"I am having difficulty scanning the object," said Data. "However, it would appear to be at least two hundred million kilometers in diameter."

Riker looked to Picard. The captain's surprise mirrored his own.

"That's almost the size of Earth's...o...b..t around the sun," the first officer blurted.

"Indeed," said Picard. "Why didn't we detect it before now?"

Data swiveled in his chair to face him. "The object's enormous ma.s.s is causing a great deal of gravimetric subs.p.a.ce interference. That interference might have prevented our sensors from detecting the object before we dropped out of warp."

There was a beat as they all looked up at this strange object on the screen. Suddenly, a look of wonder came across Picard's face. He might have found something hitherto only imagined.

"Mr. Data," said Picard, "could this be a... a Dyson Sphere?"

Data seemed to ponder the information. "There is no comparative data, Captain. However, this object does fit the general parameters of Dyson's theory."

Riker looked from one of them to the other. "A Dyson Sphere?" he echoed.

Picard nodded. "It's a very old theory, Number One. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it." Turning again to the viewscreen, he regarded the dark ball. "A twentieth-century physicist, Freeman Dyson, postulated that an enormous hollow sphere could be constructed around a star. This would have the advantage of harnessing all the radiant energy of the star, not just a tiny fraction of it. A population living on the interior surface would therefore have a virtually inexhaustible source of power."

Riker's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying there might be people living in there?" he asked the captain.

The answer was supplied by Data. "Possibly a great number of people, Commander. The interior surface area of a sphere this size would be equivalent to that of more than two hundred fifty million cla.s.s-M planets."

Hard to believe, Riker told himself. He tried to picture a civilization thriving on the inside skin of the sphere. h.e.l.l, the horizon would curve up instead of down. And ...

His mind recoiled at the image. He'd seen his share of strange phenomena as first officer of the Enterprise, but none of them had prepared him for something like this.

Worf spoke up from his position behind the Tactical console. "Sir ... I have located the distress signal. It is coming from a point on the northern hemisphere."

Absorbing the information, Picard turned to the ensign at the conn. "Ensign Rager, take us into synchronous...o...b..t above that point."

"Aye, sir," said Rager, her fingers fairly flying over her controls.

They still had to answer the seventy-five-year-old distress call, Riker mused. But their interest in the Jenolen had already paled beside their interest in the sphere. Gradually, they pulled closer to it. And closer still.

Before long, the monstrous object looked like a giant wall in s.p.a.ce, stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see. Where before, the sphere had appeared perfectly smooth, it was now possible to discern intricate patterns on the surface-patterns that suggested construction supports. However, they were still too far away to make out anything distinct.

All eyes were riveted to the viewscreen. What they saw there was just too immense, too unique to miss a single detail.

At last, they achieved the synchronous...o...b..t that Picard had desired. "We are holding position at thirty thousand kilometers above the surface," announced Sousa.

"The distress signal is coming from a Federation ship that has impacted on the surface of the sphere," said Data. After a moment, he confirmed what they had already suspected. "It is the transport ship Jenolen, Captain."

"Life signs?" asked Riker.

"Our sensors show none," the android responded. "However, there are several small power emanations ... and life support is still functioning at minimum levels."

Out of the corner of his eye, Riker noticed Picard looking at him. He looked back and nodded.

"Bridge to engineering," announced the first officer. "Geordi, meet me in Transporter Room Three." Then, turning to the Klingon security chief, he said "Mr. Worf, you're with me."

As another crew member took over at Tactical, Worf followed Riker into the turbolift. The doors had barely closed when the Klingon grunted.

"I know," said Riker. "You'd rather be studying the insides of that sphere than the insides of a derelict transport vessel." He looked up at the lift's luminous ceiling and scowled. "I don't blame you. So would I."

As Geordi materialized on the Jenolen, with Riker on one side of him and Worf on the other, he scanned their surroundings. Before joining his colleagues in the transporter room, he'd taken a moment to study the layout of the vessel with Chief O'Brien-mostly to make sure they didn't beam themselves into a bulkhead-so he wasn't surprised at the size or configuration of the Ops center.

