STAR TREK - TOS - The Galactic Whirlpool

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THE

GALACTIC WHIRLPOOL

A Star Trek Novel

By David Gerrold

A Bantam Book / October 1980

ISBN 0-553-14242-9

For Jon and Molly

and Matthew and Cindy

Introduction

My first exposure to David Gerrold's writing drew this comment in a memo to Gene L. Coon in regard to

the submitted story outline for what would become "The Trouble With Tribbles" "I think this is a

whimsical idea, and certainly better than a couple assignments we already have in work. Suggest we buy

the story and get an experienced writer to do the script. .. ."

As I looked up the notes on this opening paragraph, I realized I have known David thirteen years. Not

only that, but he is still a close and dear friend. I must like this man. And I do-but it took a while. When

we first met, he was a young man just out of college and inclined to be brash, especially about his writing;

and I had already established myself as a writer and story editor in the television industry. I had fought my

way up through the ranks, which then, as now, were not especially welcoming to young writers; and I

firmly expected him to do the same.

He did-but that took a while too. I watched from a slight distance as David learned his lessons the hard

way-the way all writers must-by writing. First a few scripts, then short stories and his first novel, editing

an anthology of science fiction, collaborating with Larry Niven on another novel. We actually became

good friends in that interim between the end of the STAR TREK series in early 1969 and the beginning

of the animated series in 1973-when we found ourselves together on panels and giving talks at TREK

conventions all over the country. David has since worked for me (on STAR TREK ANIMATED,

FANTASTIC JOURNEY, and LOGAN'S RUN); I have worked for him (on LAND OF THE LOST

and an early version of BUCK ROGERS); we both know each other's excuses for why the story is late.

(It always is.) David has earned his credentials as a writer, as four Nebula and three Hugo nominations

attest-as the winning of the E.E. Smith Memorial Award for Imaginative Fiction also attest. You hold hi

your hands his eighteenth book, STAR TREK literature which is a very long way from "a whimsical idea"

that just might be worth risking some story money on.

It is said writers are revealed in their work, and it is true all writers put pieces of themselves and their

experience (sometimes their fears and their dreams) on their pages. If you've seen David at conventions-

emceeing a costume competition or competing in one, smoothly chairing a panel, dramatically reading

sections of his work, delivering a talk on the state of science fiction or of "the art" in general-you may

have developed an idea of who he is and how he is. But you wouldn't really know him.

If you've read other Gerrold books, you may feel you know a great deal about him, but you won't. (After

all, David does appear in most of his own books, even if only as a young, skinny ensign assigned to some

routine spaceship duty.)

David is many complex pieces, sometimes never seen by the reading or convention-going public. Here

are some of them

There is the David who served conscientiously at a convention, which included his sitting for three hours

while difficult and uncomfortable PLANET OF THE APES makeup was applied so he could appear for

his master of ceremony chores as "Cornelius." After a long and tiring day, he wended his way up to the

bar -still in APES makeup and costume-and asked for a banana daiquiri. The bartender looked him over

and replied, "We don't serve gorillas in here." Whereupon David straightened up with great dignity and

snapped, "Racist. I'm a chimpanzee!"

There is the David whose immediate response, upon hearing that a friend or a project is in some kind of

difficulty, is, "Sure. What can I do to help?"

There is the David who was deeply affected when Dog, the companion of his early, struggling writing

days died. Later he haunted the pound until a shaggy white female pup appeared, and he paid one

hundred thirty-two dollars for her, fiercely outbidding everyone else, because the pup was the image of

Dog. David always said he was strictly a canine person, but on his way out of the pound with the new

member of the household, David saw a thin, big-eyed tortoiseshell cat and her single orange kitten sitting

forlornly in a cage. "Them too," he told the manager-and the Gerrold manage acquired its first two feline

residents.

There is the David who encouraged, taught, gave constructive criticism and challenges to a number of

young writers, among them Kathleen Sky and Diane Duane. And he negotiated their first contracts for

them as well.

There is the David who asked me to come with him and take a mutual writer friend out to dinner one

night-because that particular gentleman was one who always picked up the check for everyone else, and

no one had once thought to pick up one for him. Except David.

As I said, there are many aspects to David. In this latest adventure of the USS Enterprise and her crew,

you will encounter the sensitivity, the sparkling sense of humor, the intelligence, and the surprises of this

incisive storyteller. Sit back and enjoy your journey with him.

