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Still, Brodersen must work warily, though with unlimited brass. In effect, he, holding two pair, was seeking to bluff out a
full house. Pretending to knowledge he did not possess, he must get it from Troxell under guise of telling his own story.

As for that: After
Emissary
returned, the PC had planted an extra guard on the Phoebean T machine. A strange vessel did emerge. She was boarded and her crew made prisoners without resistance. Having already leased Chehalis’ well-equipped but idle exploratory ship, the PC took them and their essentials away for safekeeping. To forestall any speculations, Fry declared when he entered the Solar System that his destination was Vesta, and went spaceward of his true goal before doubling back toward it.

Troxell believed. No fool, he nevertheless was predisposed to believe. Brodersen had anticipated that. The warders of the Wheel—twenty-one total, as he learned by feigning a slight misunderstanding—must be of more or less Actionist ideology. Else Quick, studying dossiers, doubtless getting depth-psych examinations made of volunteers “for a confidential assignment of utmost importance,” would not have picked them.

Soon Troxell was eager to talk. He needed to justify himself, he who had been penned in for these many weeks with his prisoners who were also his accusers. Brodersen listened patiently, encouragingly to all the antistellar theses. For a minute he was tempted to deny that the detention was proper, an act decided upon by the Council. But no. A few sentences can’t overturn a man’s faith.

Meanwhile his heart slammed, skin chilled and tingled, soul hallooed, behind a hard-held calm—for in between chunks of the lecture, he caught mentions of truth. The
Emissary
crew had been eight years at the far end of their gate. They had lost three members. Carlos and Joelle were alive. They maintained the aliens were friendly and anxious to begin cultural exchange.

They had an alien with them.

Brodersen could hit on no safe way to find out what the creature looked like. He gathered that it could live under Terrestrial conditions, was of approximately human size, and claimed to be the sole representative its race would send unless mankind freely chose to establish relations—“And later they dispatched a ship of their own regardless, huh?” Troxell said. “How dumb do they suppose we are?”

“Well, they may have found reasons to change their minds,” Brodersen temporized. “It has to be investigated, and you’ve got the only people with experience of them.

“Besides, maybe more important, the Council has decided
that we must have far better intelligence of them before we can allow anything to happen. I hope our arresting this group will drive the point home and we won’t need to take more drastic measures. You well realize. Colonel, we can’t have public hysteria either. Hence the secrecy.”

Time. “Yes, of course, Admiral Fry, no argument. Let’s discuss arrangements, shall we? What precautions have you in mind?”

—Eventually the conference ended.

Full Earth weight had resumed as
Chinook
drove onward. The Wheel had grown in sight enough to notice. When outside communication went on standby, the crew became free to load the intercom with jabber. Brodersen knew he must get them properly organized. The venture would be precarious at best.

He stood up, stretched and eased, stretched and eased, till the hardest knots were out of his muscles.
Hell take hurry
he decided.
Oh, I’ll brief them and drill them as well as I can. But that’s not awfully well; won’t fill more than an hour or two. First we should rest
.

First I will go back to Pegeen. It could be our last while together
.

O
N DELICATE THRUSTS
of her auxiliary motors,
Chinook
aligned herself with the open hub of the Wheel. Flame-tinged vapors gushed across night and dissipated. That made possible a rapid bleedoff of the enormous electrostatic potential which shielded her against cosmic rays. When she was well positioned, gliding in on a carefully monitored trajectory, a gyro within her began to turn. Her hull gathered spin until it was rotating slightly faster than the station. By then she was quite near.

Her people sat still to avoid motion sickness from radial weight variations and Coriolis force. Brodersen drew comfort from the steady tones of the control officer ahead. His cover yarn account for
Chinook’s
absence of insignia other than a registry number and his flamboyant company emblem, as well as the presence of an energy gun turret counterbalanced by a missile tube. Just the same, they might have grown suspicious—perhaps on Earth, to send a warning hither at the speed of light. But evidently not. His heart slugged, though, his jaws ached from being clenched, sweat trickled cold along his ribs and reeked. More than a quarter of a Terrestrial century had gone by since last he was in combat.

