The trim officer entered Admiral Beck's office with a PADD in his hand. He had returned the previous night with a full download of all the security recordings for the New Berlin Gallery. 

"Yes, sir," he announced.

"What did you find out from the security tapes?"

"Well," said Snider, "it appears General McGovern was telling the truth. From the tapes, it looks like they were simply planning to go on a trip."

"What did they do in New Berlin?"

"Well, sir," Snider said, checking his PADD, "as soon as the three of them got to the Moon, they ate at a restaurant called Munday's. Then they split up to go shopping. Captain Strickland got a supply of spices and seasonings, General McGovern got some clothes and blankets, and Admiral Harper stopped at a library junction and downloaded an assortment of books into her tricorder. Captain Strickland also picked up a first aid kit and some new boots." Snider stopped, and stood in front of Beck's desk tapping one finger against his leg. 

"Well?" prompted Beck. "Was there anything else?"

"Besides books, Admiral Harper also downloaded a collection of star maps, sir. She took maps of Vulcan, the Alpha Centauri system, and some sections of the Beta Quadrant, including," he said, pausing for effect, "Romulan space."

"Romulan space," repeated Beck. "What do you think that means?"

"Sir," said Snider, "I would not want to cause a panic, but I think it's possible Admiral Harper and her friends plan to defect."

"Defect!" spat Beck. "Frannie Harper –- defect to the Romulans?"

"It makes sense, sir," Snider continued. "Since the death of Praetor Shinzon, the whole Romulan Empire is in a state of flux. Senators are bouncing off the walls trying to gain positions of power. Any one of them could use someone with Harper's experience to carve out their own little piece of the Empire. There is also another possibility..."

"Go on," said Beck.

"It would not take much for someone with leadership experience to step in and take control of the entire Romulan Empire. Francine Harper is a retired Starfleet admiral. She has experience as a commander of starship fleets. And, she's respected by other races. A person with her background could start a coup and take over."

Beck looked hard at Snider. "That is about the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Frannie Harper is one of the most loyal Starfleet officers I've ever known. She would never defect to the Romulans — much less take over the Empire."

"It's not just her, sir," Snider continued. "Brigadier General McGovern is a professional soldier trained at leading troops. Captain Strickland has over 40 years experience traveling through all sections of known space, with contacts on dozens of planets. Their combined knowledge could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands."

"All right, all right," Beck said, waving his arms. "Put out a notice to all Starfleet ships in the Beta Quadrant. Tell them to ... to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity. Or suspicious persons traveling through the quadrant, particularly anyone heading towards Romulan space."

"Yes, sir!" Snider said, leaving Beck's office. He practically skipped back to his desk. 

***

On Jupiter Station, Strickland was examining the arrival board. "The Liberty 89 isn't scheduled to dock again until 1100 hours tomorrow," he reported. 

"Let's find a place to stow our stuff," McGovern suggested, "and then find something to eat."

The first stop was the Station Commander's office. Without prior knowledge of their arrival, the commander's office had to be informed of their presence on the station. There was a bearded lieutenant in the office that everyone was talking to. Harper checked them in at a computer console, confirming their credentials, and waited to speak to the lieutenant about requesting quarters. 

"Sure is busy here," Gordon remarked. The stream of people passing by seemed to be continuous. 

"I know," McGovern said. "I counted at least a half dozen Starfleet vessels on the arrival board. Four of them are already docked. I'll bet there's more orbiting out within transporter range."

"There's not so many civilian craft," Strickland said. "I kind of expected there'd be more."

"There will be," said McGovern. "As soon as we get out of the system." Harper came back from the lieutenant's desk. 

"They gave us a suite on Level 10," Harper said, pointing out the office door. "Turbolift is this way." Gordon caught passing glimpses of Andorians, Rigelians and at least a couple of Ferengi as he helped McGovern carry the luggage down the corridor. Starfleet officers, in uniform and in off-duty clothes, formed the majority of the people he saw. There were people everywhere down the hallways, in conference rooms, and on the turbolifts. 

The four travelers were assigned a suite on Level 10 of the station. It took two trips up the crowded turbolift to get all four of them there. Strickland and Harper rode first, crowded in with several other Starfleet officers and cadets. McGovern and Gordon followed, with the duffel bags. Someone stepped on Gordon's foot, but he said nothing. 