D. C. Fontana

Space. The final frontier.

A void as empty as death.

A billion times a billion stars gleam like motes of sorrow, whirling to the stately gavotte of time-like distant

particles of dust caught and illuminated by a silver moonbeam, they are tiny beacons, each one a home

for hope, no longer quite as distant or unreachable. No longer quite so infinite.

But still-so very far away...

The mind cannot comprehend the vastness. The emptiness. The silence ...

Here, even the dust of space is measured in the number of atoms per cubic kilometer.

And in this emptiness, something moves ...

A tiny metal speck. Almost insignificant.

So alone.

So far from home ...

So far away from anything-

-From a closer perspective, the speck is a mighty vessel. A ship of metal and dreams, surrounded by

stars too far and emptiness too deep.

And inside-four hundred and thirty souls share a dream to boldly go where none have gone before. To

seek out new life. New worlds.

So much of the universe is unknown. So much of it is beyond the knowing....

And yet humanity goes, humanity searches.

The United Starship Enterprise.

NCC 1701.

She is the pride of Starfleet, the pride of humanity.

But most of all, she is the pride of her captain, one James Tiberius Kirk, a man of singular determination

and ability. If he is not the finest commander in the fleet, then he is certainly way ahead of whoever is in

second place.

Years before at the Academy this particular ensign, James T. Kirk, had so excelled in one particular

debate on the virtues of a republic that he was christened by his classmates, "The Last of the Claudians,"

a reference to the family that had produced the first six emperors of ancient Rome-Caesar (aka Julius),

Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius and Nero.

The nickname lasted about three minutes before a senior officer, an Englishman named Graves whose

responsibility was the historical instruction of cadets, remarked, "The Last of the Claudians? Not bloody

likely. A Claudian yes, but more probably one of the earlier ones-say Tiberius, perhaps."

The instructor had been needling James about the one fault he had that might possibly interfere someday

with his judgment as a captain his impatience. Sometimes it was such an overwhelming drive in the young

student that it completely swamped whatever feelings of compassion he might otherwise have expressed.

Kirk used it as a reminder. When he found himself growing angry or frustrated, he would repeat it to

himself as a mantra, a calming exercise of mind, "James Tiberius Kirk ... James Tiberius Kirk." It was the

Tiberius that did it It made him stop. And think. It was an unpleasant association and the memory of why

it had been applied to him was doubly unpleasant. The name had once belonged to a man of no

compassion, a man who had betrayed the responsibility to govern wisely over the lives that had been

entrusted to his rule. Whatever other mistakes James T. Kirk might make in his life and in his command,

he would not make that same mistake-he would not give anyone reason to compare him to his namesake.

Instead, he would act in as rational and intelligent and humane a manner as he could, and that

meant-required-that he always act in the most positive of ways. It produced in him a sense of deliberate

compassion.

By the time James Kirk had assumed command of the Enterprise, the process had become a conditioned

reflex in his mind. He would think, "James Tiberius Kirk ..." and the name-his name-would remind him of

his hard-won standard of justice and morality, the one set of standards he held higher than any other

code of behavior, even higher than the Starfleet Code of Ethics. The actions of one James Tiberius Kirk

would be-must be-as admirable and unimpeachable as were humanly possible for him to maintain,

regardless of external and arbitrary demands and conditions.

Often, he found himself standing by the side of his command seat, absent-mindedly drumming his fingers

sharply once or twice on the arm or back of it. By instinct, he was a man of action, a problem-solver, a

doer of deeds. He had an aptitude for making decisions, and that was what made him so valuable to

Starfleet. There were better navigators in the fleet, Ensign Chekov, for one; and better, more logical

brains as well-Mr. Spock, for another. But there was no one in Starfleet who was more apt to make the

right decision in a moment of crisis.

It was his compassion; because it was so much an act of control, so much a conscious part of his

decision-making process, there was no way he could ever lose it in an acid-bath of anger. There was

always that extra moment of deliberation. When he drummed his fingers twice, impatiently, on the arm of

his ch air, it was not impatience at his decision, but impatience at himself for having to be consciously and

deliberately humane instead of instinctively. He wished that it were a feeling of the heart instead of just a

purpose of his mind.

