To the Stars

by George Takei

  There were two teenaged fans in New York who even at that tender age displayed keen business savvy. Adam Malin was the promoter-planner and Gary Berman the financial brains. They combined their talents and began putting on conventions, first in the New York area, then venturing out to other major cities. Soon, they were staging more than one convention each weekend all over the country, and they built their company, Creation Conventions, into a mega-operation that today includes licensed STAR TREK products as well as other merchandise. They also created a remunerative sideline for the actors of STAR TREK, as convention speakers, and provided me, in the bargain, with visits to cities that I probably never would have seen otherwise.

  Like most entrepreneurs, Adam and Gary have been accused by their competitors of unfair flexing of their now well-developed financial muscles to maintain their dominance in the hucksters marketplace. But ambitious risk-takers are constantly emerging to keep the arena spirited and competitive. And the convention phenomenon continues to wham across the country.

  The man who brought forth all this venturesome activity, Gene Roddenberry, was himself one who did not overlook the business definition in the name of the starship he created. He called the company he shared with his wife, Majel, Lincoln Enterprises and, initially with the help of Bjo and John Trimble, built the company into a major supplier of STAR TREK memorabilia.

  * * *

  Enterprise is the fuel of civilization. Entrepreneurship creates something out of nothing. An idea turned into action can create products, jobs, and whole industries. It can combine with a vision of society and change the world.

  Enterprise, however, cannot thrive without two vital elements. It cannot survive without freedom; the freedom to think original thoughts, to experiment, and to innovate—to take risks with something that has never been thought or done before. Freedom is the life breath of enterprise.

  But freedom cannot flourish without another element—ethics. Freedom without a common subscription to ethical values is chaos, a wild, dog-eat-dog abandon. Inevitably, this will bring on the backlash of controls, inhibiting that energy. Essential to protecting and strengthening the muscle of free enterprise is a solid framework of ethics.

  Gene demonstrated both. He changed people with ideas, with an optimistic view of our future that instilled confidence in our present, sparking so many to entrepreneurial action. And he did it advocating shining ideals—a respect for diversity and differences, integrity in oneself, and honor in the bold spirit of venture. He made enterprise a powerful and profitable idea.

  * * *

  I had been following my own enterprises long before STAR TREK entered my life. From the cemetery plots that my father had first invested in for me with my earnings from Ice Palace long ago, I had moved on to small apartment buildings and then into a number of larger apartment complexes. I parlayed my small pieces of land for the dead into a growing real estate holding for the living.

  I may have been entrepreneurial before STAR TREK, but it was my earnings from the show that provided me with the resources with which to be really venturesome. My STAR TREK money allowed me to play in the stock market, invest in publishing, in development projects, and in banking. It also gave me the daring sometimes to invest with my heart instead of my head.

  They say that a person in show business should never invest in show business. I broke that rule, more out of friendship than shrewd business sense—and, sure enough, paid the penalty. Nichelle’s then-husband persuaded me to invest in his little theater production. Duke was a charming and ambitious man with ideas, energy, and enthusiasm, the very personification of the spirit of enterprise. The play was a musical comedy. It seemed like a good bet. Unfortunately, the production never came to life.

  Some of the rides that my investments have taken me on were as spine-tingling and as heart-stopping as any episode driving the U.S.S. Enterprise. I did well on most, some not; others are still bumping along. I’ve learned a few things—namely, no more women’s organic cosmetics or little theater productions—and I’ve repeated a few mistakes. Stay away from gold futures. But always, I’ve tried to guide myself by the star of ethical values. I’m still intact and still driving the ship of enterprise. The ride has been exciting, fun, and generally profitable. So far, so good.

  * * *

  It was dark when I got up. Dawn was still hours away, but I couldn’t sleep. I had a long drive ahead of me to Rockwell International Corporation’s space division facility, up in the high plains desert of Palmdale. My heart was filled with an overwhelming sense of moment. We had an invitation to history. It was September 17, 1976, and Gene Roddenberry and the cast of STAR TREK were guests at the “roll-out” ceremony of the first space shuttle.

