"...........aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh..."

Arn Pendlegraf had spent twenty years of his life being a security guard at the Timeline Project Authority Library. It was, for the most part, a pleasant job. He said hello to the patrons, conducted occasional tours if the library was short staffed, and tossed troublemakers and errant children into the airlock. That being said, it wasn't exactly what you would call an exciting job.

He scratched the back of his head and tried to figure out why Monitor Four wasn't working again. He had just repaired the circuit himself after maintenance had thrown up their hands in despair for the fourth time and said there was nothing to be done for it. Oh well, he thought to himself as he stared at the asymmetrical interference scrolling from the top to the bottom of the screen in random hypnotic patterns. Its not as if anyone ever bothers to visit the Terran History stacks anyway.

Yeah, he thought to himself as he scratched the stubble on his chin and wiped a speck of dirt from out of his third good eye, nothing exciting ever happens on my watch.

Unless, of course, someone who's never traveled through a warp tube makes their first entrance into the library portal.

Trauma Martin emerged from the portal first, did a graceful forward tuck and roll and landed lithely on his feet. It would have been a spectacular entrance had George not come flailing headfirst out of the portal behind him and struck him squarely in the back. The two men fell writhing to the floor together, the violet of Trauma's suit blending with the conservative gray of George's three-piece in a swirling confusion of colour within which one could, almost, see the pattern of the galactic swirl.

Arn glanced at Monitor One to ensure his cameras were recording. Before I go home, he chuckled to himself, I'll have to go by the recorder room and dub a copy of this for my collection.

"What....what....what...." George stammered as he attempted to lift himself from the floor. Struggling to his feet, he slowly turned in a wide circle, attempting to take in the impossible nature of his surroundings. Finally, his view brought him fully around so that he was standing face to face with the hulking mass that was Arn, who was now laughing openly at the befuddled newcomer.

"What...." he repeated unnecessarily, "is THAT!"

"Shhhhhhhh!" Arn hissed, pointing to a sign above the wall where he was sitting.

George tore his gaze away from Arn, and stared openmouthed at the sign on the wall. It read:

This was not, George noted, the only writing on the sign. It was simply the only writing he could understand.

"Very funny, Arnold," Trauma said, brushing the dust off his suit. "I should recommend you to the comedy circuit."

Arn redoubled his laughter. He began shaking so hard, it required the use of two of his arms to hold himself aloft.

"Please don't fall over, Arnold," Trauma grinned. "There isn't a crane or forklift for miles around."

"Trauma, that man is.....is....is...." George stammered incoherently.

"An overbearing, under-worked git." Trauma tsked. "Yes, I know George. Sad to say, but bad help is not a curse only on your world."

"B-b-b-but...but...but he's...but he's green!"

"But not little, George. Not little at all! No use blaming Arnold for all those silly legends on your planet. Possibly his brother, Myorg..." Trauma's grin had returned with vigor. He wiped his hands clean on George's sleeves. "Arnold, has anyone seen Myorg these days?"

"Not since he became a missionary. Think he gave up on Earth though." Arn tapped on Monitor Four, hoping it would clear itself up. "Y'know, between the size problem and that irritating 'beep-beep' speech impediment, he wasn't exactly going to cut it in Security."

"Yes, well Arnold, as much as I would love to chat with you about all the....fascinating....things that happen in library security, I have a client and I have research I desperately need to do. Mr. Pembroke..."

Arn blinked all five of his good eyes in surprise, and swiveled his head around to stare incredulously at George. "You mean, you actually hired this guy?"

"As if your life was so wonderful!" Trauma scoffed. "'No, put down that book at once, or I shall scowl at you.'" he mocked gleefully.

"Yeah, you're lucky I don't just throw you out now on general principles," said Arn, rising slightly from his chair and flexing his impressive biceps.

"Mr. Martin," George began weakly.

"Please, please George, call me Trauma."

"Trauma," George started anew, "that man has six arms."

* * * * *

George was still in a deep fog as Trauma led him into the library, so he didn't immediately register the enormity of the building he was now standing in. Around him, in front of him, and stretching to seeming infinity above him were books. Shelves and shelves of them for as far as the eye could see. The lights in the ceiling far above his head were useless tools for judging distance, and the main illumination in the room seemed filter in from somewhere else entirely.