But in the long run, it made little difference where the compassion came from-as long as it was there in

the actions. And in James Kirk's case, Starfleet's judgment was correct. If he'd left his decisions to mere

human instinct, he would have had more tendency to lash out at the things that made him angry and

frustrated.

Like now, for instance.

A Klingon battle cruiser had been reported in this sector on three separate occasions, slipping in and out

of the deep-space sensory nets like some elusive ghost.

No one was sure if it was really here or not, and Starfleet's most elaborate computers could give only

probability estimates no better than hunches.

There was no particular threat... yet. But there were mining colonies on Mordred and Guinevere, two of

the moons of the gas giant Arthur, (and a scientific station on the third moon, Lancelot, which followed in

the Trojan position*), that were under Federation protection and the Enterprise had been dispatched

abruptly to this otherwise unimportant quadrant to investigate the reports. This was a mission of true

cold-war diplomacy, a show of colors to demonstrate that the Federation stood ready and willing to

defend its rightful sphere of influence and maintain the rights of its citizens.*If the Earth and the moon are

thought of as the two points of an equilateral triangle, then the third point is the Trojan position. There are

two Trojan positions, one traveling ahead of the Moon in its orbit, and one trailing. An object placed In

the Trojan position will continue orbiting in a triangle with the host bodies. The Trojan position is a good

place to station a space habitat.

The Klingons were probably only "sharking"-testing the defenses, so to speak-but even those elusive

feints had to be responded to. If the strategic policymakers of the Klingon Empire sensed weakness in

the Federation, they would move to exploit it.

Kirk had been carefully instructed on this mission "Seek out unknown vessel or vessels in the quadrant

and investigate. If said vessels are of a neutral or allied sphere of influence, offer them whatever

assistance they may need, and do so with the full support of Starfleet and the Federation. If said vessel or

vessels are of unknown nature, you are to use established procedures to initiate peaceful and friendly

relationships. If, however, said vessel or vessels are of a hostile nature, your duty is to meet and

withstand whatever threat may be posed to the safety of the Federation and its citizenry. You are

empowered to take whatever steps you and your advising officers regard as necessary in such case, up

to and including the capture and/or destruction of said hostile vessels."

At the bottom of those orders, Admiral La Forge had added, "May you act with the spirit of humanity."

Kirk had smiled when he saw that. The admiral was an old friend of his; the La Forge family had been

breeding fine officers for Starfleet since Admiral George La Forge had commissioned the light cruiser

U.S.S. Detroit, two hundred and seventy Earth-years previously. The current Admiral La Forge had

been the one to recommend James T. Kirk to his appointment at the Academy so many years before. It

was a trust that Kirk intended to honor through his service to the fleet.

He was willing to do whatever his oath to Starfleet demanded of him.

It was the not doing that was driving him crazy.

They had been searching the quadrant for twelve days now in an ever-widening spiral with its center at

the last known high-probability nexus, but if there were a Klingon warship-or even any other kind of

vessel-in the quadrant, they hadn't found it yet. Not even the remote-sensing, deep-space buoys reported

any contacts. Or even probabilities.

It was maddening.

And in his impatience, Kirk even questioned Starfleet's wisdom in ordering the mission. If they

dispatched a cruiser-class starship every time the Klingons feinted at the borders, they would be pulling

men and materiel away from areas where they were badly needed. The Klingons could weaken both the

defenses and economy of Starfleet just by a constant process of distraction.

But Starfleet knew best. Most of the time.

Kirk sighed aloud, a gentle exhaling of his breath.

"Sir-?" It was Lieutenant Uhura. "I beg your pardon?"

"Lieutenant?"

"I thought you said something."

"No-no, Lieutenant. I was just thinking, that's all." He turned his attention back to the big forward

viewscreen. On it was displayed a computer-generated schematic of their search-vectors superimposed

over a variety of probability wedges, colored according to their priorities. It could have been a routine

training exercise in the simulator at the Academy, and with results every bit as insubstantial.

Kirk realized he was dramming on the chair arm again and forced himself to stop. He stepped across the

bridge to the science station. Mr. Spock looked up from his hooded viewer with impassive eyes at the

sound of Kirk's approach.

"Spock ... ?" Kirk's look was hopeful. "Anything?"

