"Can we really do it?"

"Let's find out."

She cut gravity, and they went to the shuttle and retrieved the two barrels of poly-6. They hauled them back to No. 2 hold and put them in the middle of the deck, which is to say,

centered over the cargo doors. Next Hutch went back for the connector hose and gun.

Now that she was committed, Janet showed no hesitation, had no second thoughts. Good woman to have at your back, Hutch thought.

"We have to have something to start with," Janet said.

Hutch had the ideal answer. "Sit tight," she said. She went up to A ring, to the rec locker, and got one of the medicine balls.

Janet broke into a wide smile when she saw it. "The very thing," she said. She had connected the hose to each of the barrels and to the gun.

Hutch put the ball down and stepped back. She eyed the dispenser. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"Delighted." Janet pointed the instrument at the medicine ball. "Just what the doctor ordered," she said wickedly, and pulled the trigger.

White foam spurted out, coating the deck and the ball. The ball rolled away. "This might take a while," she said.

"Not once we get started."

The ball lost its roundness quickly, and became an uneven, white chunk of hissing foam.

The object expanded as a natural result of mixing the polymer content in one barrel with a water-activated isocyanate in the other. It was designed, once it had set, to resist extreme temperature changes.

They took turns, and learned to back off occasionally to let the chemical dry.

It got bigger. Even when they weren't drenching it with fresh spray, it grew.

It grew to the size of a small car. And then to the size of a garage. And they kept pouring it on.

It got so big they could not reach the top, and they brought over a container to stand on. The thing had gone lopsided, long and wide rather than high. Bloated at one end. "It looks like a dead whale," said Janet.

Hutch fired again. "Born to the poly gun," she said, laughing.

"The thing's a monster!"

When the stream finally sputtered and faltered, pride illuminated their features. "It's magnificent," said Janet, ceremonially flinging the gun away.

"I wouldn't want to have to deal with it."

"Exactly what I was thinking."

Hutch spoke softly: "Never monkey with the Pimpernel." They shook hands. "Okay. Phase two. You stay here. I'm going up to the bridge."

Quraqua floated overhead, hazy in the sunlight. There was no moon.

Melanie Truscott and her space station were on the far side of their orbit. Hutch scanned for Kosmik's two tugs. She found one. The other was probably down among the snowballs, where it would be hard to distinguish. It wouldn't matter: even if it was in the neighborhood of the space station, things were going to happen too fast.

Truscott had no means of independent propulsion. No starship was docked.

Hutch fed the station's orbital data into the navigation console, scanned the "torpedo" — how that word tripped across the tongue—computed its mass, and requested an intercept vector. The numbers came back. With a minor correction, the torpedo could be targeted to complete seven orbits and hit the station on its eighth. In twenty-one hours.

She sat back to consider potential consequences. Last chance for a no-go. Once the thing was launched, she would not be able to change her mind without giving away the show. How might things go wrong? Lawsuit? Heart failure on someone's part?

She saw again the wave surging in, black and cold. And the last Tower. And Karl and Janet, trailing bags like refugees.

She opened the ship's intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be making a minor course correction in three minutes. You'll want to strap down. Please acknowledge."

"Karl here. Okay."

She locked in the new course.

"I need a little time." That was Marcotti.

"Phil, we're going in three minutes, ready or not." She checked her power levels.

"This is Maggie. Ready when you are."

She opened a private channel to Janet. "All set?"

"Yes." The word had a slight echo; Janet was inside her Flickinger field. "How fast will it be going when it hits them?"

"Seven thousand, relative to the station. Impact will occur at seventeen minutes past eight, Temple time, tomorrow evening."

"Seven thousand klicks is pretty fast. Maybe even a chunk of foam will do some serious damage."

"It'll bend a few things," she said, "and pop some rivets. But they'll see it coming, and they'll either get off the station or button up. They'll be fine."

"Okay. What next?"

"Course change." She switched channels. "Phil?"

"Almost ready," he said.

"Good. Please strap down."

Moments later he was back. "Okay," he said. "I'm all set."

She activated the intercom. "Movement in one minute." She engaged the «Execute» function, and watched the seconds drain away.

"Where are we going?" asked Maggie.

"Nowhere," said Hutch uncomfortably. "It's just a routine maneuver." She was a poor liar.

Thrusters kicked in, and the Winckelmann rose to a higher orbit, and changed its heading by a few degrees. When it was over, Hutch issued the stand-down. Then she switched back to Janet's channel. "Everything all right?"

"So far. It rolled a little, but it's still over the doors."

"Going to zero-gee on your deck."

"Okay. I've begun to depressurize."

The B ring slowed. And stopped.

Hutch watched the monitor. The torpedo rose.

"Good show," she said. She already knew that she'd break their agreement to say nothing. She would tell Richard. This was just too good to keep to herself. He'd be angry, but eventually it would become a joke between them. And years from now it would be the bright shining moment in this period of general despair. If the Academy was being forced out, it would go down with all flags flying.

"It's still over the doors. I'm going to open up now."

"At your leisure."

"Doors are opening."

"Hutch?" A new voice. Karl's.

"Yes, Karl?"

"Can I get access to a twelve-by?"

A wall-length monitor. "Yes. In Three A." That was the auxiliary bridge. "But stay put for a couple of minutes. Okay? We're doing routine maintenance."

"Doors are open," said Janet. She was inaudible to the others.

"Okay," said Karl.

"I'll tell you when." Hutch broke away to Janet: "Clearance?"

"Looks good."

"All right. Here we go."

Because ring rotation simulated gravity, the decks were at right angles to the ship's axis. The cargo doors, therefore, opened off the side of the ship. The torpedo's exit would be to starboard. Inside Main Cargo, it was already on course. All they needed to do was remove the ship.

Hutch aimed the thrusters to take the Wink to port, and fired a light burst. And again. "Maneuver complete," she told Janet.

"Doing fine. The torpedo has begun to descend." From her point of view, it was leaving through the deck.

"Still have clearance?"

"Enough. It'll be outside in about thirty seconds."

"Make sure you don't go out with it."

"Hutch," she said, "I believe we've just had a baby."

Priscilla Hutchins, Journal

Tonight, for the first time in my career, I have omitted a significant item from a ship's log. It is an offense that, if detected, would result in the loss of my license.

This whole business was probably a bit off the deep end. But I couldn't resist lobbing something back at them. If in the end I am disgraced and run off, it will have been for a good cause.

Wednesday, June 9, 2202

Thursday. 0854 hours.

The descent into the Lower Temple was filled with silt and rock. George Hackett, whose specialty was submarine excavation, had examined scans of the area, and vetoed proposals to dig a parallel shaft. "Safer," he'd admitted, "but too time-consuming."