls.

"I do not believe that will prove relevant to the success of the maneuver. In the event that your computer is uncooperative, however, I have enough margin of fuel to transport you and also warp us both to Betazed."

Isabella's not in a hurry. She was almost done with this system anyway.

"Thank you," says Isabella. "Disengaging docking mechanism." She flicks the controls, and directs the autopilot to resume its course to the last planet in the system. "I'm going to make a scan of the outermost planet. It will be quick. No moons. Then we can proceed to Betazed, which shouldn't take more than four days. In the event that your sleeping shift is similar to mine at the moment, you are welcome to the living quarters during that time; I can readily do without sleep for long enough to adjust my cycle."

"Thanks," he says. "I don't keep a regular sleeping shift out here; I'll probably be down for the count sometime in the next six hours, and up again between five and ten after that. I can stabilize if it makes the scheduling more convenient. Where should I drop my stuff?"

"Anywhere that isn't in a walking path or in the way of an air circulation vent will be fine. Speaking of which, I can turn down the temperature if you would prefer."

"Huh? Oh, no, I'm comfy," he assures her, and he finds an out-of-the-way corner to tuck his bag into and set the case on top.

"Whatcha reading?" he inquires cheerfully, making himself comfortable in the copilot's chair.

She rattles off the title in Vulcan, because she doesn't know what it's published under in English. "Saakek's Apotheosis."

"Interesting," says Mr. Viteri, also in Vulcan, with complete apparent fluency. "I don't think I've heard of it. What's it about?"

"It's historical fiction," replies Isabella in the same language, since he seems comfortable with it. "From the Time of Awakening, about the life of a young man struggling to come to terms with the management of his emotions in the face of unresolved grudges from the wars that had recently plagued his homeland."

"Well, that sounds... enlightening," says Mr. Viteri, with what might be a hint of irony.

"Does it? I'm mostly reading it for the poetic style; the author was also a poet but I have read all of her poems."

"I haven't read much Vulcan poetry," he admits. "The language is beautiful, but the literature tends to dry me out."

"It was," she says, "a very dry place."

"So I've heard. I regret not visiting when I had the chance."

Isabella nods. "It was beautiful."

"What was it like there?"

"I didn't spend much time in the wilderness of the place - I was a child, not an explorer, then. But the cities were... It will sound stereotypical to call them 'calm'. But they were. There was an abundance of activity, carried out efficiently and neatly, without fuss or drama. I might have chosen to live there as an adult, if it had still been available then and if my father's people did not, as a group, demonstrate such insularity as regards hybrids."

"There is that," he agrees.

"But I am content living as I do."

"Deep space survey? It must get lonely," he says.

"There's always subspace communications. My mother requires a conversation on at least a biweekly basis. And I resupply regularly, as I have such a small cargo hold. I am not much given to loneliness over the intervening periods, not with all of the art of all Federation civilization and my own mind to entertain me."

He laughs and nods.

"What are you doing hereabouts? I would not expect there to be much in this system to interest anyone but surveyors of one sort or another."

"Oh... every so often it's nice to get away for a while," he says. "Far away. Just for a few weeks."

"Away from...?"

"Everyone and everything?"

"My apologies for intruding," Isabella says archly.

"I did send a distress call," he reminds her.

Mr. Viteri giggles. He has a pleasing laugh.

"When you are not away, where do you tend to be?"

"Earth, mostly. Sometimes other places."

"Earth is a lovely planet."

"It is."

"How did you learn Vulcan?"

"Oh, I took a course in it once," he says vaguely. "I like languages."

"Your accent is very good."

He laughs. "Thank you. Did you grow up bilingual?"

"I did. Even after my mother moved to Earth, I still spent six months of every two years on Vulcan, speaking nothing else. She is reasonably competent at it herself - conversationally - but prefers English."

"Do you speak any others?" he wonders.

"Bits and pieces. I can, approximately, describe most of the things that might go wrong with my ship, and claim peaceability and Federation citizenship, in quite an assortment; I can haggle for fuel and food in somewhat fewer."

"I pick up interesting ones wherever I go. It's a hobby, like maintaining that old piece of junk - " he waves vaguely in the direction of where they left the Harlequin.

"Oh, what else do you speak, then?"

"This and that. Basque," he offers as an example. "I picked that because it's where my last name comes from, although there's too many intervening generations for me to claim it as an immediate cultural heritage."

"Does Basque even have a speaking population anymore?"

"Not a very large one. But bigger than Scottish Gaelic, which I also know."

Isabella laughs softly. "So it really has nothing to do with practicality, does it?"