Two ensigns got on the turbolift at Level Five. "Anything new on the Romulan situation?" the first one asked.

"Some senator has taken control, I heard," his friend replied. 

On Level Ten, Gordon and McGovern found Harper and Strickland waiting for them in the hallway. Even though it was a level assigned for sleeping quarters, the hallway was still busy. Inside the suite, Strickland was impressed with how clean it was. Everything was white: the walls, the furniture, even the facing of the computer module. There was one separate bedroom, and several comfortable couches that extended into beds, which were white. McGovern dropped the duffel bags onto the floor and sat down heavily in one of the easy chairs. 

"Food?" Strickland asked. 

"Food," replied McGovern. 

"And then ..." said Harper, suddenly looking at Gordon. "Um, Dr. Gordon, exactly how long did the admiral want you to travel with us?"

"Well, you never really said what your destination was," Gordon replied. "The place you're all going. And please, call me Charlie. Everybody calls me Charlie." Harper looked at McGovern.

"Vulcan," Strickland said suddenly. "We're all going to Vulcan. By way of Alpha Centauri." 

"Yeah," McGovern chimed in. "I've been wanting some fresh hawgiun soup for ages." 

Gordon smiled. "Great! I've never been to either Alpha Centauri or Vulcan! But, don't worry–- I'm not going to get in anybody's way. I wouldn't want to be a bother."

"Oh, no bother at all!" Harper said. "Let's get something to eat."

The four lined up at the food replicator. Harper ordered pasta with cheese sauce, and it smelled so good that the others each got the same thing. There was a round table big enough for the four of them to eat at together. Throughout the meal, however, whenever Gordon wasn't looking, the three kept sneaking glances at each other. 

Everyone was still wide awake, so they decided to go looking around the station. "I want to go back and look over the docking levels," Strickland said. "I used to have some friends that worked the third shift."

"I"ve been down there," said McGovern. "I'm gonna head to the bar. Try and catch up on some news about the Romulans. And see how many more brain cells I can kill." 

That left Harper standing with Gordon at the turbolift. "And you need a change of clothes," she said suddenly. 

"I do?" he asked. "I wouldn't want to be out of uniform." The turbolift doors opened.

"No, but we might be going places where that won't be warm enough," she explained, pointing at his uniform. They stepped into the open turbolift. "Or too warm. Quartermaster Deck," she ordered the computer, and the turbolift took off.

The Quartermaster Deck was circular, with several specialized replicators and a row of dressing rooms. A half-dozen officers and enlisted men from various passing starships were already there when Harper and Gordon arrived. Harper pointed towards what looked like a transporter pad just inside the entrance. 

"Stand on that," she said. Gordon stood on the pad, which lit up under his feet. 

"Identification, please," came a computerized voice. Gordon cleared his throat.

"Gordon, Charles A., lieutenant, Starfleet Medical," he recited. The pad lit up for a moment, then faded. He looked at Harper. "What was that about?"

"The station computer just took your measurements," she explained. "Now, whatever you get will fit perfectly. It also confirmed your identity with Starfleet. That keeps non-officers from just coming in and getting free uniforms."

"Ah," he said, understanding. The replicators were assigned special tasks for various types of clothing. Uniforms, boots, gloves, protective gear all came from separate replicators. Gordon got a spare uniform, a new pair of boots, two pair of socks, spare underwear (which Harper politely excused herself while he ordered), some sleeping clothes, and a grey field jacket. Harper also suggested he get a shoulder bag to carry it all. 

"Will I really need all this?" Gordon asked. 

"That covers the essentials," Harper concluded. "It's better to have what you need than need what you don't have..." But something was missing. A cunning smile crawled across her face. "Order yourself a Nogura coat, Charlie," she said. 

"A Nogura coat?" Gordon repeated. Instantly, the replicator behind him came to life. When the glow faded, something thick and maroon sat folded in the alcove. Gordon pulled the coat out and held it up by the shoulders. 

"Wow," he said. "I've been wanting one of these... But, only the general staff wears Nogura coats. It wouldn't be right."

"We're not on Earth anymore," Harper said. "Besides, you might need it. C'mon, stow your gear and let's check out." Harper had been watching as officers came and went, getting their various uniforms and accessories. It was giving her ideas. 

