The California was at rest relative to the wormhole; all her instruments focused on the surrounding space looking for further debris. The subdued light of the hole's aurora gleamed softly on her graceful hull; an occasional flicker shone brightly when some molecular object struck her navigational shields and was deflected back into the void.

Lieutenant Alejandro Spanos sprawled in the soft, reclining chair in the cabin he shared with Lieutenant Helen Alexander, remotely monitoring the bridge sensor station through his cabin comlink. Through one of the large, squarish viewports in the bulkhead he could see the inky blueness of the vacuum punctuated by the bright red, blue and white stars surrounding the ship. Somewhere in that unfathomable vastness lay the planets of the Confederation, fifty worlds loosely unified by the common bond of humanity. Spanos knew that the nearest of those worlds was nearly three weeks away as the California traveled, and that he and the rest of the crew were alone in the quadrant.

Music played quietly in the cabin, coming from the ship's monumental library of classics, and Spanos was trying to relax while he remotely monitored the sensor station. He was off shift, but distrusted Lieutenant Commander Piotrowski's ability to discover the source of the tachyon stream, the mysterious signals of Lieutenant Erik Rhodes or the origin of the fragment retrieved from the dustcloud around the wormhole.

"Computer, open my personal log," he orally instructed his monitor. He hadn't made any entries for a long time.

"Four, twenty-six, twenty-two thirty," he began. "The past several weeks have seen much excitement aboard the California. We have lost a crewmember, discovered a wormhole, collected a possibly alien artifact, intercepted unusual transmissions and perhaps discovered the first signs of an alien intelligence." He paused for a moment, rubbing his lower lip carefully against his teeth with his right index finger. "Andrew Howe, one of our better surveyboat pilots, has been lost for six weeks. The Commodore ordered a search, and we have been sweeping this area. We have no physical evidence that he has come this direction, but the coincidence of a wormhole and artifacts in such close proximity to his last known position leads me to believe that he has gone through this wormhole." Spanos paused again, this time to stand up and pace the four meter length of the cabin. "Rhodes has asked for, and I have reported, my telemetric data, especially with regard to transmissions made from my station for the purpose of obtaining data on the wormhole and nearby space. Erik believes that some EM echoes he is picking up are related to Howe's disappearance, but wants to rule out the possibility that the echoes are byproducts of the California's presence."

God, thought Spanos, I've done this all my life, but I still can't get over talking to a machine.

"I'm inclined to think that Howe may have discovered the same echoes as Mr. Rhodes and went to investigate; or they're his transmissions distorted by the wormhole. The only way we're going to know for sure is to either decipher the transmissions or follow them through the wormhole.

"I'm inclined to think we'll end up following."

Spanos sprawled face up on the double bed, head up against the inner bulkhead of the cabin. The opposite bulkhead was punctuated by three, meter-high windows, revealing the still starfield, like diamond dust on black velvet.

"Computer, end entry," Spanos propped himself on his elbows, gazing out at the still awe-inspiring view. Despite his six years in the Service, he still felt a twinge of amazement at the sheer size of the galaxy.

The display of his data terminal winked insistently as he contemplated the view through the ports.