Captain’s Log, Stardate 6162.1 The discovery of vast quantities of pergium on a previously obscure frontier planet has set off an old-fashioned “gold rush.” Would-be prospectors from across the quadrant stampede toward Baldur III in hopes of striking it rich, resulting in a crisis situation as neighboring planets and way stations are ill-equipped to cope with the flood of ships competing to get to the planet in time to stake their claims. Although Baldur III is not technically under Federation jurisdiction, being an independent colony, the Enterprise has been diverted to respond to the crisis and render whatever assistance it can to overwhelmed local authorities, such as those running the nearest deep space station . . .
“Well, I’ll be,” McCoy said. “Talk about no room at the inn.”
“An apt allusion, Doctor,” Spock stated, contemplating the startling image on the viewscreen. “For once, I must agree with you.”
At least a dozen spacecraft of varying sizes, designs, and origins swarmed Deep Space Station S-8, which was clearly never intended to accommodate so many visitors at once. A few of the smaller vessels were docked at the station itself, but most were orbiting the structure or were jockeying to get into position to do so, approaching the station from every conceivable angle and orientation. The overcrowding posed an obvious hazard in its own right; just watching from his chair on the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise, Captain James T. Kirk witnessed at least one near collision when an impatient Arcturian cruiser tried to squeeze in front of a slower Therbian transport, which wasn’t about to make way for it. The former “blinked” and decelerated only moments before the ships would have plowed into each other.
“Remind me to raise our shields before we get too close to the station,” Kirk said. “Looks like they’re badly in need of a traffic cop . . . or twelve.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Lieutenant Sulu said from the helm. He shook his head at the crush of competing vessels ahead of them. “You’d think it was Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet.”
“Or St. Petersburg in springtime,” Ensign Chekov chimed in. The young Russian was seated beside Sulu at the navigation station.
Both of which destinations, Kirk reflected, could easily accommodate such crowds, unlike the besieged space station. Gazing at the chaotic scene, he understood more fully why the Enterprise had been dispatched to deal with the situation. And this was just a rest stop on the way to Baldur III; Kirk could only imagine what things were like on the planet. Tales of the lucky strike on Baldur III—some more exaggerated than others—had been spreading across subspace for weeks now. “Pergium fever” had broken out in sector after sector.
“Lieutenant Uhura, hail the station. Notify them of our approach.”
“Aye, Captain.”
McCoy leaned on the cherry-red guardrail surrounding the command circle. “Any idea where we’re going to park?” he asked wryly.
Good question, Kirk thought. He hoped the station’s manager, one George Tilton, would have some suggestions regarding that. He swiveled his chair toward the communications station behind him. “Uhura?”
“My apologies, Captain, but I’m having trouble getting through to the station. Between S-8 trying to communicate with the other ships, and those ships also hailing each other, the channels are jammed.” She fiddled with her earpiece. “And from the sound of things, I’m not the only one encountering difficulties. People are frustrated . . . and tempers are getting frayed.”
“I see.” Kirk appreciated her assessment of the climate they were flying into. “Use the priority channel. Starfleet override.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied. “Transmitting override now.”
That should do it, Kirk thought. He was not above pulling rank when the circumstances called for it. They had not come all this way, diverting from their ongoing survey of the Enkidu Nebula, just to be put on hold. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
In theory, Tilton was expecting the Enterprise after appealing to Starfleet for assistance. The remote space station had been established to serve as an all-purpose rest stop for travelers crossing what had been a relatively untrafficked region of space. Seen from head on, it resembled any number of other deep space stations scattered throughout the quadrant. Holding a fixed position in space, as opposed to orbiting any star or planet, it rotated on a vertical axis. A habitation cone at the “top” of the station held most of the living and leisure facilities. The cone rested above the core of the station: a large saucer that consisted primarily of storage and engineering compartments holding most everything visiting ships might need for repairs or refueling. Three tubular arms radiated from the core, with docking facilities and smaller habitation cones at the end of each arm. A fully equipped shuttlebay was located at the bottom of the station, beneath the central saucer. Interior lights, shining through multiple viewports, indicated that the station was very much occupied at present.
“Looks like a feeding frenzy,” Kirk said. “With S-8 at the middle of it.”