However, neither the first officer nor the security chief were quite so well prepared. "Cramped," commented Worf.

Riker nodded. "And it seems they did everything in here but cook dinner."

"Maybe that too," Geordi remarked.

Each of them took out his tricorder. "Come on," said the first officer. "Let's have a gander at the place."

The lights were dim and there didn't seem to be any equipment working at present, but that didn't present a problem to Geordi-who, thanks to his VISOR, could "see" almost as easily in the dark as in the light. Looking around, he made some mental notes.

One or two of the consoles were damaged or burnt out, there were piles of ash on the floor, and in several spots the bulkhead was caved in. "This ship really went through the ringer," he concluded, "even before it crashed. Wonder what happened to it."

Sniffing the air, Riker frowned. "Pretty stale," he observed.

Geordi consulted his tricorder. "Life support is barely operating."

Turning to Worf, the first officer said "See if you can increase the oxygen level, Lieutenant."

Nodding, Worf moved over to one of the consoles. Meanwhile, Geordi's tricorder led him to the transporter controls. Not that he expected to find anything of interest there, but he had to cover all the bases.

A moment later, he was glad he had. "Commander," said the chief engineer, his heart beating a little faster at his discovery.

Riker moved over to see what he'd found. "What is it, Geordi?"

"The transporter is still on-line," said La Forge. "It's being fed power from the auxiliary systems."

Riker bent over the transporter controls to do some checking of his own. "How about that," he muttered. "The rematerialization subroutine has been disabled."

"And that's not all," Geordi added. "The auxiliary phase inducers have been connected to the emitter array. The override is completely gone. And the pattern buffer's been locked into a continuous diagnostic cycle."

Riker shook his head. "This doesn't make any sense. Locking the unit in a diagnostic mode just sends inert matter flowing through the pattern buffer. Why would anyone want to-?"

Suddenly, Geordi saw something on the console-something he hadn't noticed before. "d.a.m.n," he breathed. "Someone's pattern is still in the buffer!"

If his heartbeat had accelerated before, it was pounding now.

Riker scrutinized the reading. "You're right," he concluded. "It's completely intact." The first officer looked up at him, amazed. "Less than point zero zero three signal degradation. How is that possible?"

"I don't know," said Geordi, his mind racing. "I've never seen a transporter system jury-rigged like this. He turned to the monitor again, aware that Riker was doing the same.

"Could someone... survive in a transporter buffer for seventy-five years?" asked the first officer.

Geordi bit his lip. Was it possible? It had never been attempted ... not to his knowledge, anyway. But...

"I know a way to find out," he said.

Riker looked at him. "You mean get him out? Or try to?" His brow knit. "a.s.suming, of course, that there's someone in there in the first place."

Geordi nodded. "Yup. That's just what I mean."

Riker thought for a second. "All right," he said. "Give it a shot."

Of course, it wouldn't be easy. It was one thing to run a twenty-fourth century transporter console, with all its automatic settings and its sophisticated backup systems-and quite another to try to salvage an ancient signal from a makeshift loop using yesterday's technology.

For instance, he didn't dare disconnect the phase inducers from the emitter array. Even though he could probably draw more power at this point from the auxiliary battery, the switch-over would leave the pattern buffer without juice for a split second-and that might be time enough for the signal to degenerate.

No, he would let the present connection stand-and just bypa.s.s the melded circuits that had turned the diagnostic function into a continuous cycle. Then it would just be a matter of re-enabling the rematerialization subroutine and ... if he was lucky... presto... one very weary transporter-traveler.

Ever so carefully, Geordi carried out his plan. The first part went as smooth as silk. The second, not so smooth.

"What's the matter?" asked Riker, seeing the look on the engineer's face.

Geordi shook his head. "The subroutine that governs rematerialization. It doesn't seem to want to come back."

The first officer grunted. "Don't give it a choice."

"I won't," Geordi agreed. This time, he took a different tack-and broke out into a grin.

