“It’s been tried, believe me. With every semantic variation you could think of. Every play on words, every stretching of definitions. The Guardian’s reply to such requests is always the same.
“‘There is no access through the Gate to the requested time line’.” Aleek-om looked suddenly serious.
“Dr. Vassily, do you really think the builders of the Guardian forgot to tie their own time line into the device?”
“No one can say for sure, of course,” she replied, wholly professional now. “Personally, I tend to the belief that any race which could construct such an astounding phenomenon as the Guardian would not overlook something that affected them so deeply and so closely. I prefer to think that for their own unknown reasons they denied access to their own past—to themselves and to those who might come after them.
“We may never know the truth, and I want to!” She grinned awkwardly, a little embarrassed at the sudden outburst of emotion.
On the way to the motor-pool hangar, this was commented on. Grey found it unseemly. Aleek-om attributed it to too little fresh contact with others. Erickson thought it only human.
Spock, as usual, pinpointed it.
It was called dedication.
The ground car carried them easily and rapidly over the dry terrain. It was fifteen kilometers from the reception station to the site itself.
There was no Gate, no artificial harrier in evidence around the Guardian. It had value beyond measure, value that transcended mere monetary considerations. Anyone who wished to try and destroy it—if, indeed, it could be destroyed—might seemingly have free and clear access to it. It had been demonstrated time and time again that madmen would attempt most anything.
Nor was there any visible bar to potential misusers of the device. It seemed that anyone who could manage the time and expense necessary to reach the Time Planet and who shuttled instead of beaming down to its surface could make whatever use of the Gate he wished.
Of course, there was the small matter of slipping past the four superbly equipped orbital fortresses that covered every square meter of the planet in a ring of destructive power. Power reserved elsewhere only for protecting prime military centers.
It meant avoiding the gigantic phaser and missile batteries buried deep in the innocent-looking sands that drifted in low dunes around the Guardian itself.
But anyone who could get past that—well, access to the Time Gate was quite free to all such.
Such elaborate precautions were more than justified.
It would not do to allow the frivolous or unstable access to the malleable past. So the missiles that remained locked in their racks and the phasers that sat on their stores of ravening energy and did not disturb the desert bushes around them were occasionally publicized. Thus far no one had yet tempted them.
A well-mounted military expedition might possibly have succeeded in seizing the Guardian by force, if it managed to avoid total destruction in the battle that would ensue with the planetary defenses.
But that would mean war. Access of a belligerent to an enemy’s past, well, it was unthinkable. So three empires and two interstellar federations cooperated in policing the Time Planet. They were reassured by the certain knowledge that anyone of them who dared try to make use of the Guardian for its own purposes would invite the immediate wrath of the other four.
It might not have been the most civilized of arrangements, but it worked.
Not that the setting of the Guardian was unimpressive, oh no. Hydrogen missiles might be larger, planet-to-space phasers more intricate, but none could match the nearby city of Oyya for sheer splendor. It stretched on and on, magnificent ruins dominating the horizon as far as one could see to east and south.
And of course, there was the Guardian of Forever itself.
Physically, it was impressive without being massive. Certainly in size it was nothing to match such awe-inspiring artifacts of ancient civilizations as the Temple of Halos on Canabbra IV, or the Aljaddean Wall on Qahtan.
In color it was the shade of rusty iron, spotted here and there with overtones of grey. In shape it resembled a lopsided doughnut. The central hollow of that doughnut was the actual Time Gate. It was always filled with luminous, shifting images of a thousand pasts, all racing by at speeds far too rapid for even scanning tubes to pick out and disseminate.
They left the ground car near a clump of some hearty green-brown desert bushes and walked up until they stood a couple of meters in front of the cut stone base. Kirk and Spock, having been here before, chose instead to spend a moment observing their fellow observers.
