The eye of the starship was dead. Once, it would have
reflected the image of Polaris V, turning slowly beneath them.
Now, yellow with age and road-mapped with tiny cracks, it stared
blindly at its visitors. They were the first in many years.

"In her day, Yan, the Enterprise was known as the finest
ship in her class." Dim lighting on the bridge of the ancient
vessel did little to conceal the gleam of admiration in the
curator's eyes. Her Orion companion was, however, less
impressed.

With a derisive sound, he said, "I find it hard to believe
this thing ever flew at all."

"She was one of the ships to first map this system over one-
hundred years ago. And that was in a day when there were no
interstellar transport beams. A time when there were still
planets -- entire sectors -- in this galaxy unexplored."

Nonplussed, Yan surveyed the litter of the ancient control
center. "Dr. Hart," he said evenly, "just keeping this thing in
orbit is going to take planet-sized bites out of our allotment.
My personal objection to hauling it out of drydock and beaming it
here may have been overruled, but now that it's here, would the
Institute not be better served by putting it on display in a
surface hangar like all the others? Why must--?"

She cut him off. "Because this ship hasn't touched surface
once in its entire life and it isn't going to now. They built
them in space back then. This one's going to stay there.
Besides, I've always wanted an orbiting exhibit, and this is
better than I'd dreamed. Yan, just wait till you've seen some of
her log tapes. I'm having them all restored from the old Star
Fleet Archives."

From one of many colored jewels on her wristband, a soft
chime sounded. Touching one of the gems, which glowed bright
amber, she responded, "Yes?"

A voice said, "Matheson here, Doctor. Your life support
system is now fully stabilized, and I've got that old transporter
unit partially operational if you'd like to take a look at it."

She sighed. "Gimme a rain check, Dick. I have a board
meeting in five minutes."

"Will do."

With a nod to Yan, who imitated her action with his own
band, she touched a second green jewel, and both their figures
faded soundlessly from the bridge.

Engineer Matheson, ensconced in the transporter room amid an
aurora of dicrystallide work lights, had been laboring for
several hours with a small cluster of assistants to unravel the
operating secrets of the obsolete transporter unit. By sheer
guesswork, they had so far succeeded in sending part of an old
chair to the surface. Unfortunately, they had not yet discovered
how to bring the thing back again.

Matheson barked at the nearest technician. "Davies, where
are those guys with the readouts on this thing?"

Davies shrugged. "They said they're having trouble locating
the tapes. The originals for this unit weren't under Joseph.
Weren't under Feinberg or Rugg either. Wanna take any other
guesses who the original blueprinter might've been?"

Another tech spoke from the console. "Sir, I don't see why
we don't just go with the Joseph blueprint off the history tape."

"No," Matheson muttered. "I want the original plans first.
Tell them to look under Jefferies." Nodding, Davies retreated.

A throbbing hum began to emanate from the alcove just as the
figure of Davies vanished from the room. When the whistle of
old-style materialization followed, Matheson joined his
technician at the console, supposing that they must at last have
retrieved their lost chair.

Seconds later, he was forced to change the supposition.
Whatever they had caught in the energy beam was definitely not a
piece of furniture. In fact, it was beginning to look distinctly
humanoid. When the image shimmered, trying feebly to solidify
and failing, a tinge of panic threatened the pit of Matheson's
stomach. He grabbed for the levers, mindless ol the sickening
squeal that resulted, and watched the glittering pillar pulsate,
struggling to become something -- or someone.

"What is it?" The tech beside him had to shout over the
noise.

Matheson fought the unfamiliar controls. "Hell if I know."
As he spoke, the figure rippled like an indecisive heat wave and
disappeared. "Whatever or whoever it is, we've still got him in
the beam."

"We must've intercepted an interplanetary transport."

"That's impossible," Matheson growled. "Our transport beams
don't operate anywhere near this frequency."

"No." The tech was studying a gauge on the readout panel.
"But the transversals do."
Matheson looked suddenly horror-stricken. "Then we've got
to pull it in." With renewed determination, he grasped the
control levers and pulled, gratified when the sparkling panorama
of energy particles reappeared and began to take on the form of a
man.
 

Somewhere on a grey, lethargic ocean, Kirk was floating.

