Circa AD 2200 to 2299

Physically, I am thirty-three years of age. But, counting years of terrestrial chronology, I am three hundred and eighteen years old.

Zamierzałem, ale . . . widzi pan . . . ja . . . mój gospodarz wyłączył mi elektrycznoćś . . . w niedzielę.

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I planned to, but, you see, I—my landlord turned off the electricity on Sunday.

Ahhh—an ancient explosion of a nuclear bomb! The perfect device with which to conquer the twenty-third century!

— Zaraz — odparł wolno, nawet nie ruszając palcem. — Dzisiaj jest wtorek. Jeżeli ty jesteś środowy i do tej chwili we środę jeszcze nie są naprawione stery, to z tego wynika, że coś przeszkodzi nam w ich naprawieniu, ponieważ w przeciwnym razie, ty, we środę, nie nakłaniałbyś już mnie do tego, abym ja, we wtorek, wspólnie je z tobą naprawiał. Więc może lepiej nie ryzykować wyjścia na zewnątrz?

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“Just a minute,” I replied, remaining on the floor. ”Today is Tuesday. Now if you are the Wednesday me, and if by that time on Wednesday the rudder still hasn’t been fixed, then it follows that something will prevent us from fixing it, since otherwise you, on Wednesday, would not now, on Tuesday, be asking me to help you fix it. Wouldn’t it be best, then, for us to not risk going outside?”

You know, Dr. McCoy said the same thing.

Spock: Fifty years to go. Forty. Thirty.
Kirk: Never mind, Mr. Spock.
Spock: [silence]

Humans of the 20th century do not go beaming around the Galaxy, Mr. Seven.

History has been changed in the fact that Billy Claiborne didn’t die, but Chekov is lying there dead.

They cannot hear you, Captain. To their ears, you sound like an insect.

Your collection of Leonardo da Vinci masterpieces, Mr. Flint—they appear to have been recently painted.

Conjecture, Captain, rather than explanation: It would seem that we were held in the power of creatures able to control matter and to rearrange molecules in whatever fashion was desired, so they were able to create images of Sarak and Lincoln after scanning our minds and using their fellow creatures as source matter.

Spock! You’re reverting into your ancestors, five thousand years before you were born!

Zresztą Bosch nie powstrzymał się od niedyskrecji. W „Ogrodzie uciech ziemskich,” w „piekle muzycznym” (prawe skrzydło tryptyku) stoi w samym środku dwunastoosobowy chronobus. I co miałem z tym robić?

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Even so, Bosch couldn’t refrain from certain indiscretions. In the “Garden of Earthly Delights,” in the very center of the “Musical Hell” (the right wing of the triptych), stands a twelve-seat chronobus. Not a thing I could do about it.

Look, you gotta be kidding. I wanna go back to sleep! If I don't get at least 600 years, I'm grouchy all day.

McCoy: You realize that by giving him the formula you’re altering the future.
Scotty: Why? How do we know he didn’t invent the thing?

His age, his century, his civilization—they were all gone. This was now his universe. The fact was irreversible. So be it. I will adjust.

The cockpit lights went out, leaving only the whirl of kaleidoscopic colors from the instrument panel. His ship went into a spiral, tumbling end over end like a stone fired from a slingshot. Now the light was white, hot and brilliant. Instinctively he threw up an arm to shield his eyes. The sudden crushing pressure on his chest left him helpless to do more than gasp for breath.

And now he stood and wondered. If he dug for it, he would come upon the same box. The box that he had left with his parents only days before. The box would exist here, beneath his feet, just as it existed in his own time. As he existed.

If he dug it up now and carried it back to his ship, it would not be there for him to find on that high summer day in the twenty-third century. And if that was true, how could he be here, in this time, to dig it up at all?

Peter: “I'm going to the future. I want to see it for myself!”

Peering into the murky abyss, Spock saw something he had never seen before: a window, a portal to that other world, not a vision, not a light, but a feeling, a feeling he didn’t understand—wonderment.

You come to the conclusion that you can correct everything if you stop yourself before you steal the time machine.

Was this the fourth, or the fifth time around?

Young Pike: How am I supposed to believe . . . ?
Old Pike: . . . that I’m really you?
Young Pike: You ever gonna let me get a word in edgewise?
Old Pike: I knew you were gonna say that. Does that help?

There’s going to be an attack. It’s going to change the timeline. We have to stop it.

I know me being here wasn’t . . . ideal . . . , and potentially reality-threatening, but meeting all of you has been one of the greatest experiences of my life.