"Negative, Captain-"

Kirk nodded in annoyance. "Somewhere there's a Klingon battle cruiser with a very self-satisfied captain.

This feels like another one of Koloth's little maneuvers. He's probably laughing himself silly over the

left-handed-quark hunt he's sent us on."

Spock replied with his usual careful indifference. "It is a well-known fact, Captain, that Klingons are

easily amused."

Kirk had started to turn away-he turned back. "Mr. Spock, that sounded suspiciously like a joke."

Spock deliberately raised one eyebrow and coldly returned the Captain's stare.

"Sorry, Spock. I forgot myself." It was a gentle game that Kirk played with his half-Vulcan Science

Officer. Chiding Spock was his way of trying to reach the human part of his soul. Kirk had never had

reason to consider whether or not Spock appreciated the transactions. He took Spock's annoyance at

face value. If he'd thought about the relationship at all, then it was the implied denial of Spock's human

half that Kirk found-not grating-but somehow illogical. If such a word could be applied to Spock.

Spock lowered his voice thoughtfully. "Captain, while you're here, there is one... anomaly that one of the

deep-space buoys recorded-but the readings are not clear. The anomaly was on the very fringes of the

sensory net some time ago-and it was a sublight reading. All we have are probability factors on it"

"Could it be our Klingon friends?"

"It's unlikely. Not with these readings. A Klingon vessel at that distance wouldn't have registered. This is

something either very large or with a very high sublight velocity. Or both. Whatever it is, the fluction of its

singularity-envelope registers as the expression of a very large realized-mass with a specific vector

quality."

Kirk eyed his First Officer with tempered amusement-Vulcans did love their jargon, didn't they? Never

mind, he had the more immediate problem to consider. "But, it's not a Klingon ... ?"

"No, not a Klingon," Spock confirmed.

"I don't suppose you have any... ah, thoughts on what the object might be, do you, Mr. Spock?"

"The anomaly could be an artifact--"

"But-?"

"But it would be illogical to speculate without more information."

"Right." That was one answer Kirk already knew. Usually if Spock had any thoughts on a matter he

included them with his report of the data; it was part of the personal efficiency which his Vulcan heritage

demanded-but there was an equally compulsive quirk in Kirk's psyche that also demanded personal

verification; he had to ask anyway. Kirk had always had the vague inner feeling that Vulcans were

perhaps a little too deliberate in their logic, and that part of that deliberation somehow mitigated against

the volunteering of information, even though his long experience with Mr. Spock had shown that such

was not the case. At least, not with Mr. Spock.

Kirk began thinking aloud. "We could go check it out, couldn't we?" He placed his hands casually behind

his back and rocked gently on his heels.

Just as casually, Mr. Spock took up a matching pose next to Kirk-but without the heel rocking. "It would

not be illogical to investigate."

"And we have been searching this quadrant for twelve days without any evidence of a Klingon warship ...

and we ought not to go home completely empty-handed."

Spock nodded in agreement. "Starfleet would want the anomaly investigated in any case-we might as

well save them the effort while we're out here...."

"We haven't found anything else in this quadrant- and we have searched a very large area. ..." And we

are getting bored and frustrated; it would be a diversion. It would be good for morale. But he didn't say

this last part aloud.

At the helm, both Chekov and Sulu were looking up, bemusement gradually giving way to interest.

Lieutenant Uhura also glanced up from her communications console.

"-but on the other hand," Kirk continued, now arguing the other side of the question, "-it is definitely not

our Klingon phantom, is it?"

"It is extremely unlikely," suggested Spock.

"So-it could be considered a-," Kirk chose his words with care, "-a dereliction of our mission to break

off the search and go see what this-this anomaly is, don't you think?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Even so-," James T. Kirk continued, pursuing the thought like a Socratic scholar worrying at a bone of

contention. "Even so-what if this-this anomaly is something..." he brought his hands up before him,

gesturing as if to enclose the thought, "... something beyond the experience of the sensory buoys... ?

Some new Klingon tactic perhaps?"

Spock gave a sidewise nod of consideration. "That thought had occurred to me. It would not be the first

time that a Klingon warship has tried evasive ma neuvers specifically to confuse the deep-space sensory

nets. I considered that perhaps the anomaly might be the sensory 'ghost' of a shielded vessel...."