You'll have to shake this drowsiness, he told himself.
Where are you anyway? Open your eyes. Some white, sterile-
looking room. Not aboard the_ Enterprise. Sunlight coming
through a window. Planetside. You remember, those boring
ground-breaking ceremonies for a new research institute and
museum complex? On Polaris V. You left early, signalled Scotty to
beam you up and... what? Can't remember. There were two faces
somewhere. Voices. Maybe you dreamed that. Man and a woman.
She was human, middle-aged, and he was an Orion. They were
talking about -- what did they call it? -- transversal beams?
Don't know what that is. Still don't know where you are, either,
or how in heck you got here...

"Captain?"

The voice jolted him awake, and his response was automatic.
"Yes, Spock, what is it?" He blinked, muzzily becoming aware that
he had not been dreaming. He was not aboard the Enterprise and
the figure before him, though unmistakably Vulcan, was not Spock.

"I am Surat," the visitor informed him. "Chief historian
for the Confederation Archives, Aerospace Division. I was
summoned here soon after you were identified through the WCG."
Kirk's blank look prompted him to add, "Our primary historical
resource computer."

Kirk rubbed a still-aching forehead, striving to sit up in
the bed. "Where's Spock?"

An unreadable something flickered in Surat's eyes for an
instant. "It is difficult to accurately describe what has
happened, Captain. You were accidentally intercepted by what we
refer to as a transversal beam."

There was that word again. "A what?"

"It is a tool we use, though still largely experimental, for
observing past cultures. A time portal of sorts, though that is
grossly inaccurate. It enables us simply to observe without
disturbing the past. At least, that is its normal function. One
of our scientists was observing the celebration founding this
Institute when he inadvertently intersected your transporter beam
on an extremely narrow overlapping frequency."

Kirk fought to digest this flood of confusing information.
Before he could, more was volunteered.

"There were further complications. The Enterprise is in
orbit above us. When you were intercepted, it was also in orbit
here, one-hundred-seventeen terrestrial years ago. Though the
events were over a century apart, they were also simultaneous."

"A hundred and -- " Kirk couldn't repeat the rest of it. He
was still lost in a mad jumble of contradictions. This was the
Polaris Institute, a century in the future. And what was that
about the Enterprise in orbit?' Surat was continuing. "I was
called here to investigate a process by which we hope to reverse
the accident. You must, however, understand that there are
certain... difficulties."

How well he knew. We can't send you back, he heard himself
saying to another man, long ago. You know what the future looks
like. If anyone else finds out they could change it, destroy it.
But he had seen nothing here done nothing.

Someone else had come into the room: the woman he remembered
from the 'dream.' "This,"Surat informed him, "is Dr. Hart,
Polaris' head curator."

Her lined face erupted into an artificial smile. "As I'm
sure Surat has explained," she said, "we're working on reversing
your accident. We called him all the way in from the Celetar
Colonies to work with us. He's the foremost authority on Star
Fleet history in the Confederation."

Kirk wondered what that was, but knew better than to ask.
"We will endeavor to make your stay here as comfortable as
possible," Surat was saying. "You must, however, understand that
we must take certain seemingly extreme precautions in order to
insure that the timeline is not adversely affected."

Kirk nodded. "I understand."

Dr. Hart gave him a matronly admonition to get some more
rest, and both of them left the room, leaving Kirk adrift in
doubt. They had not sounded altogether convinced that this mess
could actually be straightened out, and the explanations, of a
necessity, had left a great deal to be desired. Kirk slipped
from the bed and moved to the tall window, the only thing other
than the bed to adorn the nondescript little room. He could see
a jumble of connecting buildings beyond, all bathed in the red-
orange light of Polaris' early evening. The color, he knew, was
an atmospheric deception. From space, Polaris could be seen as a
pulsating yellow supergiant dwarfing its half dozen natural
satellites and making life there difficult with a four day
variable cycle. Nevertheless, he had always considered it one of
the most beautiful stars in the galaxy.

In a room not far from Kirk's, Paula Hart sat across a conference
table from both Surat and the Orion Yan, studying a series of
three-dimensional computer readouts that hung suspended in a blue
orb over the table.

"Your information is contradictory, gentlemen."

"One or the other contingency must of course be in error,"
Surat said. "A result of the disrupted time continuum. My
initial research and the other follow-up reports all indicate
that James T. Kirk died of cardiac arrest on the old Federation
Hensley's Planet, at the age of 97."

"And Yan's readout claims he vanished while in transport to
his ship, at age 37, and was never seen again. How and why
should the computers disagree?"

"They do not," Yan said gruffly. "If the Vulcan will re-
examine his compbanks, he will find that they, too, now agree
with my own. It seems this Kirk has already changed history.
Perhaps disastrously."

