Space Stations

“But we didn't come here to discuss history,” Cummings interrupted diplomatically. “We need to give the station a quick once-over for any possible danger to Space Force One and its escort. Just routine, of course.”

“After all, we wouldn't want a section of hull to fall off and float into their path,” Drexler said under his breath.

Cummings sent him a strained look. “For what it's worth, I understand the commentators will be giving some of the station's history during the approach,” he said. “I know it's not a Presidential visit, but at least it's something for your trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” Bob said, nodding. “I'm sure we all appreciate it.”

Cummings nodded in return. “Now, if you'll take us to the main control complex…?”

“Of course,” Bob said, swallowing his annoyance and gesturing through the door. “This way, please.”

A full self-guided tour of the station, including a reading of all the information plaques, was timed to take about five hours. Adding in a lunch break—carry-on bubblepack or back aboard your own ship; the visitors' cafeteria hadn't been open for ten years—the whole thing was a pleasant day's touristing.

Cummings and Drexler didn't bother with the plaques, and they weren't interested in lunch. But unlike standard tourists, they also insisted on seeing the rangers' living quarters, workshops, and storerooms.

It was nearly four hours before Cummings pronounced himself satisfied that Space Fort Jefferson was safe enough for President Ukukho to come within five miles of. What Drexler thought he kept to himself.

“We'll need to stay aboard until after Space Force One has passed out of magscope range,” Cummings told Bob as they headed back toward the entryway. “We'd like to set up as near the main control area as possible.”

“Certainly,” Bob said. Ahead, he could hear a murmuring of unfamiliar voices from the reception room. Apparently, the GenTronic Twelve had arrived, and Bob tossed up a quick prayer that there wouldn't be any bored teenagers or inquisitive toddlers in the group. “The station was originally designed for a crew of fifteen hundred, you know.

There's a duty dayroom just off the control complex you can use.”

They came around the corner into the reception room, and Bob breathed a quiet sigh of relief. No toddlers; no teenagers; just nine youngish, pleasant-looking men in upscale bulkyjackets spread out around the room reading the plaques. Probably rich enough to be sued if they broke anything, which meant they would be careful not to. Hix was hovering nearby, looking like a combination proud mother and nervous curator, all traces of his earlier depression gone from his face. Hix loved showing off his station to visitors even more than Bob did.

“Ah—here's Ranger Bob now,” Hix said as Bob and the agents stepped into the room. “I was just telling Herr Forste here what a good job you've done keeping Space Fort Jefferson running.”

“Nice to meet you, Ranger Bob,” Forste said, smiling. His English had a pleasant North European accent to it. “And who are your friends?”

Bob looked at Cummings, wondering what exactly he was supposed to say here.

Cummings moved smoothly into the gap. “My name's Alan,” he said. “This is my friend Thomas. You and your friends come from Ceres?”

“Not exactly,” Forste said. “We're from Free Norway.”

Free Norway? Frowning, Bob turned back to him—

And caught his breath. From beneath their bulkyjackets, all nine men had suddenly produced small but nasty-looking handguns. “You will all please put up your hands,”

Forste said.

He smiled genially. “Especially you, Secret Service Agents Cummings and Drexler.”

They picked up Kelsey as he filled out duty logs in Dock Obs, Renfred as he polished plaques in the Number One Fire Control Center, and Bronsoni as he sneaked an unauthorized nap in the Number Thirteen-D torpedo launch tube.

“Which leaves only Gifford Wimbley,” Forste said with satisfaction as he and four of the other gunmen herded the prisoners into the Number Three Defense Monitor Complex.

“Where is he?”

“He's on a supply run to Ceres,” Bob said. “He won't be back for another two weeks.”

Forste's eyes narrowed. “Really,” he said, lifting his left thumbnail to his lips and tapping the tip. “How very convenient. Sjette? You up in Command yet?”

“Yes, I'm here,” a voice came back, just loud enough for Bob to hear.

“Check the duty log,” Forste ordered, his eyes on Bob. “Is Gifford Wimbley off the station?”

Bob cleared his throat. “Uh… Giff usually doesn't bother to check himself out,” he said.

“Since there are just the six of us, and we always know where everyone is—”

“No sign of anyone checked out,” Sjette's voice came back. “According to this, everyone should be here.”

Forste's eyes bored into Bob's face like rust remover on a gun turret that's been neglected too long. “Where is he?”

“I told you, he's on Ceres,” Bob insisted, feeling sweat starting to break out on his forehead.