Kirk seized upon the thought. "Could you give me some odds on that possibility, Mr. Spock?" But he

didn't want to seem eager. He continued to rock back and forth, staring ahead at the viewscreen.

Spock also gazed at the huge panel, as if in deep consideration. "There were none of the usual telltales

that betray a shielded cruiser-I would hypothesize there's... maybe one chance in a thousand that it could

have been a Klingon battle cruiser."

"One chance in a thousand..." Kirk mused deliberately. "One chance in a thousand. Even so, even if there

were only-what was that, one chance in a thousand-shouldn't we investigate?"

Sulu and Chekov exchanged a glance. Chekov began setting up the problem on his astrogation

computer. Sulu prepared to set up the new course instructions.

Spock suggested quietly, "There's probably not one chance in ten thousand ..."

"One chance in ten thousand-," Kirk considered that.

"Perhaps not one chance in a hundred thousand ... or even a million-," Spock continued.

Kirk turned his head and looked at him. "You're not helping with that, Mr. Spock."

"Sorry, Captain."

There was a smile in Kirk's expression now. "Yet wouldn't you agree, Mr. Spock, that no matter what

the odds-whether it's a Klingon vessel or not-if we don't go, we don't find out what it is at all, do we?"

"There is that," Spock admitted.

"And our mission is... to seek out new life...."

"... And new worlds," Spock added.

"Then it's agreed." Kirk turned to the helm. "Mr. Chekov-"

"Already plotted and ready to go, Keptin!" Chekov said with delight.

Kirk was not surprised. "Mr. Sulu?"

"Locked in, sir!"

Kirk looked at Spock. Spock looked at Kirk with half-raised eyebrow. It was a shared moment of

mutual understanding.

Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the United Starship Enterprise turned back to his helmsman and said, "All

right, Mr. Sulu-let's go see what it is."

Sulu returned his Captain's grin and punched the button marked Initiate.

As a matter of fact, Spock had been brooding about the anomaly for some time before mentioning it to

his Captain. It was one of those vaguenesses that carried just too much opportunity for error, and Spock

wanted to be certain that there was something there before he reported it; unfortunately, the statistical

likelihood of the presence of such an indicated artifact was so low as to preclude even the smallest level

of certainty.

The thing-whatever it was-was definitely not the Klingon vessel they were hunting, of that much he could

be sure; but what the measurements did indicate was an artifact so unlikely that his first impulse was to

double-check the reliability of the reporting sensory probe to verify that this was more than just a hiccup

of probability. The problem was that the singularity envelope of the anomaly registered so close to the

sensitivity threshold of the probe's scanning equipment that there was legitimate reason to doubt the

existence of the anomaly. There was no way to tell if it were an actual perceptivity fluction or merely just

a momentary squiggle of residual instrument noise.

What finally decided the matter for Spock was a thorough check of the deep-space buoy's scanning

equipment. The overall, cross-referenced sensitivity of the buoy was rated at -151 db, .2 db. The

probability envelope of the anomaly registered only .85 above this threshold, but system analysis of the

probe's instrumentation and computational capabilities indicated that a sudden deviation of reliability of

even that small amount would also register on the verification circuits as a measureable deviation of the

equipment's own reference levels. And of course, such a deviation would have triggered a corresponding

downgrading of the reliability of the information by the logic circuits of the probe's own probability

monitors. That such a downgrading had not been registered in the memories was a pretty clear statement

to Spock that the probe, at least, was not in error.

The only logical conclusion was that there was a stimulus present. That much he was willing to validate.

There was something there, very far away from the probe and only very faintly perceived, but still large

enough and/or fast enough to effect a perceptible ripple in the sublight stress field, a ripple large enough

to register on the equipment of a deep-space scanning buoy at a distance of several trillion kilometers.

Incredible!

It would have to be very large-the size of a small asteroid perhaps-and/or moving at a very large sub-light

velocity-perhaps as much as one-half the speed of light

Simply incredible!

There were times when the maintenance of composure as mandated by his Vulcan heritage was a very

difficult responsibility indeed. That he would have to wait some hours for additional information about the

anomaly was almost enough to tempt him into a momentary flash of impatience. Not that he would ever

display such a feeling, of course, but the mere internal existence of it in itself was enough to produce a

qualm of conscience and possibly even self-annoyance. Spock took a half-second to note the existence

of the thoughts, then filed them in that section of his memory reserved for such, along with a resolution to

reexamine his regimen of disciplines. Perhaps he might schedule for himself the performance of an

additional series of meditational exercises of emotional control; he must not allow the human influences

around him to dilute his senses of analysis by weakening his internal control.

