"Let me know," said Hutch, in the silence of her cockpit, "if I can help."

Truscott made it to the operations center from her quarters in less than a minute. The alarms were still sounding, and voices filled the circuits. "No mistake?" She stared at the object, repeated across the bank of twelve situation screens.

Harvey Sill wiped his lips with the back of his fat hand. "No, it's closing straight and true. A goddam bomb."

"Where did it come from?"

Helplessly, Sill turned up his hands. "Somebody screwed up."

"How much time do we have?"

"Seventeen minutes."

"Where's it going to hit?"

"It's coming in from above. Eight-degree angle. It looks as if it'll go right into Engineering." That was the hub. "There's a chance it might hit the rim. But it won't make much difference. That thing will go through us like a hot knife."

"Which part of the rim is exposed?"

"Blue."

Someone shut the alarms off. "Get everyone out of there. Harvey, prepare to evacuate. Jeff, get off an SOS to the Winckelmann. Ask them to come running." She opened a channel to Engineering. "Will?"

Pause. "I'm here, Melanie. What's going on?"

"Collision coming. Big one. Button up and get out of there."

"Collision? With what?"

"Runaway snowball. Don't leave anybody behind."

She heard him swear. "On our way. It'll take a while to shut down."

"Be here in five minutes. You need help?"

"Negative." More profanity. "Listen, how big is this thing? We could lose life support and power all over the station."

"No kidding," growled Sill.

Three crewmen moved smartly into the operations center, took seats at the auxiliary boards, and plugged in. The CRT group: Command Response Team. They would coordinate communications and evacuation efforts throughout the emergency.

Jeff Christopher, the watch officer, looked up from his screen. "I make it about thirteen hundred tons."

"We're lucky," said Sill. "A small one."

"Coming at seven-kay klicks." He tapped his earphone, listened, and nodded. "Melanie," he said, "Winckelmann says they don't have a pilot aboard. Nobody knows how to run the damned thing."

Truscott stared out into the dark.

Sill exhaled and sank back in his chair. "We're not going to be able to get everyone off."

"I know. What have we got nearby?"

"Nothing close enough to help."

"Okay." She opened the common channel. "This is Truscott," she said evenly. "We have a snowball bearing down on us. Collision in thirteen minutes. Abandon the station."

"We've got two APVs and a shuttle," said Sill. "We can get three passengers, plus the pilot, into each APV. That's one more than they're designed for, but we can do it. We can put twelve more in the shuttle."

"Make it fourteen."

"Goddammit, Melanie, it won't accommodate fourteen."

"Find little people. Do it. That leaves how many?"

"Four," said Sill. "You and me. And two others."

She thought of ordering him off, but paid him the compliment of saying nothing.

Voices rippled through the heavy air:

"I read A deck secured."

"Terri, we haven't heard from Dave. Check his quarters."

"No, Harold. Don't come up here. You're scheduled on the boat. With Julie and Klaus—Yes, I'm serious. Now move."

"Well, he's got to be somewhere."

Nine minutes. "Ask for two volunteers. Jeff, close out and go. We don't need you anymore." Before Christopher could comply, she added, "But first get me some cushions."

"How many?"

"As many as you can. Make it quick."

Sill was struggling with his assignment. "Why not ask your staff to stay on? The senior people?"

She looked at him, and felt a wave of affection. "They're as scared as everybody else," she said. "I won't order anyone to stay. Harvey, we may die here. I want to have good company." She was watching her technicians moving reluctantly toward the exits. They knew there wasn't room for everyone, and their eyes glided over her. She read embarrassment. And fear. A couple of them approached, Max Sizemore, who touched her shoulder in an uncharacteristically personal gesture; and Tira Corday, who mouthed the word «thanks» and was gone.

Sill spoke to lan Helm with the Antarctic group. He was trying to arrange a quick rescue for the people in the APVs, who would have only an eight-hour air supply. Danielle Lima, the station's logistics manager, was bent over her commlink giving instructions to someone, but her dark eyes never moved from Truscott. Her features were immobile. She was a lean young brunette, bright, ambitious, a good worker, a woman at the beginning of her life. All the color had drained out of that lovely face. She signed off, but her eyes continued to cling to the director. "I'll stay," she said, and turned quickly away.

Truscott stared at her back. "Thanks," she said. But Danielle appeared not to hear.

Blue section was 70 degrees around the arc from Operations, opposite the direction of rotation. Which meant they were probably as safe here as they could hope to be. They'd be well out of the way of the thing both coming and going. What the hell—maybe they had a chance at that.

Danielle spoke into her commlink: "Okay, Hans. Get over here as quickly as you can." She smiled up at Truscott. "Stallworth will stay."

Truscott was trying to think, do what she could to give them a chance. "Get back to him. Tell him to stop by Supply on his way and pick up four Flickingers."

She surveyed her operating team: Marion Edwards, who had never worked for anyone else in Kosmik; Chuck White, a young climber who hoped to be an executive one day (and probably would); and Penny Kinowa, innocent, quiet, bookish. Penny read too much, and desperately needed to become more aggressive. But she was one hell of a systems coordinator. Edwards was removing the base crystal from the mainframe. "I'll see that this gets off the ship safely," he said uncomfortably. Unstated, of course, was his intention to carry it off personally. However this turned out, things would never be the same among this crew.

The crystal contained their records and logs. Wouldn't do to lose that, even if they were all killed. That would be

Norman Caseway's first response to the disaster: did they save the data? Reassured on that point, he would want to know who was responsible for the catastrophe. It wasn't enough that she would be dead; they would also destroy her reputation.

"Okay," said Harvey. "CR team out. You three are on board the remaining APV. Go."

Penny and Danielle traded glances. There was a world of meaning in that final exchange. The two were friends. That also might end, if they survived.

Sill was directing the final shutdown of the station. Truscott watched him. He would make a good manager, but he had a little too much integrity to survive in a top job. After a promising start, he'd made enemies and had wound up here. He'd go no higher, no matter how things turned out.

Edwards closed off his position. "All nonessential systems shut down," he said. "Hatches are closed, and the station is as secure as we can make it."

Chuck White was trying to look as if he were considering staying. "If you need me—"

Truscott wondered how he would respond if she accepted the offer. "Get moving. They're waiting for you. And thanks."

"Six minutes," said Sill.

The snowball, gouged, lopsided, ominous, grew in the screens.

Christopher appeared with two crewmen. They had a pile of cushions and pillows, which they dumped on the deck.

"That's good," said Truscott. "Thanks." She waved them out. They were now alone.

The shadows and the surface features didn't seem to change. "It isn't rotating," said Sill.

She nodded. "We'll think about it later, Harvey." "Everything rotates." Sill stared. Maybe it was simply very slow.