Grey just stood there quietly, her eyes shining. Aleek-om’s wings fluttered gently and thin claws drew small preparatory beeps from his special tricorder. As for Erick-son, he shoved both fists into chubby hips, blew out his cheeks, and beamed.
“Well, isn’t this fine—just fine!” he said reverently. He turned to his companions. “Let’s get a-move on.”
Grey seemed to float back to reality from some distant place. “Yes, by all means. You know the rules.” Aleek-om nodded, a thoroughly humanoid gesture.
“Only one of us is permitted to undertake the actual entry and journey with Captain Kirk and Commander Spock acting as supplementary observers and escort. The rest of us will remain here in the present time to record and interpret the subsequent flow of regularized time-sequences.”
Then the three historians did a curious thing. They bent over and spent several moments searching the ground. When they stood, each placed his or her open palm face up towards a common center. Two pebbles of varying size lay in each palm.
“All right, get ready” Grey instructed. Hands were placed behind backs, Grey doing likewise.
“I beg your pardon, Captain,” murmured Spock curiously, “but what, exactly, is happening?”
“We’re going to decide which one of us goes and which two stay behind, Commander,” Grey told him.
Spock considered this. “I see—no, I do not see. You will pardon me, Historian Grey. I am not familiar with the intimate interworkings of professionals in your field—so perhaps I should not venture to comment upon them—but this does not strike me as an especially scientific way of determining the composition of this expedition.”
Aleek-om shook his feathered head again, set brilliant gold plumes dancing. “If I live for a thousand mating flights, I’ll never understand you Vulcans.”
“Ready?” queried Grey.
“Ready,” the two males echoed.
“Now!”
Each thrust a closed fist into the center of their little circle while Grey counted, “One… two… three!”
Three hands opened. A single pebble rested in Grey’s open palm, another in Aleek-om’s.
“Ah, that’s fine, colleagues,” announced Erickson, “truly fine!” He tossed both his revealed pebbles over his shoulder. They dropped their own, downcast. It didn’t last but a moment.
“Well, good luck, old boy,” said Aleek-om, and Grey concurred. “Yes, good luck, Theodore.”
They proceeded to a solemn shaking of hands. Aleek-om curled his hand in a peculiar way so as not to scratch a sensitive human palm. Then the two unlucky historians began to prepare their tricorders.
“Captain,” intoned a thoroughly puzzled Spock, “I confess I am still confused by this method of selection for such an important mission. I don’t believe I have witnessed anything quite so arbitrary since…”
“I’ll explain it all to you later, Mr. Spock,” Kirk grinned, “in the future. Right now, Mr. Erickson seems impatient to be on his way.”
“Yes, yes,” insisted the little historian, waving his warms like a semaphoring turtle, “let’s get going.”
The other historians turned their tricorder’s visual pickups on and aimed them at the flowing Time Gate. Erickson mounted the stone platform and took up a position just in front of it. Kirk flanked him on the right side, Spock on the other. Then his voice boomed out—a squeaky parody of an old-line politician’s.
“Guardian of Forever!”
For a long moment nothing happened. Then, from somewhere out of the air in front of them, a ponderous, rolling voice replied. It was heavy with age and weighty with infinite patience. Was this an accumulated effect, from answering thousands of inquiries? Or was it the Guardian’s original voice? Kirk wondered. It always responded with perfect fluency to any question, no matter what language it was framed in.
Regardless, the effect produced by those thunderous yet gentle tones was sobering.
The last vestiges of humor disappeared from the little assembly. Everyone was all business now.
“to whence do you wish to travel, and from whence come ye,” rumbled that mighty voice.
“We come from elsewhere,” answered Erickson formally, his words ridiculously inadequate in counterpoint to that stentorian thunder. “And we wish the else-when of the Empire of Orion.”
The Empire of Orion! Kirk started. He’d never bothered to inquire which time line the historians intended to explore. They hadn’t struck him as a particularly adventurous bunch. Erickson’s request came as a double surprise.