It was 1800 by the time they made it back to the suite. McGovern was already there, watching the latest news. A starship had been dispatched to the Beta Quadrant to search for the Evacado Peach, a Federation scout that had been missing for two weeks. Strickland did not return from his reconnaissance until almost 2000 hours. "I contacted the captain of the Liberty 89," he reported. "He's agreed to take us on as passengers for the Alpha Centauri run. We might have to endure some Bajoran opera on the way, though– he's a big fan."

"Oh," said McGovern. "Great."

The four of them watched the news until Harper excused herself to go to bed. The others faded away one by one, until by 2300 hours they were all asleep. Or so it seemed. 
 

***

The pillow landed squarely on McGovern's head, waking him from a sound sleep. At first he didn't know what woke him up, and then he found the pillow on his chest. He rose up on his elbows, and in the dim light of the suite saw Harper's face poking through the open bedroom door. She held her finger to her mouth, telling him to be quiet, then pointed over at the sleeping Strickland. McGovern looked, then understood. He stood up, and silently crossed the room to where Strickland slept on an opposite couch. One quick shake of his shoulder woke him up, and he almost spoke but for the general's signal to be quiet. Strickland sat up, and they both looked at Harper. She waved them forward, signaling them to not wake Gordon. The two crossed over to the bedroom door. As quietly as she could, Harper closed the bedroom door. 

"I forgot the marshmallows," whispered McGovern. Harper punched him on the arm. 

"This is serious!" she whispered back. They all spoke in low tones. Harper looked at Strickland. "Why did you tell Charlie were going to Vulcan? Why didn't you say we were going to Alpha Centauri?"

"Yeah," chimed in McGovern. "Why didn't you just say we were going here, and that was it?"

"Hey, back off! You took me by surprise," Strickland said, pointing to Harper. 

"So, what do we do now?" McGovern asked. "Do we tell him about the whole trip, about the mountain and everything? How do we know he won't blow the whistle on us?"  

"Okay, okay," said Harper, stopping the conversation. "For now, he comes along for the ride." 

"That wasn't the plan," McGovern said. 

"How many battle plans have you made that turned out one hundred percent?" Strickland asked. McGovern pursed his lips in frustration. 

"We have more important things to discuss," Harper said. "Very soon, we're gonna be out of Federation space –With or without Dr. Gordon – so we need to start gathering stuff we can barter with out-system." 

"It'd be best if we could get cash, like some gold-pressed latinum or something."

"We'll need something to sell, first," Harper reminded him. "And as long as we're within reach of Federation resources, we need to use them."

Strickland understood. "The replicators."

"Exactly," said Harper.

"Starfleet has safeguards against that," McGovern reminded them. "Protections against unauthorized people using the facilities. It'll send up alerts if any one person replicates himself too much raw goods." 

"It won't be one person," Harper said. "It'll be all three of us. As retired Starfleet, we have access to the replicators, and as a traveling civilian Warren has almost as much access. If we spread it out, each of us getting some things, nobody will be the wiser. We need commodities, the replicators can make them for us: tradable merchandise." 

Harper's words sunk in. "What exactly do we get?" McGovern asked. 

"Warren," said Harper, "I want you to think about where we're going, and what would be good to sell there. Sleep on it. We'll tackle the Quartermaster Deck in the morning."

Strickland nodded. "Got it."

"Good. Let's all get some sleep. We head out for Alpha Centauri in the morning." 

"And Dr. Gordon?" asked McGovern.

"He's along until Vulcan," she said. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Everyone slept soundly that night. McGovern was the first up at 0630, and he held up the bathroom for 15 minutes before anyone else could get in. "Some things you gotta be patient with," he explained. 

By 0800, after everyone was showered, dressed and had a bite to eat, Strickland said, "Let's go shopping." He carried his PADD with him as they left the suite. 

The four of them took the turbolift to the Quartermaster Deck. "I was just here yesterday," Gordon said when they arrived. "You guys go on ahead."

"Where are you going?" McGovern asked. 

"I'm going to take a look at the infirmary. They've got the new issue tricorders, and I want to see them in action."

"All right," Harper said. "See you back at the suite at... 0930." Gordon waved and walked back to the turbolift. 

"Well," said McGovern. "That was easy."

"I was afraid we'd have to make up some story again," Harper said. 

The three walked through the measurement scanner one by one. "He probably just didn't want to stand around watching old farts like us trying on clothes," Strickland said. 

