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He headed for the turbolift, only distantly aware that Harriman followed close behind.

In sickbay, Chekov continued to help the survivors. Other than their mental disorientation, the worst wounda facial cut, from a bulkhead fragmentbelonged to the pale man who had attacked the reporter, and now lay sedated under restraints. The two journalists made fairly efficient orderlies, and it seemed the situation would soon be under control.

As he worked, he found it easier to maintain his balance, and gradually came to realize that the ships shaking had eased. He smiled over at his two impromptu assistants, who were busily scanning patients.

You see? he called. The people on the bridge can be trusted to take care of things.

The two grinned with relief. Thank goodness, said the woman. I was beginning to think Id never get the chance to file a great

Chekov never heard the rest. The world suddenly heaved to one side, hurling him against a diagnostic bed. When the rocking subsided, he found himself on the deck atop the dark-skinned woman with the intriguing eyes. He scrambled to his feet. Are you all right?

She did not reply, but pushed herself to a sitting position. Her purple cap had fallen off; Chekov retrieved it and helped her on with it. She stared at him blankly as he offered her a hand, then pulled her to her feet and guided her back to the biobed.

All the while she stared, as though looking through him at another, more distant sight. And then suddenly she blinked, and seemed to see himreally see himand gazed intently up into his eyes.

Hes gone there, now. She said it so matter-of-factly, addressing Chekov with such lucid directness that he could not help responding.

Whos gone? Gone where?

To the other side. Her face grew somber with compassion. Hes gone.

Chekov glanced up as the female reporter called jubilantly, The shaking! Its stopped! But only for an instant; the El Aurian womans gaze compelled him to finish the conversation.

He was being foolish, of course, to think her words had any meaning. She had suffered a serious neural shock; she was raving. He tried to imagine how Dr. McCoy would handle this: Now, maam, you just lie back and relax …

He smiled again and patted her hand. Dont talk any more. You need to rest. Reluctantly, he turned away.

Your friend, she said, with such conviction that he looked back. But he shook off the strange current of fear her words evoked, smiling palely at his own irrationality, and began once more to move away.

Your friend, Jim, she said, and Chekov wheeled to face her.

Commander Chekov. Demoras voice filtered through the intercom. Her tone seemed strained, oddly formal. Captain Scott requests that you meet him on level fifteen, near engineering.

Still staring at the El Aurian womans inscrutable expression, Chekov made his way through the cluster of seated survivors to the nearest comm panel. Demora, what is it? Is something wrong?

But she had already terminated the link.

He left the remaining patients in the reporters care and ran to the nearest turbolift. Demoras terse message had filled him with profound uneasiness, verging on panic; even so, he did not permit himself to think, to suspect what he would find on level fifteen outside engineering until he arrived.

And saw Scott and Harriman, standing on the last few meters of unscorched corridor, staring silently beyond a flickering forcefield and the jagged remnants of a bulk. head into open space.

My God, Chekov whispered, as he stepped beside them. He knew before he asked what the answer to his question would be; he had seen it in Scotts defeated posture, even before he had seen his face. Was anyone in there?

Harriman gave him a look of such pure sympathy that Chekovs heart skipped a beat. Scott never looked at him, but gazed steadily out at blackness and stars before replying softly, Aye …

The rest of his time aboard the Enterprise-B was spent in a daze. He did not remember whether Scott or Harriman told him who