“Indeed,” Spock said from his science station. “The discovery of pergium on Baldur III is a welcome development, given its utility and relative scarcity, but I confess I find this disorderly rush to profit from the development somewhat unseemly, not to mention uncivilized. All this tumult simply because of naked avarice?” His stoic Vulcan features and level tone managed to register his disapproval nonetheless. “I would have thought that even humans would have evolved beyond such primitive motivations by now.”
“And you’ve lived among us for how long now?” McCoy said with a smirk. “Never underestimate the human desire to get rich quick, no matter the era. And before you lecture us from your high-and-mighty perspective, what’s that Vulcan salutation you’re so fond of ? ‘Live long and prosper,’ isn’t it?” He nodded at the screen. “Those folks are just looking for a little prosperity, that’s all. Can’t really fault them for that.”
As ever, Spock rose to the debate.
“Prosperity and profit are not necessarily the same thing, Doctor, particularly once a society has developed to the point that material need is no longer a matter of survival. When you have eliminated poverty and hunger, the pursuit of wealth becomes illogical.”
“Logic.” McCoy snorted. “Only a Vulcan would expect people to behave logically when there are fortunes to be made.”
“You, Doctor, are a cynic.”
“No, just a realist,” McCoy insisted. “Particularly when it comes to the less ‘civilized’ corners of the galaxy.”
“He has a point, Spock,” Kirk said, joining the discussion. “You’re right that on Vulcan or Earth or any of the more advanced worlds at the core of the Federation, people are less likely to succumb to ‘gold fever’ because their lives are already rich and satisfying in different ways, but out here on the frontier? That’s a whole other story. Existence can be much rougher around the edges this far out, so you still have plenty of hardscrabble miners, colonists, adventurers, and, yes, opportunists who might be tempted by the prospect of a big score.”
“Even if there is no guarantee of riches?” Spock asked. “It stands to reason that many of those en route to Baldur III are already too late to capitalize on the discovery, and may not achieve enough profit to justify the expense and effort of their expedition.”
“A reasonable prediction,” Kirk said, “which is probably why I’m not spotting any Vulcan vessels in that traffic jam ahead, but never underestimate the allure of a treasure hunt. It’s not logical, but it’s potent regardless.”
“I confess,” Chekov said, “if I was not in Starfleet, I might consider striking out for Baldur III.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “Is that so, Ensign?”
Chekov gulped and began to backpedal furiously. “If I was not in Starfleet, and was not, of course, fully committed to my duty as a Starfleet officer, which I absolutely am, to the very marrow of my being . . .”
“At ease, Ensign.” Kirk let Chekov off the hook. “No need to explain why an adventurous young soul might be tempted to seek his fortune on a far-off world of riches, especially if everyone else seems to be doing so.” He chuckled indulgently. “It may seem like a primitive impulse, Spock, but it’s a natural one, and we’re a long way from more ‘civilized’ climes.”
Spock looked unconvinced. “Perhaps, Captain, but—”
“Forgive me for interrupting, Mister Spock,” Uhura said, “but I have Mister Tilton for you, Captain.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Kirk said, tabling any further discussion of the psychology of gold rushes until later. “Put him through.”
“Aye, sir.”
Tilton appeared on the viewscreen, supplanting the live image of the station. He was an older Earthman of British descent with gaunt features and receding silver hair. A simple tan jumpsuit indicated that he was a civilian, reporting to the Federation rather than to Starfleet. Kirk put Tilton in his midsixties, possibly older.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Captain. I’ve got my hands full, to say the least.”
Kirk noted the weariness in the other man’s voice as well as the puffy circles under Tilton’s eyes. He could tell at a glance that the station manager was overworked and under stress. Tilton was showing definite signs of strain. His shoulders sagged.
“So it appears,” Kirk said. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”
“No more than I appreciate your arrival,” Tilton said. “To be honest, I’ve been counting the days until you showed up.”
“We’re actually en route to Baldur III,” Kirk reminded him. “But I understand that you’ve requested Starfleet assistance as well?”
“Whatever you can spare, Captain. The situation here is becoming . . . well, untenable.”
“Understood,” Kirk said. “I’d like to beam over and assess the situation firsthand, but the congestion around the station poses a problem. I’m not certain we can get close enough to get within transporter range, so perhaps I should take a shuttlecraft instead.”
“I wouldn’t advise that, Captain. I’m afraid our hangar bay is already packed to capacity. I suppose I could order a civilian vessel to clear room for you, but they’re not going to be happy about it, and tensions are mounting as is.”