This entire process of analysis and resolution had taken him less than three seconds, and already be was

wondering if perhaps he had taken too long to come to the appropriate conclusions-and wondered also if

that were additional evidence of the human influences both within himself and without. However, Spock

resolved not to pursue that train of thought any further -too much self-analysis was counter-productive in

that it used up valuable on-time without producing worthwhile results. The Vulcan satirist, T'Pshaw, had

summed it up thus "Over-emphasis on the examination of one's rationality is a good indication that one

ought to have one's rationality examined." The Terran philosopher, Solomon Short, had phrased it "This

neurotic pursuit of sanity is driving us all crazy." An unorthodox phrasing perhaps, but the thought was

valid.

Having put a coda on that train of thought, Spock turned back to his science station and began preparing

specific analysis programs for the anomaly when they finally closed on it. Its origins would be particularly

interesting.

Behind him, Captain Kirk had returned to his command seat and was dictating a private note "Captain's

Log, Stardate 4496.1. We have broken off our search to investigate the presence of ... of a sensory

anomaly. First Officer Spock notes the extreme unlikelihood that the anomaly is related to the object of

our patrol; however, the anomaly is so unusual that investigation seems... worthwhile." He hesitated,

frowning. What else was there to say? Nothing, he decided, and clicked off. "Lieutenant Uhura," he said.

"What's the projected subspace radius at the anomaly ... ?"

"One hundred and sixty-three hours, plus or minus twenty minutes, Captain." She turned in her seat to

face him, one hand reflexively reaching for the Feinberger device in her left ear.

Kirk nodded unhappily. He didn't like being that far out of communication with Starfleet. It would take

nearly seven days for a subspace radio message to reach the nearest starbase, fourteen days before they

would have a reply. He grumphed quietly, then said, "Send a coded advisory of the situation. The

Enterprise is assuming on-site jurisdiction for the investigation. We're invoking the Local Responsibility

section of the Starfleet Code."

"Aye, aye, Captain." She turned back to her console, already encoding his instructions.

The Local Responsibility section of the Code not only granted the authority, but required a ship's captain

to assume control of any situation within the Federation's sphere of influence and Starfleet's jurisdiction,

but beyond the immediate control or advisory presence of a mandated starbase. A subspace radius of 36

hours or more automatically required the ship's captain to invoke the Local Responsibility section. It was

a piece of busywork perhaps, but a necessary one.

When Lieutenant Uhura finished sending off the subspace message, she returned to her previous

responsibility, the preparation of a set of contact signals should the anomaly turn out to be a functioning

artifact.

Not only were the standard hailing messages required, a multiplex of signals that meant "friendly vessel,"

or its equivalent, to all presently known space-traveling species, but also a set of primary contact signals

should the vessel be manned by members of an unknown race. While there were specific formulae to be

followed, a communications officer was also required to make local adaptations as necessary. For

example, the fact that this anomaly was traveling at a velocity that could be anywhere from one-fourth to

one-half the speed of light indicated that faster-than-light travel was probably unknown to the builders of

it, a fact which suggested that subspace radio capability was also unlikely. If so, then perhaps even

multi-digital standards of transmission (which had not been developed by human beings until after the

development of subspace radio) were probably also unlikely, and this would require additional

modifications in the nature of the signals to be transmitted. There were too many different ways of

sending and receiving information and one could assume nothing. If there were inhabitants within the

artifact, which wasn't certain yet, then the Enterprise had to be prepared to transmit signals that they

could not only receive, but translate as well. For instance, it would do no good to transmit an FM signal

at 100 megahertz if the artifact were only capable of receiving AM signals at 100 kilohertz. And

regardless of AM or FM, what if the information were digitally encoded? How many bits? And what

sampling rate? How many channels per bandwidth? The problem became even more complicated when

one considered the problems of broadcasting a video signal. What spectrum of colors are we referencing

to? How many frames per second? How many lines to the scan? Or are we even scanning lines at all? Is

it possibly a spiral scan? Clockwise or counter-clockwise? And so on ...