"You got it?" Riker guessed.

"I got it."

Only one thing left to do now, Geordi mused. Activating a final control, he looked to the tiny transporter platform.

In the next instant, he saw the beginnings of an old-fashioned transporter effect-both less stable and less spectacular than the one with which he was familiar. Inwardly, he cheered the unit on.

Come on, d.a.m.n it. Work-just one more time. Spit this guy out.

At last, a figure took shape. It wavered in the beam, taking on density at a snail's pace, until Geordi wasn't sure it would ever materialize completely. Then, with a last surge of energy, the shape became a man.

"My G.o.d," said Riker. "You did it."

And so he had. For what stood before them was a living, breathing denizen of the twenty-third century. And except for the arm he held in a sling, he was hardly the worse for wear.

Chapter Three.

FOR A MOMENT OR TWO, Scott was overcome by a wave of vertigo. He didn't know who he was, much less where he was. His arm was in a sling, though he didn't remember how it had gotten that way. Then his reeling senses started to steady themselves and it all came flooding back to him.

He was in the Jenolen-in the Ops center. They'd crashed. Only he and Ensign Franklin had survived. And with a dearth of supplies staring them in the face, their only hope had been ...

He looked around. There were two men standing in front of the transporter platform, looking at him. Staring, actually. One of them, the shorter of the two, wore a strange high-tech band around his eyes. Both sported uniforms that he'd never seen before. But they were blessedly human and neither of them seemed to pose a threat to him.

Besides which, they'd rescued him from the transporter loop. So how bad could they possibly be?

The transporter loop, he thought. Franklin. Where was Franklin?

Shaking off his wooziness, Scott came down off the platform and headed straight for the transporter control console. As he pa.s.sed his rescuers, he graced them with a single nod.

"Thank ye, lads," he said.

Seemingly fascinated by him, they stepped aside to let him bustle by. No sooner had Scott reached the console than he began checking out its monitors ... verifying his readings...

"We've got to get Franklin out of there," he said, more to himself than to either of the two onlookers.

"Someone else's pattern is still in the buffer?" asked the one with the high-tech band. There was a note of genuine concern in his voice.

"Aye," Scott said absently. "Matt Franklin and I went in together."

Almost done, he told himself. Another couple of levels to examine. Here ... and here ... and then he'd...

Wait a minute. Scott stared at the last monitor, the one that covered the inducers. He didn't like this. He didn't like this one wee bit.

"Something's wrong," he said out loud, hearing the strain of panic in his voice. "One of the inducers has failed ..." Turning to the man in the band, he barked "Boost the gain on the matter stream."

The man complied, apparently unhampered by the thing on his face. Moving to a nearby console, he carried out Scott's instructions.

"Come on, Franklin," he breathed, trying to dredge up more information. As long as the lad's signal pattern was unaffected, he could bypa.s.s the bad inducer and bring him back through one of the good ones. "Don't give up, Matt. I know you're in there. I can hear your electrons buzzin'..."

Scott's mouth had gone dry, so dry he could barely swallow. He worked furiously at his instruments, certain that he could perform one more miracle. After all, he'd pulled Jim Kirk's bacon out of worse fires. What made this any different?

And then he saw it, flashing on one of the screens in a graphic so bright it made his eyes hurt. Franklin's signal profile.

No, he thought. Oh lord, no.

For a time, he didn't know how long exactly, he was transfixed. When he tore his eyes from the graphic at last, they were moist with sorrow.

The two who'd rescued him just stood there, not saying a word. After all, they hadn't known Matt Franklin. Only he had.

Still, it seemed that someone had to say it. And since it was his friend...

"It's no use. The signal pattern's been degraded by fifty-three percent," Scott whispered, unable to muster anything louder. "He's gone."

Despite the lack of force with which they were uttered, the last two words seemed to reverberate through the Ops center. The man wearing the band frowned and looked away.

"I'm sorry," said the other man, the taller one. He had the look of an officer who'd lost men himself. He seemed to know how it felt.