"And what kind of clothes would that be?" Harper asked. Strickland held up his PADD. There were pictures of people wearing various articles of clothing. 

"Civilian clothes," he explained, pointing to the pictures. "Specifically, Gerantan pobo shirts. They look like dashiki shirts from west Africa. It's what everybody on Toren II is wearing these days, so we should be able to get a good deal in exchange. Now, we're all different sizes. Frannie, you're a small, Dave's a medium, and I'm a large. Each of us get order up at least three dashiki shirts. That'll give us a supply to work with. Don't worry about colors."

"Dashiki shirts, got it," McGovern said. "What else?"

"Wide, leather belts. Orion traders can't get enough of these things. Get them long, with big buckles. Three or four for each of us." Strickland outlined several other items, and three of them went to work. Each stood at a replicator putting in their orders. They worked slowly, to not attract attention. As a result, several bunches of officers came and went through the Quartermaster's office while they worked the machines. Eventually, each of them had collected an armload of articles. Helpfully, Harper had her replicator produce three green shoulder bags to carry their goods. 

Each of them was feeling good about themselves when they made their way to the turbolift. McGovern's smile faded when he noticed the time. "Uh, oh. It's almost 1000."

"What?" said Strickland. "The freighter might already be docked!"

"We need to hurry," Harper said. The turbolift took forever to get to their deck. The three burst into the suite to find Gordon watching the news. 

"What kept you?" he asked. 

"Never mind," said McGovern. "We need to get packed and get out of here." Harper rushed to the bedroom to get her things together. Strickland was at the computer console, calling up the list of ships in port. 

"It's here," he  reported. "Liberty 89, Pier 18. They're scheduled to leave in one hour." 

"They weren't even supposed to arrive until 1100," McGovern protested as he packed a shirt in his duffel. "And now that's when they're gonna leave?"

Harper's face appeared in the bedroom doorway. "Call them! Tell them we're on our way!" Strickland started going through the station communication lines to send a message to the freighter. 

Gordon helped the others pack. He couldn't help but notice the green shoulder bags they'd brought up with the. "What's all this?" he asked. 

"Underwear," lied McGovern. "I run through several pairs a day. But why should I bother you with my problems?" Within minutes, the small pile of bags sat by the door. 

"I got through to the Liberty," Strickland said. "They'll hold until 1100, but not one minute longer."

"Let's go," Harper ordered. Everyone swung at least one bag strap over their shoulders. The four of them waddled to the turbolift, arms full of luggage. "Loading Dock, Pier 18!" ordered Harper, and the turbolift took off. 

The turbolift doors opened to a deafening roar when they arrived at the Loading Dock. Machinery and various engines were whining, creaking and roaring across the dock. They struggled to free themselves from the turbolift, loaded down with luggage. McGovern dropped his duffel, but Gordon snatched it back up again. "Let me get that," he offered. Gordon seemed to be carrying most of the load. 

"This way!" Harper said. They walked through a drifting cloud of something that looked like steam but smelled like lilacs. They counted down the piers as they went along. Pier 18 was basically a door in the outer wall of the station. Two men in grey vests stood at the cargo hatch. One, a man with a scar on his chin looked up as Harper approached. 

"You Strickland?" he asked. Harper pointed behind her. 

"He is," she said. "Sorry we're late."

The scarred one stepped up to Strickland. "You said three passengers, not four."

"Three, four, what's the difference?" Strickland said. "Is it a problem?" 

The scarred one thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Nah, no problem. I'm Wade Mirsky, First Mate. Everybody get aboard!" He led the way through the wide hatch and into the cargo bay. 

The Liberty 89 seemed to have almost the same layout as the Egyptian Crow, except there was a steel ladder leading up from the cargo bay through a ceiling hatch directly into the bridge. The ship smelled vaguely like fish. The bay itself was empty except for a pair of blue barrels and what looked to be an owl perched on an overhead pipe. 

Mirsky pointed to the owl. "That's just Roger. Don't mind him." The first mate started to climb the ladder. "Close up the hatch and prepare to make way!" he hollered. Halfway up, he stopped to look at the passengers. 

"Go on through there," he pointed, gesturing towards a hatch at the back of the bay. "Your quarters are in back, aft side." Behind them, the big cargo bay doors began to close with a high-pitched metallic squeal. Mirsky continued up the ladder and disappeared through the hatch. 