"Absolutely nothing," he agrees, laughing.

"If we are approached by hostile Klingons perhaps I will rely on my phrasebook and not my passenger, then."

"Oh, I speak Klingon, too," he assures her.

Isabella is amused. "That is convenient. Although mercifully I don't expect to run into any opportunities for you to practice between here and Betazed."

"How disappointing," he teases.

"But you can keep your Vulcan in good repair, at least."

"I appreciate the opportunity."

"I don't think our speaking population is in such a sorry state as that of Scottish Gaelic, but the chance is moderately uncommon, I would imagine."

"Yes. I used to know a Vulcan or two, but - " he shrugs; smiles ruefully; shakes his head.

Isabella shrugs, too. "Apart from picking up languages as though someone carelessly knocked a jar of them onto the floor, what do you do with yourself?" she inquires. The survey software beeps. She peers at the readout; it's good enough. She sets course for Betazed and starts the tedious process of compiling the system surveys into miscellaneous file formats and compressions.

"Oh, I don't think I'm relevantly interesting," demurs Isabella. "I survey; I read; I meditate. You sound very accomplished; how old are you?"

"Thirty-seven. Everyone's interesting," he assures her. "What do you read, besides Vulcan poetry?"

"Non-Vulcan poetry, occasionally," Isabella says dryly. "Old Earth novels. History, psychology -" She pokes at her computer; the reports are all wrapped up and ready to go. "Surveys." (Surveys from others are how she knows where to find planets to do her real work.) "The news. Political debates."

"Political debates. Any good ones lately?" he inquires cheerfully.

"Some disagreement over how to react to Cardassian treatment of their colonies. None of it's been particularly intelligent."

"I don't follow politics much," he admits. "Is it ever?"

"Which seems to imply that if you didn't stay out of it, it'd be much smarter."

He laughs.

"I do not believe I have ever been found so amusing before."

"Haven't you? That's a shame," he says. "I think you're delightful."

"That is convenient, as escorting you to your destination will take several days and the Prometheus constitutes close quarters."

He grins.

"Are you from Earth originally?"

He nods. "How about you? Were you born on Vulcan?"

"I was, but lived there for only a year before my mother took me to Earth with her. Phoenix, Arizona," she specifies. "Renée thought it would be more comfortable for me in a desert. And she loves the city."

"It's good to spend time in places you love. What do you think of Phoenix?"

"It was a fine place to grow up, and the weather is very nice. I have no yearning to live there, but I am happy to visit Renée regularly."

"Is there somewhere you do have a yearning to live?"

Isabella pats the Prometheus's dashboard. "I think I'm well suited to what I do."

"Why survey, anyway? What's the draw?"

"Sounds like it's perfect for you, then."

"That is why I do it. It would be such a shame to have the perfect job available and then do something else."

He laughs. "Now that's what I call wisdom," he says approvingly.

"Enlightened self-interest."

"Better than most of the other kinds."

"Of enlightenment or of self-interest?"

"Self-interest. You can do less damage with enlightenment."

"Presuming it's genuine, I would imagine that to be the case, yes."

"Why, what sorts of trouble does false enlightenment get you into?"

"I would imagine it would depend on the sort of false enlightenment. Fatalism? Supremacist notions? Ivory-tower intellectualism?"

"Supremacist notions are nobody's friend," he snorts.

"They tend to do more harm than good, even if one takes their proponents' word for it on how much good they do."

"Accurate summary."

"Thank you."

He grins.

"Where on Earth are you from?"

"New York City."

"I've been there once or twice. Lovely theaters."

"That's very true."

"How long have you been traveling in your antique?"

"Oh, ages. Family heirloom," he half-explains. "Legend has it she's the oldest bird in the sky. I've never bothered to check, but I wouldn't be surprised."

"That would have to be a very old bird indeed. When was she built?"

"The twenty-second century," he says. "Barely."

"...Was it built by humans?"

"Yes. At least, so I'm told."

"Wow."

"I am stunned she still flies. Well, insofar as she does. Is she retrofitted to the point of bearing only cosmetic resemblance to her original, or do you have to custom-order parts for her?"

"A little of both. Her systems are varyingly old, but most of her is older than I am."

"I wouldn't want to be this far from civilization in something like that. It's pure luck I was here to pick you up."

"I probably could've got her going again before life support failed," he shrugs.

"How probably?"

"Seventy-five, maybe eighty percent?"

"Prolonged and potentially irrecoverable stranding that can cut out your life support is a serious risk, as critical as the system in question is to the support of life."

"I've lived this long, haven't I?" he says, shrugging again.

