The inhabitants of Vartos were overjoyed to see their solar engineer, Naveen, and they very gladly put a room at his disposal, giving him an open platform to practice his Scientific Achievement Award acceptance speech.  He was a great and intelligent man, the man responsible for blowing up stars, and the one who was going to bring his people into the next century, using a solar-powered technology other systems had only dreamed possible.

   The Vartosian city was small, a white domelike structure built on the side of a mountain, overlooking a long valley in which there was a dense patch of bracken, some fifty acres in extent.  The fernlike depression was surrounded on four sides by cultivated land, and just beyond that were groves and a plentiful fruit forest.

   While the ceremony was being prepared, the elders of the city brunched and sat around a long white table and talked.  Naveen stood before them and listened very carefully to what they had to say.  They reported that fifteen months earlier, during the second eclipse of their moon, and the last season's devastating meteor shower, two Vartosian astronauts and two astrophysicists had been killed in the area of the Central Sun, and all by an unintended fireball.  Their research cruiser had been obliterated and because of this, the council was too frightened to order an attempt to recover interplanetary cargo, bodies, or space debris.  And the most recent fireball sighting had taken place only seven days before Naveen's arrival.

   “In some systems the sun can change its trajectory and expand,” he explained to the elders. “But I'm convinced it's nothing.  The fireballs may be nothing more than solar flares.” Also, he knew solar flares could be manipulated and used for a new kind of energy source.  Still, assuring the elders there was absolutely nothing to worry about, he was prepared to bet his life on his assumptions.

   After a lifelong acquaintance with the stars, he was no less afraid of a disaster than the elders were.  But then who wouldn't be? Fireballs were responsible for a great deal of destruction, some of the universe's most appalling catastrophes.  But years of observing them and realizing their potential had given him considerable know-how in using them to his advantage and knowledge in many constellations' habits.  Still, there were times when the elders disagreed with his conjectures and theories…for Vartos now found itself in a predicament similar to other systems.

   “Humans are obviously capable of immense variation,” he argued, hoping the elders would still consider his theory, “so why wouldn't they be capable of sucking energy from the sun? Look how far our race has come.  We came from earth over a thousand years ago hoping to succeed in the area of solar science.  We infinitely hoped to bank our resources, recycle what we used, and prevent the deterioration of plant life and the overall decaying of our environment.  And now here we are, a dying world, in need of nourishment, possibly threatened by fire from the sky and you tell me it's a risk?”

   “You are an intelligent man, Naveen, and we're not saying your solar science has faults,” said Elder Gharmen, speaking from a practical viewpoint. “Otherwise we wouldn't have awarded you with our highest honor.”

   “Meaning?”

   “Meaning we can't take the chance.  This time it's Vartos we're talking about.” The elder stopped momentarily, then said: “It would be different if elsewhere.”

   “Naveen, your new kind of energy source is a marvelous idea,” said Elder Lira tenderly, the only female residing among the council, “but if we're not careful, our civilization as we know it could very well be incinerated.  Since the fireballs came from the Central Sun, the Vartosian extinction rate has already risen to a hundred for every man, woman, and child.”

   “And if it wasn't for humans colonizing other worlds in other systems,” added the gray-haired Elder Poppoff, “and changing their race and religion according to their habitats, the extinction rate would be much higher.”

   “You remember the mishap with our genesis world,” said Gharmen, speaking of a time when solar engineering was in its early stages. “We even nicknamed the planet Pyro, because it now exists as a burnt cinder in space.  And I'm sure you're well aware of the Vorrellian supernova, or what's happening on some of the more plague-infested worlds such as Torfegay.”

   “But I'm not responsible for these occurrences,” said Naveen in cold alarm. “I do not induce supernovas or such activity thereof.  Some of what you just told me I wasn't even aware of.”

   “Well, you are now,” said Gharmen, “and red dwarves are responsible for it.”

   “Our sun isn't a dwarf,” said Naveen. “It didn't erupt from a neutron either.  I told you once before, it's a central star---a ball of fire with a mass at least fifty to seventy times greater than Jupiter.  Red dwarves usually have average mass or small volume, of which density may be a ton per cubic inch.”

   “Please, it isn't necessary to portray an example of your genius,” said Poppoff, who had listened respectfully.

   “I agree,” said Elder Lira, with unsteady lips and fingers twined and untwined habitually. “A person doesn't have to map the heavens to tell us this.  We already know.”

   “It's just a dangerous task, too close,” remarked Gharmen. “Something which could affect our beloved planet as a whole.  You have no safety measures, no crew to back you up, no proper---”

   “But I do have!” Naveen interjected with exclamatory eyes, and with a smack of his hand against the table. “I have a whole list of precautions.  What am I, your neophyte? Please,” he laughed. “I agree, we're talking about the Central Sun here.  Still, the procedure would be very much the same and safer than my ten previous ignitions over the last twelve parsecs.  How do I know? I've tested every sequence out already on stars in uninhabited areas of space.  I am revered by my peers.  My experiments have been published in journals and this special hundred-and-sixty-page pamphlet”---which he now held in hand---“for aspiring solar engineers.  Oh, and if you note the first few pages, you'll see that all necessary precautions and/or safety measures have been recorded.”

   He threw the booklet on the table for them to view, watching respectfully and especially Gharmen, for some sign of approval.  He'd put a lot of work in printing up that pamphlet for future generations of engineers, the same way one might do with a thesis.  He was undoubtedly hungry for commendation, egoistic.  But there still remained Gharmen. 

   Elder Gharmen was the deciding vote.