  I arrived at Rockwell International’s facility to find a crush of humanity. A staff member of the National Air and Space Administration greeted me and pulled me through the excited horde, past a chain-link security fence to a small bungalow warm with the welcoming aroma of hot coffee and doughnuts. Gene was already there smiling, a cup of steaming coffee in hand, chatting with the people from NASA. Then De staggered in looking disheveled and traumatized by the gantlet he had to run. Nichelle also stumbled in, her wide-brimmed hat askew on her head but still smiling and waving to the people outside. Walter came in complaining, “The traffic in the Valley was incredible! And then this mauling here! Can’t we get some of this NASA intellegence down here on earth?” The doughnuts in the cardboard container were disappearing fast, so I grabbed an extra one for Jimmy just in case. He’d be hungry when he got here. Gene’s coffee was no longer steaming, but his cup was still full. The NASA people kept him continuously chatting and wouldn’t let him get in a sip.

  Where were Jimmy, Bill, and Leonard? It was almost time for the ceremony to begin. Quick phone calls were made, and we learned that Leonard had already arrived but was sequestered in another bungalow. But no Jimmy or Bill. We had to go; the time had come. I returned Jimmy’s doughnut to the cardboard box and filed out with the others escorted by the NASA ushers.

  On the vast runway of the space facility, a sea of folding chairs had been set up almost a mile out. Facing it was a wide temporary stage with a podium and a row of folding chairs for the speakers. The control and decorum on this side of the security fence was in stark contrast to the wild bedlam outside. We were ushered to a row of seats designated for the STAR TREK people.

  The speakers began filing onstage and seated themselves. Most prominent of the group was the keynote speaker, Senator Barry Goldwater. Just then, flushed and breathless, Jimmy Doohan was ushered over to us. He stumbled over our knees to his seat, mumbling something about the terrible traffic. There was only one empty seat in our section now. Where was Bill?

  People from all walks of life had gathered here on this desert runway in Palmdale: politicians, actors, engineers, teachers, and space buffs, all bound by a shared vision of our future. People with beliefs, expertise, and dreams that ranged across a wide spectrum were brought together by a common recognition of the significance of this morning. A new era was dawning. The keynote speaker was introduced.

  Senator Goldwater, the blunt-talking Arizonan, former presidential candidate, and spearhead for the space program in Congress, was a politician on the other side of the fence from me. I had campaigned against him in the last presidential race, and so had Leonard. Yet we converged on some basic principles. He was a libertarian, a rugged westerner who stood for the ideals of freedom and respect for the rights of others. I, too, hold those values dear. We both believed in free enterprise. And we shared a common vision of space as the great challenge of our time. Barry Goldwater and the people gathered on the runway represented the breadth and complexity of support essential to this project. Politicians, technicians, entrepreneurs, and artists had to work in concert; we collectively represented the unity vital to its success. Senator Goldwater was an eminently appropriate speaker.

  He spoke of the historic moment of this occasion. This morning, humankind was begi
nning our venture out into space. With the craft that was about to be introduced to us, we were about to begin our transportation linkage to the entrepreneurial adventure “out there.” We had made a great investment of our resources in the question, “What will we find out there?” An even greater question was, “Can we make this venture carry a payload?” We had the spirit and the will to seek the answers. We were ready to take on the challenge of innovation, invention, and creation that lay before us. Our great undertaking was just beginning. Senator Goldwater’s voice rang powerfully through the crisp morning air.

  Then the Air Force Band that waited below the platform began to play. Immediately, we recognized the melody. They were playing Alexander Courage’s theme from STAR TREK. As the stirring melody soared through that brilliant September morning, out from behind the giant hangar emerged a huge, glistening white craft. This was the very first space shuttle built by the National Air and Space Administration. And on the side of its fuselage was imprinted its name. It read Enterprise. It was a profoundly moving moment.