Chekov's problem was no easier. It was his responsibility to determine the probable position of the

anomaly, extrapolate its trajectory and plot a course of interception. He had only the single bit of

information from the deep-space probe to work with, the vector quality of the object, nothing more-he

had no precise measurement of its velocity. As a result, he was working with a four-dimensional

(time-variable) vector wedge. The object's course probabilities were a cone-shaped fan of possible

positions that widened astronomically as one traveled further and further from the original point of

reference the scanning fix of the deep-space probe.

He had begun by giving Sulu a course that angled away from the reporting probe's sphere of scanning

and in the general direction of the bogey's one charted position; they could start from there. It would take

a while to close that distance, and meanwhile he could use the time to develop a more accurate trajectory

for the bogey. Assuming that the projected vector wedge was an accurate locus, they at least knew the

limits of their search area. If they could come within five trillion kilometers of the object, they would be

able to detect it. And as they came in closer, they would be able to correct their intercept course as

necessary.

The problem was that lacking more precise information about the object's original velocity, Chekov had

just too large an area of possibilities to consider. The deep-space probe's first bogey report was almost a

month old and the object could be almost anywhere within a cone 45 light-days long and twice that

distance across at its leading surface, a circular-bound-aried area that expanded at the rate of one

light-minute per minute. Even Earth's own solar system was only 14 L-hours in diameter. The Enterprise

could very well end up hunting this object for twelve days too-or more-and with the same results as they

had achieved on their Klingon pursuit. There was an old Russian proverb that was applicable here,

Chekov mused unhappily; something about a "wild moose chase."

He sighed and finally decided to use what some navigators called "The Moscow Solution." He aimed

straight for the center of the target, closed his eyes and prayed.

Actually, he used a modified Moscow Solution-he plotted an expanding spiral up through the center of

the probability cone-but the principle was the same. You close your eyes and pray. And trust your luck.

Even so, Chekov was rather pleased with himself when he finally locked the program into sequence and

called it up on the board for Mr. Sulu.

Sulu grinned at Chekov and began setting it up.

In all probability, there wasn't any object.

The odds were against its existence.

And if there were an object, then the odds were even more against its discovery.

By any system of logic, the chances of discovery were so miniscule as to border on the fantastic. The

Notorious Murphy Coincidence would look inevitable by comparison.

But then ... this was the U.S.S. Enterprise that was searching.

So they found it in 3914 hours. And twenty-three seconds.

That was the initial contact. It would take another hour and thirty-two minutes to close with the object.

On the bridge, Captain Kirk was very pleased. "I knew they were good," he said to himself. "I just didn't

realize they were this good."

The object was huge. Even from this distance, the instruments confirmed that it massed many megatons.

And it was fast. For a sublight object, that is. It was traveling at nearly one-third light-speed. In fact, the

Enterprise's problem in rendezvousing with the object was not so much locating it, but catching up to it.

The paradox here was that most modern starships were built to travel either very fast or very slow. (On a

cosmic scale, that is.) It's the speeds within those two extremes that are difficult to achieve. There is little

need for a starship to travel at one-third the speed of light when it already has the capability of achieving

realized-velocities many tunes the speed of light with its warp drive. And impulse power is more than

sufficient for maneuvering within a star system, where higher immediate velocities would be wasteful and

redundant. Impulse drive was efficient, to be sure, but like the ion-drive technology it was based on, it

had its limitations. The use of it to push a starship up to one-third light-speed would take many days of

acceleration.

The alternative was to brake down from warp speed, which was actually a much steeper gradient, but at

least in this case, the Enterprise would be on the downhill side of the equation. It could be done by

neutralizing the starship's warp fields with a carefully calculated discrepancy. The energy of that

discrepancy, instead of being funneled back into the matter-antimatter units, would impart itself instead

directly to the mass of the Enterprise and her occupants. If they had figured correctly, the energy would

manifest itself as velocity, and they would have the one-third light-speed velocity they needed to match

trajectories with the object. If they had erred, the energy would manifest itself instead as heat and the

starship and her crew would be incinerated into raw plasma before their nerve endings would have time

to register the fact.

The technique was tricky.

But then... this was the Enterprise. Kirk wasn't worried.

