CHAPTER 2

The buzzing sound of the transmission filled the library. Jon hoped no one was outside in the hall to hear it. He had no idea how he would explain the ghostlike apparition of Daniels to a nineteenth-century human. At least he now knew that their theory had been correct: they had indeed somehow time-traveled to Earth's past as a result of the Tlibrednav demonstration.

"Why are we on Earth?" he asked Daniels. "The Tlibrednav system was only supposed to work in time, not space. We're light-years away from where we were."

"Only Tlibrednav had used the system before you tried it," Daniels said, "so I suspect it has to do with the individuals involved. You were sent from current-day Tlibrednav to a comparable era on Earth when there was rapid industrialization and development. This is your species' past."

"If that is the case," T'Pol said, "I should be experiencing Vulcan's past."

Daniels' image fritzed out for a few seconds, then came back, catching him in midsentence. "-humans and only one Vulcan, so apparently there are limitations. All of you were sent to the home world of the majority."

"Why is Ensign Mayweather here?" Jon asked. "He wasn't anywhere near the apparatus."

Daniels threw up his hands. "I don't know!" He looked back over his shoulder at something only he could see. When he turned back to them, he spoke more quickly. "I have to hurry before I lose this connection." He looked at T'Pol. "I just barely managed for you to have suitable headgear so that your most noticeable physical Vulcan characteristic was hidden when you arrived here. Captain Archer, I inserted a cover story for you – one much like the ones used by the temporal agents of my time. You're a merchant sea captain who recently lost his ship in a storm off Long Island while returning from a trip to the Far East. You're visiting here at the invitation of one of this country's business leaders."

"So how do we return to where we're supposed to be?" Jon demanded.

"I can't just whisk you away. I don't quite understand it myself." Daniels' image was becoming increasingly unstable, the buzzing becoming louder. "Get to San Francisco," he shouted over the noise. "I'll have-"

There was a loud pop, and Daniels' image winked out.

The three humans and one Vulcan looked at one another.

"Well," Trip said, breaking the silence, "I was going to say we aren't in Kansas any more, but for all I know, we might be."

Jon began to pace back and forth. "Even if we understood the technology involved, there's no way we can reconstruct the Tlibrednav's device in this time period. The materials probably won't be available." He stopped pacing to look at his officers. "Daniels seemed pretty rattled."

"Sounds like the Tlibrednav's technology has thrown him for a loop," Trip said. "He admitted he doesn't understand it."

"Even so," Jon said, "He did say he was working on a way for us to get back. As much as it pains me to say it, I don't see any other option than to do as he suggested."

"Any place we stay for any length of time would lead to questions we either could not or should not answer," T'Pol noted. "Our mere presence could have repercussions. The effect on the time line could be irreparable."

Jon nodded in agreement. "Before we leave, we need to know exactly where we are. The newspaper is from New York City, but we could be elsewhere. Look around. See if there's anything in here that might give us a clue."

As the others began searching the room, Jon sat down at the desk. Despite the circumstances, he couldn't help but take a moment to admire its wood grain, sliding his fingers across the polished surface, before pushing the newspaper aside. It had already given them the year - 1890. They knew when they were, assuming the newspaper was recent.

The only other items on the desk were T'Pol's discarded hat, an ink bottle, and an oil lamp. Moving on to the drawers, Jon found several sheets of letterhead. He recognized the city in the address; he had lived in the region before moving to the West Coast with his father. "We're in upstate New York at a private home," he said, "but the name at the top of this stationery, Henry Flagler, doesn't ring a bell."

"Henry Flagler? Really?" Travis called down from the balcony. "He was a robber baron."

"A what?" Jon asked.

"A robber baron, or as they liked to call themselves, captains of industry." Travis came down the circular stairway. "I was fascinated by this era when I was a kid. All the new innovations, like airplanes and the first gasoline-powered vehicles, and even electricity, although it looks like they don't have that here yet." He gestured at the rows of books lining the walls. "This fits. All these books are fairly new, and most of them look like they've never been opened. That's typical of the Gilded Age. The rich showed off their wealth with material possessions."

"What do you know about Flagler?" Jon asked.

"If he has a place like this, he was very rich," Travis started. He thought for a moment. "He had something to do with transportation and maybe the energy industry."

"Oil," Trip said. "That fits this time period."

"Okay. We know where we are," Jon said, "so now we just have to figure out how we're going to get to San Francisco, and why."

"Starfleet headquarters is there," Trip said.

"Not yet," T'Pol countered.

"What's there now?" Jon asked.

Everyone looked at Travis, whose brow furrowed as he thought. "The gold rush was over," he said. "That's when San Francisco really starting growing. Um, there was maritime trade, since it has a natural harbor..."

"That would work with Daniels' cover story of me as a sea captain," Jon said. "But that can't be the only reason he said we should go there."