  A legion of fans had taken the action. They had lobbied to have this historic craft named after the Starship from their favorite television series. But the name also embodied the spirit of initiative, to boldly venture forth, to challenge the unknown, and to make it profitable. The fans’ initiative was inspired. And because of it, we television actors were privileged to be a part of this momentous event in human history. I felt a deep gratitude to the people who had made this possible for us.

  STAR TREK LIVES

  22

  The Motion Picture

  DURING THE SERIES RUN OF STAR TREK on television, we encountered strange and wondrous fictional experiences via the imaginations of gifted writers. But none of them, no matter how fancifully inspired, could have imagined the fantastical reality that was to descend on us almost a decade later.

  Ever since the unexpected ratings success of the series in the rerun circuit, rumors about a revival of STAR TREK had continued to surface. Walter Koenig was calling me regularly with the latest version circulating.

  “Guess what? We’re coming back on television as a weekly series again.” This was totally unexpected. My spirits soared. Then another call from Walter.

  “The series project is off.” My spirits plunged.

  Walter again: “We’re going to be a monthly series of two-hour Movie of the Month episodes instead.” This was even better. Hope again flew.

  “Forget the Movie of the Month. It’s a no go.” Another plunge.

  “Great news! We’re going to be the flagship series for a fourth television network that Paramount is going to be starting up.” This was incredible!

  “Bad news. It looks like Leonard won’t be in it.” This was worrisome.

  “It’s definite! Paramount’s signed a new actor named David Gautreaux as the Vulcan. Leonard is out!”

  Walter’s usual enthusiastic voice sounded crestfallen. “The whole thing is dead! Paramount has dropped the fourth network project.”

  Walter kept me well informed on every detail of the twists and turns of STAR TREK’s possible future course. So well informed, that, after a few years, I had become immune to the excitement that each new update used to arouse in me. In fact, I was getting downright irritated with the incessant disruptions these rumors were causing to the order I was trying to maintain in my life. A television series would make a mess of my meeting schedule at the RTD. And I would be confronted with another difficult career decision.

  So when Fred, my agent, called one morning in 1978 with the information that Paramount had called to begin negotiations for a STAR TREK feature motion picture, it was as jolting as receiving a call from an RTD staffer telling me that a Klingon was patiently waiting in line to board an RTD bus. It seemed surreal. I had put away thoughts of ever encountering those bizarre creatures again except as figments reappearing only in the rumors reported by Walter.

  “This is going to be a major production,” Fred informed me. “It’s got one of the biggest budgets on Paramount’s schedule, and it’s got one of the biggest directors in town, Robert Wise.”

  This was amazing! Robert Wise was not only the director of such super hits as West Side Story, The Sound of Music, and The Sand Pebbles, but he had edited that landmark film classic by Orson Welles, Citizen Kane. What an extraordinary opportunity! To work with a legendary director and to get together with friends from a fondly remembered part of my past, all in the same project—in STAR TREK! It was a fantasy coming true. Even the rumors hadn’t been this fantastical. After nine long years of hope and disappointment, gossip and letdown, raised and then dashed expectations, STAR TREK was returning, not as a television series, but as a big-budget, major feature film with a giant of the cinema directing us!

  “Fred, I’ll make whatever arrangements I need to make with the RTD to do this film,” I said decisively. “You do whatever you need to do on your end.”

  * * *

  It was glorious being back on the bridge of the Enterprise at Paramount Studios. But there were striking differences. The set had the same circular configuration as before, but it was sleeker, more streamlined, more luminous with a steely shine. And it was larger, much larger.

  Our uniforms were completely changed. Bob Foster had designed body-hugging one-piece outfits as sleek and streamlined as the set. Even the shoes were attached to the single-unit ensemble. An Italian custom bootmaker had measured our feet and had molded and fitted the footwear part of the costume to the uniform. It looked expensive—and it was.