He’d figured this group of academicians for something much duller and more mundane than this. Say, the Butterfly Wars of Lepidopt, or the ceramic- and porcelain-making era of Sang Ho Hihn.
But, the Empire of Orion!
He found himself getting just a little bit excited. This was going to be rather more fun than he’d anticipated.
There was a clouding effect obscuring the Gate. A creamy blue-green blur filmed over the hazy surface of the circular center. As it did so, the dizzying array of time scenes began to slow. It was like watching a projector gradually wind down from a high speed—the visual equivalent of a slowing tape.
Eventually only a single alien scene remained. It did not shift, did not ripple, but held steady and clear. The blur started to fade. As it did so it was replaced in the scene by natural colors.
When they passed through the Time Gate, their first task would be to obtain a change of clothing. In the barbaric Empire of Orion, two starship uniforms and the casual dress of Historian Erickson would render them something less than inconspicuous. No one knew what passed for casual dress in that time period. Kirk knew this was so because if they did know, the historians would have had their necessary costumes prepared in advance.
Fortunately, the medium of exchange was only gold, and Erickson was amply supplied. They’d have no trouble making any needed purchases. Erickson was probably pleased. It gave him an excuse to bring back three sets of the genuine article—for study, of course. It was forbidden to profit materially from a journey through the Gate. Otherwise, the most dedicated researcher might be tempted to travel back in time to, say Earth’s past and return with some little valuable knickknack like Praxiteles lost gold statue of Pallas Athena.
They could touch things, move about, and purchase, but nothing of real value could be brought back except for study purposes.
Once through, they would spend some thirty minutes objective time. That might be several days in the subjective time of the Orionic Empire. Then, wherever they happened to be in space in that ancient civilization, the Guardian would reach out and pull them back to the present, ejecting them once more on silent desert sands.
Thirty minutes! Even the great, still unexplained energies that powered the Guardian could not hold open a time vortex any longer than that. And the amount of power necessary to hold a time dilation for even five minutes objective time was nothing short of astronomical. It was generally agreed on that the Guardian somehow drew directly on the local sun for power—but exactly how this was accomplished was still a source of mystery and controversy.
“Captain Kirk, Commander Spock,” piped Erickson, “if you’re ready, gentlemen?”
“Whenever you are, Mr. Erickson,” acknowledged Kirk. Erickson turned to glance back behind himself.
“Ready, colleagues?”
“Ready, short stuff,” grinned Grey.
“Go get ’em, Ted,” cheered Aleek-om.
“Then, gentlemen,” he said importantly to Kirk and Spock, “if you will, on three—one, two, three…” They stepped forward.
Two seekers of knowledge… one human, the other faintly so, stood alone on the sandy plain where a moment before they had been five. Two seekers of knowledge—and one interested onlooker. McCoy had chosen to remain quietly in the background.
The early Empire civilization turned out to be a maelstrom of colors and sights and fascinating detail through which Kirk, Spock, and the little historian moved like wraiths in a dream. The sounds matched the barbaric imagery—the unexpected and incredible exceeded the wildest expectations. They spent two and a half days, Orion time.
When their thirty real minutes were up, seemingly seconds later, Kirk was as sorry to leave as Erickson.
One moment they were changing clothes in the backroom of a disreputable inn in a gaudy bazaar, while meters away an equally disreputable personage was auctioning off modest examples of local feminine pulchritude. The next, they were standing once again on the stone platform facing the Guardian.
Grey and Aleek-om made no move to approach them as the three travelers swayed uneasily. There was always a moment or two of nausea that followed any passage through a time vortex. Then their systems had readjusted to the sudden change in climate and gravity and other variables, and they stood easily once again.
Both historians appeared excited and pleased by the stream of slowed time pictures from different time-sequences that they’d been able to examine and record. Apparently that had been exciting enough. No one seemed the least upset now at being left behind.
Erickson, for his part, was flushed with a glow that on a more imposing individual might have been interpreted as maniacal.