Surat's brow knit. "Yours was the more recent survey," he
admitted. "But you are saying that the computer altered its own
memory bank after the Captain was brought here. That is
impossible."

With a rude gesture at the blue orb, Yan grunted, "See for
yourself, Vulcan."

"I have already done so. But I am not convinced."

Yan was adamant. "The evidence is clear. So is our
responsibility. The computer states that he never returned.
Therefore, we must not return him!"

"An illogical conclusion," Surat countered. "Since, before,
it clearly stated that he did live out his lifetime. The change
in readout occurred too late. It must therefore be suspect."

Dr. Hart frowned. "Suspect? Why?"

With a careful look at Yan, Surat said, "It is possible the
record was tampered with."

Yan's expression said more clearly than words that he would
have enjoyed having Vulcan for breakfast. His intended retort
was curtailed by Dr. Hart. "You will both re-examine your
findings," she ordered, "and give me a full report no later than
noon tomorrow."

Surat had voiced her own suspicion in the matter, though she
could not imagine why Yan might wish to falsify information.
There was one way to be certain. She would call in a link to the
WCG, and check...
Hours later, Yan was summoned to the curator's quarters, and
informed that his information was faulty. The Orion glowered at
her.

"I do not know what you mean."

"Yes you do. And you know I expect better of a research
engineer at this Institute. I checked with three separate
starbase history comps, and with the WCG at Confederation
Central. They all agreed with Surat's earlier findings."

"Then they are in error," Yan insisted. "My readings are
accurate. The computer did alter its own record soon after this
Kirk's appearance. In time, the others will concur."

"Yan, that explanation is inconsistent with everything we
know about time displacement."

"His arrival here was by chance; there is no precedent by
which to judge! How are we to say it is inconsistent that the
computer should alter itself? To me, it makes sense."

She reflected briefly that Yan Nvas behaving very much like
a human child squirming to maintain a deception in front of a
reprimanding parent. "All right," she said. "There is one other
thing I'd like you to explain. The WCG tells me you spent the
better part of the evening reading tapes of the Canopian War. Is
there some reason why you preferred studying one of Orion's past
skirmishes when your orders were to re-evaluate the problem at
hand?"

Yan did not answer her, but the peculiar light behind his
black eyes had grown suddenly, and strangely, hostile.

The feeling of helplessness plaguing Kirk was not aided by his
discovery that the door of the room was locked. After several
hours of pacing, his anxiety was equalled only by his boredom.
The view,, from the window had been impressive at sunset, but
soon thereafter, a self-activated seal had opaqued it, cutting
off the Polaris night. What were they doing out there? Why
hadn't anyone returned to talk with him? Surely they had
questions...

Though he had tried knocking on the door to no avail, he
tried now again calling out this time. A voice from behind him
made him start. "What do you require?" it asked.

Spinning, he saw that a portion of the formerly blank wall
had come suddenly to life and was now flashing myriad colors at
him from somewhere inside its translucent panelling. "Please
state your requirements," it said flatly.

Shrugging, Kirk adopted an authoritative tone. "Open this
door," he commanded.

After a pregnant silence, the toneless voice responded,
"That is not within my programmed function."

"Then answer some questions. Tell me about the Polaris
Institute, who runs it, what it does..."

The wall hummed. "That is not within my programmed
function."

Sighing, Kirk sat down on the edge of the bed, realizing for
the first time that he was ravenously hungry. "Have you another
requirement?" the thing in the wall wanted to know.

"Yes," Kirk said absently, half serious. "A half-inch top
sirloin, medium rare." He was so hungry he could almost smell
steak broiling. He could smell it. Out of nowhere, a slender
tripodal table winked into being in front of him. It was decked
with full table service, and on the platelay a steaming half-inch
steak, medium rare. Though it was lost on the mysterious
mechanism, Kirk sent the wall an incredulous but thankful look.

Another hour had passed before Kirk, nearly asleep again,
heard the buzz of the door lock. Surat entered, wearing an aura
of urgency. Kirk opened his mouth to ask what was wrong.

"No questions, Captain." The Vulcan's tone was almost
severe. "You must come with me, quickly." Having no other
choice, Kirk complied, but they were scarcely through the door
when their path was blocked by someone Kirk had also seen
before -- a tall, bulky Orion. He was holding a peculiar,
transparent object in one hand in a fashion that indicated it had
to be a weapon.