The spaceship drifted into the hub at a few meters per second. She was very little off center. (That had better be the case. A vessel her size had scant clearance.) Soft-surfaced roller bearings upon them brought
Chinook
to a halt, bow projecting out the front end, stern and focusing tubes out the rear. Her spin became identical with that of her surroundings at the instant when her main personnel and cargo locks were opposite the correct entry ports. This caused the Wheel to gain angular momentum, but the change was minuscule. After a sufficient number of dockings had significantly affected rotation, a jet in the rim would reduce it.

Since this visitor had no freight to discharge, only a gangtube reached forth to osculate the exit for the crew. A reserve tank filled it with air. Equalized pressure activated a sensor which flashed a green light and beeped.
You may come on through
.

Brodersen ran wooden tongue over sandy lips. Yet otherwise, as of old, he was abruptly cool, too busy to be nervous. “Okay,” he told his men. “Remember our doctrine and signals.” He blew a kiss to Caitlín, who stood behind them, a submachine gun in her clasp. Susanne was elsewhere, linked to her computer and, through it, to the whole ship, which would respond to any command she gave. Limited input restricted her to a few basic actions, but Brodersen was glad of even that much backup.

Caitlín touched lips to the muzzle of her weapon and dipped it in his direction. He turned from the glory of her. “Good luck,” he wished all his folk, and went ahead.

Centrifugal force, equal to about one-tenth gee, put the airlock under him, but the airlock contained rungs. Beyond its outer valve, the gangtube offered him another set, closely spaced because it was accordion-folded to minimum length. Fluoro-light cast odd shadows among the pleats. He bounded down. Low-weight had a magic of its own.

Emerging, he took a short fixed ladder to a balcony-like platform intended to help the unloading of baggage. Thence a second ladder went to the deck; but he stopped where he was and looked. This was the moment before he charged or fled.

Five meters high, a broad corridor arched out of sight on either hand, convex above him, concave below. He saw doors along it which shut off disused facilities. A hatchway led to a spoke, passageway to the rim. The hall was drably painted and carpeted; the draft from ventilator grilles came loud, with a faint smell of oil, a sign of recent neglect.

Men clustered beneath him. Save for Troxell, who was in business tunic and slacks, they wore coveralls. Each had a bolstered sidearm: slugthrower, not stunner. Brodersen counted. Twenty-one. A measure of optimism lifted in him.
The stunt’s worked so far. They’re here, the lot of them, including the communications and control officers, maintenance technics, quartermaster—

It was what he had gotten the colonel to agree to. Lock his present captives in the auditorium. (Brodersen had ascertained where it was located.) Bring his entire following to meet the newcomers and help them escort the nonhumans (who might
conceivably use nonhuman capabilities in attempting a break) to a safe place.

“Greeting, sir,” Troxell called in English. His bass echoed the least bit between bare panels. “Everything in order?”

“Aye,” Brodersen said.

“Come on down.”

“Wait a minute. I want a man at my back.”

“Huh?”

“Can’t be too cautious, can we? Very well, Sergei.”

Zarubayev appeared, bearing a tommy gun. He sprang to join his captain. The agents showed surprise. Bearded, long-haired, dressed like them, the Russian jarred on their expectations.

Here we go
. Brodersen whipped forth his pistol. Zarubayev’s gun swept downward. “Not a move!” Brodersen shouted. “Hands up before we shoot!”

“What the hell—” Troxell’s roar cut off when Zarubayev’s weapon chattered. The warning burst whanged nastily off the opposite bulkhead. The warders froze.

“Hands on heads,” Brodersen commanded. “Quick!—Okay, boys, come on through.”

Weisenberg and Leino joined him. They bore automatic rifles, and bundled on their backs were more firearms.

“Stay as you are and nobody will get hurt,” Brodersen said. “But whoever acts funny will die. Is that clear? He will die.”

Inwardly he begged that that not happen. Those fellows were doing naught but their job. He’d encountered some like them, though, when he truly wore the uniform of the Union, whom he’d helped kill. The commitments on either side had been irreconcilable.

His glance flicked right and left. Zarubayev was smiling, as if he enjoyed this. Maybe he did. Weisenberg stood tense, his mouth stretched out of shape, though his piece never wavered. Leino’s face was wet and strained, helmeted in dank hair, and he breathed hard, but he didn’t seem frightened either.
And me, well, they used to call me the Great Stone Phiz,
Brodersen remembered.