Before him were tables, chairs, desks, and computers...things you would expect to find in a normal library. But this wasn't a normal library, and a persistent voice deep inside George began to make frantic noises to that effect. As Trauma begin an enthusiastic conversation with the librarian at the counter, George's subconscious began releasing the locks it had placed on his memory and flooded the engine compartment of his head with the events of the last few hours.

He could certainly recall arriving at the office on the corner of Galaxy and Fifth, and vividly remembered his chaotic conversation with the erratic Mr. Martin. In his mind's eye, he could recall the sensation of being hit by a towering wall of fiery energy, the dreadful feeling of his stomach falling away as he was suddenly carried forward through walls that no longer seemed to exist.

He was vaguely aware of being pitched forward in a swirling vortex. My god, he thought to himself, I've fallen through the floor into the tube! I'm a train's hood ornament!

As the world rushed away behind him, his life began to flash before his eyes. He recalled his childhood, his halcyon days in University, being named Finance Executive of the year by the Accounting Weekly Ledger, his trip to Edinburgh with his cousin, Jessica. His trip to Edinburgh...

Unfortunately, George's memory system was not equipped with a rewind button.

Suddenly, the darkness which surrounded him changed to vivid red, and the sky, if you could call it a sky, was streaked with the occasional sparks of fireworks. As far as the eye could see, in all directions, including up and down, the air was criss-crossed with broad white walkways made of a shimmering energy, weaving a seemingly endless and infinitely intricate cat's cradle. George looked down and saw he was travelling along one of these walkways. Trauma was just ahead of him, arms outspread in a classic surfers pose. What the hell? George thought.

At this moment, a grudging sense of pride crept into George's mind. No matter how bizarre this all ways, he had kept his composure. Inebriated with self-confidence, he craned his neck over the edge to look below him. This was, he quickly discovered, a mistake.

In order to gaze downward into the infinite abyss, George had shifted his weight imperceptibly. He was not prepared however, for the glowing walkway to suddenly pitch downward. His feet flew out from under him and he found himself sliding headfirst on his stomach into another of the vortex tunnels, and towards a glowing portal...

Standing now behind Trauma Martin in the Timeline Authority Project Library, George felt something like a huge rubber band snap into his back, and the sudden jolt cleared the fog in his brain.

"Trauma!" he yelled, "What the bloody hell just happened?"

"Ah, Mr. Pembroke, you've recovered!" Trauma said with a vague disinterest. He smiled slightly at George, and then turned his attention back to the librarian at the counter. "He's a bit disoriented. His first time and whatsuch." Trauma shrugged helplessly at her and flashed a Cheshire grin.

George was vaguely annoyed at this and was about to launch into a litany about his trip to Edinburgh with Jessica when he realized he still had no idea what anyone was talking about. "My first time for what?" he fumed.

"Travelling on the time lines, my dear fellow," Trauma remarked casually. "It's quite disorienting if you aren't used to it. Rather like jet lag." He smiled warmly at George. "Except of course, that it is rather entirely unlike jet lag. How hopelessly silly of me."

"If you ask me, love, I just hate it," the librarian offered from behind the counter. She was a lithe redhead with dark brown eyes which that danced from behind a pair of small wire-rim glasses. "That's why I took a flat here in the complex. So I wouldn't have to use them."

"Mr. Martin, I insist..." George began testily.

"Please, call me Trauma." said Trauma wearily, dragging his smile with great effort back to the corners of his mouth.

"Trauma . . . where? what? I mean.."

Trauma wheeled around to face George and stared directly into his eyes, "Mr. Pembroke, you came to me with a problem. 'The future of the entire universe may depend upon your actions' the note said. For this reason, time is urgent. This warning, this message is," he flourished the note under George's nose, "a clue, and one which we must decipher quickly if we are to proceed. Please forgive, if you will, my phenomenal lack of interest towards your predicament, hmm?"

Pausing just long enough to ensure that the fuming George was not about to say anything else to delay him further on his quest, Trauma whirled to face the librarian again. George glowered at his back.

