"Okay for egress," the shuttle pilot's voice came over the intercom.
Kinsman unstrapped his safety harness and got out of the seat—floated up, weightless. It had seemed a long thirty-six- hour journey to Alpha. Now it was too short, too soon finished. They had gone over their "battle plan" fifty times. Now he wished for fifty more.
"All right, men." Boys. "Just follow the assignments we've mapped out and they'll never know what hit them. Move fast. Don't shoot unless you have to. Good luck."
Their young, serious, scared faces looked back at him. A few nodded. A couple of others checked their weapons. They all carried pistols, nothing bigger, Dartguns, designed to stop a man with a combination of impact shock and sedative. Not strong enough to puncture the thin metal skin of a spacecraft or space station. Or to knock down a charging opponent.
Kinsman floated past them ail to the airlock hatch. He felt and heard the thumps of the station crewmen on the other side, undogging the hatch. Hefting his pistol in his hand, Kinsman pressed the button on the bulkhead alongside the 442 hatch that unlocked it from the ship's interior.
The hatch swung open, revealing a hefty tech sergeant and two airmen in work fatigues. "What . . . ? We were expectin' . . ." Then the Sergeant saw Kinsman's gun.
"Just stand back and don't give us any trouble," Kins- man said.
"What the hell is this?"
They backed the three men out of the cramped metal chamber of the airlock, into the larger area of the unloading bay. From this zero-gravity hub of the many-wheeled station the lunar troops fanned out along three main tubes, the "spokes" that led from the hub through each wheel and out to the farthermost ring. Their objectives were the communica- tions center, the electrical power station, and the officers' quarters. Five men were left in charge of the loading bay. Three teams of seven men each rushed to take their three objectives.
Kinsman remembered the first time he had come to Alpha, the day of its official dedication. Diane had sung for the assembled VIPs. Neal McGrath had been among them, not yet an enemy. The station was going to be a center for private industry, for scientific research and exploration of the heavens. How quickly it had become a purely military base, a control center for the network of antimissile satellites and their powerful laser weapons.
Still, most of the men and women aboard Alpha were civilian employees. Ignore them, Kinsman knew. Take the high ground and the rest comes free. Control their electrical power and you control the station. Cut off their communica- tion with Earthside. Round up the officers before they can organize an effective defense.
Kinsman led the group heading for officer country. They clambered down the long, nearly endless spiral ladder that wound around the tube's inner wall, dropping in free-fall at first, then grabbing at the ladder's handrail and half walking, half leaping as the first gentle pull of gravity returned. Officers' quarters are at Level Four, which spins at a lunar grav, Kinsman knew, thankful that he would not have to face a full Earth gravity—not yet, at least.
They pushed past two startled civilians who were making their way up the tube. Neither of them said a word as the 443 armed men hustled past them. Let 'cm go. By the time they figure out what we're up to we'll be in command of the station. They clattered on, footsteps echoing metallically now through the narrow, dimly lit tube.
At last they burst out on Level Four and rushed down the central corridor toward the officers' area. His heart pounding against his ribs, Kinsman searched the nameplates on the doors they passed. There he is! L/C H. J. STAHL. He pushed the door open. Empty. Bed, desk, photos of wife and children, tape cassettes, but the man himself was not there.
Two other station officers were being pulled out of their compartments by Kinsman's grim-faced aides. One of them was Art Douglas; they had gone through astronaut training together. He was as bald and round-faced as Kinsman re- membered him from the last time they had met, but he had added a "station tour" mustache to his upper lip. "Chet! What're you doing here? What the hell's going on?" Flanked by the armed youngsters, Douglas and his buddy both looked surprised and more than a little annoyed.
"We're taking over the station, Art. Where's Harry Stahl?"
"Taking over? What do you mean?"
"Just what I said," Kinsman answered, walking down the corridor toward them. "Where's Stahl? This is no time for playing games."
Douglas was looking angry now. His buddy was staring at the guns that the young officers were holding. "This may come as a surprise to you, Chet, but the Colonel doesn't always take me into his confidence about every move he makes. Maybe he's in the head. How the hell should I know?"
Kinsman grimaced. "All right. Move—down into the mess hall." To his half-dozen men he said, "Clean out every compartment along the corridor. Herd them all down to the mess hall."