Back at the airlock, Dozsa and Caitlín were his reserves, guarding a line of retreat. He wondered how they looked. It was no picnic carrying out a paramilitary operation with amateurs. He’d assigned posts as thoughtfully as might be. Zarubayev, though Demeter born, had grown restless and spent a few years
in the PC, interplanetary corps, before he went to work for Chehalis; he’d seen no fighting but had gotten plenty of drill and maneuver. Leino, raised in the wilderness, was a champion marksman. Weisenberg could make any tool a part of his body, and a weapon is a tool. All three had ample space experience. Dozsa did too, but not with arms and seldom outside a ship.
Pegeen
—
Yes, I did what I could in the time that I had. Whether I gauged well, we’re about to learn
.

Rage racked Troxell’s visage. “Are you crazy?” he yelled. “What is this piracy? Do you imagine you can get away clear you sons o’bitches, you—” He choked.

“Take it easy,” Brodersen answered. “I told you we mean no harm unless you force us. Listen. Our aim is to free the
Emissary
crew. They’re being detained under false pretenses. You’ve been hoodwinked. Ira Quick is a crook, and you’ll see him on trial before long.”

“Prove it!” an agent challenged.

Brodersen shook his head. “As Antony told Cleopatra, I am not prone to argue. The newscasts will inform you. Today you’ll follow orders.

“Move over there, by that door marked 14.” He pointed. It was well clear of the spoke entrance. “Bunch together. I want you in easy range of this guy.” He jerked a thumb at Zarubayev. “He’ll watch you while the rest of us go spring the prisoners. Then we’ll disarm you and lock you up. We’ll leave you a hand drill or a hammer and chisel or whatever we figure you can use to break free in an hour or two, after we’re gone. Do you understand? We’d hate to harm anybody. We’re not bandits, we’re trying to set right a terrible wrong that threatens the Union. Consider yourselves under citizen’s arrest, obey us, and everything will be fine. But I repeat, we’ll shoot if we must.

“Move! Keep those hands on your scalps. Move!”

They shuffled from him. He was aware of the scuff, of panting and trembling and muttered maledictions, of sweat and glares. “Stop,” he cried. To Leino and Weisenberg: “Proceed.”

They ignored the ladder and jumped, falling like autumn leaves. He followed. The impact was light in feet and knees. The hatch was two bounds off. It stood open. Brodersen waved his partners through. When they were gone, his free hand grabbed a rail, he swung himself into the companionway.

A pistol crack whipped him to a halt. Twice. Thrice. It stabbed his eardrums. He twisted about where he stood. The
bunch of agents was breaking up like a glob of dropped mercury. Men scampered off or flopped to the deck, drew their guns, and fired. Zarubayev’s raved, a couple of bodies below crumpled, then he reeled back. Blood spouted from his neck and belly.

Brodersen blazed into the foe. Through him there flashed:
A fanatic, a devotee, a hero
…
must’ve hunkered down a bit when two or three others hid him
…
yanked his rod out and let fly
…
knowing he’d almost surely miss, but he’d trigger a fusillade
—
I’ll never know who it was—

He heard Troxell bellow, saw the survivors retreat, when Dozsa reached the platform, crouched above Zarubayev, and sprayed the corridor with metal. It wailed as it ricocheted, through the rattle of explosions. Troxell’s party disappeared up the curvature of this world.

He won’t continue a fire fight under these conditions. Pistols are too inaccurate, especially here
…
low weight, Coriolis vectors, the sighting wrong
—

Two men sprawled dead, their shapes gone graceless, their features hideous. Three more were badly wounded. One dragged himself away, legs trailing, one stared at a shattered kneecap and whimpered, one sat slumped against a bulkhead, going into shock. Zarubayev’s blood dripped off the platform, slow and scarlet, slow and scarlet. Dozsa snarled at the edge. Caitlín stood by him now, wild of countenance, cursing in a torrent, but swinging her weapon steadily back and forth.

What Troxell will try to do is block us from freeing the prisoners
.

Brodersen’s paralysis broke. It had only lasted a few seconds. “Hold the fort!” he shouted. “Keep well covered! We’ll be back!” He swarmed along a short circular staircase to the elevator.