   Gharmen leaned back in his seat.  He didn't say a word.  Neither did the other elders.  If there was one thing he didn't like it was for someone younger than him, this being Naveen, to make his dominance among the council look inferior, make his overall judgment sound stupid and weak.  Naveen wasn't that young himself… but he did make his synopsis of things look outright foolish.

   Gharmen took hold of the pamphlet and flipped through it in a quick flowing motion, practically thumbing it.  He glimpsed here and there, mostly at the words and paragraphs underlined in red, muttering under his tongue, “Safety procedure concise.” Then he brought up his chin and nodded. “I must admit, your pamphlet and report are well-groomed.  So what's next? What about those fireballs? Tell us, Naveen, how do you plan on harnessing the rays---or our ‘so-called' solar flares---of the Central Sun?”

   “And keep potential supernova in mind as well,” added Poppoff concernedly.

   Naveen smiled. “Refractor spheres,” he said simply. “Two, maybe three dozen of them if necessary.  They're small reflective orbs, almost like giant globes.  They sit in my cargo hold as we speak: spheres lined in a reflective duralumin glass, the whole batch of which I plan to launch from my personal cruiser, the Tri-Scout.  It should work.  Twenty-four of these remote-controlled globes will be put in orbital symmetry around the Central Sun.  Once they're in position, they'll draw the heat and light of the flares or fireballs and beam inordinate amounts of energy back to the main reflectors in the city.” He pointed upwards toward the ceiling. “Yes, your mirror-framed dishes along the dome's roofs.”

   “Interesting,” said Elder Lira. “And can we use that energy any way we wish?”

   “Yes,” said Naveen, without hesitation.  He sounded much more humble and informative than before, and his eyes swung around the room. “You can generate electricity, grow plants and vegetation, operate and use industrial machinery, and many other considerable means.  Anything! The possibilities are endless.  You see there is a meaning behind refraction: the changing of direction of a ray of light or heat source, in passing tortuously from one mean into another in which the speed of propagation differs.  My heat and light-sensitive microchips and the duralumin plating make that possible.  I designed and integrated it.  It sure beats going back to blowing up stars for a living.”

   “And everything will be operated by a remote control?” asked Poppoff, as the science behind the mission lightened his stone-hard face.

   “Right from my ship and your headquarters,” he replied with an edifying tone of voice. “You've got two of them.  This way you can always shut it down in case of an emergency.  I assure you, no meltdowns whatsoever.  If you read my pamphlet from beginning to end, you'll see that that's unlikely.”

   “How will you place the spheres in their prospective orbits?” asked Gharmen, still in doubt.

   “I've recently had construction appendages made of thick titanium put on the Tri-Scout.  I can use these metal claws to position them.  After that, the gravity of the Central Sun will take over and pull it inwards.”

   “How long do you plan on being out there?” asked Lira, her eyes glinting with interest.  It was a question all the elders wanted answered.  How long would it be before the whole of Vartos was under the influence---a positive and safe influence ---of the Central Sun?

   “A mere two days, three at most,” answered Naveen, smiling lightly. “Then all power is yours.  Have confidence…I will be successful. With the permission of the council, I would like to dub the mission the ‘Fireball Effect', write an article on it when I return.  I feel that the success of it should be recorded in the archives for future generations of solar engineers.  It would make an invaluable lesson.”

   “Permission granted,” Elder Lira said with a smiling nod.

   “Well, I guess you've won my approval too, Naveen,” Gharmen then said. “Go ahead and proceed---but on one condition: I send one of my men with you, an old officer friend of mine with military expertise.  It will be a mission of solar science, not an undertaking of military intervention, I promise; I just feel it's necessary for such a delicate operation…and don't think I'm distrustful.  Marshal Sturgeon may prove invaluable.”

   Naveen scratched his well-groomed goatee in thought for a second.  Thoughts of an uncertain past stirred inside his mind, memories flooded him. “Sturgeon? It rings a bell,” he murmured. “Where have I heard that name before?”

   “Everyone's heard of Sturgeon,” Gharmen leaned forward and said. “Where is your memory at, Naveen? He was a senior officer on the planet Torfegay. Oh, and speaking of Torfegay, how's your brother Loge doing?”

   “Fine, thank you.  I believe he's found work in a laboratory on the lower sides of the city.” But he did not seem too interested or concerned about his brother; he hadn't even communicated with him in a very long time.  He was more interested in Sturgeon. 

   Why did that name sound so familiar, he thought to himself.

*     *     *     *     *

TWO YEARS EARLIER…

   The approach of the nomads had been recorded on one of the most advanced security scanning systems in the Torfani galaxy.  A robotic-like voice was echoing through the walkways and tunnels known as the deeps, which connected many of the upper towers surrounding the desert clock.  From the robotic-like voice in the tunnels came some kind of an alert:

   Emergency identification required.  Code orange.  Emergency identification required.  Please report to gate seven.  Two unauthorized males approximately ten yards away.  Entry imminent.  Central guard stand to at gate seven!

   And it reflected great credit on the underground dwellers that they responded promptly and efficiently to the system's call.  There were very few emergencies on Torfegay, and least of all within the deeps, that impressive underground complex of civilians turned soldiers and salt miners---very few visitors too, since the plague was confined outdoors.  Nobody was allowed in or out, no one--and not for at least five years.  Usually the central guard's primary function was to keep order among the workers, add color and dignity to the deeps.  Success and solitude was almost an obsession for them.  They had come of age in a poisoned world where success, or lack of it, was the difference between splendor and humiliation.  Nevertheless, within minutes of the alert six of them came pounding into the murky, still-empty passageway of gate seven, spreading out in an armed cordon.  The soldiers waited tensely, sharp-eyed young cadets, handpicked from some of the oldest families on the planet.  Service in the central guard and the underground mines was a keenly-sought honor; even considered more honorable than being a construction worker for the biggest timepiece in the universe.