Kirk noticed McCoy staring at Spock. There was an expression of mild concern and some puzzlement on the doctor’s face. Studious physician to the end, the Captain reflected.
Come to think of it, Aleek-om and Grey also seemed to be staring at the science officer. But in the first flush of excitement at their successful journey and return, Kirk didn’t notice the intensity of their stares. For that matter, neither did Spock or Erickson.
“Relax, Bones, we’re all fine. Usual upset stomach, and that’s all but gone. Orion at the dawn of civilization, Bones! Just watching, not interacting significantly for fear of changing some tiny bit of history…” He paused. The others were paying absolutely no attention to him. Instead, they continued to stare at Spock.
For the first time, Kirk took notice of their odd fascination with his assistant.
“What’s the matter?” He still smiled. “Bones, what’s wrong?”
Dr. McCoy did a rather startling thing, then. He jerked his head in Spock’s direction, then pointed at him. His voice was open, curious.
“Who’s he, Jim?”
This outrageous comment took some time to register. Kirk looked over at Spock reflexively. It was the same old Spock, all right, down to his unwavering expression and peaked aural receptors.
For his part, Spock’s eyebrows made an upward leap of Olympian proportions. In fact, the science officer looked as close to total befuddlement as Kirk could ever recall having seen him. The captain turned back to McCoy, mildly imitated. The excitement of their return had been stolen from him.
“What do you mean, ‘Who’s he?’ You know Mr. Spock.”
McCoy’s nonchalant attitude and indifferent manner were much more shocking than his casual reply.
“’Fraid I don’t, Jim.”
Spock’s expression changed only slightly at that. Just the veriest hint, the merest touch of annoyance seeped through his otherwise stony visage.
Kirk, however, was much more expressive in his display of facial contortions. He started to speak further to McCoy, became aware of his imminent loss of self-control, and thought better of speaking just now. There was no point in getting upset, yet.
It was a practical joke. Yes, o
f course! Bones probably authored the whole thing himself. It would fall apart any minute, as soon as someone made a slip and said something relating to Spock. For now he would go along with the gag. He pulled out his communicator, flipped open the grid, and glanced over at Grey and Aleek-om.
“You’ve both concluded your observations, then?” Jan Grey sighed reluctantly. That was the most blatant show of emotion she had yet displayed. Maybe she had Vulcan blood.
“Sadly, yes, Captain. It was all too short, too brief. But yes, our work here is finished.”
They all climbed back into the shuttle car. Kirk, Spock, and McCoy rode in silence while the three historians chattered in the back.
“We should stop before we depart and thank Dr. Vassily for her help and consideration,” noted Aleek-om when they’d returned the car to its stall in the main hangar.
Erickson agreed. “Yes, by all means.” He nodded vigorously. Kirk interposed a negative as he toyed with his open communicator. He’d put off calling the ship. Erick-son’s call to remain here longer woke him from idle daydreams.
“Why not, Captain?” The stout researcher was pouting. Then he smiled slyly. “That brandied tea wasn’t half bad, even if it was reconstituted.”
“It’s not the quality of the refreshments, Erickson. There’s something else.” Kirk looked around at the now curious faces.
At first they’d all stared with unconcealed fascination at Spock. Now they were studiously ignoring him. If this was a practical joke, then someone was carrying it off in style. Too much style. Kirk was starting to feel that any overtones of humor to the situation were becoming shaded in tones of black.
He activated the communicator. Anyone could beam freely up from the surface of the Time Planet. Getting down was the problem.
“Kirk to Enterprise.”
“Enterprise,” came a familiar voice with sharp vowel sounds. So Scotty was working with Chief Kyle on the transporter now. So much the better.
“Six to beam up, Scotty.”
“Aye, sir.”
Aleek-om had been thinking. Now he spoke delicately to Kirk.
[Star Trek Logs 01] - Log One Page 9