Kirk sympathized with the manager’s situation. “No need to put you in an even more difficult position.” A possible solution occurred to him. “Are your transporters working?”
“Overtime,” Tilton said, “but, yes, they’re still fully operational, despite being employed around the clock to transport visiting crews and cargo.”
“Good,” Kirk said. “So we’ll fly a shuttle close enough for you to beam us aboard, leaving a pilot at the helm, of course.”
“That works,” Tilton said, nodding. “I’ll instruct the transporter operators to prioritize your request.” He keyed something into a console. “That’s bound to provoke some grumbling as well, but it’s better than trying to displace a vessel or two.”
“I’ll see you shortly, then. Kirk out.”
Kirk flicked a switch on his chair’s right armrest to end the transmission. Tilton’s image vanished from the viewscreen, restoring the image of the space station. Kirk surveyed the bridge crew, assembling a landing party.
“Spock, Sulu, Chekov, you’re with me.” Kirk glanced at McCoy. “You interested in tagging along as well?”
“If you need me,” the doctor answered, “but I’ve got a whole slate of physicals lined up for this afternoon, plus some routine surgery on Ensign Singer’s busted knee. If you can spare me . . .”
“Tend to your patients, Doctor.” Kirk recalled that Singer had taken a nasty spill down a Jefferies tube earlier that day. “As far as I know, this isn’t a medical emergency.” He activated the ship’s intercom to contact engineering. “Mister Scott, please report to the bridge.”
Scotty could hold down the fort while he checked out the station.
“Welcome aboard, Captain, officers.”
Tilton met them at the station’s main transporter room, which was located in the central habitation cone. As he stepped off the transporter pad, Kirk noted a long line of people, representing myriad humanoid species, waiting impatiently to be beamed back to their own vessels, while another crowd loitered farther back in a lobby area, perhaps waiting to meet up with some expected new arrivals. Kirk found himself on the receiving end of more than a few scowls and dirty looks from folks who were plainly unhappy about the Starfleet party cutting in line ahead of them. Dissatisfied muttering reached his ears.
Sorry, Kirk thought. Starfleet business.
He introduced Spock and Sulu to Tilton; Chekov had remained at the helm of the shuttle, awaiting their return. He had been instructed to maintain a reasonable distance from the station until summoned back to retrieve the boarding party.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” Tilton said. “We can talk more freely in my office.” He indicated the exit. “If you’ll kindly follow me.”
Only a single security officer accompanied Tilton. “Coming through,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the general chatter. “Make way, please.”
She cleared a path through the jostling crowd, many of whom took advantage of the situation to vent their frustrations at the station’s manager:
“Tilton! My ship is still waiting to be refueled!”
“What happened to my flight clearance?”
“Why are the Rigelians getting special treatment?”
“The sonic showers on Level Six are malfunctioning again!”
“I’m filing a complaint about you not responding to my previous complaints!”
“What is Starfleet doing here?”
Tilton sported a pained expression as he attempted to fend off the barrage of grievances and questions being thrown at him. Ducking his head and avoiding eye contact, he murmured vague, noncommittal replies.
“Sorry, I’m otherwise occupied at the moment. Please direct your inquiries to my office. The station computer is processing them as fast as it can . . .”
“That’s not good enough, Tilton!” a malcontent bellowed. He was a scruffy-looking, pink-skinned humanoid whose origins Kirk couldn’t immediately place, given how many sentient species were indistinguishable from humans at first glance. His clothing and accent hinted at possibly Izarian roots. “I need to get to Baldur III while the getting’s good!”
More voices, chirps, and growls added to the unhappy chorus. Just as Uhura had reported, things were getting ugly aboard the station. Kirk resisted the temptation to place a hand on his phaser, concerned that might be seen as provocative. Sulu looked to him for direction, clearly worried about the mood of the crowd as well. Kirk discreetly signaled him to let Tilton and his security detail take the lead here.
Let’s play this by ear, he thought. Steady as it goes.
“Please, everyone calm down,” Tilton entreated the discontented travelers. “We’re fully aware of your concerns and are doing our best to address them. As you can see, Starfleet is on hand as well. Please be patient while I sort this out with Captain Kirk and his people.”