   A strange, rumbling sound shattered the silence.  Then the hatch opened, and beneath its pointy arches a couple of cloth-covered feet appeared.  Were these the dangerous intruders the robotic drone alerted them of? Were these the right men even? The males the scanning system spoke of…required an identification report from? The main computer, being underground and in shadowy conditions, might have had a slight glitch.  Their nomadic garments were contaminated-looking, yet their faces were clean and brisk.  This was an oddity.  They were probably nothing more than desert tramps looking for a handout.  Still, the guard had their orders.  Hands clutching their rifles in unaccustomed excitement, they waited for further instructions. 

   “Senior patrol arriving soon,” said the robotic voice over the blaring speakers, which adorned the gate seven passageway. “Prepare for identification analysis.” A green light appeared over the two men's heads. “Conducting further analysis: two males, approximately ages thirty-five to forty, drug and disease free, neither from this installation nor the upper clock tower.” The voice stopped briefly, then added a moment later, “Intelligence levels 5.0%, Constitution levels 7.5%, Essence levels 6.8%.  No evidence of labor marks on face and hands.  Two males not salt miners.  They are either nomads or wanderers.  Still, proceed with cautionary measures.”

   “Those were good scans,” whispered one of the guards. “Good level readings.”

   “Hmm…I know,” whispered another back, “but no matter which way you look at it they're still drifters of Torfegay's outer regions.  We must still follow the code orange procedure and approach with caution.”

   The first cloth-covered man studied the armed men, recognizing the complex immediately. “When I saw that clock in the distance,” he finally said, “I knew that we still had hope.” His voice was thin and raspy, but gentle and polite. “And when I walked down that sandy metal ramp and you opened up, I knew my partner and I were saved.  The last of our rations ran out days ago during a storm.” He studied his surroundings for a moment, continuing on with, “I take it this is the infamous deeps, where the miners and their families took refuge during the pitiful ‘Death of the Sands' era.  A disgusting hovel but still, modern technology within and we are both grateful we found it.” He stepped forward enthusiastically, extending a hand to the first armed guard to greet him.  No handshake was given in return, and the six of them looked dangerously keyed-up, capable of shooting him at any minute. “Well, are we welcome or what? We've traveled halfway across the planet.”

   “That's what we're afraid of,” one of the guards then said, seriousness evident among his facial features.

   “What do you mean?” The nomad was confused. “We're both peaceful and we only want to make your acquaintance.  Can't I even do that?”

   “Please stay where you are, sir,” the guard told him, taking one step back.

   The nomad was now puzzled. “What is the meaning of this?”

   There was a moment of significant silence, and then: “You must understand,” said a mysterious voice from beyond the passageway, “that nowadays there is an even far greater plague out there than the Death of the Sands.  How long have you been out in the rainstorm?”

   The first nomad, who finally introduced himself as Loge, replied in confusion, “I have no idea what you're talking about.  What rainstorm? There was no rain, as the weather is arid and dry.  There was a sandstorm, not showers, and cruel gusts of wind that actually forced us to pitch tents for cover.”

   “No, not that kind of storm.  But yes, showers,” said the same hidden voice. “I believe you've heard of it.  White Rain---a deadly, new plague.  It usually falls as a colorless or opaque dust that destroys the lungs and heart.  It's highly contagious.  The symptoms are mostly respiratory, but sores appear outside the skin as well; a stage one sign that you are infected with it.”

   “Show me your hands, stranger,” said the closest guard, pressing his gun into Loge's cheek. “The system could be wrong about you.”

   There was no evidence of disease on either Loge or his partner, Kerin.

   With a sudden gesture, Kerin swept the cloth wrap from his head, dropped it over his shoulders, and emptied his satchel and pockets.  Loge stepped in front of him and did the same, proving to the soldiers they were weaponless.  He whipped his flashlight out and made a swift adjustment, aiming it at the dark beyond.  The light hovered uneasily, bouncing off the tunnel's strange-textured surface. “Army, eh?” he grinned. “You're not electronic,” he went on suspiciously. “Tell me, who's the face behind the voice?”

   With impressive dignity, an older, senior patrol officer made his way through the cordon and marched up to the nomads.  The officer was not only senior in age and rank, but responsible for all security within the deeps. He was of good height, unusually broad and muscular for a guard at that age, with a heavy impassive face that disguised a keen intelligence.  Sturgeon, as he was called by the others, was a tough, sardonic character, made sardonic by long years of military exercises and a lust for security.  He had seen too much of the underside of a desert dweller's way of life to have any illusions about it, but his abrupt no-nonsense manner had once or twice disturbed many a Torfegayan official.  The senior survived because of his integrity and efficiency; others knew no one else could cope with his difficult and thankless occupation.

   He made a full circle around Loge and Kerin, like a bloodhound on to a scent, eyeing their rag-like outfits, and came back to the cordon, where he had originally stood. “A pair of visitors,” he laughed. “Not priority seekers, but ragamuffins.  We don't have any of those, not since the plague; we even had to stop construction on the clock.  I fear the timepiece will never touch the sky.”

   “Excuse me, sir,” Kerin then said politely, “but what does this pertain to?”