Trip, who had been walking around the library's lower level, stopped in front of a large portrait on the wall. "This is the guy who talked to us." He peered at a nameplate on the frame. "Henry Flagler."

Jon could see that the painting was a younger rendition of the man they had met. The white hair in the picture was thicker, the bags under the eyes a little less prominent, but it was the same man. "That clinches it. We're on his estate." He thought for a moment. "He called me by name, and said that we'd just returned from a journey to the Orient."

"That explains the reaction T'Pol's outfit got," Trip said. "Flagler bowed toward T'Pol when he mentioned the Orient. You've got to admit that her outfit looks kind of Oriental."

T'Pol tilted her head. "Considering that none of these people have seen formal Vulcan attire, it is logical that they assumed it was from Asia. The fabric is similar to silk produced there."

Trip nodded. "The Vulcan symbols on it could look like Mandarin to someone who didn't know any better."

Jon got to his feet to come around the desk to stand before his officers. "Flagler said we lost our ship in a storm. We can say we need to get to San Francisco to arrange for another ship for a return trip to the Orient." He frowned as he wondered if Enterprise was all right, and what the rest of the crew was doing about their disappearance.

"We'll have to cross an entire continent," Trip said. "How are we going to do that? The Wright brothers' first airplane flight wasn't for at least another decade. There wasn't even a network of passable roads until halfway into the next century."

"There were railroads," Travis said. "Henry Flagler probably has connections that could get us passage."

"We can't just ask for him to pay for all four of us to go across country, could we?" Trip asked. "It would be expensive."

Travis shrugged. "The robber barons were ruthless. They didn't do a lot of stuff out of the goodness of their hearts." He paused. "But he might help us if there was something in it for him."

Jon leaned back against the desk. "We don't have anything of value to give him. All we have are the clothes on our backs and our communicators, which I'm not even going to consider showing to these people, not after that one time."

"You mean when Malcolm lost his communicator on that prewarp planet, and you two were almost executed as spies?" Trip asked.

Jon nodded grimly. He had learned his lesson about interfering with less-advanced cultures. Their very presence might have led to an escalation of the planet's already unstable political situation, plus the web of lies he and his tactical officer had been forced to tell in an attempt to save their lives still left him feeling uneasy.

T'Pol shifted on her feet, avoiding their gazes. Jon recognized the mannerism. It usually meant she had thought of something but was reluctant to share it. At his inquisitive look, she picked up the newspaper from the desk.

"Nellie Bly went around the world," she said. "Perhaps we could propose a similar venture and ask for Mister Flagler's backing."

"That's already been done," Trip said. "I doubt anyone would want to back something like that a second time."

Travis snapped his fingers. "What if we want to go across country by train, and do newspaper stories about it? Flagler would probably jump at the chance for the publicity."

"That would require we produce results," T'Pol said. "None of us is affiliated with a newspaper."

"That we know of," Trip said, adding, "Too bad Daniels couldn't give us more details about this cover story we're supposed to have."

"That's one good thing about being dropped back in history," Travis pointed out. "We can make up anything we want to tell these people about our backgrounds since we don't have a history here before the moment we arrived."

"Risky," T'Pol said, "but as long as any of our supposed back history is not specific and cannot be verified, it might succeed."

Jon, drawing from his officers' conversation, was forming his own idea. He strode over to the bell pull, a rope of soft material with a tassel at the end, hanging from an attachment on the wall. He gave it a sharp tug. When the same servant who had shown Travis into the room opened the library doors less than a minute later, Jon said to him, "We would like to talk to Mister Flagler."

Three days later, Jon and his officers were on a train headed west. In retrospect, it seemed almost too easy.

"I would expect a portion of the profit when you return with a cargo of silk and other exotic trade goods," Flagler said after Jon had outlined his proposal.

"Of course," Jon answered. "With the loss of my ship in that storm, I have nothing to show but what we were able to take off with us in the dingy." He felt bad about lying to the man, but he couldn't think of another way to convince him to help them. Under Flagler's piercing gaze, he embellished his story. "I have established contacts in the Orient. The profit should be considerable."

"When you return to San Francisco after your voyage," Flagler said with a speculative gleam in his eye, "you can arrange to ship the goods by rail, and thereby avoid the dangerous journey around Cape Horn. Too bad that business about building a canal across Panama keeps running into trouble. It would cut several weeks off such a sea journey."

When Flagler had agreed to back Jon's proposal, the four officers had anticipated an arduous journey across country by steam train. But they found that they first had to take a horse carriage from the robber baron's estate to New York City to board the train. They had been pleasantly surprised upon arriving at Grand Central Depot, precursor of the soon-to-be-built Grand Central Terminal, to find that Flagler had arranged for a private Pullman car. All the fittings, from the plush armchairs to the carpeting on the floor and the heavy curtains covering the windows, were downright luxurious for the time. Of course, their benefactor had an ulterior motive in that he wanted good publicity to promote the fledgling cross-country travel business in which he had a stake.

