by Jane Carnall
In the days before Surak, when Vulcan had a moon, there were indeed long moonlit nights, when lovers (when they weren't feuding or at war or otherwise divided) would wander out into the desert, with just a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and a charged force-field to keep off the le-matyas.
Long sweet nights under the moon on the sands of the desert, the taste of wine sweet on the lips of the beloved, the bond as excellently bright as the moon, the sunwarmed sands still radiating heat, the distant screams of several extremely frustrated le-matya....
As Surak pointed out, among other things, this was all completely illogical. Making love on the sand was really quite uncomfortable, and much pleasanter at home in bed, where it was also illogical to eat bread, since it spread crumbs all over the sheets. Drinking wine to enhance sex was notoriously illogical; as several thousand more realistic poets had pointed out, it enhanced the desire but put off the performance. As for the sheer cruelty of deliberately frustrating a starving le-matya, it hardly needed to be mentioned.
Of course, a lot of young Vulcans said Phooey and sneaked out into the moonlight anyway. A lot of older Vulcans, resisting the temptation to say anything as illogical as Phooey, went unobtrusively out into the moonlight and did what they had been doing on moonlit nights for the past hundred and fifty years.
But Surak's teachings spread. More and more older Vulcans were having the disconcerting experience of their offspring turning round and lecturing them on the illogic of moonlit nights, which the older Vulcans felt was distinctly unfair and an usurpation of the prerogative of the aged to lecture the young on correct behaviour.
But years passed, and gradually, as even teeny-weeny Vulcans started to make logical remarks and hold themselves aloof from illogical arguments, there came nights -- and nights after nights -- when for all the sweet bright moonlight, no lovers came. Or if they did, they did it at home in bed.
The moon waned. And waned. And waned.
And never came back. Logic is the death of moonlight.
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