Forcing himself to relax, Jerry Richardson sank back against the head of the oversized bed. On the other side, Yeoman S'Parva mirrored his actions, a wide grin spreading across her canine features.

"What's the matter, Jerry?" she asked. "Afraid I'll bite?"

Richardson laughed, unprepared for humor. He glanced around the lab, trying to ignore the fact that conditions were something less than ideal. On the other side of the privacy divider, two technicians would be monitoring heartrate, blood pressure, respiration, electroencephalograms and various other critical bodily functions during the experimental telepathic link. He felt himself blush all the way down to his toenails, then chastised himself for his own nervousness. But despite the dual-universe rumors which had been making the rounds, and regardless of the fact that the experiment could well shed some light on an apparently grim subject, he found relaxation impossible.

"Let's just say I never reallybelieved you'd agree to this," he replied at last.

Across the bed, S'Parva shrugged. "You forget that Katellans aren't Vulcans," she reminded him. "Telepathy is the main form of communication on Katella—and not at all unpleasant."

Richardson swallowed. That's what I'm afraid of!he said to himself. But he managed a smile. "Is there anything we have to do first?" he asked. "Take out the garbage, walk the cat … get married?"

Laughing, S'Parva shook her head. "All you have to do is let me come into your mind," she replied. "The rest'll be easy." She propped herself up on one elbow, meeting the ensign's expectant gaze. "And presuming there issomething out of sync, it shouldn't make any difference to the higher consciousness. I'll be … acting as a guide mainly," she continued, "helping you follow any images you receive." She looked over her head. "And all of it will be automatically recorded on the vid-scanner for analysis."

Richardson frowned thoughtfully. "So … theoretically, the mind will just slip back into its natural … universe." He wanted to laugh, to cry, to do anything at all to break the sudden tension. "I could," he ventured, "find myself sweeping the men's room at the bus station!"

The Katellan winked. "Or working as an Orion slave trader," she suggested as an alternative.

The human sighed deeply, grateful that S'Parva had taken the time to explain the current theories to him. But the idea of an entirely different universe … He shuddered. "Okay," he conceded at last. "In the name of science, let's get on with it." In the name of science. He made a mental note to strangle his roommate at the next possible opportunity.

After a moment, S'Parva nodded toward the technician who was waiting just outside the privacy divider. The young lieutenant disappeared, and the lights dimmed to night normal.

In the darkness, Richardson breathed deeply, feeling the Katellan's soft-furred hand slide into his own, fingers entwining reassuringly. He was peripherally aware of the hum of medical monitoring equipment, and of the gentle surge of psychic warmth which he felt from his partner. He smiled to himself … and reality slowly spun out of focus as their minds joined.

Curved corridors swam into being. Familiar … yet different. He chose a well-lighted one, walked down it slowly, stopping in front of a well-known door and glancing up to see the nameplate.

LIEUTENANT JEREMY J. RICHARDSON

Part of him blinked disbelievingly. Lieutenant?

Go into the room, Jerry, S'Parva's distant voice urged.

He stared at the door, wondering what he would find on the other side. Himself?

Go ahead, S'Parva whispered. It can't hurt you. . . .

He took a deep breath, heard it in stereo. For an instant, he felt something walk through him, pass through his soul. He wondered fleetingly if it was Lieutenant Richardson. He shivered, feeling out of place. A phantom hand reached out, touched the door, verified solidity and reality.

But before he could enter the room, footsteps sounded gently on the deck behind him. He turned, startled, and felt himself slip deeper into the illusion which was far more "real" than anything he'd encountered in days.

"Morning, Captain," he said before his conscious mind which was still somewhere in an alternate reality could stop him. "The night crew had a little poker party up on the bridge, so just ignore the stale beer and peanuts in your chair."

Hazel eyes sparkled warmly, and a man in a gold command tunic winked. "Sure, Jerry," the captain agreed with a grin. "But I'll have to tell Lieutenant Masters that you won't be able to keep that date I set up for you—since you'll be too busy down in the brig."

Richardson laughed, yawning. "Night, sir," he said. "Or good morning."

The captain continued on down the corridor as Richardson slipped through the double doors without a second thought. Inside, he tugged off the shirt, sat on the edge of the bed, and removed the black boots.

It was comfortable, he thought, not knowing precisely what he was comparing "it" to.

But he leaned back on the bed and closed tired brown eyes.

He would stay.

"Jerry?"

Cold water splashed on his face.

"Jerry, open your eyes! For chrissake, open your eyes!"

He rolled away, disappointed. The room changed. The bed was no longer soft. "Go 'way," he muttered miserably.

Someone pulled him into a sitting position, hands rubbed briskly across his neck and shoulders. A feminine voice coaxed him back to reality.

It hurt.

Lieutenant … bridge posting … best ship in the Fleet.

"Go 'way!" Anger now. Resentment.

"Jerry, I'm coming into your mind again," S'Parva's voice informed him in a tone which left no room for argument. "I'm going to pull you back." But she was in a tunnel somewhere.

No … "No …"

Something slid warmly into his mind, caressing him, holding him, comforting him in soft brown arms. He moved toward it, sensing protection. For a moment, he tasted the flavor of peace. Home…

But as quickly as the feeling of solace came, it was pulled away, ripped from him—gently, if possible. He moaned aloud.

Stop fighting me, Jerry, a tender voice whispered. You can't stay … at least not now. Your body can't exist without your mind … not on two different planes. You have to come back.

He felt himself breathe, wondered why it felt unnatural. Home…?

Yes, S'Parva said gently. But you can't stay. We need you here, Jerry. Follow me back into the light. . . .

He sighed to himself, and slipped away from the man on the bed. Like levitation, he thought consciously. Or astral travel … Lieutenant Richardson would have to wait … for a while.

His eyes opened, back on the ShiKahr.

"Jim," he murmured. "Captain Kirk!"

The command chair rose around his slim frame, surrounding him with an ever-increasing feeling of responsibility and weariness. An eyebrow rose. Illogical consideration. But Time pressed forward. Time … hot and red and lethal. Time …

"Status report, Mister Sulu?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary at the moment, Captain," the helmsman responded. "Sensors were picking up a blip of some sort earlier," he added, "but it faded almost as quickly as it appeared." He glanced toward Chekov.