in there with weapons. In case somebody gets nervous.'
'If nothing else,' said Carson, 'we might need it to cut through the inner door of the airlock.'
Truscott and Sill arrived. 'Sorry to be late,' she said. 'Our people have been doing a structural analysis of the station.'
'What have they concluded?' asked Carson.
Truscott passed to Sill. 'Primitive,' he said. 'It isn't up to our technology at all. And by the way, we have an answer to Hutchins's question about the orbit. As far as we can tell, it's stable. This thing may have been here a long time. Possibly for thousands of years.'
'One other thing,' said Truscott. 'We've found some more ruins. A lot of them.'
Melonie Truscott, Diary
'As for man, his days are as grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, ana it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.'
— Psalms 103: 15–16 April 11, 2203
22
Approaching the space station at Beta Pac HI. Monday, April 11; 2140 hours
They looked through large oval windows at long passageways, and wide sunlit rooms filled with oversized chairs and carved tables and broad carpets.
'They knew how to live,' Hutch told Truscott. The two women had been talking like old school friends. Everyone was a trifle garrulous on this flight, except maybe Sill, who simply stared warily out the window.
Their pilot, Jake Dickenson, was elaborately uneasy, and full of advice. 'Don't assume there's no power,' he warned. 'Be careful what you touch.' And: 'Keep in mind there's always a chance the thing might be booby- trapped. We don't know what the circumstances were when these people left.'
They drew alongside, and the air in the shuttle thickened. The station was brick-red. It looked like a run- down factory, cluttered with struts and joists and supports and turrets. There was no attempt here to create a smooth outer skin: the hull supported a wide array of pods and antennas and beams. There were also parapets, dormers, crests, and brackets whose only raison d'etre appeared to be decorative. The turrets might have housed living quarters, with wrap-around windows.
'Shuttle bay to port,' said Jake. Two cradles were visible through a pair of windows. A small, blunt-winged craft lay in one of them.
They passed above an antenna field. Sill poked an index finger against the window. 'Here's what I mean about primitive technology. Look at these. These are conical antennas. They are light-years behind the biosystem apparatus they were growing on the Bowl. This station is probably limited to radio. And their technology for that isn't very good. Look at the antenna booms.'
'What's wrong with them?' asked Carson.
'Ungodly long. We've been doing better than that since the twentieth century. And it uses oversized solar panels. They're inefficient. This thing wasn't built by the same people who designed the telescope.'
Hutch described her own conclusion that the shape of the station suggested a technology more primitive than the one associated with the lapetus visitors.
'How long ago was that?' asked Sill.
'Twenty thousand years.'
'Which means what? That this thing is older than that?' He squinted out the window. 'I don't believe it.'
'Why not?' said Carson. 'You've already said this thing is old.'
'But not that old,' replied Sill.
Hutch didn't believe it either. But she was tired thinking about it. They needed to wait until they had more information.
The shuttle glided past long rows of empty windows. She glanced at George, entranced by the view. 'What are you thinking?' she asked.
He seemed far away. 'How lucky I've been,' he said. 'I got an assignment with Henry right out of the box. Most of the guys in my class wound up working on reclamation projects in Peru and North Africa. But I got to see the Temple. I was there when most of the major discoveries were made. Now I'm here—'
Jake's voice broke in: 'Coming up on the front door.'
Truscott surveyed her passengers. 'Let's go,' she said.
They'd picked out an open hatch more or less at random. The station's red skin moved slowly past the viewpanels. Hutch had just begun to check her equipment when Jake gasped.
'What's wrong?' Sill asked.
'The inner door to the airlock,' he said. 'It's open, too.'
'No seal,' said Maggie. The station was exposed to vacuum.
'Can we get a picture?' demanded Sill. 'That doesn't make sense. Airlocks are always designed to prevent anyone from being able to open both doors at once. Because if you do, you die. Maybe everyone dies.'
'Someone must have overridden the safety mechanism,' said Hutch. She looked toward Carson. 'I wonder if ail the open hatches are like this?'
The shuttle nosed into lockdown position. Meter-long extensors, equipped with magnetic couplers, had been added for this flight. Now Jake extended them. When he was satisfied both were in contact, he activated the power. A mild jar ran through the craft. 'We're in business,' he said.
He sealed off the cockpit while his passengers buckled on Flickinger harnesses, stepped into magnetic boots, and checked breathers. When they were ready, he depressurized their cabin and the cargo bay. Sill opened the door at the rear of the cabin and led the way into the cargo section, where he distributed portable scanners and collected two pulsers.
He strapped one to his side in an easy, familiar motion, and held the other out to Carson. Carson took it, checked it expertly, and put it on.
Sill produced about thirty meters of cable. 'We'll string a tether out to the station's hatch. Lock onto it when you go. Everything's turning, so if you get thrown off, we might not get you back.' He glanced around to assure himself that energy fields were all active. 'Director,' he said, 'would you like to do the honors?'
Truscott declined, and looked at Carson. 'Frank—?'
And Carson, in the spirit of the proceeding, turned it over to Maggie. 'She got us here,' he said.
Maggie nodded appreciatively. 'Thanks,' she said. They opened the doors, and the derelict's surface curved past within arm's length. It was pocked and scarred. Maggie reached out, and touched it. First contact.
'If you like,' Hutch told Carson, 'I'll set up the line.'
He nodded, and she pushed through the door.
'Careful,' whispered Sill.
Hutch's momentum carried her across to the station's hull. She put both boots down on its metal skin, and looked for the hatch.
Above. About ten meters.
Sill clipped the cable to a magnetic clamp, secured the clamp to the hull of the shuttle. Then he passed the line and a second clamp to Hutch. She snapped the line to her belt and started toward the hatch. Her perspective shifted: the deck of the cargo hold, which had been 'down,' rotated 90
degrees. Her stomach lurched, and she closed her eyes to let the feeling pass. The trick now was to focus on the derelict. Steady it. Make herself believe it was stationary. Forget the shuttle, which was now vertical. The sky moved around her, but she concentrated on the hatch.
The airlock was big enough to accommodate a small truck. The inner door was indeed open, but she could see nothing beyond except metal deck and bulkhead. She attached the clamp and waved to Maggie, who promptly drifted out of the shuttle.
Hutch warned her about keeping her eyes on the hull. She nodded, and tied onto the cable. But she had
