"AF-9, this is Woomera."

Trying to blank his mind to what was going on behind him. Kinsman thumbed the switch on his communications panel. "Go ahead, Woomera."

For the next hour Kinsman thanked the gods that he had plenty of work to do. He matched the orbit of the Manta with that of the Air Force orbiting station, which had been up for nearly a year, occupied intermittently by two- or three- astronaut teams.

Kinsman had thought that the Air Force would make use of the emptied propellant tanks from shuttle flights that were left in orbit to be clustered together in the "tank farm" where he and Colt had been initiated to orbital tomfoolery a couple of years earlier. But the tanks remained unused, and the Air Force sent aloft a completely separate little spacecraft that they were developing into a permanent station in orbit.

It was a fat cylinder, silhouetted against the brilliant white of the cloud-decked Earth. As he pulled the Manta close enough for a visual inspection, Kinsman could see the antennas and airlock and other odd pieces of gear that had accumulated on the station. Looks more like an orbital junk heap every trip, he thought. Riding behind it, unconnected in any way, was the squat cone of the new power pod.

Kinsman circled the unoccupied station once, using judicious squeezes of the maneuvering thrusters. He touched a command signal switch and the station's radar beacon came to life, announced by a blinking green light on his control panel.

"All systems green," he said to ground control. "Every- thing looks okay."

"Roger, Niner. You are cleared for docking."

This was more complicated. Be helpful if Jill could read off...

"Distance, eighty-eight meters," .Till's voice pronounced clearly in his earphones. "Rate of approach . . ."

Kinsman instinctively turned his head, but the helmet cut off any possible sight of her. "Hey, how's your patient?"

"Empty. I gave her a sedative. She's out."

"Okay," said Kinsman. "Let's get ourselves docked."

He inched the spacecraft into the docking collar on one 76 end of the station, locked on and saw the panel lights confirm that the docking was secure.

"Better get Sleeping Beauty zippered up," he told Jill.

Jill said, "I'm supposed to check the hatch."

"Stay put. I'll do it." Kinsman unbuckled and rose effortlessly out of his seat to bump his helmet lightly against the overhead hatch.

"You two both sealed tight?"

"Yes."

"Keep an eye on the air gauge." He cracked the hatch open a scant centimeter.

"Pressure's steady. No red lights."

Nodding, Kinsman pushed the hatch open all the way. He pulled himself up and through the shoulder-wide hatch.

Light and easy, he reminded himself. No big motions. No sudden moves.

Sliding through the station hatch he slowly rotated, like an underwater swimmer doing a lazy rollover, and inspected every millimeter of the docking collar in the light of his helmet lamp. Satisfied that it was locked in place, he pushed himself fully inside the station. Carefully he pressed his cleated boots into the gridwork flooring and stood upright. His arms tended to float out, but they bumped the equipment racks on either side of the narrow central passageway. Kinsman turned on the station's interior lights, checked the air supply, pressure and temperature gauges, then shuffled back to the hatch and pushed himself through again.

He re-entered the Manta upside-down and had to con- tort himself around the pilot's seat to regain a "normal" attitude.