"I wonder how many people have uttered those words in ironic proximity to their deaths."

"Lots, I'm sure."

"Well, the Prometheus is in excellent repair and will almost certainly not fail us before we can arrive at Betazed."

"And now if we die on the way it'll be even more ironic."

"How fortunate that the universe is not naturally drawn to irony."

"Are you sure?"

"Surety is a spectrum. I am sure enough not to superstitiously avoid remarks that, were I mistaken, would prompt undesirable outcomes."

"I think they call that 'tempting Fate'."

"They do. An evocative but not literally accurate term."

He laughs.

"If only there were a planet full of you, I would clearly have missed my calling as a comedian."

"Land on a small uninhabited planet," he suggests whimsically. "Then you'll have a planet full of me to entertain however you want."

"It would have to be very small indeed to be truly full," says Isabella, "with only one of you."

"You'd be surprised how easily I can fill up a planet."

"What is your secret?"

He switches languages. "Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."

"I recognize the French," says Isabella, "but cannot translate it."

"It's a quote," he says. "Antoine de Saint Exupéry. Early twentieth century literature. Parts of the book took place on a cozy little planet with a population of one, and at one point one of the characters says, 'Here's my secret', and then that. The translation's not especially relevant."

"I'd like to know what it meant anyway."

"I've never translated it into Vulcan before," he says thoughtfully. "Literally it's, 'It is very simple: One cannot see well except with the heart. The essential is invisible to the eyes.' But of course the metaphor doesn't carry. And neither does the - poetry."

"I will take your word for it that poetry was present in the original."

He giggles.

"I don't think planets small enough to be cozy for a single inhabitant are technically called so. Asteroids, perhaps."

"Yes. But in a fictional universe where asteroids are fully habitable, 'asteroid' and 'planet' are somewhat interchangeable terms."

"How was that meant to work? Is this a fantasy story?"

"A children's story. More or less. The titular character tidies his asteroid with a rake every morning."

"Ah, is that how one does it. No wonder all of my asteroids are so unkempt."

"And a broom, I think," he adds, and giggles.

"What sort of debris accumulates on an inhabited little asteroid?"

"Baobab seedlings borne on the interstellar wind, apparently. Which is terrible, because baobabs can grow large enough to split the asteroid with their roots."

"A dreadful fate. It would then be necessary to live in a space tree instead of on an asteroid."

"And just think of trying to rake all those leaves."

"Perhaps they, like the seedlings, would be borne away by interstellar wind of their own accord."

"Oh, were there a lot of these, then? An entire little community of asteroids?"

"More or less."

"It sounds like a charming book. It is a pity I cannot read French."

"There are English translations."

"Perhaps I'll obtain one."

"The title is Le Petit Prince - 'The Little Prince', in English."

Isabella switches applications on her PADD to write this down.

He grins.

"By the sound of it you have led a dramatically more colorful life than I, and I don't know how amenable you are to being questioned about it extensively."

"Why, do you have burning questions?"

"I will not require my first aid kit if they go unanswered, but I'd like to hear more about dancing and fencing and cheffery and whatever else goes on that list. What kind of dancing?"

"Many kinds," he says with a wink.

"What kinds, then?"

"When I was about your age, I worked in a strip club for a while," he says cheerfully. "A few years later I learned some ballroom dances and did that competitively for about six months."

"A bit of a stylistic jump," observes Isabella.

"All else being equal, I preferred stripping," he says. "More fun and more lucrative. But I'm glad I did both. The other kind was fun too."

"I have never tried dancing. I am not particularly graceful - merely below average for a human, but for a Vulcan I'm disgraceful."

"Sorry to hear it. I love to dance," he says.

"You are fortunate to have the talent, then."

"Do you want to learn to dance?" he offers whimsically.

"...Right now?"

"Is there a better time?"

"I'll fall and bruise my skull on a bulkhead."

"I won't let you."

She looks at him skeptically, then she makes sure that the autopilot is calm and operating normally and gets up from her chair. "All right."

"There isn't enough room to get really fancy, but I bet I could teach you to waltz," he says, leading her into the middle of the clearest available space.

"I have a relatively complete music library, if you want to ask the computer for something."

He names a song, something classic and orchestral.

Mr. Viteri instructs! He's very good at it - calm, patient, straightforward, effortlessly graceful. And as promised, he keeps her on her feet.

She needs the help, once or twice, but she manages to follow the explanation and enjoy herself once she has the basic step down.

And will she eventually be feeling adventurous enough to try a modest twirl?

Eventually, yes! Twirl, twirl. She's not wearing a twirly outfit - she's a slacks-and-long-embroidered-shirt person, Earth fashion for people who can't be bothered - but it's fun anyway.