The cargo bay doors closed with a slam, followed by an odd silence. "Welcome aboard," Gordon glumly said to himself. 

Through the hatch and down the hallway, the group found the passenger cabins –-little more than closets, actually. Six of them in a row, with a toilet at the end of the hall with a sign on the door marked "Cougar Pit." The internal corridors of the ship were narrow and cramped, with many overhanging pipes to klonk one's head against. "At least we all get our own rooms," Harper said optimistically. 

The passenger cubicles were smaller than the ones on the Crow, and not as clean, either. McGovern opened the door to his room and found the bunk unmade, the paint on the walls peeling, and  what seemed to be some kind of harness hanging from the ceiling. "Charming," he commented. 

Strickland looked over his shoulder at the harness. "Maybe it belongs to the owl," he offered. There was a shudder throughout the ship felt by everyone.

"What was that?" Gordon asked. 

Strickland pulled on one of the duffel bags. "The ship has undocked from the station. We're probably on our way to the jump-off point. That's where they'll engage the warp engines." He kicked open the next cabin door with a bang and tossed his bag inside. 

"How long to Alpha Centauri?" Harper asked, carefully opened the door to the third cabin and peeking inside. 

"Eighteen hours," Strickland replied. "Maybe sooner." Gordon edged past Harper and opened the fourth cabin door. He stood at the doorway for a moment. 

"Shouldn't this have a bed?" he asked. 

"Try the next one!" came a voice from the end of the corridor. It was Mirsky, chewing on a pickle. He pointed to the doorway Gordon stood in front of. "That was Frank's old room, God rest his soul." The first mate disappeared around a corner. 

Gordon looked at Harper. "What did he mean by that? ‘God rest his soul.' Did something terrible happen here?"

"He meant, try the next room," McGovern's voice yelled from inside his cabin. 

A high-pitched whine vibrated through the walls and floors of the ship. "There we go," Strickland said. "Warp speed." Gordon suddenly felt a little sick to his stomach. He found a bunk in the next cabin, and after dropping his gear on the floor he took a seat on the bed. 

Harper ran a finger against the frame of the bunk, and was frankly surprised it didn't come back grimy. She pulled her own blanket out of her pack and spread it across the bunk. With her down pillow at the head of the bunk, it almost looked livable. 

Strickland looked through the door into Gordon's cabin. "You okay?" he asked. 

"Feeling a little woozy," Gordon admitted. 

"Some of these old ships will do that to you," Strickland said. "We used to call it ‘getting your space legs.' You'll get used to it. Try to take a little nap."

"I think maybe I will," he replied. Gordon lied down on the bunk, and instantly felt more at ease. He opened his eyes, and noticed an old picture of a blue tentacled creature stuck to the ceiling directly over the bunk.  

The one meal they had on board the Liberty came in a rectangular plastic packet. "What in the world are these?" Harper asked. 

"Pod packs," Strickland recognized. "Emergency rations. A place on Betazed makes them. Here, let me show you how they work." He pointed to the corners of the package. "See those red dots? Pinch both at the same time, then pinch the two blue dots at the same time." The group did as instructed. Immediately, waves of heat radiated from the packages. 

"The hell–?" said McGovern.

"No, that's normal," Strickland said. "Give it a few seconds, then peel off the top at the corners." Steam emerged as the covers were peeled away, leaving a segmented pan of hot food. The entrees tasted like eggplant Parmesan, while the side dish was bite-sized chunks of fried tubers. 

"Are these supposed to be... tater tots?" McGovern asked.

"They taste like fried apples," Gordon reported, chewing on one. The four had a restless sleep that night, as the engines made odd whining sounds every hour. Roger's hooting woke Harper up more than once. 

The voyage to Alpha Centauri had one more surprise left: a sudden jerk to port as the ship dropped to sub-light speed. McGovern's bottle of water nearly tipped over from the motion, but he caught it in time. "Sorry about that," came the captain's voice over the intercom. From the cargo bay, they could hear Roger the owl hooting his displeasure.  

Strickland went forward to look out the observation window. There was a sudden glare as sunlight reflected off a passing barge. Once it passed, it revealed a line of ships passing off before them into the starry midnight. To the upper right, the glow of a close-by planet shone against the hulls of the ship. 

"Alpha Centauri, ladies and gentlemen," came the captain's voice again. "Our next stop will be the Oteri Spaceport on Centauri IV, ETA 20 minutes." 

