It was studded with gaping holes, air
locks which served as landing ports for spaceships. Inside the station
was a compact city. Living quarters, communications rooms, repair shops,
weather observations, meteor information, everything to serve the great
fleet of Solar Guard and merchant spaceships plying the space lanes
between Earth, Mars, Venus, and Titan.
"I'm getting the identification request from the station, sir. Shall I
answer her?" asked Roger over the intercom.
"Of course, you space-brained idiot, and make it fast!" exploded Connel.
"What do you want to do? Get us blasted out of space?"
"Yes, sir!" replied Roger. "Right away, sir!"
Tom kept his eyes on the teleceiver screen above his head. The image of
the space station loomed large and clear.
"Approaching a little too fast, I think, sir," volunteered Tom. "Shall I
make the adjustment?"
"What's the range?" asked Connel.
Tom named a figure.
"Ummmmh," mused Connel. He glanced quickly over the dials and then
nodded in assent. Tom turned once more to the intercom. "Control deck to
power deck," he called. "Stand by for maneuvering, Astro, and reduce
your main drive thrust to minimum space speed.
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