Hans Stallworth came in, arms full of harnesses. He was tall, intense, formal. His specialty was electronics, and he always seemed uncomfortable in Truscott's presence. She thought of him as being superficial, and had been surprised when he offered to stay. "Hello," he said, with as much elan as he could muster. Sill shook his hand. "Good to have you here, Hans."

He set the harnesses down, and no one needed to be told to put one on. Truscott removed her belt. "Find something you can use to tie yourself down. We don't want anyone flying around in here."

"Pity we don't have a serious set of deflectors on this thing," said Danielle.

Sill laughed. "It would be like drawing the blinds. Look at that son of a bitch."

It filled the screens.

"Harvey, let's depressurize the station. All of it."

Sill nodded.

"I wonder," said Stallworth, "whether we wouldn't be better off outside."

"No." Truscott secured her harness and activated the field. "Let's keep as much protection as we can get."

Danielle and Stallworth, who had had little experience with the Flickingers, helped each other. Sill swung his harness lazily over his head and dropped it across his shoulders. "Other shuttle's on the way," he said.

"ETA?"

"About three hours. They should be in plenty of time to pick up survivors." He inspected their harnesses, announced his approval. "Activate the homers," he said, and demonstrated how. "If you're thrown clear, and you're unconscious, they'll still get to you." His fingers moved across the command console. "Commencing depressurization."

Stallworth was looking out through a viewport, shading his eyes. "I see it," he said.

Truscott followed his gaze but could see nothing. "Confirming original projection," said Sill, not without a trace of pride. "It'll hit Blue on the way in, and then impact directly with the hub."

Danielle had posted herself at the comm console. "Both APVs are away. Shuttle's about to launch."

"They get everybody?"

"They've got twenty-two. We make twenty-six." All accounted for.

"They may not get far enough away," said Danielle. "We may be safer in here."

"Two minutes," said Sill.

"Shuttle?"

Danielle checked the board. "Negative."

"What's holding them up?"

The officer spoke into a side channel. "They thought somebody else was coming. Ginger says they have room for one more."

"Doesn't matter now," Truscott said. "Tell her to clear out." She looked toward Sill. "Seal it up. Close off everything. Power down. Except the lights. Let's keep the lights on."

Electronics died throughout the wheel. Computers went to maintenance modes, monitors blanked, food processors gurgled to a halt, water heaters died.

"Shuttle away," said Danielle.

A star had appeared. Truscott watched it brighten and take shape. It developed ridges and chinks. No craters. Irregular, almost rectangular surface. Club-shaped, she thought.

Not spinning.

"Okayr" she said. "Everybody down. The main shock will come through the deck. Lie flat. Use the pillows to protect all vulnerable parts. Tie yourself to something solid."

They watched it come.

Forty seconds.

It sailed through the sky, bright and lovely in the sunlight. It moved across the viewport, corresponding to the rotation of the outer rim, and disappeared finally to the left.

Truscott reached deep inside for the old arrogance, her lifelong conviction that things always turn out well if you stay cool and do the things that need to be done. She hoped she looked arrogant. That was what they needed now. That and divine intervention. "Face away from the impact," she said, pointing where she meant.

"They need to build these bastards with seat belts." It was Stallworth. He sounded calm.

And in that moment, it hit.

The station shook.

Someone screamed. They were thrown against pillows and deck.

But there was no hammer blow. Klaxons did not scream, and the steel bulkheads did not rip. A few alarms sounded: minor damage. And that was all.

"What happened?" asked Danielle, still holding tight to her chair.

Sill said: "Damned if I know."

"Everybody stay down." Truscott was taking no chances.

And, in her earphones, there was a voice from one of the ships: "Where is the goddam thing?"

Truscott, dazed, was also puzzled by the sound of the strike.

Bonk.

"The space station is having a problem." This was how Janet alerted the people on Wink and at the Temple site to the approach of the torpedo. She broadcast a running description of events and relayed the frantic plain-language calls among the orbiter, the ground stations, and the tugs. To Henry and Sandy Gonzalez, who were in the Seapoint operations center, she also transmitted telescopic views of the object closing on the orbiter. The station, its twin outer wheels rotating placidly, looked flimsy. It was a tense moment. One would have had to pay close attention to detect the overlay of satisfaction in Janet's voice.

All work stopped. They watched with morbid fascination.

"No estimate on mass. But it is closing very fast."

"Serves the bastards right," said Henry.

And Carson: "Not very competent, are they? Plunked by one of their own rocks."

Sandy stood at Henry's side. "Maybe we've got our extension after all," she said.

"Is everybody off?"

"Don't know."

"Can't be. They're still talking on the station."

Despite their animosity for the terraformers, nobody wanted to see them dead.

"Is it actually going to hit!" Henry asked Janet.

"Yes," she said. "No question."

Henry's next thought was that the Wink should be riding to the rescue. "Where's Hutch?"

"With you. She's on the surface."

He noted, and then dismissed, an impression that her reaction was wrong. Not pleased. Not fearful. But righteous.

"Okay. Contact somebody over there. Explain our situation, and tell them we stand by to assist any way we can. I'll turn Hutch around and send her back up if it'll help."

Janet hesitated. "Okay. But I doubt they'll want any help from us."

"Offer, anyway."

She took a long breath. "I'll get right on it."

Moments later, he had audio contact with Hutch. "What can I do?" she asked innocently.

"Stand by. We might have a rescue mission for you." And, to the tunnelers: "It's closing fast. Just seconds now."

Henry watched it race across those last few kilometers, a shining white bullet. It blasted into the space station, and both vanished in an eruption of white spray. "Impact," he said.

Sandy let out her breath.

The picture slowly cleared, while excited voices asked for details. Incredibly, the orbiter was still intact. It had developed a wobble, but it was still turning at the same unhurried pace.

Ten minutes later, Janet reported back. "They said thanks. But they're doing fine."

Below the sea floor, George and Carson worked with a particle beam to extend their tunnel. They were beneath the outer wall of the military chapel, attempting to chart the best route to the printing press. George was nothing if not conservative, and no amount of urging by Henry or anyone else could persuade him to embrace unnecessary risks. Consequently, they installed braces and proceeded with all possible caution. "I'd like to get back down there as much as anybody," he told Henry. "But common sense is the first priority."

George knew the general direction of the printing press. He employed the particle beam with increasing impatience, and he was tired. Shortly they would go back, George to rest, and Carson to relieve Henry at the monitor. Sandy and Richard would take over the digging, and Henry would man the pumps. In fact, he could already see the flash of lights in the tunnel.