“I don’t have time to be patient!” somebody shot back, but Tilton’s appeal seemed to keep matters from boiling over. Or perhaps it was the presence of Kirk and the others that appeased the crowd to a degree. Kirk winced inwardly; he hoped that both Tilton and the frustrated travelers weren’t expecting too much from the Enterprise, which could not stay long before continuing on to Baldur III. There was a limit to how much they could alleviate the crisis.
Exiting the transporter room brought them to a bustling promenade that appeared only slightly less packed than the lobby they had just left. A diverse assortment of sentient species—mammalian, reptilian, avian, amphibian, insectile, and some less immediately identifiable—squeezed past each other as they headed either clockwise or counterclockwise down a wide, curved corridor that, based on Kirk’s familiarity with other deep space stations, probably circled around to meet itself. Automated walkways assisted pedestrians, while antigrav lifters carried assorted luggage, equipment, and storage bins. A babel of voices, vocalizations, and languages tested the station’s automatic translators.
“It appears this so-called fever is not just endemic to humans,” Spock noted.
He took in the scene as Tilton led them toward his office. Shops and services lined the promenade, offering food, lodgings, supplies, grooming facilities, information, communications access, entertainment, and other necessities and luxuries. Directional signs indicated the way to the hangar deck, infirmary, cafés, spas, recreational options, and so on. As was standard aboard such stations, some of the facilities were operated by the station, as a public service, while others were commercial operations leasing space on the promenade. The rush toward Baldur III appeared to be a godsend for the local merchants and restaurateurs, although Kirk had to wonder how well they were holding up under this unexpected flood of potential patrons. Too much traffic might almost be more of a hardship than too little. The frenetic ambience reminded him less of a well-ordered space station than of an Argelian bazaar. All that was missing were belly dancers and a fortune-teller or two.
“Talk about a circus,” Sulu said quietly.
“My thoughts exactly,” Kirk said, “and I don’t envy the ringmaster.”
For a circus, however, the scene was definitely lacking in high spirits. Most everyone struck Kirk as in a rush and out of sorts. Baldur III was where the action was; these people wanted in and out of the space station as quickly as possible—and everyone else out of their way.
“Fascinating,” Spock observed. “Alarming, but fascinating.” He surveyed the commotion with detached amusement. “I find myself somewhat grateful that Doctor McCoy stayed behind on the Enterprise. He would no doubt find this venal stampede confirmation of his rather jaundiced view of humanoid nature . . . and I would have difficulty refuting that.”
“Venal is rather harsh,” Kirk said. “These people are just eager to improve their lives, on worlds where a healthy bank account still makes a difference.”
Spock remained dubious. “If you say so, Captain.”
They soon arrived at Tilton’s office, where a diamond-shaped doorway slid open to admit them. The office itself was fairly modest, being only slightly larger than Kirk’s personal quarters back on the Enterprise. Furnishings included a desk, a computer terminal, and a circular meeting table. A viewscreen dominated one wall, while an actual porthole offered a view of the (congested) space around one of the station’s radial arms. A schematic diagram of the station currently occupied the viewscreen. A potted fern, a 3-D backgammon set, a few old-fashioned codex books, and a scale model of the ill-fated U.S.S. Shenzhou provided some personal touches. Microtape disks were piled high atop the desk.
The manager sighed in relief as the door closed behind them, cutting him off from the crowds and their demands. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.
“You see what I’m up against, gentlemen.”
“I’m getting the general picture,” Kirk said. If nothing else, the brief walk from the transporter room to Tilton’s office had given him a snapshot of conditions aboard the overtaxed station. “You’re essentially a modest roadside inn that suddenly finds itself along a major trade route.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Tilton agreed. “Can I offer you some refreshments? I’m afraid we ran out of genuine coffee some time ago, but I can still muster a synthesized substitute. Or perhaps you’d prefer tea?”
“Tea will do fine,” Kirk said, “and may even be preferable to my companions.”
“Indeed,” Spock stated.
“Tea works for me too,” Sulu said. “Thanks.”
A food slot dispensed the beverages, which Tilton handed out as the men took their place around the table. A triscreen viewer, similar to those found in the Enterprise’s briefing rooms, occupied the center of the table.
“Let me show you the problem in a nutshell,” Tilton said. “Computer: display regional star chart.”
“Displaying,” the computer replied.
A chart of the sector appeared on the viewscreen. Dominating the map was an amorphous, cloud-shaped region of space, delineated in red, which lay directly between the station and the Baldur system. A label identified the highlighted region.