"That will be far enough, Vulcan."

Stiffening, Surat confronted him. "I do not understand your
intention, Yan. But I know you have falsified the computer
readouts. Whatever you plan to do, I must warn you that you
cannot succeed."

Yan snorted. "You don't know what I'm doing, but you know I
cannot do it. Circular logic, Vulcan. Put this Terran back in
its cage and come with me."

Kirk understood little of this exchange, but was relieved
when Surat made no move to obey the demand. "I will not help you
commit a crime against history," he affirmed. The Orion bristled
and moved toward Surat with his weapon poised to strike. The
moment his broad back was turned, Kirk slammed the base of his
neck with both doubled fists. Yan crumpled into a muscular heap.

"Come." With that terse command, Surat hurried Kirk away
and into a maze of interconnecting corridors. Kirk was
brimming with questions that he dared not ask. They had left Yan
sprawled outside the door of Kirk's former room, had notified no
one, had not even taken his gun from him. And now where were
they heading? Paintings, sculptures, glass exhibit cases rushed
past him with fleeting glimpses of ancient airplanes, spacecraft,
model starships.

They came to a halt at last before an unmarked door, and
when no one answered the chime, Surat opened it with some kind of
passcard. They entered a room littered with scattered paper and
overturned furniture. Surat hesitated, clearly not expecting
what he saw.

"It would seem that Yan has already been here," he observed.

Kirk noticed something across the room, and, moving to
investigate, found his worst fears realized. In the shadow of
the upset briefing table lay the motionless figure of Dr. Paula
Hart.

"She's been strangled," he told Surat. "Recently."

The Vulcan stared down at him, disbelief apparent.

"There must be someone you can notify," Kirk pressed. "You
must have security."

Absently, Surat said, "I did not think him capable of
resorting to murder."

Kirk couldn't contain the questions any longer. "What is he
doing, Surat? If I'm going to help you stop him, you can at least
tell me that."

"It is enough to say that if Yan succeeds, you will not be
returned to your time, and all of history may be changed because
of that. We must find a way to stop it."

"Then why haven't you contacted someone in authority? Why
didn't you lock Yan away when you had the chance?"

"No." The answer puzzled Kirk little more than the
explanation. "He has access to the WCG. We could not have
confined him. As to notifying an authority, your presence here
has been classified information known to a very few of us from
the beginning. Even if we were able to inform other base
personnel of our situation, they would very likely only try to
prevent us from doing what must be done. Yan has falsified the
computer record, and they would be led to believe you must not be
returned." He began manipulating controls on a nearby wall panel.
"I, too, can gain access. But we have very little time."

"Why?" Kirk asked. "Will this 'portal' you spoke of close?"
"No, Captain," Surat said without turning. "Our medicomps
discovered a certain molecular inconsistency which, for every
moment you remain here, is readjusting your molecular structure,
adapting it, in simple terms, to the time zone you have entered.
It may alreadv have caused you some physical discomfort. We have
less than three point seven hours to find the point at which the
beams intersected -- the matrix -- and use it to send you back
again. After that time, your own metabolism will make it
impossible."

An echo ran through Kirk's head. Our molecular structure is
adjusted to the time we enter.

"And if I'm forced to stay here," he asked Surat, "then
what?"

The Vulcan looked straight at him for the first time. "The
matrix occurred by the narrowest of coincidences, Captain, and
you were brought here much too abruptly to properly adjust.
Thus, your system will be unable to accept the rapid molecular
shift. Unless we can reverse the process, the inevitable result
will be death."

Although he'd half expected it, Kirk found that no less
pleasant to hear. He fell silent while Surat played experienced
hands over the iridescent touch-controls of the console. "Yan is
talented," the Vulcan said. "But I am the superior
computerologist. If I can obtain an access unit, we may be able
to..."

Abruptly, the shining black console in front of him gave
birth to a small glossy rectangle. The thing was opalescent blue
and radiated with a deep, inner light. A moment later it was
followed by two metal bands, each inset with several colored
jewels. All of these Surat gathered up, handing one of the
unusual bracelets to Kirk. Following his lead, Kirk snapped the
thing around his wrist, then touched the green gem as Surat had
done.

The world went white.

In one instant, the walls of the curator's quarters had
been there, and in the next they had been replaced by... Kirk
shook his head to clear it, convinced he was hallucinating. The
angular cant of the walls he knew so well, the alcove with its six
familiar stations. All here.

