"Agreed." Kinsman felt himself relaxing a little, too.

"One unhappy thing." Leonov's face grew somber again, "Those two girls I brought to your birthday party. They were security agents! One of them shot me."

"Holy hell. Where? Is it serious?"

The Russian scowled. "In the back . . . lower back. I think she was trying to humiliate me. At any rate, the doctors tell me I will live and enjoy life—but I won't be sitting comfortably for a few days."

They all roared. But even while Kinsman was laughing his mind was warning him. The space stations. We've got to take them quickly. Or fail.

Tuesday 14 December 1999:

1200 hrs UT

LIEUTENANT COLONEL STAHL STOOD before the main screens of Space Station Alpha's cramped communications center. "Holiday traffic's starting to build up, I see."

Major Cahill smiled weakly at his boss's joke.

The comm center was a shoebox of metal and plastic with six monitor desks nested so tightly that if one of the techni- cians tried to stretch an arm it would knock the headset off the person next to her. When they spoke to the spacecraft that were approaching or leaving the station, it was in the low, whispering, economical Jargon of flight controllers every- where.

Major Cahill sat at a cramped desk of his own, built into the metal bulkhead off to one side of the compartment. The entire forward bulkhead was a checkerboard of radar and video display screens, a kaleidoscope that showed all the traffic around Station Alpha.

Stahl always felt claustrophobic in here. His armpits went ciammy. The room was too small, too densely packed with humming electrical gear and muttering human beings. It always smelled sweaty, tense. He pointed to one of the screens that showed a nearly empty field of view. Only one speck was discernible against the background of stars.

"Is that the shuttle from Moonbase?" Cahill nodded and touched a stud on his desktop. Alphanumerical symbols sprouted on the screen alongside the lunar shuttle, telling its position, estimated time of arrival, cargo, and crew.

Major Cahili was lanky and lantern-jawed. During his tour of duty aboard Alpha he had allowed a sandy mustache to grow; it was now thick enough to curl at the ends. He intended to shave it off before returning home for the holidays. If the world lasted that long. Cahill's job included 436 keeping track of both the American and Russian unmanned ABM satellites. He knew that the lasers aboard those satel- lites could slice Alpha into very small pieces. And there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it, except threaten to treat the Soviet space stations to the same kind of surgery.

Lieutenant Colonel Stahl—chunky, solid, squared-off face seamed by age and weather, nose bent from a fracture incurred at a long-forgotten Academy football game—was commander of the station. If he worried about their vulnera- bility, he gave no sign of it.

"We have another bird approaching," Cahill told his commander. "The emergency troopship coming up from Vandenberg, to beef up our crew. Its ETA is going to conflict with the lunar shuttle."

"The troopship has priority," Stahl said crisply.

Cahill agreed with a nod, but said, "You know, boss, we haven't had a supply shipment from Moonbase for two days. Their catapult's on the fritz."

"Yes, I know."

"Right. Well, if you take a look at the cargo the shuttle's carrying ..."

Stahl leaned forward slightly and squinted at the symbols on the screen showing the lunar shuttle.

"The LXY FDSTF means 'luxury foodstuffs/ Harry. Chick- en, fresh vegetables, maybe even some fruit. It might be a good idea to get them packed away safely before those green troopers come stomping aboard."

Stahl pursed his lips. "H'mm. Green troopers, you say."

"None of 'em been on orbital duty before. There's going to be a lot of upchucking, a lot of wasted food. And if they see the good stuff being offloaded, we won't be able to keep it just for us senior types. Their officers will want their fair share."

"Who's in command of the detachment?"