Since it was a private car with its own sleeping berths, they wouldn't have to mingle with other passengers. Dining services would be provided. The car itself would be switched from train to train when they needed to change rail lines. They wouldn't even have to get off the train at stops along the way unless they wanted to.

Flagler had gone so far as to provide them with several changes of clothing. Jon was now dressed in a three-piece suit, as was Trip. Travis, whom Flagler had assumed was a servant, had been provided with plain but serviceable work pants and shirts, along with a coat. T'Pol had been outfitted with several traveling dresses, each of which had a small bustle and matching gloves. How she had managed to hide her ears during the fittings, Jon didn't know, but she now had several hats, each with decorations or ties that came down over her ears.

There had been only one time that Jon had been worried that Flagler would sense something was amiss. He frowned, recalling Flagler's questions about the propriety of an unmarried woman traveling with three men, none of whom was her husband or a relative. But Jon had vowed on his honor as a captain to safeguard T'Pol from all harm, whether physical or moral. He had even invented an old colleague, T'Pol's father, now dead, and hinted that he took his care of her seriously, as if she were his own daughter. Flagler had seemed satisfied.

Flagler looked at T'Pol, the hat having been restored to its place on her head before he had come to talk to them in the library, and eyed her Vulcan robe. "Yes, there could be quite a market for that material. It's nothing like what's produced in the mills here. The ladies were quite impressed with it when they saw you at the reception." He returned his gaze to Jon. "Miss Paul would write stories for newspaper publication about her visit to the Far East, in addition to a travelogue of your journey across country?"

T'Pol spoke up. "I cannot guarantee that my stories will be accepted by any newspaper."

"She's freelance," Trip put in. "Like Nellie Bly when she started."

"Miss Bly has made quite a name for herself." Flagler smiled. "You will, too, Miss Paul, if you are successful."

Jon hadn't given a thought to their names, particularly since Flagler had already called him by his rank and name, until he had introduced the others. When it had been T'Pol's turn, his mind had gone blank except for the thought that there was no way Flagler would believe she was a member of his crew. If he remembered his history correctly, strides had been made in women's rights in this time, but no women had served on merchant ships.

Trip had jumped in, introducing her as Miss Paul. That was close enough to her real name that it wouldn't be hard to remember, Jon thought. Then Flagler had asked what her pen name would be. She had taken her cue from Trip, saying she would use her first initial with her last name of Paul.

The train was currently passing through farmland in Ohio. Jon had tired of the scenery. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, letting the gentle rocking of the train relax him as he sat in one of the armchairs. He listened to Trip and T'Pol's conversation from across the car where they were seated in armchairs on either side of a small table covered with a white linen cloth.

"The T could stand for Therese," he heard Trip say.

"No," was T'Pol's response.

"How about Tabitha?" Trip suggested.

"No," T'Pol said yet again. "That is the name of a fictitious character who was the daughter of a witch. Many of the people of this era already are enamored of the so-called supernatural, as evinced by their belief in what was referred to as spirituality and their attempts to contact deceased relatives through the use of mediums. I do not wish to contribute, no matter how little, to that erroneous belief."

"Tabitha was a baby," Trip pointed out, "and she was from the next century's era of television."

Trip should know, Jon thought. The engineer was a fan of twentieth-century film and television, just like Travis was turning out to be their expert on the Gilded Age.

Jon let out a long sigh. He felt bad for Travis. Despite the American Civil War having ended two and a half decades earlier, the Gilded Age was still a time of prejudice and inequality. Flagler had assumed, based solely on the color of Travis' skin and his less formal standard jumpsuit, that the young man was Jon's servant. That appeared to be working in their favor, however, for Travis had already made acquaintances with some of the black porters who worked on the train. He now had access to areas and information that they as passengers would not be privy to. Travis had gone to the dining car to obtain their meal, and now was off returning the plates and cutlery to the dining car after they had eaten. Jon trusted that the young man wouldn't let anything slip that might give them away.

"I got it!" Trip said. "Tatiana. That sounds Russian. We can say you're originally from Russia. It would explain why you speak differently than everyone else. And there are certainly Russian sea captains – your father being one, of course."

There was quiet for a few moments, and then T'Pol said, "That is acceptable, if by speaking differently you mean more precisely and clearly than the vast majority of people we will encounter."

Jon smiled at her answer, which might have been a jab at Trip's own accent. Flagler had noticed it, too, asking what part of the South the engineer was from. It had turned out that Flagler had real estate dealings in Florida. The robber baron was planning another venture there in the near future; otherwise, he had informed them, he was tempted to join them on this cross-country trip. And wouldn't that have made this situation more complicated than it already was, Jon thought.

He was almost asleep, lulled by the rhythm of the rails, when Trip spoke once more.

"Tatiana Paul, lady reporter," Trip said. "Has a ring to it, doesn't it?"

Jon fell asleep before he heard her answer.