"We're aboard the Enterprise!" His own voice sounded strange
to him, but he felt a profound sense of comfort in the words.

Surat effectively deflated the feeling. "Yan will not be far
behind us. For the moment, he is probably below establishing his
own link with the WCG. That we must also do in order to locate the
matrix. If he should complete his work before me, however... " He
did not finish the sentence., turning his attention instead to the
transporter console, where he had placed the bright blue rectangle.

Like something alive, it crawled on unseen legs to some preferred
spot on the panel. There, looking like an oversized slab of blue
butter on a metal pancake, it inexplicably fused itself to the
plating. Noting Kirk's perplexed stare, Surat said, "This unit
will tie into the starship's rebuilt computer core and will
assimilate all information relevant to the transporter mechanism.
When that data is correlated with the correct transversal pattern,
it will link with the WCG and, hopefully, provide us with the
correct formula and co-ordinates to utilize the matrix once again."

Kirk felt slightly ill. "This whole thing," he noted, "sounds
delightfully hypothetical."

Though he said nothing, Surat's raised eyebrow indicated that
he failed to understand Kirk's sarcasm. The mannerism also evoked
a painful surge of deja vu. Why, Kirk wondered, did he have the
uncanny impression that, beyond the natural similarities of their
Vulcan racial traits, this man was so very like Spock?

Shaking it off, he indicated the addition to the transporter
console, which pulsated now, humming to itself almost musically.
"How long before it gives us an answer?"

"At least an hour, by my roughest estimation. It was not
designed to operate with antiquated equipment. Our more immediate
problem will be finding some means to prevent anyone else from
boarding this vessel in the meantime."

Kirk had a thought. "Is the life support system operational
all over the ship?" Surat nodded. "Then I think I can help, if
I can get to the bridge. I'm assuming your version of a
transporter beam..." He pulled the gem-covered band from his wrist
and handed it to Surat as he spoke. "...still operates via matter-
to-energy conversion."

"It does."
"That's all I needed to know."

The transporter room door opened sluggishly, and Kirk was
several steps into the corridor when a wave of nausea brought him
up short. He had to lean against a bulkhead until it had passed.
He caught himself making a mental note to let McCoy run that annual
physical on him some time this week. The empty hall stared back at
him in silent testimony: McCoy would not be in the sickbay. The
engine room would have no Mr. Scott to alternately bless and curse
its intricate machinery. And Spock... His Vulcan first officer
would not be on the bridge. Nor would Uhura, Sulu, Chekov... It
was inconceivable that they could all be gone, impossible that the
ship could be so empty. And though he had seen it deserted before,
the Enterprise had never been as still, as neglected as this. No
one aboard. He wondered briefly how Polaris V's technicians kept
her in orbit with no one to man the helm. Dismissing the question,
he moved off down the corridor.

He had to use the gangways to make his way upward through the
decks, trying as he did so not to look at the litter-strewn rooms
and broken equipment within. Beyond reason, he had been hoping
that the bridge would not be like the rest, and he was unprepared
for the sight that met him.

The once proud command center, so pristinely efficient in his
memory, resembled the remains of a fortress after siege. Some of
the control stations, including one at the helm, had been
dismantled, the viewscreens were all lightless, and his command
chair was missing altogether. Over everything, dust lay like a
blanket of soiled snow.

Fighting back rage born of frustration, Kirk forced himself to
remember his purpose for being here. If the computer core was
working, then he should be able to prevent anyone from boarding.
After maneuvering a number of controls at Spock's science station,
which was thankfully still intact, he punched an intercom tab.

"Kirk to transporter room." The familiar words felt awkward
and unnecessary here, but life-long habit had dictated them. "Kirk
to transporter room," he repeated. "The deflector shields have
been activated and will effectively prevent anyone's coming
aboard." The intercom gave only static in reply. "If you read me,
I'm on my way back down. Kirk out."

He left hurriedly, unable to look at the shattered bridge any
longer than was absolutely necessary.

Resisting the temptation to stop by his cabin on the way back
was not very difficult. Kirk was not at all sure he wanted to see
the rooms as they had been left by some unknown successor. He had
only just succeeded in rationalizing away his anger, on behalf of
the Enterprise, for this monumental breach of her dignity. And
there was, after all, no one he could blame. Many starships had
met worse fates at the hands of beligerent aliens or some
previously unknown space phenomenon. The Enterprise was going to
live on, and even if that were only as an historical exhibit, it
was comforting to know.

"Stop right there, Kirk."