   “I agree,” said Loge stirringly. “We've traveled more than two-thousand miles by foot.  We're not here to listen to your sob stories about plagues.  Hopefully you can spare us food and water, and then we'll go.”

   Sturgeon looked thoughtfully at him. “I'm afraid you can't leave.  Anyone who enters here and is found pure must stay.  It's the law.” He was reluctant to leave a nomad matter to the Torfegayan elders, who were overeager and experienced and inclined at mining placement, but only if they tried to escape. 

   “What do you mean we can't leave?” asked Loge furiously.

   “We can't allow anymore airborne particles to travel in or out of this belly of a beast, this installation we call the deeps.  The network of tunnels before you runs on a computer-operated cooling system that, unfortunately, isn't airproof.”

   Loge followed him so far. “So that's how the plague's kept out?”

   “Yes,” answered Sturgeon. “You're lucky we opened up for you.  If we wanted, we could've left you for dead.  But this gate is a private hatchway.  Your approach, according to our scanning system, was eminent.  We had no choice but to check it out.  Anyway, welcome to your new home.  You'll be fed and well-taken care of.”

   “It's good to know outsiders are appreciated,” said Kerin sarcastically.

   “Yeah, at the cost of outdoor access,” added Loge, shaking his head.

   “Your brother is still piloting the freighter by the planet's sun,” said Kerin in a low tone of voice. “He's waiting for our inspection and findings, then our return if he has to pull a supernova.”

   “He's still in scientific debates about this system,” Loge answered back. “Keep your trap shut about that though.  That's classified.  Remember, we're nomads.”

   The utterances were broken by Sturgeon: “Since you're obviously not miners, construction workers, soldiers or the like, the elders will assign you occupations.” They started walking down the tunnel away from the hatch to gate seven. “But for experience purposes, what part of the planet did you come from?”

   Loge thought fast. “Lab Four.  We originally worked and lived there.”

   The cordon of armed men lowered their guns when they heard Lab Four.  The name struck slight fear and slight praise; Sturgeon was a little shocked himself.  It seemed that these two desert tramps were possibly doctors or scientists. Lab Four was where the vaccine to the last outbreak---the Death of the Sands, though short in supply---was created.  Underground sources said everyone there had perished.  So how come two men from there had traversed the dreaded dunes and suddenly shown up out of the mist?

   It now bothered Sturgeon, even if it shouldn't have; and the two nomads were as calm and fixed as a couple of desert mollusks.  That was also distressing.  Here were these two men who came from a contaminated zone, yet they looked fresh.

    Too fresh.

   He put the mystery aside.  There was no sense troubling himself or his guards any further.  The scanning system was blunt.  He had his instructions.  And with a handful of minor officers and some off-duty minors he took the strangers into the clock tower, but from beneath the surface.  It was not only home to the system or archives of the Torfani galaxy itself---the archives littering much of the area---but also many time records and electro-carded information pertinent to plagues.  The tower was actually a series of buildings if anyone dared go upstairs, the timepiece, rumored to have been built to touch the heavens, with one main computer and an enormous liquid-crystal clock face, salt-powered gears attached directly behind it and enabling its function.  As Loge and Kerin stepped off the steel lift onto the top floor, Sturgeon was impressed by the air of timeless calm that filled the inner part of the clock's complex.  The gears were silent, and for some time.  Only the elders were allowed to reside up in the tower, the cooling system connected there as well as the underground, and the others resided in those very deeps.  The other people who lived there were civilians and miners, maintained security accordingly to the computer, which was data-fed most of its orders by the elders on a weekly basis.

   All around Sturgeon data banks quietly hummed and throbbed, tiny switches glittered and glowed, while soft-footed old men moved unhurriedly to and fro.  As he entered the myriad with Loge and Kerin, which was where the clock's face was operated from routinely---and every once in a while time would stop---the guards broke off and Elder Cecibil bustled forward to greet them.  Cecibil was very far up in age, perhaps the oldest of everyone there and his lifespan was long; not only in the number of his age but the physical shape of his body.  He'd spent much of his life in the myriad, working behind the clock face, beginning as a humble regulator of vortexes, rising slowly through the years to his present eminence.  He was also a skilled channeler of the continuum, able to view images or contact civilizations, people, or colonies from other time periods on other worlds.  Vartos happened to be one of the worlds he had recently viewed and contacted.  But with all the work, his body was now worn out and he was bent over and shrunken with age; many of the other elders said his retirement was long overdue. But Cecibil was a persistent nag, refusing to take the time away from his duties, insisting that since he himself never left the myriad, his body would serve for a few more years.

   Sturgeon, though not that up in age, envied Cecibil's position.  He had always wanted to be a channeler.  Seeing the timelines through other people's eyes was a childhood fantasy of his on a coming-of-age but still boring world of red sand.  He felt the experience would have filled him with something the plagues took away…

   His family.

   Sturgeon had also hoped to take over from where the elder left off.  Someday, perhaps.  Placement in the myriad was an honor.  And despite Cecibil's great age, he was still brisk and efficient.  That much was evident.  The elder wasn't ready to hand over his job yet, and maybe not to the likes of Sturgeon. 

   The old timer finally turned an eye. “Ah, so to what do I owe this great honor, Sturgeon?” he asked attentively.  His blue eyes were alive with curiosity, mostly at the sight of Loge and Kerin. “These must be the drifters the system picked up.  I'd say you did a good job, you and your soldiers.  Amazing,” he added with a veering look of astonishment. “Not a sign of plague on them.”

   “Just a little mystery, elder,” Sturgeon said with equal formality. “Just a little mystery.  Their names are Loge and Kerin.”