Strickland looked back from the window. "That'll be our stop," he said. 

"Goody!" said McGovern. 

Gordon went forward and looked over Strickland's shoulder. "Why are the ships all in line like that?" he asked. 

"Holding pattern." They went back to the lounge and sat down on the couches to wait. Twenty minutes came and went, and the Liberty 89 was still in orbit over Centauri IV. Strickland couldn't see any ships at all from the window, but he could tell they were at least closer to the planet. Suddenly, the ship began to vibrate. Small boxes and dishes began to shake down from shelves. 

"What the hell?" asked McGovern. 

The intercom coughed to life again. "Ladies and gentlemen," came the captain's voice, "I'm gonna have to ask you hold on to something. Our passage through –OH, BOY! – our passage through the atmosphere is getting a little rough..." The passengers looked at each other, and each jumped for hand holds among the bulkheads. Strickland's stomach jerked as he recognized the ship going into a roll. At least it's not pitching he thought moments before he felt it go into a pitch. 

"Oooooh, God," said Harper, clinging to the arm of the couch. Within moments, however, the descent evened out, and the vibrations stopped. The sounds of rushing wind pounded the outer hull of the ship. 

"If I wanted a roller coaster," said McGovern, "I would've gone to an amusement park!" 

The ship streaked through the thick, foggy atmosphere until  lights became visible ahead. These turned into parallel rows of blinking lights leading to the northwest. Ahead, the skyline of the Oteri Spaceport came into view. Beyond, the domes of Ozark City and Suzopolis loomed on the horizon. 

The ship jolted again, and Strickland kept a watchful eye for any hull breeches. "God," said Gordon, "What an awful place! Why would anybody come here in the first place?"

"Money," said Strickland simply. "Money and power. Thirty percent of all the dilithium used by the Federation comes from the mines of Alpha Centauri." He looked at Gordon. "There's seven planets in the Alpha Centaur system, but that's the only reason any sane person would come here." 

The ship sailed past the first control tower. The captain must have left the intercom on, because Harper could hear the voice of spaceport control. "Liberty 89, you are cleared for Pad 44." A minute later, the passengers felt something hit the bottom of the ship. They had landed. Immediately, they heard the engines shutting down, until the only sound in the ship was the rush of the air circulating units. 

The captain emerged from the forward hatch. He was pulling off a pair of fingerless leather gloves, and looked very pleased with himself. "Alpha Centauri, folks," he announced. "We made it. The bus should be by in about a half hour to take us to the spaceport." 

"You mean, we're not actually at the port?" Harper asked. 

"Oh, no," the captain said. "We're about a click away. This is where we always park. That way, the ore transports can unload right into our cargo bay. They don't have to get held up going through the port authority." 

Or the health inspectors, Harper suddenly thought. She pulled her tricorder out of her pack and quietly scanned for radiation and toxic substances. Luckily, she found none. As they waited for the bus, Harper quietly reconfigured her tricorder to immediately set off an alarm if it detected any radiation. She left it turned on and clipped it to her waist belt. 

The "bus" was a Tellarite ground transport with eight fat tires. Painted a faded green, it rode up the field and parked alongside the ship. An umbilical extended from the side of the bus and attached itself to the hull of the ship, encircling the port external hatch. A loud hissing sound from the hatch told the passengers the umbilical connection was being pressurized. 

A green light came on above the hatch door. The captain unlocked the hatch and swung it open. Beyond, a short, circular tunnel led to a pale green hatch, that whooshed opened before them. 

"Thanks for riding with us," the first mate said, smiling as he waved. "Hope to see you again."

McGovern waved back. That'll be a cold day on Vulcan, he thought. The passengers threw their bags across the expanded tunnel and into the open hatch. They had to step down to cross the tunnel, and then step back up again for the bus. Gordon helped Harper up the step. The captain and the second mate followed the passengers out of the ship. They closed and locked the ship's hatch behind them. Once everyone was inside the bus, the pale green hatch closed. A loud clanking sound told them the umbilical was being retracted. 

The bus was big enough to seat about 40 individuals. This trip, the bus carried about 20 humans, Tellarites and various other aliens. A human in grey traveling clothes moved his feet out of the way of their luggage. One Tellarite male standing near the back gave McGovern a sour look as they boarded. A Klingon woman in a striped mumu sat holding what looked like a head of cabbage ... until it growled at Gordon when he started to sit down next to her. 