"Now, madam, you were telling me about possible search terms to look up information on navigation codes."

"Sure. There's a wide range of terms you can search on. Archaic, navigation, old code, navcodes, tongue-in-groove..."

"Tongue-in-groove?" Trauma's pencil hovered above his notepad.

The librarian shrugged helplessly. "They get bored in cataloging."

"Ah." Trauma committed the note to paper.

George exploded. "Now wait just one minute, Mr. Martin!" he yelled. From the galleries above, a thousand voices, beeps, and clicks hissed "SHHHHH!"

"Call me Trauma," Trauma replied absentmindedly, not bothering to look up from his pad. "Any other terms?"

George violently spun Trauma around and grabbed him by the lapels.

"Trauma," he hissed. "Since yesterday evening, I have been greeting by dwarves in my closet, endowed with nightmares featuring immensely worrisome carnival clowns, and inundated with adverts for the Dream Police. I've been handed scraps of paper covered with scribbles of gibberish, I've seen walls of fire, white walkways, giant six-armed security guards..." His voice was growing more and more frantic with each word, and he shook Trauma harder and harder. "I am having what I believe can be most accurately and without question classified as a bad day!"

Trauma flashed a broad grin at his companion. "Of course you have, my dear fellow. "And I must confess to being horribly inhospitable towards you. I have been," he continued as he pried one of George's hands from his lapels, "preoccupied with this universe problem, and in so doing, I have shamefully ignored my duties as a host and guide. Madam..." Trauma turned back towards the librarian.

"Call me Mia," she smiled.

"Mia, I am afraid that my friend here is most confused, most horribly lost, alone, alone on a wide, wide sea of mystery." His grin impossibly broadened. "That reminds me," he said amiably to George, "did you know that Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner can be sung, in its entirety, to the tune of House of the Rising Sun? Really, perhaps I can get Mia here to locate you a volume of Coleridge and you can try it while..." George began to shake violently again. "No? No, perhaps not. Mia, I think my friend here needs answers from professional sources. Could you direct him to the sections containing the TPA history archives?"

"Well, sir, he could just use..." she began, gesturing towards the nearby terminals. The left side of Trauma's mouth twitched and he jerked his head upwards, then winked slyly at her.

"Ah, he could just use the, um, lift," she rallied gamely. "Go to the end of the hall and take the lift to the 18th floor. In section 45-632.003, you'll find a copy of volumes 49-60 of Galban's Concise Encyclopedia of Everything. The fourth column of each page should be in a language you understand."

Trauma beamed at George, gently removing the other hand from his lapel.

"And you will come and get me," George insisted, "as soon as you find something out?"

"With the utmost haste and urgency, Mr. Pembroke. Upon the wings of angels I shall verily fly to you."

"Good, Mr. Martin. Excellent." George tugged at his clothes, attempting to bring some semblance of his normal professional appearance back into focus.

"Call me Trauma," said Trauma brightly. Slowly and deliberately, George pivoted on his heals and walked down the corridor, disappearing into the lift.

"Er, excuse me," Mia asked, a puzzled look of concern crossing her face, "But he's from a pre-contact era, isn't he? Earth in the 20^th century, unless I miss my guess."

"Quite correct, madam. You are quite astute, and a valuable aide to any seeker of knowledge."

"Well, not to cause any undue worry, but don't you think he might be unprepared for the sort of people he's likely to meet up there?"

"It is possible I was a trifle harsh a moment ago," Trauma said easily. "But I have great faith and confidence in Mr. Pembroke. He will adjust, slowly perhaps. Hopefully, with the assistance of your renowned collection of data and archival material, I will be able to resolve the matter of this note quickly and to everyone's satisfaction."

* * * * *

George stepped out onto the 18^th floor and looked about nervously. As far as the eye could see an any given direction, shelves stretched floor to ceiling filled with large leather-bound tomes. Here and there, computer terminals flashed bibliographical data in unintelligible fonts.

George hadn't taken three steps out of the lift when he was stopped dead in his tracks by another of the libraries more colourful inhabitants. The yellow creature was easily 8 feet tall, and almost as long. Six jointed, powerful legs supported his lower body, while his torso stretched centaur-like at a right angle. The alien had a book in either hand, and was reading them both, each with a separate eye mounted atop a snakelike stalk.

