Space Stations

The woman probably expected to have to stay in the lounge with all the passengers going to Venus. Alonza was silent for a moment, then said, “We want you to be comfortable. I believe that our agreement with the Associated Habitats also requires us not to inflict any unnecessary discomfort on any of you. So we've found a room for you in our officers' quarters. You'll have to share it, but there are two beds, and a public lavatory just down the corridor.”

“That's very kind of you,” the male Habber said, and she heard a note of sarcasm in his voice. Being sarcastic was uncharacteristic of such cool and rational types as Habbers, but then this Habber and his companion were not like others of their kind.

After getting their thirty Venus-bound passengers out of the lift and settled in the lounge, Alonza led the two Habbers to their room, which was just three doors from her own quarters. In the three years since she had been assigned here, she had grown used to the gently curving and brightly lit corridors, to the gravitylike acceleration, only slightly weaker than Earth's, that was imparted by the Wheel's rotation around its hub, to the pilots and passengers passing end-lessly through this station. Every twenty-four-hour period brought the promise of something new—of an unusually interesting traveler, official visitors, a new detachment of Guardians with intriguing tales of a Nomarchy she did not know that much about, the possibility of a mission that might take her to the L-5

spaceport, to one of the industrial, recreational, and military satellites that orbited Earth, or even to Luna. Her post here often imparted a heightened sense of expectation, of feeling that she was on a journey that would never end. It was as if she were somehow picking up that feeling of anticipation from all of those who passed through the Wheel on their way to other places.

“Your room,” Alonza said to the two Habbers as she pressed the door open for them.

They entered a small room bare of furnishings except for a small wall screen and two cushions in front of two low shelves. “You pull the beds out from the wall.” She demonstrated by pressing a panel and pulling out the lower bunk. “And the lavatory's four doors down to your right. I hope everything's satisfactory, but if there's anything else you need, do let me know.”

“We're most appreciative,” the male Habber said.

“I'd be most grateful if you would both be my guests at supper in two hours,” Alonza continued. She thought of asking Tom Ruden-Nodell, the physician in charge of the Wheel's infirmary and the closest friend she had here, to join them, but decided against it. She would get more of a sense of these two by herself.

The Habbers glanced at each other, apparently surprised by her offer of hospitality.

“We're a bit tired,” the man said. “Perhaps another time—”

“Tired? I didn't think Habitat-dwellers were as subject to our frailties. Three hours, then?

That should give you time to rest. I look forward to seeing you then. I'll send a Guardian to fetch you.” Alonza turned and left the room before the man could object again.

“Detain the operative,” Colonel Sansom had said in his message, sent to her over a confidential channel. Alonza had seen the woman's file, stored under the name she was using. This was a matter Colonel Sansom should have handled himself, but he had left suddenly to go to an asteroid tracking station two days ago, to supervise repairs after a micrometeorite strike had damaged three telescopes, and would not get back to the Wheel for another thirty hours at least. A more easygoing officer might have sent a subordinate to the station, but not the obsessively conscientious Jonas Sansom. Tracking the orbits of asteroids that might threaten Earth was one of the most important duties of Guardians, perhaps the most important. Colonel Sansom would report to his superiors that he had seen to this task personally.

“Just get her away from the others,” Sansom continued, “and into custody as quietly as possible, that's all. Best if you can handle it by yourself without bringing anybody else into it, so use your judgment.”

That was all. That was more than enough. Alonza was flattered that he trusted her with this task. She must not fail him.

According to the file on her screen, the operative was using the name of Sameh Tryolla.

She had supposedly grown up in the Eastern Mediterranean Nomarchy, attended and then been asked to leave the University of Vancouver in the Pacific Federation for not doing well at her studies in physics, and after that had decided to leave her work as a laboratory assistant in Ankara to go to the camp outside Tashkent. Probably everything in her file was an invention. The image of Sameh Tryolla showed a slim, young olive-skinned woman with long dark-brown hair and large hazel eyes; she looked frail, and hardly more than a girl.