He froze just inside the door, startled by a voice he had not
expected to hear -- Yan's. Surat lay behind the transporter
console, apparently unconscious.

"A valiant effort on both your parts," Yan performed the Orion
equivalent of a smirk. "But I'm afraid I had to order our complink
to lower your deflector screens again. We wouldn't want anything
to interfere with our beam-out."

"We?"

"You're going to activate this fossilized apparatus for me,
Kirk. I would have preferred more experienced help, but as you
see, your Vulcan accomplice was a trifle stubborn."

Kirk shook his head. "Only Surat can operate the modified
unit. If you've killed him, you've destroyed any chance you had of
going through the matrix." And mine, he added to himself.

Yan looked with disdain at Surat's motionless figure. "The
Vulcan is alive. He'll simply be unable to move for a while. And
as I have already obtained the necessary information from my own
link, I have already adjusted this unit. All I require from you is
that you operate the energizing levers. Surely you know how to do
that."

"Yes," Kirk admitted, ignoring the implied insult. "But I
have no intention of helping you."

"I lose patience with you, Kirk." Yan gave the glass barrel of
his strange weapon a savage twist, for which Kirk needed no
explanation. The gesture had all the finality of setting a phaser
to "kill." What he had not anticipated was the weapon's being
pointed not at him, but at the prone form of Surat. "If you are so
concerned for this one's life," Yan growled at him, "then do as I
ask.

Kirk endured several tortured seconds of indecision, during
which he found no option acceptable. There was one remote
possibility... Feigning co-operation, he stepped to the console
and stood ready, noting that Yan's green face looked sufficiently
pleased. The gun point moved from Surat and came to rest once more
on Kirk.

"Do not think you will trick me, human." Kirk, thinking his
expression must somehow have betrayed his intention, felt color
rising in his cheeks. Yan moved around the console. "I shall
stand on the platform and you will move these three levers only.
Touch anything else, and I will kill both of you."

Hopes dashed, Kirk allowed the question foremost in his
thoughts to tumble out. "Why do you want to go back in my place?
What could you possibly hope to accomplish?"

He had not expected an answer, but the Orion gave him one.
"There is much of history I think I would set right. The Canopian
War is not far in your future. Even as you left your ship it was
in the making: Orions rallying to overthrow that primitive regime
you called a Federation. I've spent a lifetime studying every
detail of the struggle. Your ship sent early warning of the plot
to Star Fleet. That is the first item I shall correct. With other
changes, I will turn an unsuccessful war into one that will
ultimately grant my race its proper position in the galaxy. And I
think I shall be well rewarded for my services. All the wealth of
Orion's systems could not begin to pay for the knowledge I alone
will possess." Behind them, Kirk heard Surat begin to stir, but Yan
gave no hint of having noticed. "Enough talk," he was saying.
"You will be able to see it all on the history tapes in a very few
moments."

He backed onto the transporter dais, never allowing his eyes
or his weapon to leave Kirk, who was vainly hoping the faint sounds
of Surat's revival would materialize into some form of salvation.
Yan's voice commanded him from the platform. "Now."

When he had delayed as long as he dared, Kirk resigned himself
to giving in, and hating himself for it, thrust the transporter's
triple levers all the way forivard. Choler prevented him from
watching as the familiar whine of de-energizing matter sounded from
the chamber. Instead, he turned his attention to Surat, who was
trying to overcome the effects of Yan's paralysis beam. Kirk
pulled him to his feet, following his eyes to the now-empty
transporter alcove.

"He's gone, Surat. It's over."

He was not sure, at first, if the Vulcan had heard him. Surat
had begun pressing invisible controls on his "complink" device,
evoking a series of noisy responses, the last of which resulted in
a visual display sufficient to shake Kirk out of his fog of
depression. The blue box sent a cloud of white light drifting into
the air above the console. Within it hovered a miniature,
dimensional replica of the room in which they stood, with one
exception. Kirk blinked, unbelieving. There, in that circle of
light, were Scotty, McCoy and Spock, so real he might have reached
out to touch them had it not been for the discomforting fact that
they were each less than five centimeters tall.

Spock's voice floated down to him. "What seems to be the
problem, Mr. Scott?"

The squeal of a strained circuit cut across Scotty's curse.
"Damned if ah know, beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Spock. All mah
indicators just went berzerk!"
Something glittered weakly in the tiny chamber they were
watching. Over Scotty's muffled imprecations of the transporter,
Surat's voice said evenly, "Something is wrong."