   “Those are definitely nomad clothes, but where did they come from?”

   “Lab Four, where the original cure was developed.  They might be scientists.”

   Cecibil shook his head in disagreement. “I doubt they're scientists.”

   “Perhaps you can assign them.  They look clean enough.”

   “Well, I don't know.  You know how the other elders are about appearances.”

   Then Sturgeon came up with an idea. “Why not allow me access to the central computer? We can fingerprint them and run an identity check.”

   Cecibil was for it. “And afterwards we can teach them more about White Rain and the origins of the Death of the Sands,” he said. “If they turn out well, perhaps even show them how our clock works.” He ushered Sturgeon and the men posing as nomads to the myriad computer, pressed Loge and Kerin's fingers down on the felt-tip pad of the identification module, made an unnecessary but random check of the wires and cables, and then busied himself elsewhere while the program was running---but not out of earshot.

   Sturgeon flipped a switch in front of him.  An electronic voice slowly began to reverberate: “Analysis of finger scan complete.  Thirty-four percent data received, counting…” There was a moment's silence, then the small elaborate machine read off the two men's backgrounds. “Data collected.  Doctor Henri Loge, age 39, cure-seeker and geneticist.  Minor in alchemy.  Employed at Lab Four 6 years; son of a cargo trader; status single; deceased since 56-72-34.  Doctor Yantif Kerin, age 36, coroner, internal medicine practitioner, and lab assistant.  Employed at Lab Four 5 years; son of a galactic minister; status married; wife deceased; Kerin deceased since 56-72-34.  Both causes of death unknown.”

   Right away, there were some truths and untruths in what the machine read to Sturgeon, some of these which Loge sighed for, as Vartos was not mentioned, and he had his brother to thank for that.  But there were also a few things which made him cringe.  He wondered just how well Naveen had prepped him and Kerin's IDs before he let them down on the planet's surface and went off to investigate its old primary star.

   Sturgeon's eyes bulged when he saw their pictures appear next to their profile readings on the fuzzy monitor. “Deceased? No, wait a second…that's impossible.”

   “What's impossible?” asked Cecibil, scurrying back over.

   “The central computer insists they're dead.  There must be a glitch.”

   Cecibil was annoyed. “Sturgeon, the computer's never wrong.”

   “Then how do you explain this?” Sturgeon pointed at the screen.  Loge gave a slight wheeze, and both he and Kerin remained quietly but nervous in the myriad; and with good reason. “They've been dead for over six years, yet they are standing right behind us,” the senior officer went on to say. “Explain that!”

   Meanwhile, Kerin whispered through his teeth, “What now, Loge?”

   “Just stay calm,” answered his partner. “My brother had everything set up for us.”

   “So you say,” Kerin voiced back worriedly.

   “Naveen has never failed me.  Just keep silent, see how this turns out.”

   “It's impossible,” exclaimed Sturgeon. “They're dead!”

   “I see your point,” remarked Cecibil, scratching his chin in thought. The other elders overheard.  They formed a circle and crowded the myriad to find out more; Sturgeon and the posing nomads could hear the swaying of their skewback shoes as they neared. “They'll have to stay up here with us.  Since they are clean and are now part of our clan, we'll teach them about the clock.”

   Sturgeon protested. “I don't think that is wise.”

   “This is not a debate, Sturgeon.  They are clean, they are professionals.  So we must show them the clock.  It's necessary for placement.”

   “Very well,” said Sturgeon, his face still disapproving. “Be it on you.” He went now and touched a series of buttons on the computer and flipped a separate lever. The backside of the clock face began to glow.  It metamorphosed from its former liquid crystal state into a soluble projector, a duralumin screen for unscrambling far-off images, and an image appeared at that very moment of another planet.

   Loge and Kerin were at a loss for words.  Not just because they'd never seen a clock face do that before, but also with regards to Naveen.  What was the clock for exactly? Was it connected to the system, capable of perhaps healing the sick? The two posing nomads were in question of this extraordinary work of ingenuity.

   Then Sturgeon tried to explain its function. “It's our transmitter and receiver, mostly,” he said. “The elders are seeking outside help for a cure.”

   “The cure to the White Rain plague?” asked Loge.

   Sturgeon shook his head.  The planet that was on the clock face screen started to revert and change, almost like a chameleon in the jungle.  A couple of moments passed, and it changed again…from a spatial background to a wilderness, one that the posing nomads figured right away for a close-up of the planet. “As you can see here, the front of the clock acts as a timepiece for the Torfani galaxy,” he went on, “being one of the reasons why it must touch the heavens.  But the backside acts as a monitor of sorts, helping us see other worlds and galaxies and their eras.  How a good portion of them function.  The technology in the myriad is strange, yes---but the system, now that is what makes this viewing possible.” 

   “A clock receiving broadcasts from other worlds?” disputed Kerin, finding the idea hard to digest, even though Sturgeon was pointing it out effortlessly.  He had never heard of such technology, and he didn't believe in benefiting from it either.  But there had been old folktales passed down on Vartos that the original colonies of a planet called Terra had come up with such interplanetary broadcasting many centuries or light years before.  His disbelief likely came from the fact that he was merely a lab assistant, and the son of a galactic minister, who was always rebuked as a child.  Watching the forest-like setting on the screen put him in an itching fit.  He scratched until strange hives appeared; the others among the myriad failed to notice it and his twitching.  Still, the system considered him healthy, so healthy he was.  The central computer was a reliable source of information; it had already been wrong about him and Loge's death.