"You're a good teacher," Isabella returns, switching languages with him obligingly.

"Maybe I should try being a dance instructor next," he muses.

"Have you not taught it before? I wouldn't have guessed."

"Nope. Clearly I should," he laughs.

"Have you taught other things, then, or is your skill all innate?"

"I've taught languages once or twice."

"Which of the myriad you've learned?"

"English. Arabic."

"Arabic too - just how much of a polyglot are you?"

"Plenty."

"More or fewer than - thirty?"

"You're assuming I keep count."

"If you've lost count, I'm going to take that as a 'more'."

He laughs.

"You seem to find me endlessly hilarious."

Twirl.

Hooray!

"Where did you learn this?"

"Somewhere on Earth. I forget," he says vaguely.

"Ah, yes, Earth, known the whole quadrant over for its uniformity of climate and culture."

"It's possible I just have a terrible memory."

"Not for languages you don't."

"True."

"What were the first few you picked up?"

"Arabic, Mandarin, English, French, Russian, and Spanish."

"How anthropocentric of you."

"I was young. I hadn't left the planet yet."

"That's fair. I'm not conversational in any languages belonging to species I'm not, and I have left my original planets."

"Maybe I should teach you Klingon next."

"It won't take us that long to get to Betazed. Not everyone is naturally polyglottaly inclined."

"Well, it'd be a start."

"And then in addition to -" She coughs and switches to serviceable Klingon - "This is the peaceful surveyor vessel Prometheus! I am unarmed, and my location is regularly transmitted to Federation supervisory authorities!" - she switches back - "I could also talk about the threat of baobob seedlings?"

"Or opera," he says. "Your pronunciation's not bad."

"I learned that by rote. I only know what a handful of the individual words mean," confesses Isabella.

"I can tell."

"Is Klingon a difficult language?"

"It trips up human speakers worse than, say, Vulcan, but it's manageable."

"How do Vulcans do with it?"

"I don't know any Vulcans who speak it."

"I guess we can find out, then. I do know about half the alphabet from an educational game I had when I was six, but I've forgotten the other letters."

"Half an alphabet is better than no alphabet," he laughs.

"This is certainly true."

"Do you want to learn the rest, then?"

"Yes, I believe I would like that."

"It turns out your little speech contains every letter of the alphabet," he says. "So we can start there. I just need something to write on."

Isabella laughs, pauses their ongoing waltz, and presents him with her PADD.

He writes out the message in Klingon, then asks her to name all the letters she remembers.

She points out those letters, and the sounds corresponding to them.

So, starting from the first word, he fills in the gaps in her knowledge of each symbol and then sounds out the word slowly so she can hear how they fit together.

Isabella produces another PADD so she can take notes without having to disrupt the display he's teaching her from, and is very attentive.

He takes her word by word through the whole message, then asks her to write it on her PADD without consulting the original.

She misses an article and misspells "unarmed" but is otherwise successful at this task.

He shows her the original so she can correct her mistakes.

"Did my result mean anything amusingly off?" inquires Isabella, editing her reproduction of the sentence.

"About as amusing as if you'd called yourself 'unarfed' in English."

"Perhaps I will be lucky in meeting particularly juvenile Klingons while I am still struggling to master their language."

"I believe the alphabet will now stay put in my head well enough for us to proceed without recourse to opera."

"On the other hand, I love Klingon opera. Maybe I'll just teach you some anyway."

"I am your humble student, Mr. Viteri."

"Please, call me Lalita. Mr. Viteri makes me feel old."

"If you prefer. Lalita."

"Thank you. You probably don't have the text of any Klingon operas on your system, do you? Should I go rustle up my PADD?"

"I would not be astonished if one of my general media packets included at least one Klingon libretto, but I would not expect it to be in the original. It is probably more efficient to use yours. What is in that case, by the way?"

"A book."

"...A paper one?"

"Yep."

"Why do you have one of those with you?"

"Sentimental value. I've had it since I was a kid."

"Another heirloom?"

He laughs. "Yeah."

"You seem to have had an interesting family."

"I couldn't begin to tell you how true that is."

"I doubt that you would find it impossible if you were to try, which you are welcome to."

He laughs and shakes his head. "I think I'll have more fun teaching you Klingon," he says, and goes to get his PADD.

Lalita doesn't actually go as far as singing any of the Klingon opera he has stored, but he does recite the lines in pleasing rhythms.

Isabella is amused! And catches a pun when he reproduces it, too, albeit a rather simple one.

"I make every effort to be so."

And on with the lesson.