"Sorry!" he said, finding another seat. A cheerful bell signaled the umbilical was successfully retracted. The driver of the bus, an old, wrinkled Andorian with droopy antenna, put the vehicle in gear and it sped away, jerking and bumping down the shrouded runway. 

Harper kept checking her tricorder every minute or so. "Anything?" McGovern asked, looking over her shoulder. Harper shook her head. 

"This does kind of take the glamour out of space travel," Gordon said. He noticed the green shoulder bag at McGovern's feet. "Didn't there used to be three of those bags?"

"I piled everything into one," McGovern explained. "It seemed logical at the time." 

"Is this how the spaceport looked the last time you were here, Warren? Warren?"

"Strickland wasn't listening. He was staring out one of the windows. Beyond, through the misty air, a crew in domed helmets and bulky, grey suits struggled to unload a truckload of ore. The word SHALOM was stenciled in white letters across their chests. A wild idea suddenly flashed in his head. Strickland turned, his mouth opened to say something— but then he noticed Gordon sitting there, and stopped himself. He blinked, and said, "I vote we not spend the night here before moving on."

"I second that," McGovern said. 

"What are our options?" Harper said, leaning closer. 

"I saw a couple of scout ships in orbit while we were in the holding pattern," Strickland said. "Refueling from the dylithium processing plant on Centauri II, probably, or maybe transferring crews. We need to contact them and find out when's the next one leaving for Vulcan."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Harper said. "I still have lots of friends in Starfleet, and starships almost always have room for passengers." Beyond the windows, the bright lights of the spaceport scrolled by. Above, three spots of light glowed through the cloudy sky: Alpha Centauri's trinary sun. 

The bus screeched to a stop. There was a beeping sound as the old Andorian extended the umbilical to a blank hatch against a featureless grey wall. It connected, then hissed as it pressurized. A green light lit up over the pale green doors.  They, and the hatch doors beyond, both opened at the same time. The passengers that were not already standing now stood for departure. Two men in overalls appeared in the open hatch. Wearing gloves, they extended a gangway across from the hatch to the bus. Once it was in place, everyone started filing off the bus one by one. 

The group made their way, lugging their bags, across the gangway and through the hatch. Suddenly, they found themselves on a wide balcony overlooking one of the spaceport's vast open areas. Noise was everywhere. 

"Now where?" McGovern asked. Strickland grabbed the green shoulder bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. 

"You three contact Starfleet and see about passage to Vulcan," he said. He pointed to Gordon. "You're actually active Starfleet, so pull whatever weight you can."

"Where are you going?" Harper asked as Strickland turned to leave. 

"I'll see you at the Harbormaster's office," he said, heading for a wide staircase. "I'm gonna see somebody about a new suit." 

The three found themselves looking up at a high display hanging over the open area. "I could call one of the starships in orbit with my comm badge if I had a name," Gordon said. 

The board was ten meters high, with about two dozen rows of text and numbers. It listed ship names, arrival & departure, and docking ports, when they applied. The rows of displayed text alternated between English, Klingon, and at least three other languages. McGovern squinted at the rolling text. "I don't see any Starfleet ships up there at all," he said. 

"Ships of the line might not be," Harper admitted. "We need to find the nearest Starfleet coordinator's office." 

"And maybe a sandwich," McGovern said, eyeing an aromatic food stand a dozen meters away. 

Harper followed his gaze. "David, that's a Klingon snack bar. You know what Klingon food does to you."

"He might know where the Harbormaster's office is, though," Gordon said. Harper shrugged her shoulders, and the three approached the food stand. There was something barbecuing on a tiny grill, and she had to admit it did smell pretty good. 

"K'pla, friends!" said the large Klingon behind the counter. "Are you honorable enough to try some gagh?" he said, offering a cup of tiny, squirming creatures. Harper gasped and Gordon did a double-take, but McGovern just waved it away. 

"No, thanks," the general said, patting his stomach. "Gives me gas. We're looking for the Harbormaster's office." The Klingon started to answer, but then stared at the general, his eyes wide with surprise. 

"You! You are the McGovern... the Warrior McGovern!" he pointed. 