George paled. He took three stops backwards, only to collide unceremoniously with the lift door.

Either the movement or the noise caught the creatures attention. Lazily, it lifted one of its eyes to swivel towards George, the other apparently uninterrupted from its reading. George froze in his tracks ad the creature's independent eye looked him up and down twice. The other eye glanced briefly at him as well, decided him uninteresting, and returned to the volume of Coleridge it was reading.

"Geezo, grak mook dal segnak, derg nak Taquin," it gurgled.

George swallowed hard and smacked his lips together. There was no way to get out into the library without passing the creature.

The creature's eye blinked slowly. It pondered George for a moment, and then tried again. "Geezo, Frieden ist mit Ihnen. Dieses wird Taquin benannt."

George blinked, surprised. While he had no idea what had just been said to him, he was sure that it had been said to him in German!

"Er, I'm terribly sorry, but I never did learn German…" George said incredulously. Just my luck, he thought. With my luck, he'll still be fighting the War.

The creature put his other book down and brought both eyes to bear on George. "Geezo, peace be with you. This one is known as Taquin."

"Um, you speak English?"

"Of course, Geezo. Taquin is conversant in several Terran languages, many of which are standards for communication in the Alliance."

"They are? I mean…well, why?"

"Alliance did not ask Taquin for this one's opinion, Geezo."

"Ah, yes, well, I am terribly sorry to have bothered you. Could you direct me to the history section?"

Taquin put down his book and raised a spindly arm. "That way Geezo. Take a left at the first junction, and then look on the 7^th row. Geezo will find Galban's in English there."

"Thank you…er, I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"This one is known as Taquin."

"Thank you, Taquin. You've been most kind." George walked as confidently as he could to the junction and disappeared around the shelving. Taquin's right eye followed him as he left, the left having apparently tired of George and gone back to the Coleridge.

"Silly Geezo." he muttered, and scanned the page of the other book to find his place.

* * * * *

George located the section, and pulled down the 49^th volume of Galban's Concise Encyclopedia of Everything. Apparently, this volume was entirely taken up with a discussion of the Timeline Authority Project, which did not, George discovered by leafing through to the end, appear to end in this volume, either. He settled down in a comfortable chair nearby and began to read:

Aha!, George thought, that must be why Trauma gave that jewel on his ring a quarter twist.

He began to skim over the material, finding much of it too technical to understand. A large, blue, gelatinous mass pulling a rucksack slithered by on the floor. Just keep calm, George intoned, just keep focused. It's just using the library. George's tongue felt sticky in his mouth. He returned to the entry at the first section that did not seem to include numbers and scientific equations.

The entry began veering into detailed regulations concerning the usage of time travel, and while the entire concept fascinated George, he had never found dry lists of regulations and laws particularly interesting.

Dry, he thought, noticing his scratchy throat. I could really use a spot of water.

George set the book aside, and wandered to the hallway created by the intersection of shelving. A library terminal sat at the end of the bookcase, Recalling his recent reading, George tapped the name "Gerpuppy" into the Author field of the query screen. A few minutes went by, and then the computer began listing a series of books, by title. A notation at the bottom of the screen indicated that this was page 1 of 723 under the name "Gerpuppy, E. Bolan".

Impressive, George thought. Whimsically, he typed his own name into the computer. which began a new search. I wonder if I can find a water fountain anywhere around here?

George wandered off down the corridor. Behind him, the computer began to display the results of his query:

A man wearing a hat and trenchcoat put down the newspaper he had been reading and wandered up to the terminal. He pressed the ERASE key, and then stalked off after George.

* * * * *

Downstairs, Trauma was beginning to feel frustrated. So far, none of the cataloging index words had He briefly considered how much trouble he would cause if he just dumped the entire terminal into the dustbin, decided rather a lot at the end of the day, and decided not to. Closing his eyes, he pressed the tips of his fingers together and began to formulate a new plan of attack.

A pair of hands came to rest on his shoulders. Opening one eye and glancing upwards, he recognized the young librarian