The Antares Maelstrom.
“I assume you’re familiar with the Maelstrom?” Tilton said.
“Not from personal experience,” Kirk answered, “but I know of it. It’s a dangerous region of space that no vessel has ever crossed successfully, due to violent energies and possibly hostile life-forms as well.”
“To be more precise,” Spock said, “the Maelstrom is home to immense, violent currents and eddies of supercharged plasma, whirling at exceedingly high velocities around a heavy mass at its core. The destructive forces at work are such that no vessel or unmanned probe is known to have withstood them long enough to make the crossing. Even obtaining reliable data on conditions within the Maelstrom has proven challenging, due to the difficulty of transmitting signals in and out of the vortex. It is, in many ways, opaque to conventional sensors and communications channels.”
Kirk appreciated the concise summation. He expected nothing less from Spock.
“And no survivors means no firsthand reports on the Maelstrom’s depths?”
“Precisely, Captain.”
“What about the hostile life-forms said to prowl the Maelstrom?”
“Unconfirmed,” Spock said, “and largely conjectural. Theories regarding dangerous entities dwelling within the Maelstrom are largely based on rumors, folklore, and, at best, fragmentary, indistinct, and sadly ambiguous images transmitted by probes shortly before they were destroyed or lost contact with outside observers.” His tone indicated that such reports were to be taken with a sizable grain of salt. “Given that unusual life-forms have been discovered in any number of seemingly inhospitable environments throughout the galaxy, one cannot rule out the possible existence of unknown entities thriving within the Maelstrom, but neither can one assume their existence. It may also be that the Maelstrom’s well-earned reputation for consuming ships has simply spawned legends of lurking menaces lying in wait for unwary travelers.”
Kirk got the idea. “Here there be monsters.”
“Which is not to say,” Spock pointed out, “that all monsters are imaginary.”
As we’ve learned only too well, Kirk thought.
“In any event,” Tilton said, “this station is the last stop before the long detour around the Maelstrom. In the past, we rarely got more than two ships a month, if that. Truth be told, when I accepted the post as manager, I was expecting a rather quiet, low-key job without a lot of excitement or drama, but ever since pergium was discovered on Baldur III . . . well, it’s been anything but.”
“I thought some ships had made it across the Maelstrom,” Sulu said. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Tall tales and rumors,” Tilton said, waving away such reports. “There are indeed stories about a shortcut through the Maelstrom—the Antares Passage, it’s called—but you’ll never meet anyone who has actually taken it. ‘I knew a fellow who knew a fellow who heard about a ship that made it through in one piece’ . . . that sort of talk. But it’s just a myth . . . and a dangerous one.”
“Dangerous how?” Kirk asked.
“In the present climate, it’s only a matter of time before somebody tries to take a shortcut through the Maelstrom in order to get to Baldur III ahead of the competition. I’ve been doing my best to strongly discourage this, even placing a warning buoy at the border of the Maelstrom, but—”
Before he could say more, the office door slid open and a tall, muscular woman in a navy-blue station security uniform burst in. Her face was sweaty and flushed and her short blond hair disheveled. She had a wrestler’s build, worthy of a Capellan warrior, and a stern, no-nonsense expression. Kirk immediately got the impression that she was not somebody you wanted to get on the wrong side of.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Had to break up an altercation on Level Three.”
“Anything serious?” Tilton asked.
“Nah. Just some pushing and shoving over energy vouchers. My people and I shut it down before it got out of hand.” She shrugged. “The usual . . . these days.”
“A sorry state of affairs, as I was just telling our guests.” Tilton turned to introduce the newcomer. “Max Grandle, my head of security.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the woman said gruffly to Kirk and the others. “Don’t get the wrong idea, though. I’ve got things under control.”
“No criticism intended,” Tilton assured Grandle. “It’s not your fault that we lack the resources and personnel to deal with the current crisis.”
“Just saying we’re managing so far,” she insisted. “Security-wise, at least.”
“We’re not here to step on anyone’s toes,” Kirk said diplomatically. “But I imagine you wouldn’t refuse a helping hand or two . . . just until things settle down.”
“I suppose not,” Grandle conceded. “Not trying to get all territorial here. Just wanted to make sure my people get the credit they deserve.”
“Duly noted,” Kirk said.
