Kill Station Read Free

here."
    "That's not what the Michelin Guide says," said Evan.
    Joss burst out laughing. "You're so full of it, your eyes should be brown, you know that? Your idea of good food is toasted cheese."
    "Can't help that," Evan said. "The ugly ghost of nationalism. Won't lie down and be still."
    "Neither will your Welsh Rabbit."
    "Oh? And what about your stir-fry, you thumb-fingered Cordon Bleu reject? I had to use the pulse-laser on the last wok to clean it, it was so—"
    "—well-seasoned, you gun-happy Taff! It took me nearly six months to get that wok into a state worth cooking in, and then along you come with your goddamn hopped-up can opener, and burn off a perfectly good layer of-"
    An alarm on the front console began to go off, making a noisy hooting like a loon stuck in a bucket. "Oh jeez, that can't be Willans proximity already," said Joss, swinging round to the console. "Then again, yes it can."
    Evan looked at the console suspiciously. "Shouldn't you be doing something about that?"
    "No, it's all automatic," Joss said. He hadn't pulled
    1O SPACE COPS
    the control array and yoke over, but he was leaning forward in the seat and watching the readings on the instrument panel with some interest. "I'll keep an eye on it. Meanwhile, we should be able to see something shortly."
    Evan peered out the plex, but could see nothing: no spark of light anywhere but the stars, all seeming to swing gently in the same direction. That was another of the odd things about working this far out in space, away from any planet, where there was always something largish to orient by. Out here there was no seeing a body until you were practically on top of it—and, you hoped, not running right into it. Even though the asteroids were nowhere near as close together as popular myth still painted them, there were accidents. Failures of guidance systems, sudden changes of asteroid trajectory or orbit, ephemeris errors, pilot errors.
    Though certainly some accidents might be disguised as more innocent ones. That was one possibility they were going to be looking at closely.
    "There's their docking system's acknowledgement," Joss said. "Let's see how they do."
    "Run in tandem with it, for heaven's sake," Evan said. "I've no desire to be a pancake just yet."
    For a good while they both gazed out the plex, but saw nothing. The swinging of the stars stopped, though, and they steadied into one heading. "You were out here at one point, weren't you?" Joss said.
    "A couple of years ago, before my desk work on the Moon. But it was the other side of the Belt, over by Highlight station, and the Crux. Bigger settlements, mostly. This was hicktown to those people. No big money, they said."
    "Possibly we should be grateful."
    "You mean if we're shot at," Evan said, "it'll be for something besides money.''
    Joss looked bemused at that, but said nothing for a little while. "There," he said finally. "See it?"
    Evan peered out the plex. "No."
    SPACE COPS 11
    "Sort of the lower left-hand corner."
    He peered for a few moments more. "Is that a red light on it?"
    "That's it."
    "Should be green, shouldn't it? If it's the approach beacon."
    Joss pulled over the augments and peered through their oculars. "Looks like the approach beacon is burnt out. The actual docking facility is on the far side."
    "Wonderful," Evan said, leaning back and feeling for the restraints. "Do you want to give them a ticket, or shall I?"
    "I wouldn't," Joss said, "not till we've had our on-site briefing, anyway." He fumbled around for his own restraints and started fastening them up, the cross-belts first.
    Willan Station started to grow larger in the front window, and Evan began to understand why the miners and holders over on the other side of the Belts might not have had a very high opinion of it. The asteroid was big enough to have been dug for cubic—it was about eight kilometers long and five wide, a lumpy potato-shape—but its surface was pocked all over with domes as if with a bad skin