Kirk's anxiety juggled with his curiosity. "Is this what you
called the transversal observation?"

Surat nodded once. "If Yan was successful in meeting the
point of intersection and going through, he should have arrived
there just now."

Hope sprang anew within Kirk. Hardly aware of himself, he
reached again for the activation levers, punching the reverse
sequence mode with his free hand. And he pulled yet another
control -- one he had wanted to use before. This time, there was
nothing to prevent him from placing the Orion in stasis. Slowly,
as he pulled the levers back toward him, Kirk was rewarded with a
re-energizing glitter. So intent was he on bringing their
adversary back, he scarcely noticed the transversal bubble vanish
from over Surat's head. With a silent prayer that the stasis field
would function, he stabilized, and watched Yan rematerialize in the
alcove.

Surat, who had moved to the platform, turned back to look at
him with the unspoken statement that something had gone very wrong
indeed. The figure now immobilized on the dais was Yan's. But
even his alien features did nothing to change a facial expression
Kirk had seen too many times before: the ghastly, panic-stricken
contortion of muscle that reflected unsheathed horror -- frozen
with ghoulish precision on the very point of a death scream. The
hand gripping the gun had turned the color of a frog's underside.

Surat's gentle voice admonished, "Please turn off your stasis
field, Captain."

Yan's firearm clattered to the deck, and like limp rope, he
folded after it. Surat bent to touch the man's throat, but even
from a distance, Kirk needed no confirmation that the Orion was
dead.

"What is it? What went wrong?"

Surat looked troubled. "The calculations were correct; the
co-ordinates accurate, down to the last detail. Nothing should
have prevented him from getting through."

"But something did."

"Yes. Something we must assume, for the moment, might also
prevent you. I must recheck all the equations and --"

Kirk cut him off. "We don't have time for that!" Anxiety and
his increasing physical discomfort had made the words come out
sharper than he'd meant them to be. But Surat, already busy back
at the controls, appeared not to have noticed.

"We have one hour, forty-four minutes and seventeen seconds
remaining. The WCG should be capable of correcting the error in a
fraction of that time."

Chagrined, Kirk stood back. He wanted desperately to walk out
of here, down a corridor teeming with crewmen; to catch a turbolift
to his quarters, take a long, hot shower, and sleep. Sleep until
this ache in his insides went away and he could wake up from this
distracted quirk of a nightmare once and for all.

Ninety of the longest minutes in his life dragged by, but the
look of concern never vanished from Surat's otherwise impassive
face. He had fed information through the computer link four times,
and four times, he had received identical answers. The same
answers Yan had received.

His body had been removed to a far corner of the room, where
neither Kirk nor Surat had taken any further notice of it until the
Vulcan at last left the console and approached it, bewilderment
knitting both brows in a way Kirk knew all too well. "I am at a
loss, Captain. By every factor the WCG is capable of tracing, this
man should not be dead."

The pain worse, Kirk fought to keep a level voice. "But he
is. And if your computer can't tell us why--" The thought
arrested, Kirk fell silent. Something tickled his memory, playing
with it but refusing to come all the way forward.

"Captain?"

Kirk's answer, long in coming, was succinct. "We've got to
try it anyway."

"I think that inadvisable. You could be inviting certain
death."

"I could. But it's less certain than I'll have staying here.
Let's just say I have a feeling."

"You would risk you life on a feeling?"

Sometimes a feeling, Mr. Spock, is all we humans have to go
on. He remembered a time, long ago, when a small animal had lain
dead on the transporter plate. His life had depended on a feeling
then, too. And though he'd couched it in terms of theory, the
feeling then had been Spock's: a feeling that said Kirk would be
able to survive in spite of physical evidence to the contrary. He
answered Surat's question. "Do I have a choice?"

"We have seven minutes twenty-four seconds until you become
incapable of crossing the matrix. I can attempt to recalibrate--"

"No. Thank you. You already did that. And I appreciate the
help you've given me." He wanted to ask why Surat had taken such an
interest in his problem, but refrained. He hoped it was no more
than he himself might have done, were things reversed. "We'll try
it my way."

"Captain, I must point out that if you are wrong, your death
could alter history as drastically as Yan might have done."

That had not occurred to Kirk. But it did remind him of
something else. "You spoke earlier of certain metabolic
adjustments the body would have to make in order to physically
traverse time."

"Yes."