A short tram ride away, Strickland was walking down a long, cold stone corridor. Cut out of the solid bedrock, he was far below the hot, stormy surface. His footsteps echoed on the hard, stone floor. Eventually, a light appeared ahead. It illuminated a sign that read "Shalom Mining." He passed the one light and turned a corner to find a desk with a bored security guard asleep in a chair. Strickland cleared his throat. 

"Huh? What?" the guard said, waking up.

"I want to speak to the supervisor," Strickland said. 

The guard ran a hand across his face. "Oh! Um, do you have an appointment?" 

"No."

"Um, okay, it's the last door on the right."

"Thanks." Strickland walked past the guard and into a cavern carved out of solid rock. The ceiling rose about 20 meters above his head. Storage tanks filled the space, stacked almost to the rock above. Welding sparks flew from a masked worker working on a metal frame. One laborer carrying a stack of pipe gave Strickland a passing glance, then went about his business. 

Strickland stood in the open doorway of the supervisor's office. He smiled. "Hello, Bill." 

A portly, balding man with dark brown eyes looked up from his desk. "Well, I'll be damned!" he said. The one called Bill got up and shook Strickland's hand. "How the hell are you?"

"Doing fine, Bill," Strickland said. "Yourself?"

Bill waved out towards the cavern. "Business is good! Surveyors opened up a new vein last week. But, half my crew's out on vacation. It's always something, huh? How's the wife?"

Strickland looked down. "We, um..."

"Oh, damn," Bill said quietly. "I'm so sorry, Warren. When...?"

"It'll be a year this next spring." Bill had produced a bottle from a cabinet, and was pouring them each a short glass of green liquid. Bill raised his glass. "L'chaim!" he said.

Strickland returned the salute. "L'chaim!" They both downed the shots, then Strickland reached into the green bag. "I got something for you." He pulled out one of the dashiki shirts they produced at Jupiter Station. 

Bill smiled. "A Gerantan pobo shirt! For me?" He took it in his hands and held it up to his chest. "I'll be hot snot wearing this! Thanks!" He put the shirt away. "So... what brings you to the second worst hellhole in the universe?"

"Got a little project going," Strickland explained. "I was wondering if I could borrow two or three of your E-suits. Like the ones you've got the ore workers using on the surface." 

"A project," Bill repeated. "You mean like an art project?"

"You could say that."

Bill shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, why not? Might as well get some use out of them until the workers come back from leave. How long you need them for?"

"No more than a month."

Bill frowned. "Big project?"

"Small project," Strickland explained. "Far away."

"Ah. All right, let's get you suited-up." 

Several levels above them, the door to the Harbormaster's office opened for a Starfleet officer and what looked like two civilians. 

McGovern had been quiet the whole trip to the office. "That Klingon seemed really pleased to meet you, General," Gordon said. 

"Yeah," McGovern said finally. "I didn't really deserve any presents, though." He held the complimentary cup of squirming Gagh, watching the tiny creatures crawl around. "It is pretty clever how they curved the lip inward so they wouldn't crawl out..."

"Will you put that away!" Harper huffed, pushing past him and immediately changing her expression. "Hello!" she beamed, smiling at the young female ensign at the front desk. "I'm Admiral Francine Harper, Starfleet retired. My friends and I were looking for a lift on the next ship to Vulcan."

"Hello, admiral," the pretty ensign replied. "It's an honor to meet you. Let me see what I can do for you."

The ensign contacted the three starships in the system. Only one was headed for Vulcan that day: the USS Nathaniel Haskell. "I was on that ship once," McGovern said. "Marine detachment got deployed to Coventry II. Nothing happened."

The ensign handed Harper a small, plastic data card. "You're all set, admiral. Just give this to the chief in Transporter Room Eight, top level. The ship is scheduled to leave within the hour, though."

"Thank you so much," Harper said. "You've been too kind." 

"Not at all," she smiled. "Have a good trip!"

The three left the Harbormaster's office and found Strickland waiting for them on the balcony outside. "What kept you?" he said. 

Harper stepped forward. "Where have you been?"

"Visiting with an old friend. Did we get a ride?"

"Starship Haskell," replied McGovern. "Transporter Room Eight."

"That's on the top level. There's a lift over this way," Strickland pointed. "Thought we could use one of these, too." Behind him, his green shoulder bag hovered a meter off the deck on a silver, circular disc. 

"What did people do before they had hover discs?" McGovern asked.