   Sturgeon had his own suspicions.  He was a stubborn man who surely wasn't about to take the word of some mechanized entity.  The senior officer was as old-fashioned as Kerin when it came to certain technology.  But in order to satisfy his dubiety, he would have to get high-priority approval from the elders to perform a bodily examination and investigation into the lives of the strangers.

   And then, from the inside of the clock face a man wearing medieval garb and riding a horse appeared on the screen.  The creature was trotting leisurely along a narrow path, overgrown with foliage and raw hyacinths in mid-bloom. “Uh, who's the man on the four-legged creature?” asked Loge curiously.

   “Could be a doctor,” Sturgeon replied, “or a medicine man or shaman of some kind.  Who knows.  We always hope for the best when we channel the continuum.  He could be our paladin for all we know.”

   “So he might have the cure you're looking for,” noted Kerin.

   “It's a million-to-one shot,” Cecibil came and said, sitting down to rest.

   “It's possible that on consciously entering the continuum,” said Sturgeon, “we find something.  The viewer actually triggers the archetypes specifically hidden or described within that planet and time's interior.”

   Loge was slightly confused. “Then what do you call this?”

   “Perhaps a typically timeless moment in any mystical or spiritual happening,” answered Sturgeon, shaking his head. “A sort of replaced reality.  That man, who we believe to be a doctor, has now experienced a type of timelessness which gives him a glimpse of Other Worlders existing outside his continuum.  He has become, whether by dream or vision, one of us or at least shares some of the mystery.”

   “I see what you mean,” said Kerin, scratching his neck voraciously.  Staring at the screen, the horseman's facial expression, one of perhaps déjà vu, had changed before his eyes. “He senses your presence in his mind.  It seems your technology's trying to get in touch with him either psychically or mentally.”

   “Trying to,” Cecibil corrected him. “Spiritually as well.  Maybe he can respond to us.”

   “But only if he has something to offer you,” said Loge. “Otherwise it's back off to another time period on some other computer-recommended world.”

   “Yes,” said Sturgeon, eyes glazed and face blank.  He had finally taken heed of Kerin's bumps, but was hesitant to jump to conclusions.  Then he flipped a switch and shut down the clock face image, ending his introduction of it. “Well, now you know how we channel the continuum.  A time regulator, such as Elder Cecibil and the other old timers here, are needed at all times to prepare the myriad for its full integration and operation.”

   “Have you all…” Loge stopped short and began again. “Have you ever thought about absorbing heat from your own star to rid yourselves of the plague?”

   Sturgeon was confused. “Such as?”

   “Solar engineering.”

   “What is it?”

   Suddenly Kerin stumbled forward, his empty hands held out, as if in apology; he looked and felt sick.

   His partner, Loge, stood in openmouthed silence.  The geneticist wasn't sure what was happening…but Sturgeon, as always, recognized it.  The senior amongst the deeps had seen it once too often not to recognize it.

   The man was in stage two of the plague.

   Kerin staggered along the myriad trying desperately to hold on. The scanning system must have been wrong, as the other elders, afraid for their lives, scattered.  Sturgeon ordered the central guard upstairs and had Loge arrested, as he went on his wrist communicator to order his brother to destroy the primary star and leave without him; but deep down he knew a brother would be against leaving a sibling, one who he had looked up to and been so attached to, behind.

   “Central guard, to the deeps,” Sturgeon ordered, “and I mean now!”

   Loge was immediately confined to a sterile sector. 

   “You should've known better, Sturgeon,” contended Cecibil, forming a fist. “It is on your head! We depended on you, yet you brought them up here.”

   Sturgeon hesitated for no more than a moment before seeing to Kerin. “But it was the system which gave me my orders,” he exclaimed. “Your central computer! If things had been put in my hands from the very---”

   “No excuses!” Cecibil voiced off, gritting his teeth in anger. “I've learned Loge comes from another planet, a world called Vartos, not Lab Four.  I'm transferring you as soon as possible.  You're on the next supply ship out of here, Sturgeon.  I'm revoking your command over the deeps and sending you immediately to the other man's home world.”

   Sturgeon put his head down in shame, as the elder walked away.  It was done.  He would no longer be the man he once was…Torfegay no longer his home; and it would be only a week before he left that Kerin suffered the same fate as his family did.

   Death by White Rain...

*     *     *     *     *

PRESENT DAY…

   “So you're Sturgeon,” Naveen said with a contemptuous look, as the engineer introduced himself on the Tri-Scout's launch pad.  From what Gharmen had said, he'd had the idea the marshal was middle-aged.  But this man was at least sixty, if not nearing it.  A Torfegayan who was well-proportioned and probably the keeper of many wives and the father of many children.

   Sturgeon felt the engineer's powerful gaze sweep over him.  There was a little tension at first, due to the fact that he had imprisoned his brother only two years earlier.  Loge's captivity, felt by some, was uncalled for and it took the Torfegayan government six months to reevaluate his case and release him.  His case had been postponed, it seemed, and the review put aside, the elders' excuse being that they had been in development of a cure for White Rain.

   Still, Naveen regarded him bleakly.  But there was irony that couldn't be kept hidden.  It was all very well for the Vartosian elders, placing a militarily-exercised man at his disposal, yet it was not prerequisite. He put on the reserved expression of one whose usual reaction is disapproval. “Take off's in T-Minus forty minutes,” he said curtly, but it looked as if the green-outfitted Sturgeon already knew, had been briefed earlier about everything. “The warp drive should get us to the Central Sun in four hours, if I'm not mistaken.  Then it'll take another fifteen hours to position the spheres, and after spent fuel, six or seven hours to return.  I'm sure Gharmen has already enlightened you to this mission.  I hope you don't mind my briefing.”