"You also said the intersection of beams was a fluke -- a one-
in-amillion accident. Maybe Yan failed because he wasn't meant to
go through the matrix. What if everything had to be exactly the
same for the process to occur again, even in reverse?" He hoped the
argument was stronger than it sounded.

"Your hypothesis is credible, Captain. I might even say
admirable. Unfortunately, there is only one way to learn if it is
provable."

"A risk I'm more than willing to take. Particularly since I
can't say I'm fond of the alternative."

Part of an intangible wall, which Kirk had never consciously
realized had existed between them, seemed to crumble in that
instant. "I think, Captain," Surat said quietly, "that Commander
Spock was wise to respect you as he did. I have always wondered
how a Vulcan could purport to admire human logic. Now, I believe
I understand."

The insight took Kirk by surprise. "You talk almost as though
you'd known Spock."

"We met once, briefly, when I was very young. I have...
studied... him, by observing the transversal images, for some time.

And I have always wished that I had known him. You see, Spock was
the reason I have made Star Fleet history my area of study. The
interest was, in part, genealogical."

Kirk had been about to say that he had missed something when
Surat continued. "Senan," he said, "was the father of Suris, who
through many generations begat Solkar, father of Skone, whose son
was Sarek. Sarek was the father of Spock, and Spock was father
of..." He paused, deliberately omitting a name. "...she who was my
mother."

Kirk closed the mouth he had allowed to fall open. "Spock was
your gr--?" The concept was boggling enough to leave him
speechless.

"It is perhaps a breach of precaution on my part to have
spoken of this. But I surmised you were due some small
explanation."

Kirk smiled, recalling a phrase with which he had once
reassured Spock. "I haven't heard a word you've said. But...
thank you."

"Now, Captain, if you'll take a position on the platform."

Kirk did so, noting that the transversal image had begun to
reform in the air above Surat. Unlike before, it remained
indistinct, and he was trying to locate something -- anything --
familiar in it when the giddy sensation of dematerialization
overcame him and the transporter room faded out of existence. In
its place, a million shards of broken glass flashed past him in a
maelstrom of electron motion. The familiar freefall illusion of
the transporter was suddenly protracted into one breathless rush
down a bottomless well of light, and like a bad dream, Kirk found
he could neither cry out nor move in any direction. Then, as
quickly as they had come, the lights winked out, leaving him
hurtling through utter darkness, until...

"Captain?"

Were his feet touching something solid again? He thought held
heard a voice, and he could breathe again. Kirk opened his eyes.

"Jim, for god's sake say something. Are you all right?"

McCoy. Bones, with a whirring mediscanner in hand, standing
here, on his Enterprise. Kirk almost hugged him.

"Sorry fer the trouble, Cap'n." Scotty spoke from the console.
"Somethin' -- damned if ah know what -- tried to grab the beam away
from us."

"Are you quite all right, sir?" Spock stood beside Scotty,
precisely where Surat had been -- or would be, a century from now.

"I'm fine." Command came back into Kirk's voice. "Scotty, get
to the bridge. Tell Uhura I want a priority one call put through
to Star Fleet Command, on the double. The Orions are planning
something I think they'll be interested in knowing about." He came
off the platform, nearly tripping as Scott left the room. McCoy's
hand shot out to steady him. Kirk laughed. "Bones, later today I
think I'm going to let you make that annual check-up you've been
hounding me about for so long."
The ship's doctor released his arm, frowning. "I was about to
suggest it."

Kirk waved him out. Reluctantly, McCoy obliged.

"Captain?"

"Yes, Mr. Spock?"

"May I ask to what Orion activity you refer, and how you
chanced to learn of it here on Polaris V?"

Kirk did not answer him immediately, and his contemplative
gaze made Spock shift feet uncomfortably. "Sir?"

"What? Oh, yes Mr. Spock, of course you can ask.
Unfortunately, I don't think I can explain just now. I uh.. have
to go talk to Star Fleet." But the Captain's feet did not move to
leave the room, and Spock would have liked very much to escape that
bafflingly accusing stare. Moments later, Uhura's voice broke the
silence.

"Bridge to transporter room. Captain, Star Fleet Command is
standing by."

"Yes, thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be right there." Kirk moved
to the door, delighted when it opened onto a corridor bustling with
motion. He turned back for one last look at his first officer
before disappearing into the mainstream.

The door whispered shut, leaving behind one thoroughly
mystified Vulcan, avowing,not for the last time, that he would
never understand the peculiar behavior patterns of the human race.