At the helm, Sulu had already begun scanning ahead with the visual sensors, even though they would have

to be within a thousand kilometers for any kind of detailed image. He peered ahead eagerly. Beside him,

Chekov was already preparing his deliberately unbalanced neutralization of the ship's warp drive.

"Fifteen hundred kilometers," Chekov said. "And closing." He touched buttons. "Warp-down procedures

initiated. All systems green."

It was a tense moment Kirk moved up beside his navigator and laid a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"You're doing fine, Mr. Chekov."

"There it is-," said Sulu suddenly. A dark spot in the center of the screen, almost invisible. He touched a

button and changed the scanning spectrum. The object glowed dimly red with radiated heat. But that was

all it was radiating.

"Five seconds to warp-down," said Chekov. "Mark, and four ... and three ... and two ... and one ... and

..." The overhead lights dimmed momentarily, then came back up to full strength. Readout screens

flickered to indicate the sudden change in ship's velocity.

"-and we're still here," said Kirk quietly.

Chekov looked up at him. "Was there ever any doubt? I remember one time, at Gagarin Station, we had

a simulation where-"

"Later, Mr. Chekov." Kirk pointed to a monitor. "You still have some fine-tuning to do. Use the impulse

drive to make course corrections. Approach to 100 kilometers and hold position. Lieutenant Uhura,

initiate contact procedures."

Kirk glanced up at Spock's overhead screens. The information there was neutral. The object gave no

indication of awareness of the Enterprise at all. No radar, no subspace detectors, no scanners of any

kind. At least none that registered on any energy spectra the Enterprise was equipped to detect.

Even so ...

"Come to full alert," Kirk ordered. "All positions, stand by."

In one sense, at least, the order was redundant. The entire ship's crew was already alert. There were four

hundred and thirty individuals in this ship, all possessed with an intense curiosity, a need to know. The

view on the forward screen was being piped throughout the Enterprise.

As they came in closer, Sulu touched buttons thoughtfully. As he brought the image on the screen up to

full magnification, there was an audible gasp of surprise among the crew members on the bridge. Even

Spock appeared startled. Startled for a Vulcan, that is.

It was dark. And it was huge. It blotted out the stars behind.

And it was an artifact. A creation. Someone had built it.

But there were no lights on the object, no beacons to illuminate its many-faceted surfaces. No glittering

windows or transparent domes. All was still and empty, almost bleak against the background of velvet

and jewels. Here, this far from anything, lost in the deep between the stars, there was barely enough light

to glint off an occasional metallic surface. There was no sense of scale-but even so the sheer bulk of it

was ominous and over-powering. It was an undeniable presence.

It was a city in space. Huge and shrouded. A black island. A majestic wheel of silence and mystery,

turning slowly in the night.

For a long moment, the silence of the dark was echoed on the bridge of the Enterprise. The men and

women of the starship stood quietly, held by their own awe, caught in a rapture of contemplation. The

experience was a familiar one to some of them. It was repeated every time they came into the presence

of another facet of the universe's will toward life. An artifact, a ship, an alien being-even a message-it was

the implication of the evidence that would make them stop and wonder at the marvelous variety, the

infinite diversity of the cosmos.

There was a saying; Solomon Short, the Terran Philosopher was reputed to have said it, "There are no

atheists on starships." But because he had lived and died before there were any starships, it was not until

a century afterward that humanity began to understand just what he really meant. And by then, th e truth

of it was so obvious to all who had traveled through inter-stellar space that the statement was a

clich-except at moments like now, of course. Representatives of humanity stood once again on the

threshold of discovery, and the truth of the clich, the gut-wrenching reason why it was so, reasserted itself

as a wave of joyous emotion, a bursting of feelings that surged up in the hearts and souls of all who stood

before a screen and gazed in quiet amazement, smiling, grinning, even laughing and applauding.

Except Spock, of course. He prided himself on having the good taste not to display his internal

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THEGALACTICWHIRLPOOLAStarTrekNovelByDavidGerroldABantamBook/October1980ISBN0-553-14242-9ForJonandMollyandMatthewandCindyIntroductionMyfirstexposuretoDavidGerrold'swritingdrewthiscommentinamemotoGeneL.Cooninregardtothesubmittedstoryoutlineforwhatwouldbecome"TheTroubleWithTribbles""Ithinkthisisawhimsi...

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