  In fact, everything about the production was bigger and more expensive. The schedule was astonishingly luxurious. We, who had toiled at breakneck pace during the television series, squeezing in as many setups per day as possible, were aghast to note on the breakdown sheet that a whole week had been allotted to film some single scenes. That was almost the time it had taken us to complete one whole television episode!

  What was unchanged were my friends. Walter was quite unsuccessfully trying to disguise his happiness by kvetching, saying that the glossy new console at his changed position as the weapons officer was tucked off to the periphery of the bridge. I saw, though, that shiver of joy from him as he discovered that the buttons on this console really worked.

  Jimmy was unabashedly jubilant. “I knew it. I knew it from the first day,” he boasted. “There was magic in STAR TREK. Magic! That’s what it is. I knew we’d be coming back. Didn’t I tell you that, George?”

  I pretended agreement. But I remembered that he had, in fact, agreed with me back on our first day of filming the pilot, when I made the prediction “I smell quality with this show. And quality doesn’t last on television. I give this show, at best, two seasons.” Jimmy had concurred with me then. But my prediction had been wrong. Jimmy’s altered memory was happier, more auspicious, and I fully shared in his joy. I quietly agreed with his rewriting of history.

  Nichelle was the most ecstatic. She kissed and hugged everyone many times over. Even crew members completely new to us were rapturously greeted as she embraced them with a puzzling “It’s lovely to be back working with you again!” They didn’t seem to mind, though. By the time they were smooched by Nichelle a third time, I’m sure they believed they had worked with her before.

  It was good to see De again. Of all the cast members, he was the one I had encountered the least since cancellation. We had been like the proverbial ships in the night at a few conventions, and that was about it. Dear, sweet De. We will have to renew old acquaintance, I thought. I watched him as he sat smiling in his set-side chair, calmly smoking his cigarette, just like before, the relaxed and assured professional waiting to be called into action.

  Curiously, Leonard seemed to have aged the most. His complexion looked more weather-beaten than before, his lines deeper. Vulcans were supposed to age slower, I remembered. But then, they were also supposed to be more long-lived, and Spock’s age was never revealed. So perhaps a Spock much older than any of us was starting to finally sh
ow his wear and tear. What hadn’t changed, however, was his driving professionalism. Leonard was still the intensely focused, detail-oriented perfectionist. He was studiously checking out his new work station.

  And Bill was in the center of it all—just as before. He was laughing, joking, giggling, and reveling in the joy of commencing a project undreamed of by any of us.

  As Nichelle kept repeating, it was wonderful being back together again. It was great being back in the circular form of the set, back with good colleagues, surrounded by the noise and hurly-burly of the grips and technicians as they prepared for the first shot on this first day on the set of STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE. Bob Wise sat set-side in his high director’s chair, his sage white hair and discerning spectacled eyes reflecting everything; he looked like a smart old owl surveying his domain, taking in every detail, just as the action was about to begin. We were all sublimely happy.

  * * *

  There were many notable changes. Color—or the lack of it—was one of them. There was a monochromatic tone to our new environment. Shades were subdued. Where we had obsidian black and bright orange in the rails of the bridge before, it now sheened with a muted steely luster. Where our uniforms had ranged in shades from pale green and electric blue to vivid crimson, now we wore softer hues: beige, powder gray, and creamy white.

  But all this restraint couldn’t mute the presence of a striking new actress who was joining us on the Enterprise, Persis Khambatta. A former Miss India who had gone to London and become a successful fashion model, she was now making her Hollywood debut as the alien navigator, Ilia. She was stunningly beautiful. She had the finely sculpted bones of a top model, skin like alabaster, and the grace and elegance of a ballet dancer. But what made her beauty so transcendent—so shockingly exotic—was her head. It was as perfectly sculpted as her elegant cheekbones and totally hairless. She was bald!