He considered his options regarding the station’s situation. He couldn’t make gold fever go away or triple the station’s capacity overnight, and like the throngs of fortune hunters overrunning the premises, he also needed to get to Baldur III as soon as possible. Still, it was obvious that the station was seriously shorthanded, and he did have more than four hundred well-trained Starfleet personnel back on the Enterprise. He could probably spare a few dozen crew members for the time being.
“Here’s what I can do,” Kirk said. “I can loan you some of my crew to tide you over until the Federation can provide you with additional personnel of your own. From the looks of it, you need—or could benefit from—additional security, engineering and technical support, and perhaps some medical staff as well?” Kirk asked on McCoy’s behalf, knowing that Bones would raise the issue if he were present. “How is your infirmary coping with the increased traffic through the station?”
“Doctor Trucco and her staff are managing,” Tilton said, “but I’m sure they’d be grateful for some backup as well.”
“I suspected as much,” Kirk said. He couldn’t spare McCoy, but it sounded as though Doctor M’Benga was needed more on this station than aboard the Enterprise for the present, especially with the wide variety of species passing through S-8; M’Benga specialized in xenomedicine. “Let me loan you a doctor and a few nurses as well, if only to ease the load on your own people.”
“That’s very generous of you, Captain,” Tilton said.
“Hang on,” Grandle said. “Who are all these new people going to report to? I don’t have time to train a whole new crew.”
“We’re talking Starfleet personnel, Mister Grandle,” Kirk pointed out. He appreciated that the security officer didn’t like asking for help on her turf, but Kirk didn’t have time to tiptoe around Grandle’s ego. “They hardly require training to do their jobs. And as for supervising them, I believe Lieutenant Sulu is more than up to the task.”
Sulu did a double take. “Me, sir?”
“I can’t think of anyone better suited to the job, Mister Sulu,” Kirk said. In fact, the idea of leaving Sulu in charge of matters on the space station had been brewing at the back of Kirk’s mind since he’d first assembled the landing party. He was going to need Spock and McCoy and Scotty when he got to Baldur III, but Sulu had enough command training and experience to oversee the Starfleet team on loan to the station, and it would be a good preparation for the day when Sulu was given command of a ship. “Lieutenant Sulu is one of my top officers,” Kirk assured Tilton and Grandle, “who at times has taken command of the Enterprise in my absence. He has my total confidence.”
“I agree, Captain,” Spock affirmed. “A logical choice.”
To his credit, Sulu maintained a poker face, displaying no sign of doubt or trepidation at this unexpected assignment. “Thank you, Captain.” He nodded at the station’s administrators. “I look forward to working with you to keep this station running smoothly.”
Kirk noted with approval Sulu’s diplomatic phrasing. Not “restore order” or “get things under control,” but “keep this station running,” as though Grandle and company were already on top of things. Nicely handled, Hikaru.
“Wait a minute,” Grandle protested anyway. “Just who is going to be in charge of who here?”
Kirk held back to see how Sulu dealt with the woman’s attitude. He and Grandle were going to have to work together after all.
“Let’s keep it simple,” Sulu said. “Your people report to you, my people report to me, and we collaborate, along with Mister Tilton, to deal with any issues that arise. We all have the same goal after all: making sure that this station remains operational despite the excess number of travelers passing through.”
“I suppose,” Grandle said grudgingly, “but you’re fooling yourself if you think it’s going to be that easy. What about when we’re not on the same page, or when your people get in my people’s way?”
“We’re all professionals here,” Sulu said firmly. “We’ll manage.”
“And, ultimately, this is my station,” Tilton reminded all concerned. “I can settle any disputes that might arise, although I’m convinced that won’t be necessary.” His tone made it clear that he considered the debate over. “Thank you again, Captain Kirk.”
“Glad to be of service,” Kirk said. “I’ll have a full roster drawn up. And I’ll want your input when it comes to selecting your team as well, Mister Sulu.”
“Of course, Captain,” Sulu replied. “I may already have some ideas along those lines.”
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t, Lieutenant.” Kirk could tell that Sulu was anticipating the challenge ahead. “Sorry you won’t be going on to Baldur III with us, but I need you here, doing what needs to be done.”
“You can count on me, Captain.” Sulu grinned. “Just pick me up a postcard or two, and try not to forget where you left me.”
“Trust me, I’m not giving up my best helmsman. Don’t get too comfortable.”
“Honestly, Captain, I don’t see that happening.”