   Sturgeon shook his head and disavowed it politely.

   Naveen gave a short laugh. “Scared of fireballs?”

   “I'm scared of nothing,” the marshal was quick to reply. “I've lived through an innumerable amount of sandstorms, two horrific plagues, and a supernova.  That should be proof in itself.”

   “Not even death, when you're practically on its doorstep? When heat reaches millions of degrees Fahrenheit? Death doesn't send a shiver up your spine?”

   “Death comes natural.”

   “Then what about today's mission?” asked Naveen smartly. “Are you familiar with solar engineering or astronomical sciences that deal with black holes or suns and their very interiors?”

   “No,” replied Sturgeon quietly. “But are you familiar with crystalline or ruby-based disease prevention and time dissemination? Are you familiar with salts and the many wonders enriched underground sodium has concerning first aid? Doubt it very much.  Where I come from, we've mastered such techniques.” Now Naveen put his head down and sulked; he was not amused. “Naveen, I know you're trying to test me,” he went on, “because Loge was falsely accused of contamination.  But then what were you doing in the Torfani galaxy? I'm sorry about Loge.  Still, there are some things I cannot apologize for.”

   “My brother was not contaminated.”

   “Yet Lab Four was a fabrication.  I admit, I locked your brother up and he was clean.”

   Naveen narrowed his brows with slight anger. “You should've---”

   “I had no choice! It was the elders' command.  When Kerin dropped dead, we had an epidemic to worry about---an airborne germ within enclosed quarters!”

   “And what did you do to contain it?”

   “There was no need.  Luckily, the virus spread no further.  I'm truly sorry.”

   Naveen threw the marshal a sinister smile, but said nothing.  He just nodded, and then focused his attention at the launch pad staff in the background, the staff which would be part of his crew.  An instant later he swept toward the Tri-Scout's entry hatch, Sturgeon following curiously behind him.  Once on deck, he strapped himself into the black-padded chair among the flight control center: a hexagonal-shaped desk with joysticks and glittering switches, surrounded by red and orange levers and knobs on a long rectangular board.  Two big black joysticks protruded, separately connected from the primary controls, from the chair's armrests.  From what Sturgeon could see, they must have been the controls to the ship's specially-constructed titanium appendages, claws for placing heavyweight objects in space.  Sturgeon strapped himself in on the other side, as the T-Minus was proceeding to takeoff.  The navigator's seat was also a black-padded chair on a small hexagonal-shaped desk of switches, but with a heat-tracking device, electronic imaging maps of the warping routes, and blue and green levers and knobs.

   “By the way,” Naveen said over his shoulder. “Stay out of my way.  Gharmen, as with the other elders, insisted you come along for the ride, but remember…this is my mission, not yours.”

   Sturgeon nodded agreeably and sat back in silence.

   A few moments passed.  The other crewmembers took their seats.

   “Destination time in 4.12 nega-parsecs,” said Sturgeon, as he flipped a couple of levers and twisted a few knobs above his head.  The oversized spacecraft, white with a wingspan of over seventy-feet, double-A class capsule-shaped cargo cruiser with red stripes and the number 349 painted on the side, received clearance from the Vartosian control tower.  

   “This is Tri-Scout 349,” said Naveen, as he made his ascent up the pad. “Once again, this is Tri-Scout 349, now making the turn and skyward bound.”

   “We read you, 349,” a voice crackled over the communication link. “Doors are open.  How far up?”

   “A few miles above the capital.” Naveen jiggled the receiver up and down, but the crackling continued. “Gharmen ought to like this.”

   Sturgeon was directly behind him feeling queasy. “Why's that?”

   “He's got the best view in the city,” Naveen answered, referring to the highest part of the council building. “Though I wonder what he's thinking.”

   “So does everyone else,” the voice on the communication link then said. “You got high descent and altitude, your departure is well-defined.  It means you're not only a great engineer, but a great pilot.  Stay like this until you orbit the planet for a while, then slingshot.  The people of Vartos wish you luck and hope for the best.  See you soon, my friend.” The voice broke off, leaving only static.

   Naveen smiled. “Hold on tight.  Here we go!”

   Under the ship, whilst airborne, a pair of jet engines cracked like an immense cannonball.  The shot could be heard throughout the land.  Minutes later, Naveen quickly spun around, dropping the receiver in alarm.  He clutched the controls, as the Tri-Scout hit the upper atmosphere.  The window in front of him, which a few minutes earlier had been clear, was now obscured by a film of clouds and a heavy mass of airborne dust turbulence.  The prior improvements on the Tri-Scout were just as he suspected: a smooth sail after departing the planet.  Sturgeon started to initiate the warping countdown after they hit space and made the slingshot.  Still, he was quite nerve-raw since liftoff.  Along with the other four crewmembers, the marshal secured all the hatches from his terminal.  Both men sat back and closed their eyes as the ship began making its way thunderously across space.

   “I hope you know what you're doing,” said Sturgeon, leaning back.

   “Of course I do,” Naveen smiled and said. “My job.”

*     *     *     *     *

   It was just a little after noon, Vartosian time, when Naveen brought the ship's engines to a shrieking halt outside the incineration zone of the Central Sun.  Very slowly he pulled his arms forward and ran his fingers across the chair's joysticks; he felt like a child at the helm of a three-dimensional holographic video game, and that a game of fun, but he soon realized this was serious work.  Harnessing solar power, while preventing an incineration or supernova, was a delicate operation.  It was an operation that only called for the utmost experience and concentration, and if successful, it would put him in the Vartosian history books, alongside some of the greats of solar science.

