Page 3

Berger looked cockeyed at him; "The Great Depression? You mean like, in the 1930s Great Depression? The collapse of capitalist ideology?"

"Exactly." Kirk again shook his head and shrugged, helplessly.

He ran a hand distractedly over several antique books on the shelf; he and Berger shared a common interest as bibliophiles. His eyes suddenly widened, and he stopped on one book, in particular. He jerked it out, and gazed intently at the cover.

"What is it?" Berger asked.

Kirk held it up, cover toward the psychologist. "Baby and Child Care", he said slowly, clearly mystified, "..by Dr. Benjamin L…..Spock." He smiled triumphantly. "Frank, that’s one of the names in my dream! Spock!" He waved his hand jerkily, trying to clear his thoughts.

Berger’s face and brow drew into a dismissive scowl. "Jim, that man’s been dead for almost three hundred years…" he said.

 "Not the author, Frank," he said gruffly, "…some other….person. The name; Spock." He snapped his fingers lightly and repeatedly, staring away, his waking mind trying to grasp the tenuous threads of his dreams, disturbingly vivid as they were. "Tall…greenish-yellow skin tone…odd hairstyle, pointed ears…angled eyebrows. Weird-looking guy."

"Sounds like it," Berger said cautiously, brow rising slightly, and subtly scribbled something in the file open on his lap. Kirk’s lips thinned visibly as he watched.

Spock…..

McCoy sat dejectedly at the bar and sipped his bourbon. He’d been so exhausted, that he’d slept through the alarm, and had missed his court appearance. In turn, he had also lost his case and his chance at a partnership, if not his job itself. That was still a possibility, too.

As he sat there, he considered the damned dreams; how vibrant, and disturbing, they were. Details that he felt he knew, somehow, but had never experienced. A hairy monster with suckers on its huge, elongated fingers; something called….cordrazine? Who was ‘Jim’? The only Jim he knew was a fellow attorney, but he knew, somehow, that it wasn’t him.

He downed the last of the bourbon, set the glass to the worn oak bar, and motioned for another. The bartender complied.

He shook his head and sipped his drink again. What were they? What did they mean?

With no answers at hand, he downed his drink, left and headed for home, taking a dingy yellow Hovercab.

Three nights later, as all three men slept, each unaware of the other, the dreams began again. But this one was different; it was exactly the same for all of them. This dream consisted of instructions; of a vision of another planet: ashy, desolate, eternally twilit. An image of an object which was familiar and yet not; a large object they somehow knew was the originator of their torments: a broad, round-ish stone formation, open in the middle. It was surrounded by tumbled ruins, eroded by time and by an endless, forlorn wind, and which stretched to the horizon. An ancient city, a world, lost when the system’s sun swelled, eons ago.

It was the first time they all knew, for definite fact, two other names. For McCoy, Kirk and Scott; for Scott, Kirk and McCoy; for Kirk, McCoy and Scott. Recognizable faces. And a clear location: San Francisco. They were to meet each other there; a café on a pier; the compulsion now became undeniable. And they were left with a name, as well, for their tormenter: it was called the Guardian of Forever.

McCoy and Scott had it easier; neither was married. Kirk’s path wasn’t so easy. He considered leveling with his wife, and telling her exactly what was going on, but then, she’d probably think he was insane and have him committed. He hated to lie to her, but what else could he do? He planted some plausible alibis, at home and around the station; a moderately unnecessary trip to San Francisco, for a law enforcement seminar he’d heard about. No one thought anything of it, and that was good.

Two and a half weeks later, Kirk stepped onto the pier about which he’d dreamed several times, since. He stood for a few moments, looking out at the fog-shrouded Bay, and the blue Pacific, beyond, listening to the eternal slosh and crash of waves against the shore.

[ Continue to page 4 ]