   “This is as close as we can go,” he said, turning an eye.

   From behind, a posse of burning rocks indicated that his mad dash inside the area had not gone unnoticed. “Release the refractor spheres,” he then said clearly. “It's time.”

   Sturgeon, gathering his wits, opened up the cargo hold's doors.  He waited for no more than a few seconds, but then saw that two-dozen duralumin-glassed orbs came flooding out.  He was completely taken aback by their size: almost eight-by-eight feet on all sides.  Small, he felt, for something which would generate enough power for a six-mile wide domed city. “Initiated,” he finally said. “Now what?”

   “The rest is up to me,” said Naveen. “It's my job to position and place them in their right orbits.”

   “Those flares look a little too close for comfort,” remarked Sturgeon lightly.

   “No worries.  They won't touch us.  We're just out of reach.” He then used the titanium appendages to grab hold of two of the spheres. “And the thermostat's on a perfect reading: outer shell temperature of 1,114.3 degrees.  That's moderate, for the Tri-Scout can withstand about 1,333.9.  Then there's the risk of combustion to the hull, due to the faulty cooling system.  You see my ship doesn't run on entirely regular fuel, but also uses compressed Lynfrak crystals.”

   “I still think you're cutting it close,” said Sturgeon more observantly, covering his eyes from the Central Sun's luminous glare. 

   Naveen forwarded a short and abrupt laugh.  His silver-gloved hands gripped the joysticks more tightly now.  Then, in a state of pure frenzy, he positioned each and every sphere.  The sun drew them in one by one, Sturgeon keeping the ship in a steady spot as the gravitational pull of the star finished the job.  Hours later, the solar engineer finally released his grip on the controls, sat back, and relaxed.  The refractor spheres had been placed in their prospective orbits.  But now it was time to try them out.  He pulled a remote from inside his suit pocket, drew the antenna for it, and turned a dial in a counterclockwise direction.  The reflectors on each of the spheres' exteriors began absorbing energy from the flares and the fireballs the Central Sun seemed to develop, beaming it back millions of miles to Vartos at full capacity.  His home world was hit with all the energy it needed; there was enough for even reserve power filters, he felt.

   “Impressive,” said Sturgeon with a slight nod.

   “No…success!” exclaimed Naveen, raising his arms in the air. “I have brought Vartos into a new age.” He looked down for a moment. “And I didn't even have to worry about blowing it up…”

   “I still can't believe you did it,” said Sturgeon, trying to sound cheerful, “and a record time of ten hours.  You'll surely make the archives for this.”

   Naveen smiled up at him. “Was there any doubt?”

   Sturgeon smiled back and shook his hand. “None whatsoever.  Amends?”

   Naveen agreed. “Yes, amends.”

   There were no doubts between them, but still there was something in the way of the ship which made Naveen's blood run cold, and before Sturgeon was able to get back to his seat, they both found themselves being manhandled by the Central Sun's gravitational pull and the heat intensity of the flares.

   Naveen fell back into his seat, as the Tri-Scout whirled around in a big circle. They were now closer to the star, and he let out a grunt of dissatisfaction as his beloved ship came upon a wave of fire.  Gingerly, he eased the controls.  Thick walls of flame completely blocked their path leading back, temperatures suddenly skyrocketed, and the exterior began to press inward even as the two sat there.  He tightened his straps, swung his chair around, and looked toward Sturgeon now in despair. “What do we do?”

   “You're a solar engineer!” shouted Sturgeon. “Even you must have some kind of emergency procedure.”

   Suddenly, Naveen's eyes lit up.  Sturgeon followed his gaze.  Several feet away was a hatch marked Ventilation Room, and leading out of the wall in six different directions were the pipes to the cooling system Naveen had mentioned earlier.

   “Of course!” exclaimed Sturgeon, as he wrenched open the ventilation room's door. “Pressurized steam!”

   “We're too close to the Central Sun,” Naveen then said, nerve-raw; but he saw that the marshal had an idea.

   Steam was spurting from everywhere in little jets and the whole ship's system seemed about to explode. Sturgeon grabbed one of the boiling hot pipes with bare hands and ripped it away, using it as an interior extinguisher.  Immediately, a jet of superheated steam shot out of the end, but only at first, as it eventually turned cold.  The flight deck's interior temperature fell dramatically. “Things are going to get a lot cooler,” he called out, “but it won't stay that way long.  We'll burn up, the whole damn cruiser!” He held the pipe outward as long as he could. “Go for it! It's our only shot!”

   Naveen nodded, saying hurriedly, “Pulling up and out starting…now!” Just as before, the Tri-Scout whirled around but he yanked the controls desperately.  The marshal was holding and doing his job while Naveen did his.  A few seconds later, the Tri-Scout successfully emerged from the flame-ridden area.  The temperature dropped once more, a strange wheezing and groaning sound reaching both men's ears as the spatial fire disappeared behind them.

   Sturgeon put down the pipe and returned from the ventilation room; both his hands were scarred. “That's what I call cutting it close.”

   Naveen shook his head as if he'd seen his whole life pass before him. “It looks like we're both making the archives, eh, Sturgeon?” he laughed. “Let's head home.  Hard to believe all this was in the name of science,” he then remarked.

   “Is there anything wrong with that?” asked Sturgeon, grinning.

   “Not at all,” said Naveen, “but I could use a damn good sleep.”

   After all, they'd both deserved it.

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